Behind The Billionaire's Guarded Heart. Leah Ashton
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been trying. She’d thought she had, but people in the real world didn’t have no income for a month—and no savings—and then casually take their time applying for some mythical perfect job while living in a luxury apartment.
She flipped her laptop open again.
She needed to find a job. Immediately.
SHE HAD A nice voice, Hugh thought.
Unquestionably Australian. Warm. Professional.
She didn’t sound nervous, although she did laugh every now and again—which was possibly nerves. Or possibly not. Her laugh was natural. Also warm. Pretty.
Hugh’s lips quirked. How whimsical of him. How unlike him.
Currently, April...he glanced down at the printed CV before him...April Spencer was answering the last of his four interview questions.
Rather well, actually.
He leant back in his chair, listening carefully as her voice filled the room, projected by the speakers hooked up to his laptop.
This was the third interview his recruitment consultant had organised, although the other two applicants had been quite different from April. One an art curator, another an antique specialist.
Both complete overkill for the position. He’d been clear with the consultant, Caro, that his mother’s collections were not of any monetary value—although Caro had made some valid points that knowledge of antiques and curation skills might still be of use.
But still... He felt as if employing either skill-set would be pretending that all those boxes were something more than they actually were. Which was a hoard. A hoard he wanted out of his life.
‘...so I feel my experience working for the Molyneux Foundation demonstrates my understanding of the importance of client privacy,’ April said as she continued her answer. ‘I regularly dealt with donors who requested their names remain absolutely confidential. At other times donors wished for their donation—whether it be product, service or otherwise—to be announced at a date or time suitable to their company. In both scenarios complete discretion was essential.’
‘But your role at the foundation, Ms Spencer, was as social media coordinator,’ Hugh prompted, scanning her CV. ‘Why would you have access to such sensitive information?’
There was the briefest pause. ‘It’s quite a small foundation,’ April said, her tone confident. ‘And I worked closely with the managing director. It was my job to schedule posts and monitor comments—I needed to know what to announce, and also what comments to remove in case anyone gave one of our generous benefactors away.’
From the notes Caro had provided, it seemed April’s work with the Molyneux Foundation had been the reason she’d been put forward. Hugh had made it clear that a proven ability to maintain strict confidentiality was essential for this position.
‘And you’re available immediately?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ April said.
Hugh nodded at the phone. ‘Right—thank you, Ms Spencer,’ he said. ‘A decision will be made shortly.’
Then he ended the call.
* * *
After the interview April left the small meeting room and returned to the recruiter’s office.
It had all been rather bizarre. She’d come in this morning expecting to be assigned to an interview for something similar to her two jobs so far—both short-term entry level social media roles to cover unexpected leave—and yet she’d been put forward for a job unpacking boxes, with a phone interview to take place almost immediately.
Across from her, at her large, impressive desk, sat Caroline Zhu, the senior recruiter at the agency April had been working for since her supermarket debacle three weeks earlier.
‘I’m sorry,’ April said. ‘I don’t think the interview went particularly well.’
Terribly, actually. She felt she’d answered the questions well enough, but Hugh Bennell had barely said a word. Certainly not a word of encouragement, anyway.
‘Possibly,’ Caro said, in the no-nonsense voice that matched her jet-black no-nonsense ponytail. ‘But unlikely. It’s been several years since Mr Bennell has required my services, but I’m certain his interview technique has not changed. He is not one for superfluous conversation.’
April nodded. Yes, she’d got that.
It fitted, she supposed—her frantic internet searching in the short period of time she’d had before her interview had revealed little about Hugh Bennell. She knew of Precise, of course—practically everyone with a smartphone would have at least one app from the company. April, in fact, had about six, all related to scheduling, analytics and online collaboration. But, unlike other international tech companies that were synonymous with their founders, Hugh Bennell was no more than a name on the company website—and the subject of several newspaper articles in which a string of journalists had attempted to discover the man behind such a massive self-made fortune.
But all had failed.
All April had learnt from those quickly skimmed articles was that Hugh had grown up in council housing in London, the only child of a single, hard-working mother. As soon as he’d left university it had been as if he’d wiped all trace of himself from public record—she’d found no photos of him, and his Wikipedia entry was incredibly brief.
It was strikingly unusual in this share-everything world.
Mysterious, even.
Intriguing, actually.
‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Caroline continued. ‘In my experience, Mr Bennell makes extremely swift decisions.’
‘Are you able to tell me a bit more about the position?’
Caroline raised an impatient eyebrow. ‘As I said, the information Mr Bennell provided is limited. He has a room full of a large number of boxes that require sorting and disposal. Not antiques. Nothing dangerous. He requires someone trustworthy and hardworking who can start immediately. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘And you thought I was suitable because...?’
‘Because you’re keen to work as much as possible for as much pay as possible. You were quite clear on that when we first met.’
True. After some judicious reimagining of her work experience—she’d repositioned herself as April Spencer, Social Media Manager at the Molyneux Foundation, which was technically true—she’d turned up at the best-reviewed temp agency within walking distance of her overpriced flat at nine a.m. the Monday after her credit card had been declined.
She’d been absolutely—possibly over-zealously—clear in her goals. To work hard and earn as much money as she could. In fact, she’d even found a night job, stacking shelves at a supermarket near her new home.
She needed her credit card debt cleared pronto. She needed money yesterday.
Fortunately Caroline Zhu had seemed to consider her desperation-tinged enthusiasm a positive.
The phone rang in pretty musical tones.
‘Ah, here we go,’ Caroline said, raising her eyebrows at April. She picked up the phone, had the briefest of conversations that ended with, ‘Excellent news, Mr Bennell. I’ll let the successful applicant know.’
She hung up and turned back to April.
‘Just as I thought,’ Caroline said. ‘I’m rarely wrong on such things. Mr Bennell has selected you as his preferred candidate. You start immediately.’
‘Unpacking boxes?’
‘For a mouthwatering sum an hour.’
‘I’m