Managed:a VIP novel(9)

"You're not going to try to talk Ms. James out of hiring me, are you?" I ask when he hangs up with Jules.

"Because we spent time together on the plane, you mean?" His brow lifts as his lips flatten. "I'd be a right prat if I did."

"Your words, not mine."

"Are you saying you think I'm a prat?" He appears so honestly offended, even a bit hurt, that I instantly feel tiny and petty.

"No, no. I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell I'm saying." I wave a  hand because I can't stay still. "I'm flustered. It's not every day you  antagonize your prospective employer for hours on end."

A small smile creeps up along the outer corners of his eyes. "Yes, well,  technically I'm not your employer. Brenna and I are partners of a sort.  But I'll take note of your remorse."

"Remorse implies I did something wrong. This is more awkward embarrassment."

The smile moves to his mouth, pulling at it. But he won't let it unfurl.  I wonder if I'll ever see this man smile with ease. I wonder how long  I'll even know him. My chances of landing a job in a business that he's a  part of feels slim. I'm not the button-down type.         

     



 

"You're still not going to tell me what you do?" I ask.

"You could Google my name or Brenna's at any time." He gestures toward  my handbag with a tilt of his arrogant, stubborn chin. "So go on then.  Pull out your phone and check."

Oh, I'm tempted. So very tempted. But it feels like cheating somehow. "Maybe I want you to trust me enough to tell me."

A soft scoffing noise escapes him. "It isn't a matter of trust. I hardly  consider this a secret since you're going to find out soon enough. It  is a matter of respecting Brenna's somewhat overzealous but apparently  adamant desire to keep you uninformed until the time of the interview."

I flop back against the leather seat with a huff. "You're right. I'll  respect her wishes too. But this just means I'll have to use my  imagination."

"No doubt you'll have me pegged as an international spy by the time we  arrive," he deadpans, though amusement glints in his eyes.

"Hey, I only thought that once."

The corner of his lip twitches, and then his phone chimes. He glances down at it before tapping out a message.

"Is that Brenna?"

"Chatty and nosey." He doesn't look up from his phone. "A winning combination."

"You love it," I counter with false bravado. Nerves are starting to make  me jumpy. And I'm seriously considering poking him right now just to  get an answer-something I think he knows because he glances my way, and  that stern expression of his returns.

"Yes, that was Brenna. I informed her I had the package on board and ready for delivery."

"Har."

He turns toward me in his seat, leaning against the corner, his big body  sprawled like some Armani ad come to life. All that harsh male beauty  focuses on me; it's like being under stage lights-exposing, blinding,  hot.

I try not to squirm. I wonder if I'll ever be able to look at him without being rendered breathless and mushy-brained.

Thankfully, our stare-off is broken when the car pulls up before a small  hotel with an unassuming front. The door is Victorian style with glossy  green paint, cut-glass windows, and a simple black awning to protect  visitors from rainfall. It looks clean and cute but not like a place I  imagine Gabriel Scott, with his perfectly tailored clothes and crisp  mannerisms, would stay. There isn't even a doorman. Gabriel is  definitely the doorman-needing type.

Even so, we're here. I smooth my hands down my plain black yoga pants.  Christ, I should have dressed up for the plane ride. I can't even  remember what interview outfit I brought. Will it work? Will Brenna be  waiting for us now that Gabriel's alerted her? I thought I had until  tomorrow morning before I'd meet her.

"Sophie," Gabriel says, his deep voice even and low. "You're fretting over nothing."

"I'm not fretting."

One eyebrow lifts, challenging me.

I pluck at the edge of my shirt. "Okay, maybe a little worrying is occurring."

"You'll fit in fine. Perfectly, actually." He frowns as if this bothers him.

Or maybe he's placating me. "If she's at all like you-"

"She's not." He straightens and adjusts his cuffs. It's a tick. But I  don't know what he has to be nervous about. "None of them are like me.  You'll love them."

