CHAPTER SIX
‘YOU MUST LEAVE NOW, senyorita.’
Jordan Walsh tipped her head back, and back some more, until she stared into the face of the uniformed security guard who towered over her.
‘I’m not leaving,’ she told him, making no move to vacate the chair she had occupied for over two hours in the waiting area of this vast marble foyer.
The big man’s eyebrows beetled together. ‘You must go. The building is closing.’
The building was the Vega Tower—a great big steel and glass monolith that rose from the heart of Barcelona’s thriving business district and dwarfed everything around it. It had cost one point two billion US dollars to construct, had taken two years and three months from foundation to completion, and comprised forty-four floors of bustling head office activity for one of Europe’s largest and most successful multinational conglomerates.
Jordan was well acquainted with these facts because she had picked up the glossy hardbound book titled The Vega Corporation: Sixty Years of Success off the low table beside her and, out of sheer boredom, read the entire thing from front cover to back. Twice.
‘I’m not leaving without an appointment to see Mr de la Vega,’ she said.
This was not news to the security man. She had made the same request on her arrival, and again an hour ago when it had become obvious that his call to the CEO’s assistant had garnered no result.
‘He is not available.’
‘Which is why I want to make an appointment,’ she explained with exaggerated patience. ‘So that I can see him when he is available.’
‘It is not possible,’ the man said, and with that he clamped a giant hand around her upper arm and hauled her to her feet.
Jordan gasped. ‘Wait!’ She braced her legs to resist, her flat rubber-soled shoes giving her feet a much-needed moment of purchase on the shiny marble. ‘You’re not seriously going to manhandle me out of the building?’
‘I am sorry, senyorita,’ he said, but the sidelong glance he sent her didn’t look apologetic so much as...pitying.
She bristled at the implication of that look. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he and his colleagues behind the desk were thinking. A man as wealthy and powerful as their boss must have an abundance of female admirers and hangers-on, and his staff were no doubt required to act as gatekeepers on occasion.
But Jordan was no jilted lover or wannabe mistress. ‘Please,’ she persisted, hating the desperate note that crept into her voice. ‘Can you just call his office one more time?’
Somebody must still be up there. Sure, it was almost six-thirty p.m., but didn’t working hours in Spain differ from the norm at home? And hadn’t she read an online article just yesterday in which the CEO was quoted as saying he not only worked long hours himself, but expected key members of his staff to do the same?
But the guard shook his head. ‘Call tomorrow,’ he said.
Jordan felt the sharp bite of frustration in her belly. She’d already phoned the day before, and the day before that. Each time she’d been stonewalled by the CEO’s uppity assistant. Which was why she had trekked across the city in the stifling mid-August heat this afternoon and shown up in person.
She planted her feet and locked her knees, but her strength was no match for the guard’s. He started walking and she was forced to stumble along beside him, clutching her tote bag and the shreds of her dignity as he marched her towards the automatic sliding glass doors.
Her heart lurched. A few more steps and she’d be out on the street, back to square one.
The glass doors parted before them, letting in a blast of hot air, and she thought of the envelope in her bag—the letter she’d carried ten thousand miles across the globe—and a crushing sense of failure engulfed her.
All because she couldn’t find her way to the top of this imposing corporate fortress to see one man.
Her body stiffened in protest. ‘I’m Mr de la Vega’s stepsister!’ she cried out, and the guard pulled up short, surprise making his grip slacken just enough so she could wrench herself free.
Around them the cavernous foyer came to a standstill, the other security personnel behind the desk and the few office workers making their way to and from the lifts having paused and fallen silent in the wake of her outburst.
A tidal wave of heat swept up her body and into her face. Doing her best to ignore the curious stares, she levelled her gaze at the guard and said quietly, ‘I’m sure neither his assistant—nor you—would like to inform him that you’ve turned me away.’
The man rubbed the back of his neck, his face screwed up in a grimace of indecision. Finally, he said in a gruff voice, ‘Please wait.’
He returned to the desk to make a phone call and two minutes later a tall, elegant woman wearing a sleek navy shift dress and high heels emerged from a lift. She looked to the guard, who steered her in Jordan’s direction with a tilt of his head.
Jordan saw the woman give her an assessing, narrow-eyed once-over before striding across the marble floor towards her.
‘Ms Walsh.’ Her tone was cool. ‘Mr de la Vega is extremely busy, but he is willing to give you ten minutes of his time.’
Her English was accented, but good, and Jordan recognised the voice at once. She was the assistant who’d screened her phone calls and refused to give her an appointment.
Jordan forced a smile and resisted asking if Mr de la Vega was sure he could spare a whole ten minutes from his extremely busy schedule. Instead she offered a gracious, ‘Thank you,’ but the woman had already pivoted on a spiked heel and started back across the foyer, leaving Jordan to follow.
The
