Up Close and Personal
Read Up Close and Personal Online
Authors: Magda Alexander
UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL
Magda Alexander
Hearts Afire Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Amalia Villalba
Cover Design: Magda Alexander
Cover Images: : Viktoriia Iesipova/123rf.com
All rights reserved.
The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943321-00-1
Hearts Afire Publishing
First Edition: February, 2015
Up Close and Personal
I, like many of you, buy and download dozens of e-books. I get so many great books that often times, by the time I get around to reading them, I forgot what they are about! For those of you like me, I’m including the original blurb to remind you just what you are getting into with
Up Close and Personal
.
A Sweet, Naive Assistant
Desperate to pay her mother’s medical bills, Caitlyn Bennett applies for the personal assistant position to reclusive billionaire Sterling MacKay. To her surprise she’s hired, even though she barely meets the qualifications for the job. Following her heart, she throws herself into her work vowing to do the very best she can. But she soon finds out her definition of best is not what her boss has in mind.
A Damaged, Jaded Billionaire
Having lost most of his vision to a car accident, Sterling MacKay demands perfection from everyone employed by him. When his latest hire, a recent college graduate, doesn’t understand what he needs, he’s forced to teach her the demands of the job. But soon he’s not satisfied to have her only as his personal assistant. He wants her in his bed, under him, doing all those things he likes to do. But first he has to convince her she’d like them too.
Other Books by Magda Alexander
The Storm Damages Series
Storm Damages
Storm Ravaged
Storm Redemption
Storm Conquered
Coming August 25, 2015
Storm Surrender
Chapter 1
______________
McLean, Virginia
A Saturday in January
Caitlyn
HOW MUCH LONGER WILL IT TAKE? For three hours, I’ve waited to be interviewed by Sterling MacKay, the billionaire magnate looking for a personal assistant. Granted, with its plush chairs and bottles of Perrier, the room where they parked the candidates is sumptuous as all get out, but if it takes much longer I won’t have another nail left to bite.
Ten candidates showed up for the job. Nine preceded me, every last one of them wearing a designer business suit, expensive shoes, and carrying bags with golden initials. My purse came from Walmart, my shoes from a bargain store, and my suit? A hand-me down from a friend. I shortened the hem, took in the waist, but it still does not sit right across my frame. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?
The tall, rail-thin man who’s been shepherding the job seekers through the process enters the room once more. Dressed as he is in a tweed jacket and bow tie, his style seems dated. But who am I to criticize? I’m no fashion plate myself. His lip curls when he says my name. “Ms. Bennett.”
“That would be me.” Squaring my shoulders, I come to my feet.
“Please come this way,” he says, leading the way.
The room he leads me to is impressive as hell. Huge, shiny. A humongous glass table with chrome legs reigns over the space. Except for a laptop, a phone, and a machine of some kind, the desk lies empty. It terrifies me, that desk. Where does Sterling MacKay keep anything?
The aide points to the lone chair in front of the desk. “Please sit. Mr. MacKay will be with you in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” After I do as I’m told, he marches out, his nose high in the air. Snooty little thing. Am I replacing him and he resents it? Or maybe he took one look at me and decided I’m not fit for the job. But it’s not his approval I need, but Mr. MacKay’s. Anxious about what’s coming, I squirm on the seat and my skirt rides up on my thigh. I tug down the hem, but the skirt refuses to budge. Giving up, I prop my purse on top of my legs to camouflage its short length. So much depends on my getting this job. Not that I have a chance in hell of getting it. All the other candidates are probably way more qualified than me.
No. I won’t think like that. They may have gone to Ivy League universities while I attended a state school. But I worked darn hard to get my business degree. It may not be from some high brow school, but I got straight As and graduated summa cum laude. And no one will work harder to make a success of this job than I will.
The phone’s shrill peal startles me, making me jump. I take a deep breath to calm down while the phone rings once, twice, three times. It will go to voice mail, right? Except it doesn’t. I glance around the office. No one here but me. The stuffed shirt disappeared, and I’m not going on a wild goose search looking for him.
After the eighth ring, I can’t take it any more, so I reach across the desk and answer the phone, “Mr. MacKay’s office.”
A gruff, male voice asks. “Where is he?”
“He stepped out for a minute. May I take a message?”
“Tell the son of a bitch I’m going to make him pay.”
Without missing a beat, I say, “I’ll pass the message along. May I have your name?”
“He’ll know who it is.” Click.
Well. That was downright rude.
When a door opens and closes somewhere, I scoot back to my seat and tug down my skirt, again with no success.
