Chapter 10
TEN
The morning unfolds like a minefield. I feel like I’m a psychic who knows an attack is coming, but has no idea when. I’m walking on eggshells—wearing the proof of his expectation under my clothes—but in all the hours between my arrival and lunch, he’s barely even looked at me. Much less suggested he’s going to sweep his desk clean, lay me over it, and fuck me senseless.
I tell myself that’s a good thing.
It’s not a good thing.
The anticipation is killing me. Not because I dread the inevitable, but because I crave it. And, yeah, I hate myself a little because what I should be doing is trying to gather information on Jenny and the parties.
I tell myself it’s only my first day and I need to be careful—how much poking around can I really manage on Day One? But that’s cold comfort. Jenny’s counting on me, and I’m sitting here fantasizing about Holt, a man who may well be tied in with her demise.
With a sigh, I focus on the stack of documents in front of me. At least I have an actual office, which is the first time in my run of many, many jobs that I can say that. It’s a strange little place, though. A hidden room located behind Lila’s desk. Access is through either a door camouflaged in the wood paneling of the reception area or a door that connects the north side of my office directly to Holt’s.
Right now, the door to reception is closed. The door to Holt’s office is open, per his instructions. Good, because it allows me to eavesdrop, hoping for some mention of Jenny or parties or any potentially nefarious activity. Bad because Holt is a pacer. Which means that as he takes his various calls, he walks back and forth along the length of his office, that silky voice and magnificent body catching my attention with each and every pass by my doorframe.
“Why?” I’d asked when he told me about the open-door rule. “I’m sure I’ll be able to concentrate better with the door closed, and these phones must have an intercom, right?”
“Because you’re my PA, Aria.” He’d held my gaze, emphasizing each word. “Personal. Assistant. That means I need you to be available at all times.”
“Oh.” Had I imagined the heat in his voice? I still wasn’t sure. But the heat in my veins had suddenly pooled between my thighs as I remembered that line from Pretty Woman . Apparently, I really am Holt’s beck-and-call girl, just like Clive had said.
Frankly, I like the sound of it more than I should, especially since I’m here so I can snoop around for any evidence that he or Hardline had a role in Jenny’s death. But there’s no denying the attraction, and until I’m certain Holt is in on it … well, they do say to be careful with pillow talk. Folks tend to reveal too much.
And what, I wonder, will Holt say once he calls in the lingerie marker I’m wearing and we’re sharing that pillow? Or couch. Or desk.
The latter, I’m thinking, might be more his style.
So why the hell hasn’t he made a move? If he’s not planning to touch me, to close that gap between us—then why all the head games?
Because he gets off on it . He’s playing cat and mouse, and I’m the mouse.
He’s manipulating me. And knowing that truth only turns me on more.
As if to prove that point, my thoughts have been in a constant spin all morning as I’ve tried to organize a stack of files containing his notes, staff memos, scripts, budgets, union requests, guild queries, and on and on and on.
Who would have thought a company that works in visual media would generate so much paperwork?
There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the stack, but since its organization requires my full attention, I’m having a hard time eavesdropping on his calls.
I’ve spent the morning trying to tune into words like Jenny or party or suicide or meet-and-greet or anything that might be related to my friend. So far, I’ve got bupkis.
“A mess isn’t it?” Lila says, making me jump when she appears in the reception-side doorway. She shakes her head and makes a tsk ing sound. “As I explained this morning, notes should be written directly into a computer file using the desktop template. But Matthew has a habit of scribbling on whatever paper happens to be on his desk. It’s the sign of a creative mind.”
“So that’s what it is,” I say dryly.
She just stares at me.
So much for female bonding.
As far as I can tell, Lila’s poised, well-spoken, intelligent, and determined—the perfect buffer between Holt and What Lies Beyond The Office Door. In other words, she’s giving off massive Watch Dog vibes, which means if I’m going to have any hope gaining enough alone time to do some serious poking around about Jenny, I’m going to have to suck up to her big time.
It’s high school all over again. And I really hated high school.
She nods to the pile on my desk. “You’ll be scanning those once you organize them. And remember, you’re not just skimming, you need to read. If anything seems urgent or creatively intriguing, bring it to Matthew’s attention.”
I nod, surprised at my visceral—and unpleasant—reaction to her using his first name. “No problem,” I say, though how I’m supposed to know what creatively intriguing means is anyone’s guess.
She continues to stand, her head tilted as if she’s waiting for me to say more.
