‘But you don’t even know me,’ said Erin, totally gobsmacked.
‘How do you think I made the Forbes four hundred?’ he said bluntly.
‘Um, property?’ guessed Erin, wincing.
‘By trusting my instincts,’ he replied flatly.
‘So you’re offering me a job?’ she said, unable to stifle a small, incredulous laugh.
‘You’ve impressed me,’ he said, the eyes crinkling again.
‘I can’t type.’
‘I got that covered. You just have to do whatever I say,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Seriously, it’s running my diary, making travel arrangements, fielding calls. All sorts of shit I could be here all night describing. It’s long hours and hard work, but I pay well and you might see a little of the world.’
‘Pay?’ ventured Erin. She was the worst money negotiator ever, her boyfriend Richard always teased her about it.
‘How does seventy sound?’
‘A day?’ squeaked Erin weakly. It wasn’t that much more than she’d got behind the bar at the local pub in Exeter.
‘A year, Erin,’ said Adam. ‘Seventy thousand a year, plus my PAs usually get a car.’
Erin stood looking at him for a moment, feeling as if she was going to burst out singing.
‘When do I start?’
‘Oh God, oh God, you’re too sexy! I’m not sure I can make it to the bedroom,’ panted Harry Levin, his tongue licking Molly’s neck like a hungry wolf. They had only just burst in through the front door and already Harry’s hand had plunged down Molly’s halterneck to grab at her hard brown nipples. His free hand was undoing the belt of his trousers and he had slipped off his shoes, rendering him at least three inches shorter. Insoles, sighed Molly, trying not to flinch as his teeth bit the tips of her breasts like a randy teenager.
She had picked up her latest paramour – cosmetic surgeon to the stars, no less – at the end of the Stop Global Warming benefit, when it was so late that the waiters had begun stacking up tables. To Molly’s great annoyance, Adam Gold had left halfway through the jazz band’s set, before she had even had time to introduce herself. There hadn’t been a great number of other single men at the party, although she had counted four ex-lovers, all married, all with their wives and all who had chosen to ignore her. She didn’t want to waste the night, not when she looked so hot. Her Cavalli dress was cut so low at the back you could see the dark tip where her spine met her ass. So when Harry Levin was pointed out to her as Harley Street’s premier tit man, she knew that she’d go home with him.
‘Spank me,’ growled Harry, when they had made their way up his sweeping staircase, tearing at each other’s clothes as they reached his bedroom. Welcoming the opportunity to inspect his five-storey Hampstead home further, she let him bend over the mahogany sleigh bed, slapping his skinny white arse while she looked around the room.
‘You’ve been a very bad boy,’ she purred theatrically, noting the walnut-panelled walls and fifty-inch plasma television over the exquisite marble fireplace.
‘Harder!’ groaned Harry, clutching his dove-grey duvet in pleasure. Mmm, that bed linen was definitely Pratesi, noted Molly as she smacked him harder, observing the tell-tale scalloped edges of the pillowcase. She also spotted a Picasso sketch on the wall above the bed and the many silver-framed photographs of Harry: Harry skiing, Harry on a yacht, Harry looking tanned, happy and rich. This one was definitely promising.
He rolled over to face Molly, his dextrous fingers pulling down Molly’s tiny chiffon thong in one movement. His eyes widened when he saw her totally bald bush; Molly had waxed it off earlier that day after discovering some tufts of grey.
‘I fucking love that,’ he mumbled, sinking his face between her thighs. She got onto the bed, long hair splayed across the pillow, one leg artfully bent at the knee, her arms thrown back over her head as if she was posing for a Playboy spread. His hands were all over her, and after a couple of minutes of licking her nipples, leaving her breasts cold and wet, he fumbled around with a condom as he prepared to enter her. His cock was small, but he thrust himself in so hard it was like a bullet. She ran her long fingers down his back, but Harry was beyond subtleties: his ass was bobbing up and down like a cork at sea.
She shut her eyes and thought of Adam Gold, but not even that could make this sexual encounter more enjoyable. Christ, let’s get this over with, she thought, making a few half-hearted groans and digging her nails into his thrusting arse as she prepared to fake orgasm.
‘Now! Now!’ he shouted before collapsing onto her, his head on Molly’s chest.
‘Incredible,’ he whispered, ‘just fucking incredible.’
Molly lay motionless, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as she tried to work out whether it was a Lalique or a Murano light-fixture above the bed.
She stroked her hand across the top of his head, wondering if she could get Harry Levin to cough up for that five hundred acres of Mozambique rainforest she’d won at the auction and not yet paid for. At the very least, she was sure he would give her a good price for that tummy tuck she’d been meaning to get.
Erin had only had been at the Midas Corporation a matter of hours but already she felt lost. As Adam’s PA, she needed to know every aspect of his business, and she was quickly finding that the scale of his empire was vast. She knew that he was a property developer, and while real estate did appear the core of the business, that was only the beginning. The property portfolio alone was mind-boggling – from luxury residential developments in Manhattan and Macao to prestige office blocks in nearly all of the world’s financial centres – but on top of that, Midas owned a dozen hotels, a copper mine in Kazakhstan, a ski resort in Maine, two huge retail villages in Connecticut and Florida and a private jet company leasing out executive aircraft to the super-rich. And that was all she’d managed to find since she’d arrived at 7.30 a.m. It was now dark outside and she was still finding new files and reports. The intercom buzzed suddenly.
‘Erin. Can you come in please?’
As it was her first day at work, Erin had tried her damnedest from the moment she had got into the luxurious office block behind Piccadilly, but she still felt as if she was groping about in the dark. Adam already had an executive assistant, Eleanor Bradley, a fiercely efficient New Yorker who had worked with him for seven years and sat outside his door like a Rottweiler. Erin’s position seemed to be more like a social secretary: taking calls, making appointments, accepting or declining party invitations and arranging for errands that Eleanor was too busy and important to carry out. She had hardly seen Adam all day and had no idea if she had performed her duties to his satisfaction. Padding into his office from her desk as fast as her brand new three-inch heels would carry her, she smoothed down her long-sleeved cotton dress from Debenhams, feeling even more nervous than she had when she’d met Hector Fox at the benefit dinner. Adam’s large corner office was an overwhelming space. With its masculine grey walls, stark architectural photography and dark antique furniture, it reeked of power, money and testosterone.
‘Ah, take a seat, I have a question to ask you.’
She perched on the edge of a padded velvet and mahogany chair, clasping her clammy hands together and hoping she looked efficient.
‘Erin, why are you still here?’ Adam looked up at her from behind his wide wraparound mahogany desk with a straight expression.
Erin’s eyes lowered