The Executive Floor

by Belinda Wright

  ‘We do a lot of work with universities. Interns are our future leaders, that’s what I believe.’

  Chantelle nodded. ‘The intern programme and the high conversion to the employment rate is the reason I chose this company,’ she said.

  Granger turned his head to one side. ‘You know what you want?’

  ‘I have high standards,’ Chantelle said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’ He looked at her, and she forced herself to hold his gaze. Granger took a breath then broke away. He looked at his watch again. ‘Margaret is not still here, by any chance?’

  Chantelle bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Sorry, no, she’s gone home.’

  He frowned. ‘I’ll have to call her at home then. I have a problem with one of the calculations in the spreadsheet and I just can’t figure it out. I’m good at most things but NASA level Excel macros are just that bit beyond me.’ He held up his hands in mock defeat, then turned and started walking back to his office.

  ‘Macros?’ Chantelle called after him. ‘I could take a look if you want. I’m pretty good with Excel.’

  Granger stopped and turned; his hands were on his tie, loosening it further. The corners of his mouth curled in a smile. ‘I’ve been struggling with it for the past twenty minutes, it’s not easy.’

  Chantelle nodded. ‘I really am quite good with Excel.’

  Their eyes met again. Granger dragged a hand through his ruffled hair and appeared to be considering her offer. She tried without success to read his expression.

  ‘Err … no, I shouldn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, it’s too sensitive. I should ask one of senior analysts.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll go and give Margaret a call,’ he said and walked back to his office. ‘Have a good night.’

  ‘Yes, you too, good night,’ Chantelle answered. She shut down her computer and began packing her things into her bag.

  Granger pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing tone. He paced up and down the corridor willing the head of the analytical department to answer. He needed assistance and he needed it that night. He didn’t want to have to go back and ask that intern for help. That extremely attractive intern. It had taken a lot of willpower to turn her down. Warning sirens had sounded in his head the moment he’d set eyes on her earlier the day before. There was something in those innocent dark eyes that had caused him to stop and stare. If he had been anywhere else he wouldn’t think twice about bedding her but, in his office, professionalism was the word he stood by, had stuck to all his working life. And, if he wanted to remain professional, he knew it wasn’t a good idea to be alone with her.

  The phone kept ringing.

  ‘C’mon, answer,’ he muttered. It went to voicemail. He hung up, sat down behind his computer and stared at the screen. He was blocked. There was no way he could move on without some help. He flicked through his phonebook, his finger hovering over his PA’s number. She wouldn’t be able to help with Excel, but she could try to get hold of Margaret. He drummed his fingers on the desk. If he couldn’t reach Margaret, his PA wouldn’t be able to either.

  ‘Damn it,’ he muttered. Getting up, he closed his top button and retied his tie then strode back to the analyst floor.

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of her,’ he said to the intern. She looked up from packing her bag, her dark hair framing her pale face.

  ‘You were leaving?’ Granger said, eyeing her dark computer screen.

  ‘Yes, I was.’ She smiled. It was such a delicate, pretty smile that Granger felt the effects of it throughout his body.

  ‘Will you please take a look at my file before you go?’ he said, turning to head back to his office, needing to walk and release the pressure that was building within him.

  ‘Err, are you sure? I’m only an intern …’ she said. But he was already halfway to his office; he didn’t answer, pretending not to have heard. Was that sarcasm? He glanced back. She had stood up and was straightening her skirt. He frowned, wishing it was a little longer. Why couldn’t she have been wearing an ankle-length skirt, not a knee-length one that gave him such a great view of her legs.

  Granger turned and focused straight ahead. What was the matter with him? He was acting like an uncontrollable teenager, not a thirty-five-year-old fully competent company director. He needed to get a grip on himself. He’d been working too hard; he should go home and go for a run or a swim, work off some of his pent-up physical energy.

  The girl had to hurry to catch up with him. It wasn’t easy in her high heels and skirt, which only allowed her to take tiny steps. At the door to his office, Granger stopped and waited. He turned and watched her. His eyes were drawn again to the curve of her legs clad in sheer black tights. He looked away and held the door open.

  The girl went through and stopped, waiting for Granger to lead the way. He did, and she followed him to the executive wing. He put his ID card to the electronic card reader and the door buzzed open. Glass-walled offices lined either side of the corridor; Granger headed to his, dark apart from the desk lamp that he had left on. The flat-screen television mounted on the wall was on silent, but the moving images gave an extra flickering light. Chantelle swallowed and walked forward, her eyes fixed on the view from the window. It was dark outside, and the lights of Summerville City sparkled. Granger was glad he’d left the blinds open.

  He sat down behind the large desk, watching her staring out of the window. It was fascinating to see her so impressed. Her oval eyes were wide, and her face had lit up. He suppressed a smile and forced himself to relax as he waited for her to join him. The girl looked at him and his eyes fixed on hers. He saw her hesitate. She stepped closer to his desk, closer to him. She was holding her breath and waiting for him to tell her what the problem was. Her hands were behind her back.

