I square my shoulders and raise a shaking hand to the doorbell.
“What?” a deep voice barks through the discreet intercom on my right.
“Savannah Blythe to see Mr. Force.”
“You’re late. I don’t tolerate tardiness. Go away.”
“Y-yes, sir. I don’t, either. There was a mix-up. I didn’t receive the correct address in time.” Not entirely true, but I hope the lie will pass muster.
“That’s your problem.”
I wince. He’s the sort of man who wants results, not excuses.
“Give me ten minutes to prove I can be an asset. I’ll never be late again, and I’ll work tirelessly to make your clients money.”
“I’ve already got a hundred drones in the glass building downtown who work tirelessly for that purpose. You were interviewing for a position as my executive assistant, and you’re late, so we’re done.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
I didn’t push myself academically to become anyone’s assistant, but I’m willing to work my way up. And a job reporting directly to Chad Force himself? Priceless.
“Unless you can wrestle a cat,” he adds.
Did I hear that right? “A cat, sir?”
“Yes. This feline is the bane of my existence. If you can make the damn beast behave, I’ll reconsider.”
“I’d certainly like the chance to try.”
“Do you have experience with cats?”
“A lot, actually.”
“All right. It’s your funeral, which I’m not paying for if you fail. Are those terms acceptable?”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly, I hear a buzz and a click. “Come in. Lock the door behind you. Find me upstairs and I’ll explain.”
“Upstairs?”
“Did I stutter?”
He didn’t, and I’m trying not to. “With all due respect, sir, I would feel more comfortable if we met downstairs.”
“No doubt, but I had knee surgery last week.”
So he can’t descend the stairs, and it’s unlikely there’s an elevator in a building over a hundred years old.
“I’ll be right there.” I push open the heavy black door and find myself in a tall foyer with marble floors and a half-barrel ceiling in pure white. A massive chandelier gleams overhead. At the end of the long passage sits a hall table with scrollwork legs that looks very Drexel Heritage, topped with fresh white hydrangeas in a simple green vase. The painting behind it is an original Chagall.
He has half a million dollars of art just hanging on a wall?
Of course he does. Stop gawking and start thinking.
I pry my gaze away from the splendor and shut the door, carefully locking it. Then I draw in a deep breath and search for the stairs. When I finally find the staircase, I blink up in awe. The architectural marvel is oval, with a dark walnut banister and traditional white balusters, that winds up as far as the eye can see, covered in pristine gray silk carpet.
Wow. But everywhere I look, the whole house is amazing.
Damn it, I should have asked Mr. Force what floor he was on. But I’m guessing that lower floors would be considered utilitarian and that the fine folk would want the park and city views available from the upper levels.
After I scale all five floors of the staircase, I’m breathing harder than I’d like. Gripping the dark railing, I try to catch my breath when a flash of black darts by.
What the heck was that?
“Are you going to huff and puff or get in here?” The deep voice sounds from the end of the hall, to the right.
I bite back the fact it’s easy to disparage my physical abilities when he doesn’t have to move a muscle, but I don’t dare. “Coming, sir.”
I swipe my suddenly damp palms on my blue wool dress—my singular splurge—wincing every time my black heels click on the tile floor and bounce off the high ceilings.
During my trek, I do my best to recall everything I’ve ever read about Chad Force. Age thirty-nine. Birthday: November first. Born in Boston to billionaire parents Jacob and Caroline Force, who divorced just before his third birthday. His father is a cousin of the Kennedys, and his mother kin to the Astors. He attended a fancy prep school, the name of which escapes me. He went on to Harvard for both his bachelor’s and MBA. All attempts to drag him into politics have been for naught. He’s never been married, has no children, and by all accounts is an unrelenting workaholic. And that’s a shame because in all his pictures he’s hot as hell.
That’s irrelevant, Savannah. Focus. You’re here for a job, not a boyfriend.
At the end of the hall, I pause in the open doorway, my heart pounding so loud the sound reverberates in my ears. Here I am. Make or break. About to meet the man who can crush my dreams or make them all come true.
Drawing in a breath for composure, I turn slowly to take in the masculinely stylish room. Gray walls frame the dark-paneled cove ceiling. From that, a chandelier that’s just a bit too minimal to be called elegant hangs. Four framed pieces of art form a cluster between the two windows overlooking the park across the street, flanked by gray Dupioni drapes. There’s a stately marble fireplace and a cozy chair beside it. A thick Persian rug that’s undoubtedly an antique leads up to a plush sofa in a soft taupe shade, draped with a cashmere throw. Behind that is a massive four-poster bed with a curved burlap headboard. A giant map of the world hangs above the bed, framed by the same dark wood that dominates the ceiling.
And sitting up in the bed is Chad Force, wide shoulders encased in crisp navy-blue pajamas. He’s combed his black hair ruthlessly into place. His fresh morning shave has given way to a five o’clock shadow despite the fact it’s not even two p.m. His infamously sharp eyes, a shade somewhere between gray and green, glare at me.
Our eyes meet. Suddenly, I feel dizzy and weak. I expected him to be gorgeous. I didn’t expect to feel an instant urge to peel off my clothes and beg him to touch me.
“Hi.” It’s the stupidest thing I could utter and the only word I can seem to find in my vocabulary while I feel his stare all over me. I don’t sound at all like the valedictorian of my high school, like I received a full academic scholarship to Notre Dame, or like I graduated summa cum laude in four years—all while waiting tables. “It’s, um…nice to meet you.”
Chad
The girl lingers in the doorway, scanning my bedroom as if she’s never seen anything so opulent in her life. The moment she breezed inside, the fresh air blew in with her.
I sit up and peer closer.
She’s painfully young and even more painfully earnest. But that’s where everything I expected ends.
She’s tamed her dark hair into professional curls that twist past her shoulders, framing a surprisingly girlish face. Her flawless pale skin possesses a hint of brown that has nothing to do with the sun. Her sculpted brows arch elegantly above intelligent, black-lined eyes the color of a tropical sea. But her full red lips shout fuck me without uttering a word. She’s dressed in a severe businesslike dress that clings to her small frame and mouthwatering breasts. The baggy, threadbare sweater she’s wearing over it tries to conceal her small waist and lush hips…and fails miserably. Her purse and shoes should have been in the waste bin long ago. She’s in desperate need of a manicure, and her jewelry is a disgrace.