by Zee Monodee
The metal doors slid open, and she stepped out onto the plush, slate-grey carpet that ran through the whole room where one half provided a luxuriously appointed waiting room and the other held her desk and work equipment.
She took a deep breath as she walked with a steady step towards her office. A glance at the slinky, silver Gucci watch on her left wrist showed her it was ten o’clock. She needed to have some urgent request slips signed by the boss, as was the case every day, and have them dispatched to the relevant departments before eleven so business could continue as usual.
No time to waste dwelling upon her situation. The job came before everything at this time of the day. And thank God for that, for the escape it would provide for at least a few hours.
After fishing her keys from her purse, she dropped the bag next to her chair and opened the drawer containing the suede folder with all the confidential requests neatly arranged in it.
Clutching the file, she closed the drawer with her hip and headed to the large, double-panelled doors leading to the most private sanctum of the bank after the vaults.
Upon a sharp knock, she stepped in and scanned the wide, richly appointed room. Tiny dust motes drifted in lethargic motions where the rays of the March sun slanted through windows framed by heavy, tied-back, red velvet curtains. Heavy books bound in green and gold were displayed on mahogany shelves that ran along one whole wall, with dark wood furniture strategically displayed around the office, making one think of the posh setting of an elegant country club.
Amidst all this Old World splendour, she couldn’t see a living soul. A groan escaped her. He wasn’t here. Again. How many times would she have to tell him he had to physically be in the office during working hours?
A small sound caught her attention. A little beep, followed by the swish of fabric moving against leather. She zoomed in on the executive chair, turned so that the back faced the door.
The sod. He’d tricked her again into thinking he wasn’t here.
With quick but silent steps, she went around the chair and faced the distinguished-looking gentleman sitting there.
He raised dark, stricken eyes to her. She looked him up and down, noting the large phone clutched tight in one palm, fingers of the other hand on the screen. He didn’t move at first, then shook his head. A few strands of his thick, silver hair broke free and brushed over his wide forehead.
Her turn to shake her head.
“You’re playing Candy Crush again?”
He gave a sheepish smile in reply. A bank CEO not attending to his urgent duties in order to play a silly game on his phone. How had such an immature man risen to such lofty heights? She sighed. And how had she been the lucky one to land him as boss?
His shoulders slumped before he turned on his full Italian charm and smiled at her with a kind of charisma that would put George Clooney to shame.
But this didn’t work on her, and she placed her hands on her hips, the folder still in her grasp while she peered down at him from her full five-foot-ten height.
“I swear, if you didn’t need that phone for important calls and e-mails, I’d snatch it from you. I bet you spent the whole morning playing this stupid game.”
To anyone listening, it might sound strange for a personal assistant to be speaking to her boss in this manner. But seven years ago, when she’d started working for Umberto, she had realized nothing but schoolmistress severity worked on the man. To the world, he was this mighty financial magnate who took on the riskiest deals and emerged the victor. Behind the scenes, Jane had learned that the reason for his success was the potent Mediterranean charm he ladled in buckets on clients, friends, and foes alike.
The actual work behind every deal wasn’t Umberto’s doing. It was hers. He simply strolled in to conclude the contracts. His previous string of personal assistants had all quit barely a month into the job after viewing the staggering amount of work that would be required of them. Lucky for her she had degrees in administration, finance, and banking. The knowledge had come in handy for bailing him out of all the potential crises that had nearly arisen due to his laid-back attitude.
“Come on, Jane. It was only for ten minutes or so.”
She glanced at the screen. “You moved twenty-one levels in ten minutes this time? Congratulations.”
Their gazes locked in a clash of wills.
After a stifling moment, he sprang to his feet and walked past her, pocketing the phone in his jacket. “Relax, my dear. There is nothing on the agenda today.”
“There’s the meeting with Brinks Corporation at two,” she dropped with unaffected cool as he strutted around the office.
He stopped in his tracks, his face turning ashen. “That’s today?”
She wanted to smile at his discomfited expression, but refrained. And tamped down the sigh she yearned to let out.
“Yes. And in case you’re wondering, yes, too, I do have your back covered with all the prep work.”
He threw his hands up, gesturing to the skies. “You are a true gem.”
“Yeah, so you say.” The sigh did come out this time. If she’d had a pound for every time she’d heard that, she’d have made a million or so this way today. “Papers for you to sign.”
She placed the folder on his desk.
He came back to the chair and slid into it, put on his reading glasses, and signed the documents, one after another.
She was about to leave his office when he called her.
“Could you have flowers delivered to Livvie? Red roses would be perfect.”
She stopped in the doorway and turned to face him. Wait a second, had she heard right the first time?
“Say that again?”
He sighed as if dealing with a child who didn’t understand a thing. Jane’s blood did a single turn in her veins before it reached boiling point. She hated it when he patronized her like that.
“Olivia.” He stressed out the name. “It’s her birthday. Can you have five dozen red roses sent to her flat?”
