At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

  Jemima nodded.

  ‘This way.’ He stepped back and held the door open. ‘Do you know much about what Kingsley and Bressington do?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ she replied stiffly. Amanda had concentrated on it being a ‘fantastic place to work’, and ‘I’ve got temps queuing up to go there. Give it a try and see what you think’. Clearly the smooth and efficient Miles expected she’d have been given a little more information than that.

  She let her eyes wander about the total unexpectedness of the place. From the outside it looked like any other Victorian building in the street, but inside…Inside it had been gutted and everything chosen to ensure maximum impact. Small, but perfectly formed, it was all cutting edge and very modern. Intimidating, actually. But that was probably intentional. Anyone hiring Kingsley and Bressington to manage their public persona probably wanted to see something high-tech, stylish and controlled.

  ‘But you’ve worked in public relations before?’

  Jemima shook her head, feeling as though she were letting Amanda down. She watched the slight frown mar his forehead and wondered, not for the first time, whether Miles Kingsley was the kind of man who’d be satisfied with her newly acquired secretarial skills. As if she didn’t know he wasn’t.

  ‘There are various aspects to what we do. Some of our clients are large corporations and we track and manage their image in the press, both here and abroad.’

  She struggled to suppress the rising tide of panic. A six month post-graduate secretarial course hadn’t even begun to touch on anything he was talking about. Somehow she didn’t think he’d be particularly impressed that she held a Qualified Private and Executive Secretarial diploma—albeit with a distinction.

  ‘Others are individuals, predominantly working in the media. Many find themselves in a particularly sensitive place in their lives when they first come to us.’

  ‘I see.’ Another door, another corridor. It wasn’t that the building Kingsley and Bressington occupied was particularly large, it was just it was painted in similar shades of cream and it was difficult to get your bearings. There was only so much limestone and travertine a girl could take.

  ‘Confidentiality is an absolute prerequisite,’ Miles continued, ‘as I’m sure you realise.’

  Confidentiality was something they’d covered in her diploma course. It was nice to know there was at least one part of this job she was going to find easy. ‘I wouldn’t dream of repeating anything I learn from working here. I’d consider that very unprofessional.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, holding open the door for her. ‘I know Amanda wouldn’t have sent you to us if that wasn’t the case. This is your office.’

  Jemima stepped through into a room that had obviously been designed to have a wow factor. Yet more shades of cream blurred together as a restful whole and made the burr walnut desk a focal point. The computer screen on it was wafer-thin and the chair she recognised as being a modern design classic. A Charles and Ray Eames styled, if not original, chair upholstered in soft cream leather.

  ‘We rarely keep our clients waiting, but if there’s any delay I’ll rely on you to keep them happy until I can see them.’ He turned and pointed to some chairs clustered around yet another shattered glass coffee table. ‘Ply them with tea and coffee. Make sure they feel important.’

  Jemima felt the first stirrings of a smile. Maybe Amanda had known what she was doing when she had sent her here. She knew a lot about making other people feel important. Being a satellite to other people’s bright star was what she did best. In fact, a lifetime of practice had honed it into an art form.

  She glanced back towards the door and noticed the twenty or so black and white photographs grouped together on the wall. Dramatic publicity shots all autographed with love and messages of thanks.

  Miles followed her gaze. ‘Some of our clients,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘You can see why discretion is imperative.’

  She certainly could. Her smile widened as she recognised the chiselled features of an actor who’d scarcely been off the tabloid front pages in recent weeks. His particular ‘sensitive place’ was a pole-dancer from Northampton—allegedly.

  And Kingsley and Bressington had to find a way of spinning that into a positive, did they? She couldn’t quite see how that would be possible. If Miles Kingsley could restore that actor’s persona as a ‘family man’, he was a genius.

  The door opened and a young and stunning blonde in impeccably cut black trousers burst in, an A4 file tucked under her arm. ‘Miles, I’m so sorry. I was caught on the phone and couldn’t get away—’

  ‘Jemima had been in reception for over fifteen minutes.’ His voice sliced smoothly over the other woman’s words.

