The Carrero Effect - The Promotion: Jake & Emma (The Carrero Series)

Chapter 1-2

“Oh, and, Emma?” she pauses, turning slightly.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake?”

“This week you’ll meet with Donna Moore, she’s Mr. Carrero’s personal shopper and she’ll fit you out with appropriate work attire. Anything you’ll need when representing him when you go on trips and such; events and all that red-carpet crap he’s so fond of.” She smiles warmly with a little sigh and a raised brow, suggesting she doesn’t approve of his public affairs.

I swallow, deliberately quelling the nerves once again. I am aware that my role requires me to be available on short notice for trips and functions, but I was never informed it would include the public side of him at all.

Damn!

“Yes, Mrs. Drake,” I say, trying to work out how much I’ll have to spend to be red carpet ready, worried it may eat into my savings a tad more than I expected. A lot more than expected.

“It goes on company expenses, Emma. Mr. Carrero expects his personal staff to look a certain way.” She winks at me, “He considers it a necessary expense for all employees on the sixty-fifth floor.” Mrs. Drake has this uncanny ability to read everyone’s mind. I like her ability, it removes awkward misunderstandings and nervous hesitations, no second guessing, and I find I work well with her because of it. I inwardly sigh with relief at the thought that this won’t affect my savings or my future hopes of one day buying myself an apartment in New York to cut my travel time.

“Thank you, Mrs. Drake.” I nod her way as she moves to walk off.

“Emma?” she turns her head back to me with a half-smile.

“Yes, Mrs.—”

“Please,” she interrupts.

“It’s Margaret … Margo … From now on! Only my children’s friends call me Mrs. Drake. You’ve been here over a week and I’m more than happy with your progress. We’re going to be working closely—so please.” She gives me a full warm smile before turning on her expensive high heel, back toward the huge door of her own office.

I’m warmer, calmer. I’m getting the strong impression Margo has taken a liking to me in my time here. I’m not sure I like the casual first name suggestion though, I like to keep things as professional and impersonal as possible. I’m good at keeping people at a distance and I happen to prefer it. Letting people cross the line from business to pleasure is a messy mistake that I never, ever let happen.

I absentmindedly glance back at the monitor of my computer, the company logo swirling in front of me as a screen saver. “Carrero Corporation”. As if I would ever forget where I worked. Surrounded by opulent settings and posters and prints of the Carrero products and ads on every possible surface. That familiar gold hexagon logo with a black C, shining back on everything.

Mr. Carrero comes to mind. Mr. Jacob Carrero.

Yet, I have only seen pictures of him and he’s the main reason I feel sick with nerves. Men with wealth, power, and good looks make me uneasy. They’re a different breed and harder to predict. They see women as a commodity and are far more dangerous than average men.

If I’m being truthful, then men in general make me uneasy, but my experiences with average men have taught me how to handle myself. Jacob Carrero is by no means average.

He’s been away taking personal time since before I was sent up here to replace my predecessor; she’s on maternity leave with a view to not returning and I’m who they recommended as a replacement.

Carrero is everything you want in a playboy billionaire. He’s handsome in an ungodly, devastating way, confident, and publicly popular among the female population. He has an Italian meets American look about him, inherited from his parents. His mother has the same mixed look, and he’s one of New York’s richest heirs. The Carrero family are almost like royalty and he is the eldest of their two princes, who have grown up very publicly. He’s been gracing the social news pages for years, always charming the cameras that seek him out, and always smiling in just about every picture they have caught him in.

I’ve done extensive research to prepare myself for working alongside him, but it makes me uneasy, despite not meeting him yet. I’m aware that he’s incredibly attractive, even to someone like me who finds most men intolerable. He has a reputation for being a bad boy, thanks to a large chunk of his early adult years being steeped in scandal at his wild behavior.

He seems to revel in partying and playing in the public eye, bringing no end of shame to the Carrero name, until recent years. Since then he seems to have grown up a little, focusing on the family business, yet still finding time to string along endless women in his wake and make appearances at glitzy events. He is a completely stereotypical, playboy billionaire, and boringly predictable.

