Page 13 of At His Beck & Call

But then a young woman comes through the doors ahead of me, dragging her son in her wake as she marches toward the desk. Her son is around the same age as Henry, maybe a little younger, with bright white hair and an adorable smile, which he shoots in my direction as they pass.

And just like that, I’m reminded why I’m here. I spin around and walk determinedly back toward the only free receptionist. He’s a guy in his early thirties; his striped tie knotted too tightly around his meaty neck.

“My name is Melissa Davenport,” I say as he looks up at me. “I have an appointment with Oliver Heath?”

He clicks a few buttons on his computer and hands me a badge and a form to fill out.

“Eighteenth floor,” he says briskly. “Turn right out of the elevators and keep walking all the way down to the end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” I say, scribbling in the boxes on the form, barely aware of what I’m writing before I hand it back to him. Then I make my way over to the elevators, coming to stand beside a group of people I assume are lawyers, all talking over one another.

There is an older man in front of me who runs his slimy gaze down to my shoes and back up again. I look away, hoping fervently that the meeting with Heath is private and no one knows what I am there to interview for.

I feel like a liar and a fraud standing here. My mind flits to what James would say if he knew what I was about to do, and to my surprise, a perverse little smile flutters over my face.

He wouldn’t have expected this, that’s for sure.

“Miss?”

I look up to the older gentleman who is holding the elevator door open for me. It’s just him and me inside when the doors close, and he looks at me again in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he says with a wry smile, turning away. “You lookexactlylike my daughter. Are you a lawyer? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“Executive Assistant. Or I hope so,” I say. “I’m actually here for an interview.”

“Oh? With whom?”

“Oliver Heath?” I say brightly.

“Oh.”

That’s all he says. I glance at him; his mouth twisted into a little sneer as he avoids my eyes. I turn to stare at my own reflection instead, and a ball of dread pulses in my stomach as I consider what exactly awaits me when the doors open.

When I emerge, the eighteenth-floor offices are not what I had expected. I assumed it would be an open-plan format, with lots of people running around, little to no privacy, and endless monitors and chairs spreading outward across the floor.

Instead, a dark, wood-paneled hallway greets me, along with almost total silence.

Swallowing, I step out, looking to my left and right, already having forgotten which way the guy at reception told me to go.

I stand in the middle of the hallway listening to the distant ringing of a phone, but other than that, there is no sound at all.

It feels like a tomb.

Turning around, I look to the end of the hallway and begin walking, checking behind me to make sure there isn’t anyone who has been sent to greet me.

I walk all the way to the end and come to a slightly larger space beside a huge black door. Two black desks face one another on either side against the walls, and the carpet beneath my feet is a swirling mass of grays and whites. It makes me dizzy to look at it.

“Are you Ms. Davenport?”

I turn, almost falling over on my borrowed heels. A woman stands in the center of the hallway, holding an ornate cup and saucer. She’s wearing a lilac suit with a frilled shirt beneath it that would have been more appropriate in the 80s.

Her lips are pursed, gray hair slicked back just like Francesca’s, with very bright pink lipstick that doesn’t go with any part of her outfit. Her shoes are flat, and she is looking at me as if she wants to kill me.

“Yes, hello. I’m Lissa Davenport.”

“I’m Adelaide Spencer, Mr. Heath’s other EA. Has anyone told you about his schedule today?”

“N—no,” I stammer. Adelaide nods and places her cup and saucer down on what I assume is her desk, the surface heaving with files, papers, and half-open envelopes.