  ‘Felicity has just buzzed me. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Jemima interjected quickly, unsure whether the apology was for her benefit or for Miles’s.

  ‘If you’d like to come with me now, I’ll take you through everything.’ The other woman adjusted the file under her arm. ‘I’m Saskia Longthorne, by the way. Come through to my office….’

  She was halfway to the door before she’d finished speaking.

  ‘Jemima might like to hang up her jacket? Put her bag down?’ Miles suggested in a dry tone.

  He’d strolled over to the walnut desk and had picked up a large black diary and was leafing through the pages. Jemima glanced over as he looked up. His eyes were astonishingly bright against the minimal colour in the room. At least that was her excuse for the sudden tightening of her throat.

  ‘I’ll see you again in a few minutes.’ He picked up the diary and carried it across to the wide double doors that, presumably, led to his own office.

  Good grief. Jemima let out her breath in one slow steady stream. Miles Kingsley was a sharp-suited nightmare. No other way of looking at it.

  Saskia seemed to understand what she’d been thinking. ‘I know,’ she said, walking over to a tall cupboard. ‘Miles is a walking force field. You can leave your jacket and handbag in here.’ She pulled out a hanger and handed it across. ‘It’ll be perfectly safe, but there’s a key to lock it if you prefer. Zoë always did that…and then kept the key somewhere in her desk.’

  ‘Zoë’s the person I’m covering?’ Jemima asked, self-consciously slipping her jacket off and putting it on the hanger.

  ‘Her husband’s job was transferred to Hong Kong. Just for six weeks, but Miles was as irritated as hell. He thought he’d finally found a PA who didn’t seem to want to get pregnant, when Zoë announced she had to be off anyway.’

  Saskia accepted back the hanger and popped the jacket into the cupboard. ‘Not exactly a “baby-man” is Miles. More wine bar and whisky on the rocks, if you know what I mean.’

  That figured, Jemima thought.

  ‘Zoë’s lovely so he’s holding her job open for her. We mustn’t take long over this,’ Saskia said, pushing open the door to the corridor. ‘He’ll want you back quickly. Obviously do put down nine thirty as your start time for today on your time sheet as it’s my fault we’re a little behind.’ ‘Jemima, I’m going to need you to book a table at The Walnut Tree for this lunchtime,’ Miles said, opening the door to his office, presumably by magic since he had a file under one arm and a mug of black coffee in his other hand.

  Jemima tucked her handbag away in the tall cupboard and glanced down at her wrist-watch. Officially she wasn’t even supposed to be here yet, but this morning the tube had been kind and the boys cooperative. He was lucky she was here. Jemima hurried across to her desk and jotted down ‘Walnut Tree’.

  ‘I’ve arranged to meet Xanthe Wyn and her agent there at one,’ he said, putting the file down on her desk. ‘If that’s not possible you’ll need to contact Christopher Delland to let him know the change.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Miles took a sip of his coffee and then raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Actually, confirm it with him anyway. Xanthe is notoriously difficult to pin down. His number is in…�
�� He trailed off as her fingers had already pulled the appropriate card out of the strangely old-fashioned card system her predecessor had favoured.

  ‘Excellent.’ Miles flashed her that mega-watt smile that no doubt managed to melt the hardest of hearts, but didn’t do anything for her but irritate. Given the choice she would so much rather he left the charm offensive until after ten o’clock when she’d had a chance to wake up properly. Not to mention grab a coffee for herself.

  Jemima flicked the switch that would boot up her computer. There was something in the gene pool of men like Miles Kingsley, she thought, which meant they had a deep inner belief that they were somehow special. That when they said ‘go’ everyone around them would naturally follow. A leader of leaders. It was in the way he moved, walked and owned the space in which he stood.

