Hero

by Samantha Young

  “Should I shelve those next to ‘personality’?”

  Caine did not look amused. In fact, the look in his eyes bordered on predatory. “That would be wise.”

  I gulped, suddenly wondering why I’d thought it was smart to poke the tiger. “Noted.” Already I could tell this arrangement between us was not going to be easy, but I just had to remember my endgame here. “I guess I’ll see you Monday, Caine.”

  He lowered himself into his seat without looking up at me. “Ethan will provide you with all the information you need before you leave.”

  “Great.”

  “Oh, and, Alexa?”

  I froze but my pulse sped up. He’d never said my name before.

  It sounded nice on his lips. Very, very nice.

  “Yeah?” I whispered.

  “From now on you will refer to me as Mr. Carraway and only Mr. Carraway.”

  Ouch. Talk about putting me in my place. “Of course.” I took another step toward the door.

  “And one other thing.” This time I halted at his dark, dangerous tone. “You never mention your father or my mother, ever again.”

  My heart practically clenched at the pain I heard in his voice.

  With a careful nod, I slipped out of his office, and despite the way he threw me off balance, I was more determined than ever that this was the right decision. Somehow this was where I was meant to be.

  CHAPTER 4

  The hot water sluiced down over me and I waited for it to wake me up. So far, nothing. In fact, I was so tired I couldn’t even find the energy for first-day-on-the-job-jitters. I washed the conditioner out of my hair and stumbled from the shower.

  Coffee.

  I needed coffee.

  I groaned and leaned back against the cool tiled wall of my bathroom and closed my eyes. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew I was jolted into full consciousness by the sounds of Rush’s “Working Man” blaring from my cell. It took me a minute to realize I’d made it my ringtone the night before.

  I sleepily made my way into my bedroom and snatched the cell up off my bedside table. “ ’Ello?”

  “I’m just checking if you managed to haul yourself out of bed,” Caine’s voice rumbled down the line.

  It was like a double shot of espresso, shooting through my blood and waking me up.

  “Of course I am,” I said, proud that I actually sounded alert. “I’ll be at the office at six thirty sharp.”

  “I’d like a decaf latte macchiato on my desk when I get in.”

  Uh … I glanced at the clock. I had not factored in coffee-buying time. “Okay, but I’ll probably be a little later, then.”

  “No.” Caine’s voice suddenly lowered in warning. “You’ll get your ass in the office at six thirty with a latte or don’t bother coming in at all.” He hung up.

  I sighed and threw my phone on the bed. Caine had warned me he was pretty much going to be an asshole, so I couldn’t be surprised by this. I also didn’t have time to be annoyed. If I was going to get him his damn latte and get into the office on time, I was going to have to forgo blowing out my hair. Instead I hurried around my room like a frantic person. I gave my hair a quick couple of blasts with my hair dryer and then coiled it up into a neat French knot.

  The whole time I dressed I frowned, and it wasn’t just because of my cranky tiredness. It was because of the stockings I’d had to pull on, and the tight, ass-cupping black pencil skirt I was wearing. Rachel had accompanied me on a shopping trip to Newbury Street that weekend so I could find “appropriate” clothing for my new job. We’d barely made it two blocks before I dropped a small fortune on stylish, expensive suits and blouses so I could fit the image of a Carraway Financial Holdings employee. This meant I was heading to work in that darn figure-hugging pencil skirt with a blue silk blouse tucked into it, a black peplum jacket to match the skirt, and black three-inch Prada heels I already owned but had rarely worn.

  I’d even swiped on a little mascara.

  I stared at my reflection in my full-length mirror and nodded. Stylish but conservative.

  I wrinkled my nose.

  I missed my boy shorts and flip-flops.

  There was no more time to glower at my reflection. I had coffee to get! I jumped in my silver-blue Miata, flew through the streets, and got to International Place in less than fifteen minutes. After parking in the underground garage of our building, I ran inelegantly in my Pradas to the coffee place around the corner since the one in the courtyard of our building hadn’t opened yet. When I got to the coffee place, I was surprised by the lack of a line.

  And then I realized that not everyone was an obsessed businessman who started work at six thirty in the freaking morning! I glanced at my watch as I pushed into the coffeehouse.

  I was fifteen minutes early.

  All that panic for nothing.

  Once I had Caine’s latte and my own double espresso, I strode into the building, mentally preparing myself for being pushed to my limits by my unyielding new boss. I flashed the ID Ethan had set up for me on Friday at the security guard and hopped on the elevator all the way up to Carraway Financial Holdings.

  There was no one in the office except a cleaner. The sense of stillness in the place initiated those first-day jitters I’d been waiting for.

  I took the key out Ethan had also given me and unlocked Caine’s office. It was immaculate. Not a thing out of place. It was kind of cold, in fact, and although there were a few plants in there, there was nothing personal. No photographs, no nothing. There was a painting of the Boston skyline that was pretty cool, but it was the only thing in the office that had any personality or color.

  I placed his latte carefully on his desk and eyed the large L-shaped sofa by the window.

  It needed cushions.

  Eyeing the uncomfortable-looking sofa as I passed it, I decided a throw wouldn’t go amiss either.

