by Shay Violet
But it got me to stay.
The second time I tried to quit, he’d bought me a brand-new Mercedes. S-class.
He’d called it a bonus, and he’d raised my salary by twenty grand a year — I became the highest paid personal assistant maybe in the world at that point.
This time, it didn’t matter what he did — I wasn’t budging. And when I sold the condo, I planned on paying him back every cent he’d paid off.
I didn’t want to owe him anything.
“You can’t leave me, Tyesha,” Ezra said it within seconds of walking off his private elevator and into the office which is on the top floor of the highest skyscraper in Dallas.
I took his briefcase from him and pretended I hadn’t heard him.
“You have two meetings this morning and the Governor is requesting you call him as soon as possible,” I replied. “Oh, and Winston has left three voicemails already.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he said as he followed me toward his massive executive desk. I placed his briefcase on top of it in front of his chair. “You’re my focus. Isn’t that important?”
I turned to him and found it—per usual — difficult to meet his eyes. They were slate grey, and they’d always been my undoing.
“I appreciate the value I hold to this company,” I said, slowly, smoothing down the front of my navy colored pencil skirt. “But like I said, Mr. Brannigan, it’s time for me to move on. You’ve known that for a long time.”
“Six months!” He was practically begging now, which I found to be very sexy if I’m being honest. I very much doubted Ezra Brannigan had begged for much of anything in his life. “Seriously. Give me six more months and I’ll let you go. I’ll somehow find a replacement and I’ll write you the most glowing recommendation the world has ever seen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Would you not do that now?”
Ezra’s mouth dropped for a moment. He hadn’t expected me to ask that.
“Well, yes,” he said. “But if you give me six more months, I can also get you connected to whoever and wherever you’d like to be and go. I’ll put all my energy behind launching you into whatever path you choose at the end of six months. It’s the best I can offer. Actually, it’s the best I’ve ever offered. Anyone.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, both of us waiting for the other to blink.
As usual, I was the first to flinch.
“Fine,” I said. “So, take my email as a six months’ notice then. I won’t be writing another one. That’s all I’ve got left.”
He exhaled relieved.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m glad I flew back early. I was hoping this would go the way I needed it to go.”
“But,” I continued. “No more Winston. He’s not my job anymore. That’s a non-negotiable.”
Ezra nodded. “Not a problem. I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him for as long as you have. But I can’t thank you enough.”
His eyes stayed on my face for a moment before I noticed them flicker downward to my chest.
Was Mr. Brannigan checking me out?
I must have imagined it because he was immediately back in business mode and on the phone with the Governor, his attention back to where it always was.
Business.
4
True to his word, Ezra assigned a different assistant to deal with Winston. I was grateful to have that off my to-do list for now.
Not that it meant my workload would be any lighter. Far from it. Now that I wasn’t distracted by his kid, I was fully focused on the business and dealings of Ezra, which meant more travel time, longer hours, and higher expectations.
Not that I didn’t care about Winston. I did, but I didn’t think getting him out of trouble every time he screwed up was the best thing for him. It just enabled him, if nothing else.
I knew Ezra felt guilty that his son didn’t have a mother figure. Winston’s mom had passed away when he was a toddler, from cancer. By then she and Ezra had already been divorced, but it was hard on all of them, as you can imagine. I tried to remember that. Winston Brannigan was a hurt little puppy, and hurt people hurt other people. Still, I was grateful to have a break from the Brannigan progeny for a while.
Being Ezra Brannigan’s number one assistant meant more travel at least. That was one thing I had never minded about the job. I loved traveling the world more than anything else.
There’s something about being in a country and immersing yourself in the culture and language. Not to mention the food. I’d eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world thanks to my job.
I’m sure I sounded crazy to most people for wanting to leave it. Which is why I didn’t feel guilty about it. There were a million people who would eagerly to take my place. The Brannigans would be fine.
Our first official trip of the year would be to London. After that we were headed to a high-profile summit in Stockholm and then continue on to Cairo, a city I’d never visited.
I was looking forward to all of it.
“Did Marco send you the itinerary for the summit?” Mr. Brannigan asked me as we settled into the plush seats of the company’s private jet — a Gulfstream G650. I’d ridden on it before, but I never quite got over it. Every time I climbed into it I was awestruck at its luxury.
“Yes, yesterday,” I replied as I buckled my seatbelt. A very tall, statuesque flight attendant, who looked like she probably was a supermodel on the side, offered me a crystal flute of champagne.
“No thanks,” I replied. “I don’t drink on the clock.”
She gave me a thin smile and then turned to Ezra, her energy instantly changing from distant professional to flirtatious.
“I’m sure Mr. Brannigan wouldn’t mind some champagne,” she practically cooed. Ezra barely looked at her as he accepted the glass from her white gloved hand.
“Yeah thanks,” he muttered as he flipped through the brief in his hand. She turned away, dejected. I’m sure a woman as beautiful as her wasn’t used to being ignored by any man.
“I don't see my meeting with the Sheik in here,” Ezra stated.
