My concern was unnecessary. No one even looked up, everyone absorbed in the ever-present pile of work. Broward being out of town didn’t mean the presses stopped.
I took a last-minute detour into the restrooms located just to the right of the elevators and appraised myself in the mirror above the sink. The light in the bathroom was muted, but it was bright enough to show me that it was not my best day. Whether intentional or not, my knowledge that Broward would not be in this week had caused me to dress down and not put as much effort into my appearance. I was wearing khakis, a pressed white button-down shirt and one of my new pairs of sensible, low, open-toed heels. My hair was, as always, up in a bun, and I had opted for glasses instead of my normal contacts. Some people think of glasses as sexy. Those people haven’t seen my glasses. Coke bottles would be a more apt description.
I had neglected to put on makeup, which meant I had pale, untouched skin and dark circles under my eyes. I knelt and opened up the sink cabinet and fished around behind a tampon box, reaching into the dark depths and feeling blindly until my hand bumped against what I was looking for: my small cloth makeup bag.
My first day I had packed an emergency makeup kit, one that included mascara, lip gloss and concealer. I had stored it there in case I ever needed to freshen up before a big meeting, or hadn’t had time to do my face before work. I sent a silent thank-you up to God for blessing me with such incredible foresight, and hauled myself back up to a standing position.
Three minutes later I looked reasonably presentable. I still had my thick glasses, but I had long, plump lashes behind them and my lips had some color. The dark shadows were still present, but minimized by the concealer.
I grabbed the red file folder, opened the door and scolded my nervous butterflies. Then I straightened my shoulders, pulled open the heavy bathroom door and headed for the East Wing.
Eight
Rule 1: She is kept blindfolded for the first meeting. If the blindfold is to be taken off, it must be done by her alone.
The heavy East Wing double doors opened to a sea of noise and activity. People were everywhere, and everyone seemed to be very important, very busy or very emotional. I stopped just inside the doors and tried to get my bearings.
The room was large, dominated by three oversize curved secretarial desks that created a semicircle at the back of the room. To get to the secretaries, there was a wide path flanked on either side by leather seating clusters. Both seating arrangements were full. One seemed to hold a meeting in progress; the other had two leggy blondes and an older man in a suit, apparently waiting for something. To the right was a large glass conference room, another meeting in progress. I could hear muted tones of what sounded like an argument coming from that side. On the left were offices, probably holding paralegals and Todd. Behind the secretaries was a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows through which I could see the downtown skyline. I could also see a man standing at his desk, a phone to his ear. Judging from the size of the office and its view, I assumed it was De Luca’s. Okay, Julia. Get in, get out, and stop gawking.
I moved quickly and—I hoped—confidently toward the secretary cluster. Their three desks were elevated, and I felt like a defendant approaching the judge. The secretaries all seemed cut from the same cloth: old, dignified and spicy. Headmistress-style seemed to be De Luca’s preference. Or perhaps HR’s preference for De Luca. The center headmistress wore a red suit and had a brass nameplate on her desk that indicated her name was Carol Featherston.
She looked up as I approached and her sharp gaze immediately locked on the red folder held in my now-sweaty clutches. She skipped a greeting and held out her hand. I passed the file meekly over. Her phone started to ring, but she ignored it and flipped quickly through the file, then snapped it shut and looked back at me.
“Where did you get this?”
“I’m Julia Campbell, from Broward’s office. I—”
“Where did you get this?” Her piercing gaze and shrill voice told me to get to the point.
“It was on my desk, ma’am.”
“All right, I’ll handle it. Thank you.” The snappy response seemed to indicate that I was done. I couldn’t imagine this woman planning stripper-filled parties. Todd must have been exaggerating. I smiled politely at her and turned to leave. My exit was interrupted by a loud rapping of knuckles on glass. I paused midturn and glanced back at Ms. Featherston. She held up a finger and glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze.
A bear of a man stood at the glass partition of the large office with the view. He had the build of an ex-athlete—impossibly broad shoulders and muscular arms that his thousand-dollar dress shirt couldn’t hide. He had olive skin and a thick head of hair—strong, handsome features. He would have been too good-looking if it weren’t for the fierceness of his features. He looked like the kind of man who chased confrontation down and then ate it for breakfast. Phone to his ear, his knuckles were still rapping the glass when my eyes met his. He pointed one finger at me and then motioned for me to come, turning his back and pacing away without waiting for a response. Uh-oh.
I must have had panic on my face when Ms. Featherston turned back to me. Her stiff expression softened slightly; her tone was a little kinder, but still firm.
“Go on in,” she said. “He wants you.”
Ms. Featherston returned her attention to the file. I glanced around, looking for an escape, and then, wobbly, made my way around the secretary stand to the door of the office. Brad De Luca was printed on a brass nameplate in the center of the door. Broward is going to kill me.
I opened the door without knocking and walked in, shutting it quietly behind me. I stood by the entrance, hands together in front of me, and waited for De Luca to get off the phone. His office was long, and there seemed to be a silly amount of space between where I stood and where he paced. I’m not moving a damn step closer to this man if I can help it. I seemed to be having trouble breathing. My chest was tight. Beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip. I tried to discreetly wipe them off. What the hell am I so nervous about? He’s not going to eat me, for Christ’s sake.
He finished his conversation and hung up the phone, staring at me. Looking into his eyes, I felt my knees buckle slightly. There was this draw to him, this indescribable pull that I couldn’t break from. He emitted, even across the large office, a wave of power, intelligence...and sexuality. No freaking wonder everyone talked about this man. Seeming to be completely at ease, he picked up a stress ball and squeezed it, never breaking eye contact. I felt like an innocent little fawn stuck in the lion’s gaze. I stayed quiet and waited for his gorgeous self to say something.
“I need a car,” he finally said. His voice was sexy and deep, definitive. He sounded like a man who had never second-guessed a single action his entire life. I, on the other hand, was second-guessing every predisposed opinion I had made about him. Maybe Broward and Sheila were right to be worried.
“A car?” My voice came out a little higher than I had intended, almost a squeak. I definitely needed to get my shit together.
“Yes. I know the casino typically handles my transportation, but I plan to go on a side trip this weekend, and want a car.” He picked up his phone and started to punch in a number, as if to indicate that our conversation was over. Then he paused, looking at me again, closer, his eyes narrowing slightly, his gaze sweeping over my body in an obvious perusal. I bristled slightly, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling my cheeks warm.
When he spoke, his tone was slightly confused. “Have you done something different?”
