fully aware of the details of the arrangement.”
She blinked, her expression remaining neutral. “Well, I had thought it possible my brother spoke with someone you worked for.”
“One thing you will learn about me, Ms. Treffen—nothing happens here without my approval. And no one would be permitted in my office, on my floor, in my hotel, without my arranging it.”
The hardness in his tone didn’t ruffle her. The petite, small-framed woman with her smooth hair, skin and clothes, staring him down with an expression that bordered on serenity, was not at all what he’d expected. “Was the hotel room on offer for anyone who took up the spot?” she asked, her fingers shifting on her handbag, the only slight tell of nerves he’d seen since she walked in.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand that an internship, an unpaid one, is not the easiest thing to negotiate, so it seemed a nice offer.” And in addition to that, he rarely left the hotel. Which meant any assistant of his had to be here.
“Technically, that makes it paid in a way,” she said.
“If you like.”
She smiled and for a moment he was at a loss as to the appropriate social response. Smile back, obviously.
Yes. Obviously.
He smiled, but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair that was situated across from his desk.
She crossed the room and complied, her gold bag held tight against her stomach, her hands wrapped around it like claws.
Still, her overall demeanor was calm and when she sat, some of the tension eased from her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s been a strange couple of weeks. To say the least.”
“I heard about your father,” he said, watching her expression. Something kicked over in him, reminding him that he had skipped something important. Something appropriate. “I’m sorry.” The words came too late to seem genuine.
She remained utterly still in her chair, stiff, unmoving. “I’m sorry I had to see it.”
The thought of this soft creature witnessing the death of her own father twisted something deep inside him and left behind an emotion that held a vague echo of sympathy. He knew what that was like. To be jolted out of your privilege and headfirst into every ugly thing the world held.
She didn’t deserve it. It could be argued that he had.
“So,” he said, changing the subject, “what is it you want to get out of this time at Black Properties?”
“I’m here to learn. I’d like to open a hotel someday, a small one. So I think anything I can learn from you would be valuable.”
“And what about school?”
“I’m going to school. I’m a senior at Columbia and should be graduating at the end of the year. Majoring in business, minoring in hospitality. I would love to finish on campus, but at the moment that is…difficult. I’m making arrangements with my professors.”
“But you will finish,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Because school is important?”
“Not particularly,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, her lips making the shape of the word and holding for a moment before she continued. “I’ve never had a job. I went from living at home to going to school. And my parents always took care of me. They still sort of are.”
“Are you trying to dissuade me from giving you the position?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. The alternative is hiding out somewhere until the press goes away.”
“Or you can hide here,” he said. “And you can get work experience. How does that sound?”
“It sounds slightly more productive than my plan.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Why not?”
“Not a very definitive answer,” he said. “But one I’ll take.”
He rose from his position behind the desk and Addison followed his lead. He watched her movements. Graceful, poised. She was the product of an aristocratic family, as he had been. She’d been given every tool to succeed from an early age, a private school education of the highest quality that had turned each movement into art, and conversation into a performance.
There had been a time when he’d had those things, but they were lost to him now. Funny how two years of solitude could break a lifetime of habits. He was rarely conscious of it anymore, but something about Addison forced him to be.
Perhaps it was the contrast. The society sweetheart who still lived in it, and society’s favorite former playboy who had retreated so far into the darkness he could only peer in on the world he’d once belonged to. Not because the door was locked, but because he couldn’t remember why in hell he’d ever wanted to be part of it. Because even if he wanted it, he wouldn’t be able to.
Just the thought of it made a cold sweat break out on his neck, made a sick sensation slip down into his stomach.
No, it wasn’t even a possibility for him. And he didn’t want it to be anyway.
“Would you like a rundown on your responsibilities?” he asked.
“Aside from making you coffee or tea?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” he said. “Or tea.”
“Oh.”
“Or alcohol.”
“Oh,” she said again, a crease appearing between her finely arched eyebrows.
“I never got used to it again,” he said. “Alcohol just makes me vomit. Coffee gives me a headache.” Possibly too frank judging by the brief contortion of her lips. He could never seem to strike the right balance.
“I see. So…what do I get you, then?”
“I can tell you’re already slightly concerned that rumors of my mental state are true,” he said, watching the momentary flicker in her expression, which was now smooth as glass. As telling as any expression of horror could ever be. “But not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy.”
He walked out from behind his desk, and her eyes fell to his bare feet. She blinked a couple of times.
“Not wanting a shot of whiskey after dinner doesn’t make me crazy,” he repeated, “but there are other things.”
“I see.” She cleared her throat and took a breath, looking back at his face as if she was determined to skip over the lack of shoes. “What do I do for you, then?” she asked, the softly spoken, crisply articulated words moving over his skin like a breeze that signaled an impending storm. “If I can’t
