The Boss's Inexperienced Secretary. Helen Brooks
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fallout after David. It had been fine until she had walked into this room, in fact. ‘Yes, Mr. West,’ she said firmly. ‘I’d consider the post, should it be offered.’
He nodded. ‘Good.’ At last his gaze left her and transferred to the papers on the desk. ‘Then let’s get on with it, shall we?’
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE time she got home mid-afternoon, Kim felt like a wet rag. The interview with Blaise West had lasted for well over an hour and it had been gruelling. That was the only word for it. She had all but staggered out of his office, and she must have looked just as she felt because his secretary had quickly pointed out that the firm’s restaurant was already serving early lunch and the food was very nice.
It had been nice, and the two cups of hot, sweet coffee she had swallowed along with roast chicken with all the trimmings had gone some way to reviving her for the journey home. She hadn’t rushed over the meal, watching the other occupants of the sparklingly clean eatery while she tried to make sense of her jumbled recollections of the last hour.
The overall conclusion she came to was that she was stark, staring mad. Mad to think Blaise West might offer her the job. Mad to think she could do it if he did. She was out of her league here; way, way out. Needles of panic were making themselves felt now.
He had finished the meeting by stating he would come to a decision about the applicants within the next twenty-four hours when he had interviewed everyone. By then she had been so frazzled she’d had no idea how she had fared. Certainly hundred-watt smile had only been in with him for ten, fifteen minutes at the most, but there was another person he had to see this afternoon.
When she had finally exited West International the sunshine of early morning had given way to a grey sky that promised rain before nightfall. The train home had been delayed, and when she had eventually boarded it thousands—or so it seemed—of irritable commuters had got on with her. They had only travelled for fifteen minutes when debris on the line had meant another delay.
On reaching her home station, she had seen her little Mini faithfully waiting for her in the car park and had had to bite back tears. That alone told her she was exhausted.
Kim walked into the flat, dropping her handbag on the floor by the sofa as she collapsed into its plump depths. All the excitement and glamour of Blaise West’s fast-moving world was gone. A journey that should have taken less than an hour had taken three times as long. It reminded her of something he’d pointed out during the interview.
‘I’m sure you’re aware of what working as my personal assistant involves, but let me spell it out anyway. I need a PA who thrives on hard work and using their own initiative, Miss Abbott. The more routine secretarial work will be delegated by you to others, but you will be required to take care of the sensitive, confidential side of things. This will involve drafting letters, reports, memos and so on, collecting and collating information for me, taking minutes, greeting and helping to entertain business contacts, organising meetings and conferences, having discussions with other PAs or customers and clients, possibly even supervising other staff on occasion. I expect absolute loyalty as well as discretion. It’s essential you’re capable of adapting to the needs of the job. This will mean late nights and early mornings when necessary. Is this a problem?’
She remembered she had shaken her head, feeling stunned. It was then he had added, ‘I don’t expect my personal assistant to be a yes-man, or -woman. But when you disagree with me you do it in private when it’s just the two of us. Is that clear?’ She’d nodded then, equally stunned.
Kim glanced round her sitting room. Before she had moved in she’d had the flat decorated from top to bottom exactly how she had wanted it. With her savings she had lashed out on ankle-deep carpeting, cream leather sofas and thin, drifty drapes which had been wildly expensive considering there was hardly anything to them. A new bathroom and kitchen had completed her extravagance, and her bedroom was unrepentantly feminine, soft pinks, creams and gentle mauves creating a soothing place which declared quite loudly no man lived here. And she loved it. Every inch of it. Could she continue to live here if—by the remotest chance—Blaise West offered the job to her? If the journey home was a taste of things to come…
Stop it. She was doing the negative thing; she always reacted like this when she was tired. The journey into London had been as smooth as silk, the return was merely bad luck. Besides which, she was getting herself all worked up for nothing. She didn’t even know if she would be offered the job; there must be other applicants far more qualified and experienced than she.
And if she was successful? A curl of something potent stirred in the pit of her stomach. She stood up, walking into the kitchen and switching on the coffee machine. She would cross that bridge in the unlikely event she came to it.
Kim went to bed early and slept badly in spite of having tossed and turned the night before. At six in the morning she abandoned any thought of sleep, padding through into the tiny kitchen and making a mug of coffee which she drank curled up on one of the two sofas in the sitting room. She had opened the windows to the warm summer morning and shafts of sunlight and birdsong filtered into the room.
It was peaceful and cosy…but suddenly not enough. Kim sat up straighter, startled at the way her mind had gone. But it was true. Something had changed yesterday; she wasn’t quite sure what or how, but the interview with Blaise West had brought to the surface a whole host of things she had been avoiding for some time.
She was only twenty-five, for goodness’ sake, twenty-six in October, and she wanted to do something with her life. The last couple of years had been a period of licking her wounds and that was fine, but she didn’t want to carry on as she had been doing. Getting the interview against all the odds had restored a smidgen of the self-confidence that had been so badly knocked when David had left her. And now the whole marriage and kids and roses round the door scenario wasn’t on the agenda, she could concentrate on something she’d never envisaged having—a career.
OK, she acknowledged in the next moment, it wasn’t actually the path she’d have chosen but it would have compensations. She nodded to the thought, her eyes contemplative. Broadening her horizons, travelling, meeting new people.
Like Blaise West? a separate part of her mind asked.
As though someone else had asked the question she spoke out loud, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She hadn’t been thinking of him specifically, she hadn’t.
But he was the most fascinating man she had ever met in her life. This time she didn’t bother to deny it; she couldn’t. It was true. She sprang up and marched into the kitchen for a second mug of coffee.
Once again established on the sofa, she took stock. Yes, Blaise West was something else but it wasn’t only she who thought that. When she had gone for the interview she had already been aware of his reputation and history, both of which spoke for themselves. He was one of those rare men who had something akin to a magnetic field around them to which other people would be irresistibly drawn, whether they liked him or not.
Did she like him?
She considered the question. She wasn’t sure. He would certainly be interesting to work for, she thought wryly. If she survived the first day, that was. But she was unlikely to get the chance. And that didn’t matter, it didn’t, because if nothing else the last twenty-four hours had told her that the next stage of her life was due to begin and it would be one in which she made changes. Changes she controlled. There had been enough of the other kind.
She inhaled the fragrant scent of coffee beans as she let her mind meander back into the past. She had been so gullible when she’d met David, so thrilled that someone like him—handsome, self-assured, popular—had singled her out. Her childhood had been happy enough on the whole, but her teenage years had been made miserable by her height. Or rather her sensitivity about it. She had always been the wallflower at school discos; the girl most boys avoided because she tended to tower over them. Some wit had dubbed her the beanpole when she was thirteen and the nickname had stuck for a long time, even when she had filled out in all the right