by July Hall
“No—” Hold it. Had that been a crack at her age? “No, thanks,” she repeated, trying to sound calm and easy going. “I’m good.”
Violet gave her long look. Sandra found herself squirming. For some reason, Violet looked at her as if she knew something about her. Sandra had no idea what that might be, but the last thing she needed right now was something else to set her on edge.
“You just let me know if you need something,” Violet said, and hung Sandra’s coat from a wooden post protruding from the wall. Then she sat down at her desk again, turning all her attention to her laptop. Her manicured fingers began tapping over the keys.
At a loss, Sandra sat down on one of the leather couches by the windows. The sun felt warm through her silk blouse. She had an easterly view of the river, but the reflection of the sun on the water hurt her eyes if she looked at it directly.
She managed not to sigh or fidget, but she grew more restless with every passing second. Sure, she could spend the time productively on her phone, but something about Violet’s presence absolutely forbade her to make any calls and disturb the silence of the lobby. She was all caught up on e-mail and was waiting on replies.
And she was too distracted to go through the motions, really. She just wanted to get this over with. The meeting couldn’t be more tortuous than waiting for it to start.
Then, after nearly fifteen minutes had passed, the double doors opened. An Asian man in a dark suit exited, saying over his shoulder, “Thanks again, sir. I can’t wait to take on the challenge.”
She heard Mr. Magister’s voice rumble something from within the office that she couldn’t quite make out. Her skin broke out in goose bumps anyway.
The man said to Violet, “Thanks for everything.”
Violet rose to her feet and said graciously, “You’re welcome, Mr. Huan. Please make contact as soon as you’re in Hong Kong. Mr. Magister will be waiting for your call.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t keep him waiting.” Then Mr. Huan entered the elevator without giving Sandra a single glance.
Violet pivoted on her heel and went to the open door, peeking inside. “Mr. Magister, Miss Dane…? Right.” She tilted her head at Sandra. “You may go in now.”
Suddenly Sandra wanted to beg for an extra fifteen minutes. Her hands trembled, and she had to clench them into fists as she stood up. She wasn’t ready for this. She couldn’t face him after dreaming about him like that for days.
He’ll never know, she reminded herself as she picked up her tote bag. Even if he wants to play power games, he can’t read minds. It won’t even occur to him. He wasn’t really looking at you like that on Friday, you just imagined—
Sandra took a deep breath, steeled herself, and stepped into the lion’s den.
It was the biggest office she’d ever seen, with an enormous desk, a sitting area with a couple of couches, and a sideboard. A huge flat screen TV, dark and silent, was mounted on one wall. Windows stretched from the floor to the high ceiling, looking out over the river. Judging by the way Mr. Magister stood before them, taking in the view, the glare didn’t bother him.
It was so quiet. Hushed, even, and sealed off. Mr. Magister’s office gave the impression of having plenty of room for people who were never going to visit.
“Miss Dane,” he said without turning around. He kept his hands folded behind his back. “Have a seat.”
Sandra gulped. In her dreams, he always meant in his lap. Probably not today.
She looked between the couches and the two chairs sitting in front of his desk. He probably meant the desk. No doubt he enjoyed feeling like a principal who lectured misbehaving students. She moved toward the two chairs.
“Not there,” he snapped. She turned, startled by his vehemence, to find him looking at her.
Oh, Jesus.
She didn’t know what to say. She could hardly move. She’d fucked this man half a dozen times in the last four days, all in her head, and surely it had to be written on her face as well. He had to be able to see it.
But if he did, he gave no sign. She couldn’t read anything on his face at all. He was even more imposing here than he’d been in his home; a navy blue business suit sat more naturally on him than a tuxedo. When he turned to face her fully, she saw he wore a waistcoat. Of course he did.
“I, um,” she said, glancing back at the door just in time to see Violet closing it. “I gather that was the Hong Kong situation just leaving.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “It was indeed. What do you know about that?”