  If he thought one smile would mean she didn’t notice the extra ten minutes at the start of the day, the additional twenty minutes at lunch time and the fifteen or so at the end, he was going to be disappointed when she presented her time sheet on Friday.

  ‘Thanks, by the way, for staying late last night.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said stiffly, finding it annoying to be thanked for something she was busy resenting.

  ‘Amanda didn’t say anything about you being fluent in French, but it was extremely useful. Phillipe Armond said your accent is perfect and he was very impressed.’

  Jemima smiled through gritted teeth.

  ‘It looks like we’re going to get their business. So thanks for that. I’m going to fly to Paris to meet him for lunch some time next week. His secretary will ring you with the arrangements.’

  She nodded and picked up the enormous pile of paper that had appeared in her in-tray overnight. If only he’d disappear back into his office. She desperately wanted to grab a coffee before getting started on this lot. She really couldn’t be late again tonight.

  ‘Did you have a good evening?’

  Jemima looked up incredulously. She’d not left Kingsley and Bressington until twenty past six. Then she’d had to stand up on the tube all the way home, apologise to her mum, who was going to be late for her bridge evening, listen to Sam read, search out Ben’s missing football sock, put another load of washing through the machine…

  What did he think her evening was like? Miles Kingsley really had no idea how the other half lived. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, keying in the password.

  ‘I went to see the new production of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. It’s not my favourite play, but it was excellent. That reminds me,’ he said, finishing off the last of his coffee. ‘Send some flowers to Emma Lawler at Ashworths for me. The address is in that box. I’ve got an account with Weldon Florists. Ask for Becky.’

  Jemima flicked through the ‘A’ section and pulled out the ‘Ashworths’ card. She couldn’t quite believe he was asking her to do this. One would think he’d manage to send his own girlfriend some flowers and not have to get his secretary to do it for him.

  ‘Not roses. Try for something more…’

  ‘More what?’ Jemima asked, her pencil hovering over the pad.

  Miles flashed a smile. ‘Neutral. Tell Becky it’s the end of a beautiful friendship. She’ll know what you mean.’

  Good grief. Was he really ending a relationship so casually? ‘And what message do you want?’

  Miles picked up his file. ‘The usual. Thanks for a nice evening and I’ll be in touch,’ he said cheerfully, putting his mug down on her desk. ‘When you’ve got a second, I’d love another coffee. No rush.’

  Miles rubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck and listened to the high-pitched panic on the other end of the phone. Some days….

  If the blasted woman, and that was putting it mildly, had done as he’d advised there wouldn’t be a picture of her in the News of the World. He let his long fingers idly play with the paper-clips he kept in a small Perspex box. She’d been in the business long enough to know the kind of caption she’d get if she got caught without make-up—so what had possessed her to go out like that? It was hardly rocket science to know there’d be one or two paparazzi, at least, who’d be hanging about on the off chance of their getting something.

  Well, it seemed they’d hit the jackpot. No editor alive would have been able to resist pictures like that. He sat back in his chair and mouthed ‘coffee’ at Jemima, who was coming in with the morning mail.

  Did his temporary secretary ever crack a smile? The woman seemed to be perpetually frowning. Or perhaps it was just him that had that effect on her? Jemima was efficient enough, but she wasn’t like Zoë and the sooner she was back from Hong Kong the better. Given a choice he really would prefer a bit of humour in his working day.

  ‘Lori,’ he interrupted the distressed woman on the other end of the phone, ‘there’s nothing we can do about pictures that are already in the public domain. I know we’ve got an injunction out on the topless photographs you did when you were twenty, but this really isn’t the same situation and I—’

  Miles frowned in irritation as she launched off again. Her famously husky tones transmuted into something quite uncharacteristic. Lori obviously needed to vent her spleen somewhere and he was a safe pair of hands.