  I finally allowed myself to relax a little as I settled at my glass desk outside his office. I looked down at it and grimaced. There’d be no hiding a tabloid magazine I wasn’t supposed to be reading under this thing, then, huh? Caine was a stick-in-the-mud. Even his furniture prevented me from having fun.

  Booting up my computer, I sipped at my espresso and sighed with relief.

  Coffee.

  Sometimes I thought it might be better than sex.

  According to Rachel, I didn’t know what good sex was, though, so apparently I was unqualified to make that comparison.

  I was only sitting at the desk a few minutes when I heard footsteps approach. I looked up, my stomach doing that flippy thing again when Caine appeared around the corner. This morning he was wearing a light silver-gray suit that fit him to perfection and carrying a black leather briefcase. A white gold cuff link winked at his wrist as he reached up to straighten the thin dark blue tie that didn’t need to be straightened.

  He stopped by my desk with one eyebrow raised.

  It was really appalling that any man could look that good at this time in the morning. Or anytime, for that matter.

  “You made it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said breezily. “And your latte is on your desk.”

  Caine gave me a short nod, his eyes dropping to my torso. “Stand up.”

  I attempted not to bristle at the clipped demand and slowly rose to my feet. He waved his hand to the floor in front of him and I took that to mean he wanted me to go there. Although blood heated my cheeks, I pretended I was completely unaffected by this demeaning crap, because I could tell by that gleam in his eyes that he wanted me to be pissed off. Once I was standing in front of him for inspection, Caine’s face remained blank as he appraised my appearance. He made a circling motion with his forefinger and I spun slowly around for him.

  You cannot kill your boss on the first day, you cannot kill your boss on the first day, you cannot kill your boss period …

  I remained outwardly impassive as I stopped, turning to face him.

  He gave me another short nod.
“You’ll do.”

  Are you finished making me feel like a prized poodle? That was what I really wanted to say. Instead I said, “May I get you anything?”

  “I’ll e-mail you what I need. Ethan went over your duties regarding calls et cetera?”

  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.”

  I burst out laughing, completely charmed by this character in front of me. “I will endeavor to get my eight hours if it means I’ll look as good as you when I’m your age.”

  “Oh, I like you.” Mrs. Flanagan chuckled. “When you come back you and I definitely need to sit down over some tea and cakes. Speaking of, tell Caine I’m making his favorite—banana cream pie—so he better stop by tonight.”

  Caine liked banana cream pie? I looked down at the bag in my hand that carried his salad. For three days I’d been in his employment and so far I’d discovered the man was a health nut. He visited the gym every morning before work and he only ate steamed veggies, soup, and salad.

  Banana cream pie was a whole other side of him.

  I grinned. “I will definitely tell him.”

  Dean from the main reception desk threw me a sympathetic smile as I flew past him with an out-of-puff “Hey, Dean!”

  Although I hadn’t had a chance to really mingle with many of Caine’s other employees, and doubted I ever would with the schedule he gave me, Dean had dropped by a few times to check in with me. He was sweet and friendly, and honestly just having one person treat me like a human being helped me get through the day.

  I hauled ass toward Caine’s office and tried to catch my breath as I stopped at my desk to arrange his food on a plate and on a tray. I called into his office to let him know I had his salad. He told me to come in and I strode inside, thankfully no longer out of breath, to find him settled on his sofa with one ankle resting on his opposite knee as he frowned at the paperwork in his hands.

  I approached with the tray and Caine looked up at me. I quickly wrenched my gaze away from his forearms. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying his corded, tan arms.

  The son of a bitch had to have
some kind of physical flaw. I was going to find it. I was.

  “You’re late.” He curled his lip in annoyance.

  Personality flaws, on the other hand … oh, I’d already found lots of those.

  “Sorry, Mr. Carraway,” I murmured, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “I was delayed by Mrs. Flanagan.” I straightened, eyeing him for a reaction.

  And I got it.

  Wariness had crept over him.

  If I could have I would have done a fist pump in triumph.

  “She wanted me to tell you that she made your favorite—banana cream pie.” I grinned with faux sweet innocence. “You’re to stop by tonight for a piece.”

  The unhappiness radiating from him would have quelled any normal person into silence—or at least wiped the stupid teasing smile off their face. But I never claimed to be normal. Nope, I was enjoying his obvious discomfort, because it meant I had found something real out about him, and I was eager to learn more about the charming Mrs. Flanagan.

  “Get out of my office, Alexa.”

  At the growled command, I decided it was wise to choke back my chuckle and do just that. Caine’s gaze burned into my back the whole time.

  The next morning …

  I braced myself as Caine marched toward my desk, his appearance dark and grim. I was so busy looking at his face I didn’t notice what was in his hand until it was clattering down on top of my desk.

  I stared in bewilderment at the Tupperware container. Inside it I could see a piece of pie.

  I looked up at Caine in question.

  He was clearly pissed off and extremely uncomfortable. “Mrs. Flanagan insisted you have a piece of pie,” he said, teeth gritted.

  I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a sharp “Don’t.” With that he threw open his office door and slammed it shut behind him.

  Caine cared enough about his elderly neighbor to follow through on her instructions despite the fact that it almost physically killed him to do so.