I want to ask who "they" are. But I don't like the implication he's made about himself. "I like you fine," I tell him.

"Well, good." He knocks on the window. The driver opens the door,  clearly having been waiting for Gabriel's signal. "If all goes well,  you'll be seeing a lot more of me."

He does not make it sound like a reward.







Last night, after Gabriel made certain I'd been properly checked in-he  refused to leave me at the curb and was affronted that I'd assumed he  would-I was so tired, I stumbled into my room and crawled under the  covers.

I didn't sleep a wink, which was annoying, but it was dark, and the  sounds of traffic coming through the massive, old windows reminded me of  home, so I was content just to lie there.

Now, in the light of day, I'm dressed in my favorite '60s-style teal  sheath dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Black buttons run down  one thigh and a flirty little black ruffle dances along the hem. I'm  wearing black kitten heels and my hair is in a chignon.

I could have gone for something more conservative, but that would be a  lie. I'm not conservative and never will be. And really, if Brenna James  hires me to run her social media campaign and be a photographer, I'll  be in my jeans more than anything else.         

     



 

I dither in front of the mirror for as long as I dare, then make my way  down to the lounge. The hotel is an old, Victorian, four-story  townhouse. The staircase is narrow with worn wood risers that creak  under my feet. There's a tiny claustrophobic elevator that I used last  night when the porter brought my bags up.

I'm on the fourth floor, and the lounge is on the second. It's done up  like a classic gentleman's club with various leather arm chairs set  around small wooden tables. Emerald silk wallpaper meets white  wainscoting, and subdued conversation rises from small groups having  their breakfast.

I'm supposed to meet Brenna in an hour. And though I'm not hungry, I  manage to order coffee after asking the waitress to decipher the menu.  Apparently, I need a flat white, since I'm not in the mood for a frothy  cappuccino.

"Why does it say no pictures at the bottom of the menu?" I ask the waitress as she sets down my coffee.

"This is a private club," she says in a thickly Eastern European accent,  "for entertainment professionals. The members want to feel comfortable  eating without the threat of someone taking their picture."

I glance around with wide eyes and spot a woman who I swear is an  up-and-coming singer. She's eating with a man; they're snuggled up and  laughing quietly. I can't see his face, but there's something familiar  about the way he holds himself. Or I just might be spinning castles now.

"A club? Really?"

"Mostly music, stage, and screen," the waitress tells me blandly. "And some footballers, I think."

After that, I can't concentrate. I drink my creamy coffee and hear  snatches of conversation around me: a documentary producer lamenting his  inability to find a proper narrator, a record exec mentioning heading  to the studio to work on a new album, a television reporter whining to  his agent about his contract.

I have to wonder (again) who it is I'm interviewing to work with. An  actor? Is Gabriel an agent too? I could see him doing that with ease. Or  maybe he works for a movie studio.

I'm so engrossed in shameless eavesdropping and speculating about  Gabriel that I don't notice the stylish woman until she's at my table,  pulling out a free chair.

"Hey," she says. "I'm Brenna. Or Brian." She laughs. "Scottie told me the jig was up with my secret identity."

Brenna James is tall, thin, and severely pretty with honey-red hair  pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She's dressed in a gorgeous  copper-colored suit and sky-high turquoise heels.

"God, that's a cute dress." She plops down in the chair opposite me. "Is  it wrong to want to hire you based on that dress alone?"

"I wouldn't complain," I say, shaking her hand. "But feel free to ask me more questions if you must."

"I know we're supposed to meet in thirty minutes, but I saw you sitting  here and thought it'd be rude not to come over." She gives me a wide  smile that makes her appear impish. "Forgive me for intruding?"

"It's no problem at all." I signal the waitress before asking Brenna, "You said Scottie. Do you mean Gabriel?"

Her mouth falls open as if I've slapped her. "Um … yes. Gabriel Scott. Everyone calls him Scottie."

"Oh, I didn't realize."

She leans in, her eyes wide and curious. "He, ah, gave you his first name?"