“Uh, is there anything else you need?”
“It’s three-past noon.” There’s a haughtiness to her voice, and I’m thinking that calling her the watch dog wasn’t quite right. She’s female, after all. The nickname requires a tad more specificity.
“Sorry,” I say as I push back from my desk and stand. “And thank you for offering to show me around.” Insisted is more like it, but that’s probably par for the course with a Watch Bitch.
I fight a tiny smile, amused at my own inner monologue. Then I see Holt pass by the open door, deep in conversation about an option for some newbie’s screenplay.
I mentally cringe. “Should I ….” I begin, not sure if I can just leave or if I need to catch his attention, and when I turn back to Lila, I think she looks a little smug. As if my confusion has validated her as the Top Dog in the office.
Like I was confused about that.
“It’s fine,” she says. “From twelve to one, you’re on your own time. If you go to lunch early or late or take additional time off, tell him or send him a text—but first make sure he doesn’t need you. You have his cell number?”
I nod. I’m now swimming in numbers, having been loaded down early in the day with cell numbers, office numbers, key-code numbers, and any number of other numbers.
“Then off we go.”
I almost say that I’m happy to go to the employee dining room myself—after all, Lila intimidates the shit out of me—but she’s also giving me the full tour and taking me to Human Resources so I can sign all the documents I completed electronically. And so I can pick up my keycard and ID. Since that’s definitely a priority, I force myself to smile and follow her lead. After all, she probably knows him better than anyone. Who knows what I might learn by spending time with her?
As it turns out, I learn very little. About Matthew, anyway.
In truth, Lila’s an excellent—if somewhat condescending—guide, and she knows the history of the company backward-and-forward. So well, in fact, that even though I feel my lacy underthings with every step, I soon manage to tune out that wicked question mark and simply let her words flow over me as she lays out the story of how Matthew worked and saved until he was able to produce his first film, a minor hit that got him some Hollywood attention.
“Because of that,” she continues, her voice lyrical with pride, “he was able to find enough investors to fully fund his next three films, two of which went on to win numerous Academy Awards.”
“And he’s never taken the company public,” I say. “Right?”
I think I see a bit of respect in the sidelong glance she shoots my direction, and I give myself a pat on the back for doing my homework.
“That’s true. He’s been approached multiple times, but he has no interest in a public company. This business is his only true love. In fact, he bought out his original investors before acquiring the land for this location.”
“Impressive,” I say.
“Very. And I’ve been with him for most of that journey.” She looks at me, her expression somehow both amused and hard. “I know where all the bodies are buried.”
“Are there a lot of bodies?” I hope my voice sounds casual. Just a little joke between new friends.
“Of course.” Her mouth curves in the tiniest of smiles, and she starts walking again, her stride long and her heels clicking on the polished wood floor as I hurry to keep up for the rest of the tour.
Soon enough, all my paperwork is signed and I have my magic ID card that doubles as a key. It gets me through the Victory Boulevard gate and access to pretty much everywhere in the building, including my own little alcove. And—because I’m his PA and just signed eight billion NDAs and consents to be flogged if I use my key unwisely—I even have access to Matthew’s office.
Okay, the flogging thing is an exaggeration. I think. I didn’t actually read the documents. I mean, who reads the fine print?
I frown as I hold my keycard tight, thinking about my mission. And despite the possibility of flogging, I wonder if the card unlocks his file drawers as well. Because that could be very, very handy indeed.
When we return with to-go curry from the Dining Room, the door between my office and Holt’s is closed. Odd since my edict was to keep it open. But when I sit at my desk to dig into my meal, I check his schedule, and immediately see why. Apparently, he’s behind that door with two of my favorite actors and an up-and-coming director whose current movie is going gangbusters.
It takes all my willpower not to pretend I’m unaware and just yank open the connecting door and waltz right in, but I manage. Partly, because I don’t want to look like an idiot to Hollywood royalty. Mostly because if I’m going to have leeway to snoop around, Holt has to trust me, wholly and completely.
I hug myself, wondering if that’s even possible. Bree’s the only person in the world I trust that deeply, and that’s true even though I love my parents to the moon and back. Love them, yes. But I haven’t been able to step over the trust line since I was a little girl and they left me alone with monsters.
The thought is like cold water on my good mood, and I want to kick myself. I’m not a truster.
But most people aren’t like me.
I’ll win Holt’s trust. I’m certain of it.
But whether I’ll ever trust him? On that, I wouldn’t lay odds.