“Look on page three,” I said, leaning over to flip the paper over. His eyes met mine, and I noticed they — again — dipped briefly down to my cleavage. I wore a button-down shirt, but I guess I hadn’t buttoned it high enough.
Despite being surrounded by stunning women (there were two other model-slash-flight attendants serving us on the flight) he seemed preoccupied with me, for some reason.
It appeared that way, anyway. I was probably imagining it.
“The President was hoping to see you in Stockholm too,” I said.
Yes, THAT President. As in of the United States.
“I just talked to him this morning, and he said he’s skipping the summit. Probably to golf for all I know,” Ezra replied. “Lord knows he needs the practice. He’s supposed to be in Dallas next month, I’ll see him then. Maybe throw him a dinner.”
“Sure,” I replied, writing all of this down. “I can start planning that right away.”
The jet rolled down the runway, and minutes later we were in the air, flying over the great state of Texas, on our way to what would be a life-changing trip.
I just didn’t know it yet.
5
London was a city I’d long ago become comfortable with. It was a neutral halfway point where Ezra would meet with dignitaries from all over Europe and the Middle East.
He owned a house in Knightsbridge, in central London, which he’d purchased for just over twenty-two million American dollars. He picked the house mostly because it was a short walk to one of his favorite museums, the Victoria and Albert, with easy access to Harrod’s department store and the Royal Thames Yacht Club, where he moored his Europe-based yacht, The Lone Star. Although we didn’t figure to get out on the water on this trip.
More than once, I’d spotted Sir Elton John walking one or more of his dogs past the house. My personal record was the day I saw him being dragged alon
g by six border terriers.
I’m dying to see another of the neighbors, but so far, she’s remained elusive.
Knightsbridge is home to one of my favorite authors, J.K. Rowling.
One of the advantages of Ezra Brannigan’s type of wealth is his relative anonymity. He can walk the streets of London, visit a museum, or eat at a restaurant and rarely be bothered or recognized. Even so, when he’s out in public, security is never far away. He isn't flanked by bodyguards, but if you ever spot Ezra somewhere, expect to see a couple of tough customers nearby trying to blend into the scenery.
We arrived at the Knightsbridge house just long enough to freshen up and then it was back in the car for the short drive to Ezra’s favorite London restaurant, Flanagan’s of London, for dinner with a Russian tycoon who owns a British pro soccer team, a steel business, and a company that’s exploring the potential for vast oil reserves beneath the Baltic Sea.
As a former college soccer player himself, Ezra always tries to squeeze in a match when we’re in Europe, and his Russian friend had invited us to sit in a donor's box the next afternoon.
I’ve come to love Flanagan’s both because the menu is so exotic and eclectic and because the restaurant itself draws such a diverse patronage.
Strolling through the dining room, it isn’t unusual to count a dozen or more different languages being spoken, which is a big number, even for a cosmopolitan city such as London. On this night, I counted English, Dutch, Italian, Russian, Swahili, Japanese, French, Portuguese, and an African language I couldn’t immediately identify, being spoken beautifully by a man and woman who between them were wearing not only every color of the rainbow, but some I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before.
The Russian oligarch, a Mr. Arvydas Semyonov, had beady eyes and wore too much gold jewelry and cologne. He seemed to have all the right answers on the business side of things, but his personality was slimier than one of the oysters my college friend K.K. was always getting the rest of us to eat. None of us could stomach them, but she had grown up on a sea island and considered them a delicacy.
I’ve heard of being undressed by somebody’s eyes, but the oligarch was all-out fucking me with his. It made me extremely uncomfortable. Not only that, his quartet of monstrous bodyguards weren’t much better. All of this while Mr. Semyonov’s “girlfriend,” a human Barbie doll who was young enough to be his granddaughter, stared icicles at me from the opposite corner of the table.
At one point, a foot beneath the table touched my shoe. I brushed it off as accidental at first, but when it returned and lingered, I shifted my weight uncomfortably. I looked up, and Semyonov was leering at my tits and practically drooling.
“She’s your assistant, no?” he asked Ezra in heavily accented English. “Does she provide… other services as well?” He laughed and made no secret of his leering.
Ezra looked at Semyonov and then at me, then back at Semyonov. I turned my head to avert Ezra’s eyes. I didn’t want to ruin the deal that seemed close to being consummated. At the same time, I wanted to be anywhere but at the table with the greasy Russian.
“Mr. Semyonov, I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, but Tyesha is one of my most prized employees. She’s brilliant and invaluable to my company,” Ezra said.
“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Semyonov replied, laughing. “As is Svetlana to mine.” He motioned to the skinny blonde at the end of the table. “Perhaps, in the interest of, ah, international diplomacy, for tonight Svetlana goes home with you and I take this one home with me.” He pointed a breadstick in my direction. “Then, tomorrow at the match, we trade back. Our lawyers can handle all the paperwork. Can make big, big money.”
Ezra gave Semyonov, a long, intense stare.
He reached over and wrapped his hand around mine.
“Arvydas, I wouldn’t send my worst enemy to spend the night with a two-bit maggot like you. You might pump enough heroin into Svetlana to have her climb on top of your limp dick, but believe me, a lady like Tyesha is way out of your league.”