  He focused on his screen to try to put her at ease. ‘I can’t get these damn formulas to function properly and these numbers need consolidating,’ he said, pointing at the columns on the two spreadsheets he was struggling with. ‘I’ve been trying to do it for ages and I’m wasting my time. There’s a bug somewhere.’

  ‘Let me look.’ The intern bent closer to the screen to examine the files. ‘May I?’ She gestured to his mouse. Granger pushed back his chair so she could lean across him and take control of his computer. She rested her elbows on the desk and started working on the Excel sheets.

  ‘Excel was never my forte,’ he muttered, watching as she removed the filters and started sorting the columns and combining the data. ‘I can manage, but the technical details are not my thing.’

  The girl’s body was pressing again his side as she leaned in to get a better look at the screen, and Granger was suddenly aware of her smell, a combination of perfume and body lotion. Long dark hair tumbled down her back like satin, covering her blouse. He frowned; was that her breast pressing gently against his knee?

  Granger started to feel warm, really warm. He had to loosen his tie again, but he couldn’t; she was leaning too closely over him, focused intently on the screen. He didn’t want to do anything that might make her move. All he could do was wait until she was finished, but he didn’t want her to stop.

  ‘Where in France are you from?’ he asked, trying to think of something neutral. He only just managed to refrain from reaching for a strand of her dark hair that had fallen in front of her eyes.

  ‘The Loire Valley,’ she said, without looking up.

  ‘You have beautiful accent.’

  She glanced at him, apparently surprised at the compliment. ‘Thank you.’ Granger winced and cursed himself for the slip. Focus on the job. He locked his eyes on the spreadsheet.

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ he muttered, pulling at his tie. She shivered. ‘You’re cold?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I can turn the heating up.’

  She held up her hand. ‘No, no, i
t’s OK, I’m almost finished.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you before.’ How had he managed to miss this girl in his team of analysts? She was working just a few hundred metres from him. Her eyes were warm and her lashes were sexy smudges surrounding them; her skin was like the white porcelain of a doll. ‘Why not?’ He turned his head to the side and contemplated.

  ‘I-I don’t know. Because I’m an intern, I guess.’ She stopped and looked at him, he felt a wave of excitement. ‘This should work now. Can you check that it’s what you want?’ She took a step back, waiting. Granger tore his eyes away from her and tried to focus on the computer screen. He examined the data.

  ‘Perfect. I’ve been fiddling with that for ages, and you’ve solved it in two minutes.’

  Colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘You’ve just saved me a lot of time. I should move your desk in here.’ He pursed his lips and then smiled. His eyes fixed on hers. He’d meant it as a joke. But as she edged backwards he frowned; maybe the comment was ill placed. This shouldn’t be happening. He was on dangerous ground.

  ‘I’d better go.’ She moved to the door.

  Granger got up. ‘I’ll walk with you. You need my badge to get out of this department.’ He followed her out of the executive wing, forcing himself not to notice the tight skirt hugging her bottom. He buzzed her through the door.

  ‘You were just leaving for the night, right?’ he asked, holding the door open and gesturing towards her office.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said.

  ‘Good, I don’t want anyone to accuse me of taking advantage of my interns,’ Granger said and then winced. ‘I meant overworking them, not … something else.’

  She looked at him; the edges of her mouth twitched as she supressed a smile. ‘I know what you meant.’

  ‘Good.’ He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Have a good evening.’ She smiled, exposing straight white teeth.

  ‘You too.’ He started to turn away and then stopped. ‘Oh, and thanks again for your help,’ he called. She raised her hand in a wave as she walked back to her desk.

  Granger went back to his office and stared at the screen, trying to focus on his work. He could still smell her perfume. Suddenly, he realised he didn’t even know her name. He wanted to know her name. He wanted to know more about her. He unplugged his laptop and slammed it shut. What on earth was wrong with him? He’d given up women, hadn’t he? Cynthia DeVere had put him off completely, so why now did he care what was the name of some French intern who just happened to be an Excel whizz? He rubbed his eyes. He was going crazy.

  There were only a few days left until the meeting in the US and he had to be razor sharp. The last thing he needed was disruption. No matter how sexy her accent was. And she was employed by him, which made her strictly off limits.

  His muscles flexed; he needed to get out, burn off some energy. He grabbed his coat and strode out of the executive wing towards the lift. He glanced towards the analysts’ department. The light was still on – she was still there. He hesitated, then walked back to her floor. As he got to the door, he stopped. He shook his head and turned back to the lift. He pressed the button and waited.

  He heard a noise behind him. He turned to see the girl appear with her coat on and bag in hand. She saw him waiting for the lift and stopped. For a moment Granger thought she was going to turn back to her office, but she seemed to catch herself. She headed towards him as the lift door slid open. He stepped aside and allowed her to enter first. She went inside and he followed.

  ‘This is a coincidence,’ he said, and grinned. What an idiot. Why couldn’t he think of something smart to say?

  ‘Yes, and oh … I forgot my umbrella. I have to go back,’ she said and darted out of the lift just before it closed. ‘Bye.’

  Chantelle walked back to the office and went slowly to her desk, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She had thought she could cope but the scent of his aftershave in the close confinement of the lift had made her panic.