She’d heard him right the first time. Livvie was Olivia Whitmore-Rinaldi, his ex-wife. He’d been in touch with her frequently in the past weeks, after a communications drought of years.
“Red roses? For your ex-wife?”
He grew all flustered, face going red. “What’s so wrong with that? She always loved red roses.”
Jane closed her eyes and sent out a silent prayer asking God to grant her patience. Umberto couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to embroil her in his complicated love life. No time would be a good time, but she had already received such disturbing news today. She didn’t have it in her for more, much less an argument with him. She would totally lose, but something inside her refused to just lie down and roll over to acquiesce to his wish.
Opening her eyes, she looked at him. “You never ask me to send red roses to a woman unless you have her in your sights. Is Olivia a good target now?”
He tsk-ed. “She’s not a target. I love her.”
And if she had a pound for every time she’d heard that one … Loving someone, though, not just Livvie Whitmore.
“Yes, I bet you do,” she said with a sigh.
Of course, he hadn’t thought things through. No, that was her job, apparently, to figure out all the contingencies in everything from work contracts to his love life. Speaking of potential future hurdles …
“And what will your son think about all this? You said yourself he doesn’t want you anywhere close to his mother.”
A grimace on his features told her she’d crossed the line. Umberto chalked his long-time estrangement from his only child, Michael, as his biggest failure.
“Sorry, I overstepped my bounds.” It hurt her to see him dejected. Loath as she was to admit it, she had come to think fondly of the old codger. “Umberto, after the last woman you ditched, I told you I would no longer take part in your little games of cat and mouse. And I’m certainly not going to do it where your ex-wife is concerned.”
And where your formidable son
could surely get involved. Michael Rinaldi was rumoured to be even more of a shark than his father, one with actual, always-sharpened teeth that ruthlessly ripped his opponents to shreds when the urge to bite struck him. Which, apparently—if the financial papers were to be believed—happened quite often.
Add to this the fact that in the past years, she’d seen her fair share of women, most of them half-brained bimbos, coming in and going out of his life. She’d kept tabs because she’d been the one who’d ‘arranged’ the conquest strategies—aka where to buy what jewellery, which restaurant to book and how long in advance, etc.—and also handled the debriefing once he’d moved on to another fancy. She’d faced everything from weepy messes to hysterical hellcats tearing the place apart.
“Aw, come on, Jane.”
The pleading in his tone brought her back to reality, facing, well, this basket case in front of her. Goodness, she sure had her work cut out for her.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I’ll make it worth your while. Another raise. What do you say to that?”
No one really wanted to spit on extra money earned legally, but this was nothing but a tactic to make her succumb. She also couldn’t be bought, thank you very much.
“No. How am I going to explain another raise when I file my tax return? You already gave me one last December.”
Not that she needed to provide an explanation, but she doubted he’d recall that.
“Please, Jane. Just this once.”
The pouting lower lip? No way!
She clenched her teeth. “Do it yourself.”
“A company car, then.”
“I don’t even have my driving license.”
She’d never been behind the wheel of a car, the very thought enough to make her break out in hives—her father had died in a very spectacular car crash during a Paris-Dakar race.
“An unlimited card at Harvey Nichols?” he tried.
“I already have one.”
And at Harrods’. Trammell’s. St Yves, too. But he wouldn’t know that. She doubted Umberto would give a thought to her life outside of the sphere of his existence. It might never have crossed his mind that she could even come from the same world as he …
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jane. Just help me, will you?”
She hated being played for a fool, but when Umberto gave her that sad, beaten-dog look, she was almost certain she would give in. Despite appearing like a cad, Umberto Rinaldi was a nice man. Many a time, she’d pictured him as some sort of father figure in her life. Consequently, no wonder she was totally screwed.
“Oh, heck.” She cursed under her breath. “Isn’t five dozen a bit over the top?”
“No. Everyone will send her one or two. I want to stand out.”
And you will.
She should know by now which battles to pick. On a sigh, she walked out of the office and headed for the phone on her desk to call the florist.
***
“Happy birthday, Mum.”
Michael Rinaldi engulfed the petite Olivia Whitmore-Rinaldi in a one-armed hug as they stood on the threshold of her flat in Belgravia, in the left wing of a restored Victorian mansion. His other hand held a fragile bouquet of delicate, exotic orchids.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
She threw both arms around him as she stood on tiptoe, the top of her blonde head barely touching his chin, trying to smother him in her embrace, but failing given the discrepancy in their sizes.
She released him, smiled as if in resignation that she would never be able to squeeze him much harder than she’d been able to since he’d become a teenager, and tugged on his coat. “Come on in.”
He followed her inside, closing the heavy wood door behind him. The smell of lavender tickled his nostrils, taking him back to the days when he’d lived with her. His mother loved to have lavender potpourri bowls everywhere, and she had the linen, sheets, and curtains in her house scented with the calming flower.