  ‘It’s not the same situation at all. Lori, you need to keep a low profile at the moment. You and I both know how this works. Give it a couple of weeks and they’ll be after the scent of someone else’s blood—’

  He watched as Jemima came back in to the room carrying his coffee. She’d eased off slightly on the formal clothes since her first morning, but she was still the most ‘old before her time’ woman he’d met in a long time. She dressed like a woman between forty and fifty and yet he was sure she was younger than that. She could be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.

  Miles studied her intently. She probably would look dramatically more attractive if she did something with her hair other than tie it back in a low pony-tail. It was the most amazing colour. A natural redhead. His mouth curved into a sexy smile. It wasn’t often you met a natural redhead.

  ‘Lori, it’ll be two weeks at worst.’ He picked up his pen and started to doodle on the A4 pad in front of him—large abstract boxes which he shaded in with swift strokes. Then he wrote ‘Keira’, around which he put flourishing curlicues. ‘If any member of the royal family do anything remotely newsworthy it’ll be less than that.’

  Jemima placed his coffee in front of him and he looked up to mouth his thanks. It irked him that he couldn’t get any real response out of her. She didn’t talk about anything personal. Not her husband, nor her children. Nothing. She didn’t even seem to have any kind of social life. A question as to what she’d done the night before had elicited a blank look.

  And she didn’t seem to like him much. Every so often he would catch her watching him with those big green eyes and her expression wasn’t complimentary. She seemed to be on the verge between contempt and amusement. All in all, he wasn’t sure what to make of her.

  He turned his attention back to Lori. ‘Just make sure you don’t give any kind of statement to the press. Do you understand me? It’s very important.’

  Miles finished his call and flicked through his mail. There was nothing there that particularly caught his attention and his eyes moved over the doodles he’d drawn on his pad of paper— Keira. Keira Rye-Stanford. Now she was one very…sexy woman. That wraparound dress she’d worn last night had seemingly been held together with one very small bow. Just one pull would have…

  He stood up and walked over to the door between his office and the outer one. ‘Jemima.’

  She looked up from the computer screen, a small frown of concentration on her forehead. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you arrange to have some flowers sent to a Keira Rye-Stanford at—’ he pulled the name of her art gallery out from the recesses of his memory ‘—at Tillyard’s. You’ll find the address in the directory.’

  ‘Keira Rye-Stanford?’

  He could hear the censure in
her voice, as though she were reminding him he’d sent flowers to someone entirely different three days earlier. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What would you like to send?’

  Miles conjured up an image of Keira—a Celtic beauty with a soft Irish lilt and a very seductive glint in her blue eyes. She was a woman who probably received flowers often. And that meant one needed to be creative.

  He smiled. ‘A dandelion.’

  Jemima looked up, her pencil poised on her pad. ‘You want to send a dandelion?’

  ‘With a message:

  Roses are red, Violets are blue, This is a Dandelion, but it’s for you.

  Ask them to wrap it in cellophane with a big bow and deliver it to the reception desk at Tillyard’s.’

  ‘A dandelion?’

  ‘Trust me,’ he said with a wink as he headed back towards his office, ‘it works. Every time.’

  Jemima finished writing his message and thumped her pencil down on top of the pad.

  He stopped. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  Jemima’s green eyes flashed, but she answered smoothly. ‘If the florist does, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘She won’t. She’ll just charge me the earth,’ he said, shutting the door to his office.

  What was Jemima’s problem? Anyone would think he was asking her to pick the blasted dandelion herself, instead of picking up the telephone and calling a florist he had an account with. Becks would think it a giggle. He could guarantee she’d make a first rate job of it. Keira would receive a disproportionately large cellophane-wrapped weed tied together with a classy ribbon. Perfect.

  His telephone buzzed and he picked up the receiver with a casual, ‘Miles.’

  ‘It’s an Emma Lawler. She’s says it’s personal.’ His temporary secretary’s voice was bland.

  ‘Thanks, Jemima. Put her through.’ Miles sat back in his chair and waited for Emma’s breathless voice to speak before he said, ‘Did you get my flowers?’