The Executive Floor
Belinda Wright
Copyright © 2019 Belinda Wright
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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ISBN 978 1789019 704
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue - six months later
Chapter One
Granger touched the accelerator and the car shot forward. He took a breath, enjoying the feeling of power – like managing Granger Finance. He loved running his own company with millions of pounds’ worth of investments at his fingertips. Driving was the perfect way to unwind after a day at work, to pass time before going home. He steered smoothly through a bend on the country lane. Trees lined the road, their branches creating a natural tunnel, shadows hiding the bright October sun.
Today had been a good day; it always was when he worked on a Sunday. The office was deserted – he could focus. And focus was exactly what he needed right now with the next big deal on the table. He couldn’t take his eye off the ball for a moment or his competitor could swoop in and steal the contract from under his nose.
Granger frowned and rubbed his jaw, sharp stubble barely registering on his rough fingers. Calloused hands were one of the few remnants of the manual work from his earlier years. There was something on his mind. No, not something: someone. Cynthia.
He had only been on a handful of dates with her, but somehow along the way Cynthia had taken their dating to mean they were together. An item. Granger had been too busy with work to realise what was happening, and little by little she had moved her things into his apartment. His bachelor pad.
He shook his head. It was his fault, not hers. Cynthia could be very determined, and he had taken the easy way out and ignored what was happening rather than confronting her. But things had gone too far. Yesterday morning he had reached into the bathroom cupboard for his shaving foam and come out with a bottle of eye make-up remover. He looked around his apartment and realised how many of his own possessions had been replaced by hers.
Granger had to take control of the situation. He didn’t want a girlfriend, didn’t need nagging, and he didn’t want Cynthia DeVere living with him anymore. He couldn’t ignore it any longer, turning a blind eye and going with the flow. He had to stop things. And soon. It wasn’t fair to her to let this go on for any longer.
He grimaced; a confrontation with a spoilt rich girl was the last thing he felt like after his day in the office. Could he put it off until next week? Until after he’d been to the US? He would be much more relaxed with the deal in the bag. He’d be able to take care of things calmly. He swallowed. It was tempting. The car sped smoothly around the corner, trees whizzing past on either side. He shook his head. No, that wasn’t fair. Cynthia deserved to know now that he didn’t feel the same way. Things had got out of his control and it was wrong of him to let it go on any longer. Sure, he would rather avoid it, but he was only thinking of himself. He had to end it and do it now.
Slamming on the brakes, Granger turned the wheel and executed a neat three-point turn on the narrow lane and accelerated back the way he’d come. He could do this. He could face down any opponent in the boardroom. He had no problem firing any employee who didn’t perform in their job, so he could break it off with Cynthia.
There was a rustling as Granger let himself into his apartment. The lights were on. Rocky bounded over to greet him at the door. ‘Hello, boy,’ he whispered, bending down and ruffling the dog’s head. ‘You’re pleased to see me!’ He laughed as the dog butted up against his leg. Granger slipped off his heavy cashmere coat, stood still and listened. Cynthia was banging about in the bedroom, a mezzanine that overlooked the open-plan apartment.
He frowned. He needed a drink before he could do this. Draping his coat over his arm, he walked into the kitchen, taking care to move silently over the dark wooden floor. Rocky trotted happily beside him. Once out of earshot Granger let out as sigh and ran his hand through his light brown hair. This is ridiculous. It had been a long day and he was creeping around his own apartment.
‘Cognac,’ he said to Rocky, opening the cupboard. The crystal tumblers were dirty in the sink. The only clean item in the cupboard was a chipped mug.
‘When is Nadia coming?’ he muttered, eyeing the mountain of washing up. He took the mug, poured in a large measure of cognac and dropped in a few ice cubes. He looked down at the dog and raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think, boy? Can we face it?’ The dog cocked his head in response. Granger swallowed and rubbed his eyes. He opened another cupboard and took out a bag of dried dog food and a bowl. ‘Better with a full stomach, eh, Rock?’ he said, and poured some food for the dog. He headed to the living room then started up the staircase to the bedroom.
Cynthia had his Mandarina Duck suitcase out on the bed and was throwing her clothes into it. He frowned and walked to the sofa by the banister that overlooked the living room, then dropped down on it.
‘Cynthia.’ She was fully made up, he noted. He sipped his cognac and winced. Somehow it didn’t taste as good from a mug as it did from a cut-crystal tumbler. ‘Are you going on holiday?’ She continued piling outfit after expensive outfit into the case.
She glared at him. ‘Very funny,’ she muttered. Her short black hair was teased into a tight bun that emphasised her cheekbones. Her tiny frame was clad in wide-legged trousers and a designer top. She looked painfully thin. Granger unbuttoned his top button and stretched. His muscles were aching from the heavy workout he’d given them that morning. Leaning back on the sofa, looking out over the balcony at his apartment below, he waited. Cynthia stopped packing and looked at him. ‘Actually, Granger, I’m leaving you.’