“Only what I heard at the party.” She squared her shoulders and plastered a pleasant expression on her face. “Thanks again for inviting me.”
“Not at all. I received your note yesterday afternoon. Handwritten, no less.” Sandra’s brow furrowed. Were there people who didn’t write their thank-you notes by hand? “Someone taught you well.”
“My mother,” Sandra said, thinking again of her mom’s total misread of Mr. Magister as nice. “I’ll pass on the compliment.”
“Please do.” He nodded at the coffee table. “The portfolio’s on the table. It contains copies of the house blueprints, photographs of the rooms and gardens, a list of particularly significant items, and records of any major repairs, should you need to know about that sort of thing.”
Sandra stared at the portfolio. Leather-bound, it looked to be five inches thick. “Significant items?” she said.
“Mainly furnishings, but also artworks, the silver, the china, and whatever else Warrick saw fit to include.”
“Who’s Warrick?” Sandra asked. She sat on one of the sofas and tried not to feel knock-kneed. She opened the portfolio’s heavy cover to find a title page and a table of contents. Everything seemed to be numbered and indexed.
“The butler. You’ll be working a great deal with him. Whatever else you need, he can provide.”
“Thanks,” Sandra said. She’d never felt so in over her head. What was she even doing here? Arnaud had faith in her, but he had to know this could be a disaster. She had no experience that would suggest she could take on a project like this by herself. Sure, this was a dream job, more than she could ever have hoped for, but if she screwed it up…
She cleared her throat. Surely Arnaud would agree with what she was about to say. He’d probably jump at it, in fact. “I was wondering…well, you know I’m still early in my career. I was wondering if you’d like Mr. Diallo to help as well? He’s got much more experience, and—”
“No,” Mr. Magister said. “I did not hire Arnaud Diallo. I don’t want him to help. I want you.”
His tone was icy, but the last three words made Sandra feel as if someone had taken a torch to her. For a second, she thought she saw realization on Mr. Magister’s face, but it was gone so quickly that she must have imagined it.
You imagined everything, she told herself, looking back down at the portfolio, feeling the back of her neck prickle while he watched her. The look in his eyes, the dreams, that’s all you, and you have to get it together. Now.
“You can take the portfolio with you,” Mr. Magister said.
“Thanks,” Sandra managed, turning pages that she didn’t really see.
After a pause, Mr. Magister said, “On your way, then.”
“Huh?” She looked up to see that he’d gone to the window again, and was looking out over the river. “I mean, I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“You can go,” he said tightly.
“Wh—” She looked at her watch. 10:51. If they were going by her schedule, they still had ten minutes left, and besides, “Your secretary said half an hour?”
“My secretary was mistaken,” he said, not turning around.
Was this because he’d seen the look in her eyes? Had he read her mind after all? She might actually die of humiliation. She cleared her throat, hoping she sounded steady when she said, “I doubt Violet is mistaken about much.”
That made him turn around. He seemed perfectly composed, as far as she could tell. “
Everyone is occasionally.”
“I have to talk to you about your plans,” she said, reaching for patience. “Before I start, you have to tell me what you’re looking for. You can’t just send me into your house and tell me, ‘Whatever.’ I need a—a mandate.” He was bound to be good at those.
Mr. Magister stuck his tongue into his cheek. Then he said, “We’ll start with one room and see how you do. Does that help?”
She wasn’t sure. Was that a huge weight off her shoulders, or was it just annoying that he didn’t trust her after all? “Whatever you like, we’ll do,” she said. Then she bit her lip.
Yeah. Whatever he liked. Last night she’d lowered her head into his still-clothed lap and nuzzled him through his pants, feeling him grow hard while he stroked her hair. He’d sure seemed to like that.
“Just sit down with me for a few minutes,” she said. She realized she was playing with the top button of her blouse and stopped, horrified. “Give me, I mean, a little something to work with.” She managed a smile.
