I looked over my shoulder at him as he stood waiting in the doorway of his office for an answer. “He did indeed.”
“Good. If there’s something you really don’t know the answer to, ask, but please exhaust all other possible avenues by using common sense and a little intelligence.” That haughty statement was finalized by the slamming of his office door.
“Oh boy,” I muttered, and slipped back into my chair, hand reaching for my espresso.
I had a feeling this was going to be a long day.
And as the e-mails started pouring in from Caine, I wasn’t wrong.
The tasks he wanted me to do ranged from setting up meetings, arranging business lunches, setting up conference rooms, mail, answering e-mails on his behalf including work and personal, to calling to check when his dry cleaning would be ready for collection, canceling lunch with Phoebe Billingham (the woman I knew from society pages he was currently dating), and running out to the store to buy food. Apparently he was out of milk and granola.
Every request was asked with curt impatience. It was only day one and I wanted to slap some manners into Caine Carraway. It wasn’t until around four o’clock when one of his company lawyers was leaving his office and I heard Caine call out, “Thank you, Arnold,” that I realized my boss did have manners.
He just didn’t think I was worth the effort of using them.
Getting Caine to see me for who I really was was proving more difficult than I had first thought. I was going to have to climb over his insurmountable arrogance and perverse sense of justice where I was concerned if I was ever going to convince him that we really weren’t that different.
I stood openmouthed in Caine’s apartment.
Holy …
The penthouse.
Caine had a penthouse on Arlington Street. Like in his office, there were floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, giving him awesome views of the city. The apartment was open-plan living with a stunning state-of-the-art black-and-white kitchen with an island in the middle. White leather stools lined the front of the island.
White leather. In a kitchen.
Clearly the man either didn’t eat there or was the cleanest guy in the whole wide world.
To my left was a raised platform where a stylish eight-seater dining table and chairs were set up so diners could enjoy that view. Opposite the kitchen was a reading area, and beyond that was a huge black sofa that faced a wall where a massive flat-screen television hung.
A spiral staircase behind me led up to the bedrooms. Lifting my jaw off the floor, I carefully made my way up the staircase and down the narrow, short corridor to the first bedroom on the left. Caine told me this was the master bedroom and I was to leave the dry cleaning I’d just picked up for him in there.
I felt a flush of heat at the sight of Caine’s bed.
That was definitely a bed.
Huge, dark wood, masculine, with four posts.
Opposite it were two doors. After a quick peek inside both, I discovered my dream walk-in closet and an Italian marble bathroom.
The best part of the master suite, however, was the steps that led up to the glass window that ran along the back of the room. A sliding door led out onto a small terraced balcony where Caine could enjoy the view over Beacon Hill and beyond in privacy.
Carefully I laid his dry cleaning across his bed and made my way back out of the room. I wanted to be nosy and have a thorough look around, but I had to be back at the office with the salad he’d ordered from his favorite deli.
I did note, however, as I walked through his private space that again there was nothing overly personal in his apartment. There were no photographs of him or of friends … nothing that showed any personal ties to anyone.
Maybe that was normal for a bachelor, but I couldn’t help feeling that prick of guilt again because in among all the nothing in Caine’s everything there were no photographs of his family.
Frowning, I let myself out of his apartment, locked up, and turned around only to almost collide with a small old woman in a vibrant fuchsia robe. She glowered up at me with her hands on her hips, her dyed black hair styled into an elegant beehive. Those narrowed bright blue eyes of hers were framed by lashes liberally brushed with mascara, and her lips, which were surprisingly full for a woman who I guessed to be in her late seventies, were painted a vivid red.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked in a thick South Boston accent.
I blinked in surprise. “Uh …”
“Well? You got five seconds to tell me before I call up Security.”
“I’m Alexa Holland.” I stuck my hand out. “Mr. Carraway’s new PA.”
It was her turn to blink owlishly. Slowly, as her gaze roamed over me, a smile stretched those youthful lips of hers. “So you’re Alexa, huh? Oh, I heard all about you.”
She had? “You have?”
“Mmm-hmm. When Caine told me he’d hired the offspring of that bastard that destroyed his family, I thought for sure he was making a big mistake.” She laughed as she drank me in. “Now I get it.”
“Uh …” I didn’t.
“I’m Mrs. Flanagan. I live in the other penthouse.” She gestured down the hallway past the elevator. “Come, have tea. We’ll talk.”
As curious as I was to chat with the flamboyant Mrs. Flanagan, who clearly knew Caine well enough to know his history, I had to be back at the office. I couldn’t help grimacing in disappointment. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I have to get Mr. Carraway’s salad to him.”
Mrs. Flanagan’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, no worries, sweet-heart. Caine’s putting you through the paces, huh? You tell him I said he’s not to work you too hard. If you don’t get enough sleep you won’t age well. I know. Look at me. I get a solid eight hours every night and have done so for the past fifty years. I’m a walking testament to the power of beauty sleep.” She waved her finger in front of my nose. “You’ve got natural beauty. Don’t let lack of sleep waste that shit.”