A man emerges from the left. Tall, dark-haired, face lined with pain. Sterling MacKay. I recognize him from magazine covers and newspaper photos. An accident stole most of his vision. He must have
some
sight, though, for his steps are firm and sure. He’s using the onyx, gold-tipped cane he carries more like a fashion statement than the crutch it’s meant to be. “Did someone call?” His voice’s like luscious caramel. Rich, hot, delicious, it trickles down my spine.
As I lick my bottom lip, my stomach rumbles with hunger. Darn it. I shouldn’t have thought of food. It’s been ages since I ate. “Yes. The phone kept ringing. I answered it. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Who was it?” Without fumbling, his hand makes contact with the mammoth chair behind the glass table.
“A man. He wouldn’t leave his name.”
Resting his cane against the desk, he eases into the armless seat without floundering or the slightest hesitation. “What did he say?”
“That he’d make you pay. He sounded rather upset.”
His eyes narrow. “Robert Salvio. I took something from him. Something he wanted very badly.”
“What was it?” Curiosity is one of my worst sins.
“That.” He points toward a wall where a painting hangs. It’s not big. Maybe two by three feet. “A Georgia O’Keeffe. Quite magnificent, don’t you think?”
A gigantic orchid fills the canvas. Decadent in its coloring and composition, it rather resembles a woman’s vulva. Heat rises in my cheeks. “Quite.” I choke out.
His lips quirk. “It embarrasses you.” How can he sense my unease through hearing alone? Or maybe he can see more than I think.
“Maybe a little.” I shrug. “How did you know?”
“Your voice. My vision might be deficient, but my other senses are quite acute, especially my hearing. And my sense of smell.”
So he has the ears of a hound and its ability to scent as well. Wonder what other special talents he possesses to compensate for his lack of sight? I gaze out the big window behind him. Big, fat snowflakes drift to the ground. “Darn,” I mumble under my breath.
That slight smile disappears as his lips slash into a white line. “Did I offend you with my observation? If I did, I apologize.”
Shoot. If he hires me, and that’s a big if, I’ll need to watch what I mutter around him. “No. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” He scheduled the interviews at his home in McLean, Virginia, and I live in Maryland, half an hour away on a dry, sunny day. But it’s dark now. With the snow falling, the trip home will be a bear. Not only that, but my junker grinds when I shift gears. But broke as I am, I can’t afford to have it fixed. Of course, I can’t share any of that with him. I don’t want to appear a loser when I’m interviewing for a job. Folding my trembling hands on my lap, I return my gaze to him hoping to get on with the interview. “No. You didn’t offend me.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
He tosses his head. “Don’t lie. I can hear it in your voice. You’re worried about something.”
I take a breath, let it out. So much for my hope of keeping my troubles out of this discussion. “It’s snowing, and it’s growing dark.”
His brow clears up. “And you must get home. I suppose we better get on with the interview then.” He brushes a hand across his brow.
“Does it hurt much?” It’s a wonder he survived the horrible crash. Images of his mangled car played over and over in the media for weeks.
No response. Not even a nod. “Should have known better than to schedule so many candidates at one time.”
“I’m the last, if that’s any consolation.” I want to get on the road before it’s packed with snow. But I need this job. So here I sit, gazing hopefully at him. Even though he can’t see me. Even though I don’t stand a chance.
Stop it, Caitlyn
, I can almost hear my mother saying.
You’re just as qualified as those other candidates.
Knowing she’s with me, if only in spirit, calms me down. And I vow to do the very best job I can during the interview.
He turns on the contraption on his desk and pulls it closer to him. A lone piece of paper lies on top of it. “Name?”
“Caitlyn Bennett.”
The machine’s mechanical voice rifles through a list of names. Ten of them. Mine’s not among them.
He furrows his brow. “You don’t seem to be here.”
“I was a last minute addition. My employment agency substituted me when its candidate came down with the flu.”
“That explains it.”
“I brought my resume.” I dig in my purse for the document, unfold it. I stand to give it to him, but his desk is so wide I can’t bridge the distance. He doesn’t reach for it. Of course not; he can’t see. Flustered, I rush around the glass table to hand it to him. In my hurry, I trip over his cane, and the darn resume sails to the other side of him. “Oh.”
My only thought is to grab my job history. Instead of doing the sensible thing and going around, I bend over him. But the chair is so wide I lose my balance and land on his lap. To compound the disaster, my too-short skirt rides up on me.
“Be careful.” His large hand grasps my leg, and his thumb flutters against my bare thigh.
Oh, God
. With my rear end up in the air, I reach over and grab my blasted resume. I come upright, hand it to him and scurry back to my seat—embarrassed, humiliated, and probably red as a beet. Thank God he can’t notice. As soon as the thought pops into my head, I chastise myself. I shouldn’t be happy the man can’t see, for heaven’s sake.