He turned back to her, his eyes wide. ‘You’re leaving me?’
‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve been packing all day while you were at work. On a Sunday. Most couples spend time together at the weekend. But, oh no, not you. Not the mighty Granger Carmont. You have to work. Seven days a week. Granger Finance would collapse if you didn’t go to the office on a Sunday. Never mind the fact that you’ve
got a private life. Correction, you had a private life.’
Granger sipped his drink and closed his eyes. ‘I told you. I’ve got an important trip coming up, an important deal, and I need to prepare. I’m sorry, Cynthia.’
Cynthia raised her hands to the ceiling in a helpless gesture. ‘You own the company. Don’t you have people to prepare for you?’
‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.’ Granger frowned, getting up. Rocky padded up the stairs, his nails clicking on the bare wooden steps. ‘Hello, boy,’ Granger mouthed to the friendly face of the dog and dropped back down into the sofa. He patted the seat next to him, and the old dog heaved himself up and lay down, resting his head on Granger’s thigh. ‘Good boy,’ Granger murmured, glad of the show of solidarity. He breathed deeply. He didn’t want to get angry; this wasn’t Cynthia’s fault. It was his.
Cynthia had filled the case and was starting on a second one, opening the next cupboard and pulling out her clothes. When did all her things end up in my cupboards? Granger wondered as he watched dress after dress being thrown into the case. He hadn’t even noticed.
‘I’m sick of it, Granger, I really am. I can’t go on anymore. All you care about is work and that company.’
‘I don’t …’ Granger started to protest, but stopped. It was true. He sighed and finished his cognac as Cynthia shoehorned the suitcase closed and heaved it towards the stairs. ‘Let me do that.’ He got up, lifted the cases effortlessly and carried them down the staircase, placing them by the door. Cynthia threw the last of her clothes into his designer holdall then patrolled the apartment, inspecting it for things she might have forgotten.
‘I can’t believe you aren’t even trying to stop me going,’ she whispered.
He closed his eyes. ‘It looks like you’ve made you’re mind up.’
‘I’m glad I mean that much to you.’
‘I’m sorry, Cynth, but you’re right. I guess this thing has just, you know, run its course. We have different interests. You’ll be happier without me slowing you down.’
‘Hmmph.’ She turned away. ‘I’m just glad we didn’t get married.’
‘Married?’ Granger repeated, looking at the dog by his side. ‘When was marriage on the cards? We’ve only been on a few dates,’ he whispered. The dog lifted his head and looked at him with sad eyes.
‘Granger, we’ve been together for nine months!’ she screamed at him.
Granger held up his hands in defeat. ‘Do you want me to help you carry everything down to your car?’ The mention of the word marriage had brought him out in a cold sweat.
‘No, Claudio is coming to pick me up.’ She wasn’t looking at him.
‘Claudio? Claudio is coming to pick you up?’ Granger repeated.
‘Yes. Don’t get all jealous. It’s not like that, we’re just friends.’ Cynthia blushed.
‘OK, OK, sure,’ Granger muttered into Rocky’s fur. ‘I’m going to miss this old boy.’
Cynthia’s head snapped around. She stared at him with her clear blue eyes, looking as if she was trying to work something out. ‘Why are you going to miss him?’
‘He’s your dog. Your Christmas present from your father. The rescue dog you always wanted. Of course, you’ll be taking him.’
‘Oh,’ she frowned. ‘Well, no, I won’t. I know how much you love him. I wouldn’t dream of taking him away.’ She pulled on her coat.
He laughed. ‘Cynthia, I’ve got a business trip to the US next week, and I work fifteen-hour days. I can’t be responsible for a dog.’
‘Perhaps it will teach you to be less selfish.’ Cynthia narrowed her eyes. The doorbell rang. ‘I have to go. I’ll be round next week for all the stuff I’ve forgotten. I’m sorry it had to end like this, Granger.’ In a cloud of Chanel No5 she was gone. She didn’t even bother to say goodbye to her dog.
Granger let out a breath and collapsed on the sofa, the dog still in his arms.
‘What do you make of that, eh, Rock?’ he asked, frowning. Why did he feel like he’d been played? He looked out of the window. It was dark outside, and the city was lit up. It looked beautiful and reminded him why he had chosen this apartment. The views. He rested his hands behind his head. Still, she was gone and didn’t seem too upset at all. If inheriting Rocky was the only fallout, he’d take it.
He stood up and stretched, feeling relieved. This called for a celebration! Full of renewed energy he swapped his Italian silk suit for cotton joggers, pulled a T-shirt down over his head, then grabbed the lead. Rocky trotted behind him. Granger took the lift to the ground floor and set off at a slow jog so that the old dog could keep pace.