“This is for you.” He placed the bouquet in her arms. The sight of her smile brought some lightness to his heart, and he grinned like a loon. Who cared if the legal shark looked like a cartoon character right then? He enjoyed seeing her happy.
As he stood there in the middle of the room, he threw a glance around the bright and airy salon that opened onto a deck visible through the floor to ceiling glass panes making up the far wall, his gaze taking in the many flower arrangements on every available surface.
“So …” He chuckled. “Your suitors are all lining up today.”
She brushed his comment off with a laugh. “They’re from friends, Mike. Girl friends.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughed at the mock glare she gave him. “Just joking, Mum.”
“I know, sweets. Come sit down.” She patted the seat next to her on the bright red, contemporary-style settee.
“Let me take my coat off first.” He walked back to the door where he flung his Burberry trench on the hanger and then returned to the front room and sat down beside her. “So, enjoying your day so far?”
“It’s good, especially since you said you took a full morning off to be with me. I thought you’d come around earlier. Thank goodness I asked Mabel to prepare brunch and not breakfast.”
Michael winced. “Phillip and I went to the team’s practice session earlier. I got caught in a meeting with the manager.”
She nodded. “I hear the team is doing well in the league table.”
“Yes, it is. We might even make it to the Premier League next season.”
He and his best friend, Phillip Campbell, co-owned the first division football team of Ashton Rovers. Whenever their schedule allowed it, the two of them went to see the team go through their preparations on the training grounds in order to offer their support and keep a close eye on the group. They also attended the games when they could. What had started as a dare between them—could they become the next Roman Abramovich and own their own football team?—had ended in this. Though rich, they were nowhere close to the Russian’s estimated net worth, so they’d settled for this little club … now seemingly destined for greater things.
Mabel, his mother’s housekeeper for the past thirty years, appeared in the doorway to the dining room. “Brunch is ready.”
On the way to the table, he stopped to drop a kiss on her cheek. He was fond of the old girl who’d been like a second mother to him when he’d been growing up.
“We were starting to think we would never see you around here,” she chided.
He shrugged and gave her a wink.
“You know the charm doesn’t work in this house, young man.” She playfully shook her finger in a scolding gesture.
He laughed, then pulled up a chair to slide in the seat opposite his mother at the table laden with French toast, cheese and ham omelettes, fresh rolls, salads, juices, and tea and coffee.
He cocked an eyebrow at Mabel. “You planning to feed an army, Mae?”
The housekeeper huffed. “Still remember the days when you would eat the kitchen sink after going through all the leftovers in the fridge and pantry if I didn’t stop you.”
He chuckled. “So now, you plan on saving your precious sink every time I come around, eh, Mae.”
She huffed again as she departed for the kitchen.
“Stop taking the mickey out of her, Mike.”
He winked at his mother. “For now.”
She rolled her eyes and set out to pour him a cup of coffee.
Eyeing the fragile china she was handing to him, he shuddered. “Mum, couldn’t you have used some other crockery? This is a doll’s set. I will surely break it as I’m not a doll.”
She shrugged. “Just don’t go all angry and seething on me, and you’ll be fine. Plus it’s my birthday. If I want you to drink out of a doll’s set, then you drink out of a doll’s set.”
He glanced at her. Over the years, he’d been known to smash a few defenceless teacups in his fist when emotion had overwhelmed him. But that had been when he’d
been a teenager. As a grown man, he’d learned how to rein in his formidable temper. And he’d also learned no one brooked an argument with Olivia when she used that tone.
So he went on to pile his plate with French toast and dug in with relish.
They chatted over the meal, his mother taking the opportunity to grill him about work, which he discussed. When the topic veered to his private life, he sidestepped the issue.
When he had something going in his love life, he’d tell her. Preferably when things were very official. Like, post-eloped-wedding kind. Fair to say never, then. He didn’t see himself getting married to the type of women he met day in, day out in their world. That woman would need to be very different, and so far, he’d come across clones only.
“So, you met Phillip this morning.”
He nodded around a mouthful of French toast doused in honey.
“How is he? Claire called earlier, to wish me a happy birthday, but she didn’t sound well at all.”
About that … He placed his fork down before reaching for his cup. After taking a fortifying sip of coffee, he settled back in his chair.
“Things are not looking good, I’m afraid. Phil thinks he’s cornered, and Claire is miserable. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’re pulling the plug on their relationship.”
His mother gasped. “How, ever, did it get this bad? I know Claire’s pregnancy wasn’t planned, but still ...”
He shook his head. Did he know what she meant! He dealt with the same disbelief whenever he encountered either one of the couple. Lately, they weren’t even spotted together.
“She’s expecting his baby, and that idiot only thinks that his life and his freedom are lost.”
His mother reached out and patted his hand. “Don’t be so hard on him. It’s not easy for big, career-driven hot shots like you lads.”
If he read between her words … He narrowed his gaze on her. “Are you saying I’m like this, too?”
Many would have backed off from the growl in his tone, but his mother brushed him off with a wave of her hand.