I know from pictures that he has the darkest brown almost black hair and green eyes, although I’m sure Photoshop has something on the sheer brightness of the color. No eye color could be that breathtaking in real life, and I know how magazines like to air brush good looks into every image. He sports a rough, stubbly beard, with a cropped, messy haircut that suits his age. Usually styled fashionably, most likely with one of the expensive Carrero grooming products his face has graced in the most recent years. It is obvious he loves himself enough to put his face on their million-dollar ad campaigns every year.

He’s twenty-eight and despite having worldly maturity about him, he looks younger than his age when you see pictures straight on and caught off guard. I can’t deny that I see the appeal. He seems to have the body of someone who is graced with a good strong, tall physique, and he takes care of it. There are enough topless shots of him in the media to confirm that, and he’s not shy about showing it off. He also seems to have a weakness for tribal and Aztec tattoos, which litter his body in a rather complimentary way. He looks like a typical brainless model; too good-looking to be a nice guy and far too muscular to have a decent IQ.

There’s no doubt he’s been blessed with more s*x appeal than necessary for one man, and this is the root of my nausea. He’s someone who charms and strings along women effortlessly. Unlike all the men I’ve ever known, and that makes me distrust him.

I can handle men who leech and grope, whose intent is written on their faces and have cowardly natures. I’ve never been faced with someone with the capabilities Jacob Carrero seems famed for. The effortless ability to make women swoon at his feet and follow him around doe-eyed and lust sick. The man seems to just click his fingers to find dates and they all scramble to get a go at him. It’s pathetic really.

I know it’s a huge honor to get this position. I know that I’m good at my job, and I’ve pleased the right people downstairs to even get here at such an early age, but I feel sick and scared for the hundredth time. I’m doubting myself, despite my achievements; the curse of my self-doubts.

The old Emma still hidden in the shadows, shaking her head at me, and trying to convince me that I am a fraud. I don’t know if I’ve overstepped my worth. I don’t know if I’m capable of the task ahead of me. Capable of working with someone so young and as all-encompassing as Jacob Carrero, the celebrity hotel tycoon and New York’s most eligible bachelor.

I pull my focus back to task, putting my mind onto doing something manual always helps me get myself together. I do as Margo asked and ready the large expensive espresso machine in the white kitchen. It’s small, modern and sleek, if a little clinical, and seems to only be used to supply tea and coffee despite the huge refrigerators. I wipe down the surfaces of the machine and surrounding worktops, removing the dust from the coffee grounds and ready his tray with iced water. Taking some comfort in this calming task. My nerves still rattled, and this irritates me. I thought I had gained more control than this.

I arrange everything she has requested neatly on his desk, straightening things as I go and checking the room to make sure everything is in its place. I like neatness, it makes me calm and feel more in control, as though somehow by everything being orderly, my life is more so.

I smooth down my blouse, now that I’ve removed my jacket, savoring the silky feel of the expensive pale gray fabric and return with the pile of mail and messages I took for him yesterday. They’re only the ones that require his attention and place them on his desk in line with the leather seat sitting neatly behind it.

The office is spacious and airy. One wall of glass and through it, the view of New York at its finest, hindered only by vertical blinds that sit open. Large abstract prints fill the sea of gray expanse to the left. I can’t help but let my eyes skim over the silver framed pictures to the left corner of the wooden desk, with various people in black and white stills. Beautiful women, celebrities, and one of his father, Mr. Carrero Sr. Someone I’ve seen from a distance before, during a huge function last year that required extra staff. They look only vaguely alike in that Italian way, although I know Jacob must look more like his mother, as the resemblance ends there.

In pride of place is a large framed picture of, who I recognize, is his mother. She’s very beautiful, and the resemblance is striking. Same dark hair, gorgeous face, cool tan. Same bright green eyes, and yet a gentle warmth in that face.

In comparison, Carrero senior is fairer haired with deep brown eyes and a tight, harsh face, etched with lines as though his skin is weather beaten. In the picture of father and son, there’s a coldness between them, despite the fact they’re standing close, holding a champagne bottle in front of a ship’s stern. It sends a shiver down my spine. I know cold looks on men and the memories are completely unwelcome.

I look around quickly making sure there’s nothing else that requires my obsessive attention to detail and slide back out gracefully, assured everything is ready.

It’s almost 9.00 a.m.; he will be arriving shortly, and my nerves are so taut I may actually snap with the tension if it isn’t over soon.