‘What am I going to do?’ Chantelle wondered, her mind working overtime. Her internship at Granger Finance was due to end in one week and, so far, there was no sign of a permanent position. She loved living in England. Loved the hills, the old narrow buildings, and the historic towns. Summerville had been her home for the past five months and she wasn’t ready to leave yet.
Life in Summerville wasn’t cheap though, and now her contract was nearly up she needed to find a solution – and fast. There was no way she could ask her aunt and uncle for any more help. They had done enough for her. But, in her heart, she had believed that a permanent position with Granger Finance would come up. That was why she hadn’t applied for any other jobs. Now time was running out and she was starting to regret not job hunting sooner.
Chantelle dressed for work, pulling on sheer black tights, a tailored skirt, and a cream silk blouse. Seeing her reflection in the mirror she nodded. It was like putting on a uniform; when she was in her work clothes she felt different, not just Chantelle Moulier from the French vineyard, but a businesswoman, a real businesswoman. She bought most of her clothes from Zara or Massimo Dutti. They had such beautiful things at affordable prices, so even on her meagre intern salary she could afford to wear luxury clothes. She slipped her feet into her high-heeled court shoes, grabbed her coat, and headed out of the door.
The house was dark. She tiptoed past Neil’s bedroom, keen not to wake him, and made it to the bus stop just as the bus rolled into sight. The journey to the office was short and when she arrived Patsy was already at her desk.
Her colleague waved. ‘Morning.’
‘You’re early,’ Chantelle said, as she turned on her laptop and waited for the programs to load.
‘Yeah, I know. I hate coming in early on a Monday morning. It reminds me of being a teenager and having to get up for school. But I’ve got so, so, so much to do.’
‘Really? What?’
‘I’ve got to finalise the projection breakdown for the big US trip next week,’ Patsy said, without looking up from her screen. ‘They need their numbers to be perfect. There are loads of reports to run and a heap of analysis to do.’
‘Yes, of course. The US meeting,’ Chantelle murmured. She looked around the office, suddenly realising all the analysts were at their desks already. She was normally one of the first to arrive. How could she have forgotten about the US thing? Waiting for her computer to load, she tapped her nails on the desk and checked her watch. She should have come in a good half an hour earlier.
She bit her lip. It was such an important week for the management team; perhaps it wasn’t the best time to talk to Margaret about a permanent position. She would be stressed with all the preparation. Chantelle sighed. With each day that passed she was becoming more anxious. She really hoped Granger Finance would offer her a job.
The door to the office opened, catching her attention; Granger Carmont strode in. Straight, light brown hair, a jaw so square it looked like it was carved marble. His sky-blue shirt did little to conceal the strong muscular body beneath and seemed to reflect his bronze skin. Patsy let out a sigh of appreciation as she watched him reach his destination, the desk of the senior analyst.
‘Back again …’ Patsy said, pulling her eyes away from G
ranger who was now in an animated conversation. ‘He’s been in here three times already this morning. He’s so sexy. I wish I were the senior analyst, so I could work with him.’
Chantelle looked again at the light-brown-haired man across the room. In all five and half months that she’d been working at Granger Finance, she had only seen Granger Carmont in this office a handful of times. His gaze was intense as he lent over the desk reviewing the figures on the analyst’s computer. He was talking with more passion than she had ever seen anyone discussing numbers, gesturing with his hands … his large, powerful-looking hands.
He was very attractive, Chantelle decided. Not her type, but he was probably the most attractive man she had ever seen. Those muscles, the air of authority. She could see why some girls were giddy about him. She glanced at Patsy who was pretending to be busy with her filing, then looked over at Granger again to study him further.
He lifted his head and looked across the office directly at her. Their eyes locked before Chantelle had a chance to look away. An expression of curiosity crossed Granger’s face. For an instant they were alone. Chantelle felt her whole body tense with a desire she had never experienced before.
Straightening, he must be a good couple of inches over six-foot she thought, Granger turned to give her his full attention. His broad shoulders were firmly held back exposing the wide expanse of his chest, which tapered down to a narrow waist encased in expensive designer trousers. The beginnings of a smile showed at the edge of his lips, softening the golden skin of his cheeks. He raised an eyebrow. Chantelle blushed and finally looked away, breaking the connection between them, forcing her eyes back to her computer.
What was she doing staring at this man, the MD? She was an intern, an intern who needed a job. She should be working, trying to create a good impression, not gazing at men across the office. She tucked her long dark hair behind her ears and frowned at her screen, struggling to remember what she was doing, her eyes fighting her brain, desperate to look up again at the MD. What was wrong with her? This wasn’t like her at all.
The Executive Floor Page 1