Mr. Magister regarded her in total silence, his face as impassive as ever. Then, without a word, he joined her on the leather couch. He sat a decorous distance away, so Sandra wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt dizzy. She’d imagined he’d sit on the other couch, across the coffee table.
He didn’t seem to think anything was unusual as he took the portfolio from her frozen hands and set it on the table. He looked over the table of contents and said, “You’ll redecorate the second study.” Unable to speak, Sandra merely nodded. He didn’t notice. He began flipping pages until they reached a page with color photographs of a room. “My sister is a book on its shortcomings.”
Sandra could see why. Mr. Magister’s Upper East Side apartment looked timeless, but the room in these photographs was dated, even ugly. It looked like nobody had touched it since the 1990s. The carpet was a light mint green with white flowers, and the wallpaper was pale peach with some faint pattern on it she couldn’t discern from the photos. The dark furniture would be handsome in another setting, but God, not here. She hoped Eleanor Magister wasn’t responsible for this one. Was the rest of the house like this?
Mr. Magister cleared his throat. “That study is rarely used. The other rooms are more presentable.”
Sandra stared at him, wondering for an awful moment if she’d spoken out loud, especially the part about his wife. But he didn’t look pissed, so she must not have. “I…I’m sure they are.”
“Well then, what do you think?”
Sandra blinked and returned her focus to the photographs. “Well, your general style seems to be pretty classic, so I’m tempted to stick with that, unless you really want to shake it up. If you do, this room wouldn’t be a bad trial run, since it doesn’t get used much.”
“And if I did want to shake it up?”
She looked at him again. He was looking right back with those incredible eyes. Did he look at everyone like this? She could barely breathe. Was this why everyone did what he said, just because it didn’t seem possible to do otherwise?
“Hardwood floor,” she heard herself say. “Get rid of the carpet.”
“The carpet is Persian.” He lifted a lofty eyebrow.
He was baiting her. Maybe even making fun of her. Sandra bristled. “‘Persia’ isn’t a place anymore, although it might have been when you bought that carpet.”
Now he raised both eyebrows. His lips twitched. “It might have been. And what else?”
“The wallpaper has to go, or I do.”
“Oscar Wilde?” He was almost smiling now. She couldn’t believe it. “Careful. The wallpaper won that one.”
A shiver ran up and down her spine. “I’m not scared. Yours obviously died a long time ago.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, but his eyes gleamed. Warmth bloomed in her belly. “Are you this mouthy with all your clients?” he asked.
Mouthy. Mouths. Dammit. She made sure to keep looking him in the eye. Her voice sounded a little high-pitched when she said, “At Arnaud Diallo, we make sure the clients get exactly what they need.”
He snorted, looked back down at the portfolio, and flipped the page. More photos of the study. Sandra managed to muffle a groan. Just hideous. She said, “Maybe the, uh, interesting watercolor can go, unless you’re really attached to it.”
“And if I was?”
Then he’d have to be brain damaged. Unless it was really sentimental. Maybe his wife had painted it or something. Treading lightly, Sandra said, “Then of course we’d keep it. Like I said before, we can pick out what matters most to you, and work around that.”
Mr. Magister leaned back against the couch and crossed his legs. “Bradley painted it when he was sixteen. Rosalie insisted I hang it somewhere.”
Sandra blushed, not least because she’d almost said Bradley who? “I didn’t know he could paint.”
“He couldn’t, as you can see.” He tilted his head a little, looking at her keenly. “What about you? Do you have artistic interests other than your work?”
That was a strange question to ask an interior designer. Work and art were often the same thing. “I can draw,” she said. She had to be able to draft and sketch for her job. “I used to play the piano a lot, but I got out of practice in college.”
“The house has two pianos. One’s a concert grand. Feel free to try it out. What do you play?”
She said, “Lots of things. What would you guess?” Then she nearly lost her breath at her own daring.
Again, he appeared amused. “Tasteful, proper classical, of course. Am I wrong?”