My jaw practically hit the table. Ezra’s hand squeezed mine the entire time.
Semyonov’s bodyguards stood up and loomed behind him, and Ezra’s pair of ex-Army Rangers materialized out of thin air on either side of us. Every eye in the dining room was on our table.
Semyonov’s eyes burned with rage. “You risk business to protect the virtue of a—”
Semyonov got the first syllable out of his mouth, rhymes with “big,” before Ezra punched him right in his crooked, yellow teeth.
After that, it was complete chaos.
I was pulled away from the table by one of Ezra’s security team a heartbeat before the table was upended.
Semyonov’s men were bigger, and there were more of them, but Brannigan corporate security was no joke. And in the middle of it all, Ezra himself was giving as good as he got, trading punches with the ogres charged with protecting Semyonov.
By the time bobbies restored order, one of Ezra’s men was on his way to the hospital with broken ribs and a stab wound. Three of Semyonov’s men were in worse shape than that.
Okay, full disclosure. When everything jumped off, the D.C. in me may just have taken over for a minute and I may have rearranged Svetlana’s face just a tad. And her wig may have gotten snatched right off her head.
But I was representing Brannigan Oil and Petroleum, so I conducted myself as a professional the entire time.
The owner of Flanagan’s of London, a handsome Brit named Graham, smoothed things over with local law enforcement so that nobody in our party was arrested.
Once we arrived back at the Knightsbridge house, Ezra, his hands in buckets of ice water, a black eye and a split lip adorning his rugged face, informed me that we wouldn’t be attending the soccer match the following afternoon, nor would we be going to Stockholm, a summit Semyonov was also scheduled to attend. We would move our trip to Cairo ahead three days if I could make that happen.
“Absolutely, sir,” I replied. “Right away.”
I turned to leave, but he beckoned me back.
“Help me get settled out on the patio,” he requested.
I carried his ice buckets out and got him a replacement pack for the one he’d been pressing to his eye.
“Have a drink with me,” he asked. “Consider yourself off the clock.”
We sat outside, enjoying the night air, sipping the smoothest Scotch I’d ever tasted.
“I apologize for this evening,” he said between sips. “Deep down, I’m just an old Texas boy, and sometimes it gets the best of me. I couldn’t sit there in good conscience and let him insult you like that. I don’t care if it cost me the deal, you’re worth more than every penny Semyonov’s got, or I have.”
He lifted his glass and tapped it against mine.
“My grandma used to say that if the mailman stopped to worry about every barking dog, he’d never make it down one street, much less deliver his whole bagful of letters,” I replied. “Even a dog as nasty as Arvydas Semyonov.
“Thank you,” I said. “Turns out chivalry isn’t dead, after all.”
I smiled and touched my glass to his.
I’d never seen him look as handsome as he did in the glow of the Knightsbridge street lamps that night with his eye and lip puffy and his normally perfect hair a disheveled mess.
Heroism is a terrific accessory.
6
Cairo was a new city for me, and I had the same thing on my mind that every first-time visitor has to “City of a Thousand Minarets”; the pyramids.
We caught fleeting glimpses of them on our ride from Cairo International Airport to our hotel. It was getting dark, so we didn’t get to see as much as I’d have hoped, but the next afternoon once our meetings ended, Ezra promised me a visit to see the great wonders of the world up close.
The morning and afternoon went off without a hitch, Ezra discussed business with sheiks and sultans who were surprisingly friendly and hospitable. No repeat of Semyonov in London.
> Once our last meeting ended, Ezra told me to rest for an hour and he was having clothing sent to my room for our late afternoon and evening excursion.
After a shower, a hotel employee knocked at my door with a bag.
“You’ll find inside a madraga, it is a traditional Bedouin dress, you can wear it over jeans and a lightweight shirt,” she explained.
I unpacked a beautiful long, black dress embroidered with elegant reds and greens. It fit me perfectly, and though not what I’d call flattering or sexy, it was elegant and definitely made me look like I belonged in the desert.
I met Ezra downstairs, where I found him channeling his inner Lawrence of Arabia, dressed in the flowing tunic, cloak and headcloth of a Bedouin man.
We were driven a short distance within sight of the pyramids and were met by a tall, slender man with a close-cropped beard and thinning hair.
“This is Dr. Ahmed Ghazal. He’s the Director of Antiquities for the Egyptian government. He’s going to give us a personal tour of the Great Pyramid. We’ll get to see places the general public can’t get near.”
I was blown away. As a child, I’d read every book in the library about the pyramids, but I never dreamed I’d see them, let alone get inside them.
“Have you ever ridden a camel before?” Dr. Ghazal asked me, in flawless English.
“No,” I answered. “I’ve only been on a horse once. Never on a camel.”
A guide led four camels our way, and one by one we each mounted up. I was terrified, especially when they got right up close and I saw just how tall they were.
“You’re in charge,” Ezra told me. “Project that same confidence and swagger you do back home, and your camel will respond to it.”
Dr. Ghazal and Ezra walked me through mounting the camel as the guide lowered her to her knees. I was trembling as she stood back up, and I didn’t want to look down.
