Carrero Series 1: The Carrero Effect

Floor sixty-five of the Carrero Corporation, Executive House, Lexington Avenue, Mid-town Manhattan.

I’ve been watching the hands on the clock move very slowly for the last few minutes, and all I can hear is the sound of my blood rushing to my ears.

My hands are clammy and heated, and my heart is pounding so hard I may throw up. It’s grating on me that I’m unable to reel it all back in so easily now that I’m here.

I’m sensitive to every noise and movement around me in the stark modern office, and the fact the shiny new keyboard in front of me is gazing back expectantly. I’ve not even begun to start working.

This is so unlike me.

I’ve taken twelve deep breaths in a row, yet my hands are still shaking. I feel like I may pass out at any moment.

I’m disappointed in myself for letting my nerves get the better of me, and I’m trying to pull back every single emotion one at a time to stow them into that neat box in my head.

Don’t fall apart, Emma, I chastise myself, and recheck my reflection in the glass opposite me that serves as a wall to the office to ensure I’m not betraying anything.

Despite my inner turmoil, I look self-sufficient, calm, and in control. As I always do. There is no hint of the conflict behind the cool blue eyes or sleek, smooth tawny hair.

Years of practice have given me this uncanny ability to act my way through life, to make sure no one ever sees the turbulence below the surface of my calm waters. I will never let it show again.

“Emma?” Margaret Drake’s voice echoes toward me as the clip-clop of her stilettos come at me across the white marble floor from her internal office. She looks unflustered and ever graceful in a tailored black pant suit and high shiny heels.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake?” I stand, unsure if I’m meant to, suddenly nervous and shy of this woman who has been letting me shadow her for over a week.

She looks pretty professional today with an air of purpose, and I steady my hands on the hem at my waist and fix the obligatory smile on my face with grace.

“Mr. Carrero will be arriving shortly. Make sure there’s fresh water with ice on his desk and clean glasses.” She smiles encouragingly, possibly sensing my unease.

“Have the espresso machine on and ready in case he asks for one and all his mail and messages laid out on his desk before he arrives. When he does, please keep out of his way until I call you for introductions.”

With a wide bright smile, she pats my shoulder gently, a mannerism I’ve grown accustomed to.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake.” I nod, still trying not to feel in awe of the swirl of platinum-blonde hair effortlessly held on top of her head or the severely tailored jacket revealing a curvy physique.

My mentor, Margo Drake, is a gorgeous and intelligent creature I can only look up to. When I met her a few days ago, I was floored by her physical appearance.

My previous mentor had informed me Mrs. Drake, Mr. Carrero’s personal assistant, was in her fifties.

I guess I’d expected someone colder and more dragon-like considering her crucial role in the business, not this designer-clad, fabulous temple before me with breathtaking beauty and natural friendliness.

“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, events and such, and all that red-carpet crap he’s so fond of.” She smiles warmly with a little sigh and a raised brow, suggesting she disapproves of his public affairs.

I swallow, deliberately quelling the nerves once again. I was aware that my role would require me to be available on short notice for trips and functions, but I was never informed it would include the public side 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 bit more than I expected. A lot more than expected.

“It goes on company expenses, Emma. Mr. Carrero expects his 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 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 for 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 heels back toward the massive door of her own office.

I feel warmer, calmer. 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 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 when surrounded by opulent settings, posters and prints of the Carrero products, ads on every possible surface, and that familiar gold hexagon logo with a black C shining back on everything.

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

I have only seen pictures of him, yet 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.