He was one hundred percent correct. “Yes,” Sandra said defiantly. “Jazz. They say I’m the next Duke Ellington.”
“They say no such thing.”
“No, they don’t,” Sandra admitted. “I like Debussy.” His lips twitched again. It was unbelievably distracting. “Do, er, do you play?”
“No.”
Sandra bit her lip. “Did she?”
After a pause, he said, “No. The house and many things inside it have been in my family for generations. And I don’t want to discuss my wife with you.”
Though he spoke mildly enough, his eyes were chilly. The words hit her like a slap. Oh God, what was wrong with her? His wife had died horribly, he obviously still loved her, and Sandra had been sitting here having dirty thoughts.
“I’m sorry.” She hadn’t meant to whisper, but it came out that way.
“I don’t discuss her with anyone.” Then he blinked, as if surprised he’d said that. “It was—a long time ago.” He looked toward the window. “Time passes. Things change. You don’t always see them coming.”
He could say that again. She was still mortified. A pause ensued, uncomfortably long, until she said, “Yes. Um, the room.” She began paging through the blueprints in order to check the dimensions. She tensed her fingers so they wouldn’t shake. “I think dark hardwood floors would probably suit you best, and an area rug. Lots of options there. And there’s a fireplace? We could—”
“I expect you’ll be meeting Bradley after this,” he said, still looking toward the window.
Sandra froze. Then she swallowed and said, “No. I didn’t tell him I was coming.”
That made Mr. Magister turn back around, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. She pretended to be fascinated by the blueprints. “Why not?” he demanded, a strange edge in his voice.
“Because—” Because I wouldn’t want to kiss him hello after I saw you. “Because I’m here to work. Did you tell him you hired me?”
Another pause. Then he said, “No. I didn’t.”
Their eyes met, and in the back of Sandra’s brain, a tiny voice squeaked, oh shit.
He seemed to struggle for a moment. She held her breath, wondering if she should change the subject, or run for the door, or fake her own death, or what.
Then he asked, “How many relationships have you had?”
That…was not what she had expected. It took her a second to catch up. Then she frowned.
“Why does that matter?”
Mr. Magister set his jaw. “Why do you think?”
She couldn’t identify the look in his eyes. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but she still felt as if she was wading into dangerous waters. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I think you’re worried I’ll embarrass your family if I…what, you decide I’m a tramp or something? Is that it?”
One of his hands rested on his knee. She saw it clench. But he sounded calm when he said, “If I thought you would embarrass my family, you wouldn’t be here. I merely want to know your—history.”
She could tell him. It couldn’t possibly offend him. Her pre-Bradley history was as clean as could be. Even her Bradley history was pretty clean.
“It’s none of your business,” she said. She tightened her arms around herself and wished her heart would slow down. “I have private things, too.”
Mr. Magister’s eyes narrowed. Now he was definitely angry. She fought her every instinct to cower and confess the truth. You can handle him, she pleaded with herself. Don’t let him walk all over you. Just because he wanted to know didn’t mean he had the right to. It would be the same if she’d slept with every guy in New York. Mr. Magister had no business judging her life or her choices.
“Undoubtedly,” he said, his voice colder than the Arctic.
“It’s between Bradley and me.” His eyes grew even darker. “And, and—” Her gaze lighted on her tote bag at her feet. She lunged for it and began rummaging through it. “And that reminds me.”
She pulled out the Cartier box and set it on the coffee table. Mr. Magister said, “That better not be what I think it is.”
She clasped her hands. Please let him be reasonable. “You know I can’t take it. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, I do, but what would Bradley say?”
He blinked, but then the scowl was back. “Why would Bradley care if I replaced something I lost? It’s my responsibility.”
“Um. Okay. I got that other clip two years ago at a mall. That probably tells you something.” She glanced longingly at the box. “It’s gorgeous, but it’s nicer than anything he’s ever given me, and that wouldn’t be right.”