  In his office, the atmosphere had been dangerous, and she didn’t like the feeling she had in her stomach when she had been close to him. She hated men like him, all cool and sophisticated, who believed they could have anyone they want just by looking at them.

  Chantelle sat on her desk for a moment and swung her legs back and forward, waiting. After a few minutes she slid off the desk and ventured back out to the corridor.

  ‘What took so long?’ His voice was rich and deep in the dark.

  ‘Oh, you startled me,’ Chantelle gasped. ‘I thought you had gone!’

  ‘I waited. I didn’t want to leave you here alone,’ he said, pressing the button for the lift again. It arrived. They both stepped inside. The doors slid closed on them. Chantelle wrapped her wool coat around her body, cinching the belt tight at her waist. She felt grateful for the feeling of protection it gave her.

  ‘Where’s the umbrella?’

  ‘I err, it’s in my bag,’ she muttered. Awful man. He knew she had made it up. It felt like an eternity before the lift doors slid open. Chantelle gasped the fresh air as if she had been suffocating. It tasted cool and metallic after the warm intensity of the lift.

  ‘It’s late. Would you like to join me for dinner?’ He asked, striding away.

  ‘Err. But I …’ Chantelle started then stopped, realising he was moving out of earshot. She frowned. He just assumed she would follow him? Didn’t consider for one moment that she might A. have other plans and B. not want to.

  ‘No,’ she called out, hurrying after him. Granger Carmont stopped and looked at her; he seemed confused.

  ‘No. I mean, I’m sorry but I can’t,’ she said, feeling the blood accumulating in her cheeks.

  ‘You can’t …?’ he prompted.

  ‘I can’t join you for dinner.’

  ‘You can’t?’ He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Because … I have … because I have …’ She racked her brain for an excuse, but her mind had gone blank. He was watching her, an amused expression on his dark features.

  ‘You have …?’ A frown creased his forehead.

  ‘I have to clean my room,’ she blurted, regretting saying it the moment it came out of her mouth.

  ‘You have to clean your room?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘It’s messy and I’ve been putting it off for ages. And tonight, well, I promised myself I would do it.’

  ‘I see.’ He drew a hand through his hair and seemed to consider for a moment. ‘You still have to eat though?’ he said, eyeing her. ‘Or are you another one of these girls who never eats anything?’

  ‘No,’ Chantelle snapped. ‘Of course, I eat. I’m French!’

  ‘Then you can join me for dinner, and afterwards you can go home and tidy your room.’ He grinned and turned again. ‘This is mine.’ He buzzed the central locks and got into his car.

  Chantelle stared at the car and considered her options. She could just say no. But he was the managing director. She wanted a job. If she refused, would that impact her chances? She remembered what Patsy had said about how Granger Carmont never fooled around at work. He wouldn’t make an exception to his rule for her, would he? No, of course not. Why was she reading into it? He’d offered her dinner, nothing more. She could do this. And if he made a move there was absolutely no way she was going to fall into bed with him; she shook her head. That might be what he was used to, but she was absolutely not interested. No way.

  She walked towards the midnight blue Porsche parked in the MD reserved parking slot. The passenger door opened as she approached. She climbed down beside him, the low-slung seats surprising her. Her skirt slid over the slippery beige leather interior. The car smelled of aftershave and polish. She pulled the seat belt around her, aware of how close they were in t
he compact interior. His hand moved to the gear stick, centimetres from her knee. Chantelle held her breath.

  He revved the engine and steered out of the space in one fluid movement. The car sped out of the car park. It felt like they were gliding over the tarmac. He drove fast, negotiating the roads with skill. Chantelle sat silently beside him, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. She refused to glance at the man beside her, thoughts spinning in her head.

  Mr Carmont pressed a button on the dashboard. A dialling tone filled the air. The call was answered by a female voice. ‘Hello? Yes, table for two in about half an hour. Yes, the usual.’

  He hung up and then glanced at Chantelle. ‘We have to make a quick stop at my place on the way to the restaurant.’

  Chantelle stared at him. ‘Mr Carmont, I can’t stay out late. I mean, I have things to do.’

  He tipped his head to the side. ‘I know you have to tidy your room, you told me. It won’t take long – and call me Granger.’ Chantelle cringed. Why had she made up such a stupid excuse? It made her sound like she was fourteen, not twenty-four. And Granger? She had to call him Granger, not Mr Carmont, or Mr Managing Director, or sir even? She swallowed. Why were they going to his house? She wrung her hands together in her lap. She knew why. There was no way. No way!

  There’s probably a legitimate reason for the stop; she tried to convince herself and calm the butterflies that were fluttering in her stomach.

  ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Chantelle. Chantelle Moulier.’ The Porsche pulled up outside a glass apartment building in the north of Summerville. Granger steered the car down a narrow ramp and the garage door opened. He guided the car through the underground car park to a wide empty spot next to the lift. Row after row of expensive cars lined the walls, all with personalised number plates. He cut the engine and got out. Chantelle stayed where she was. The passenger door opened and Granger offered his hand to help her climb out of the car.

  ‘No, it’s fine, I can wait for you here,’ she said.

  Granger’s hand remained outstretched. ‘We’re not driving to the restaurant.’