Free BILLIONAIRE (Part 1) by Juliette Jones Page A

hint of my own cleavage was visible, I laid that concern decisively to rest now, as the receptionist’s ample breasts were barely concealed by an almost-sheer fitted black top.  Her outfit, her gleaming long dark hair and ruby red lips seemed to announce that her after-work plans were already on her mind.  Employers love hot.   Apparently so.
    “Lila Carmichael?” she asked.
    “Yes.  I’m meeting with the interview panel at three o’clock.”
    “Actually, Miss Carmichael, several members of the panel are otherwise engaged this afternoon.  You’ll be meeting with Mr. Wolfe himself.”
    I had heard rumors about Alexander Wolfe’s reclusiveness and also his ruthlessness and acumen when it came to matters of business, but even so, I felt a small sense of relief.  Public speaking had never been my strongpoint, and a one-on-one meeting sounded less intimidating than a full-blown inquisition before a panel of many.
    “He’s expecting you,” said the receptionist. “Go right on down this hallway.  Take the elevator up to the 27th Floor.”
    The phone rang and the receptionist gestured down the long wood-panelled hallway before she picked it up.  I wanted to ask her what number Mr. Wolfe’s office was, but she was already immersed in conversation.  His door probably had his name on it, I reasoned.
    Fine, I thought.  I can handle this.  No problem.  A brief interrogation by a stuffy publishing executive, followed by a dismissive ‘We’ll call you if we’re interested’.  I knew already it was a phone call that would probably never come.  I’d wait a few weeks before reality settled in, as I meanwhile resumed my search through the classifieds for an opportunity that mig ht be slightly more realistic.
    I walked down the hallway, finding the elevator.  I wondered if this was a private elevator.  I knew it was not the same one that accessed the lobby of the building.  And as the doors closed, I noticed the elevator car had an opulent air, with gold features and lengths of plush velvet panelling.  When I reached the 27 th floor – the top floor – I stepped out to a glass hallway boasting a killer view of the city below.  There were several swanky leather chairs flooded with sunlight that I wouldn’t have minded sitting in for a while, appreciating the view.  Next to the chairs was a single door.  So Mr. Wolfe was the only executive with an office on the 27 th floor.  Maybe he was the president of the company, or the lone CEO –a thought that didn’t help ease my nervousness.  I wished now that I’d read up on the power structure of Skyscraper .  I’d only seen the ad in the paper two days ago and between my shopping agenda and Eva’s grooming-appointment schedule, I hadn’t had time.
    I knocked on the door.
    It may have been a full minute before the door opened.  A man stood there, silhouetted momentarily by the sunlight streaming in from behind him.  If I had been expecting an ordinary, middle-aged, work-addled managerial type, I was sorely mistaken.  In fact, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the extent of my miscalculation.  There was nothing ordinary about this god-like creature.
    He was tall, and big, dominating the space entirely.  His black hair was neat but slightly longer than one might expect from a man of power, which he clearly was; it touched his collar, lightly curling in places.  He wore an extremely well-cut suit but didn’t appear entirely at ease in it, as though it constricted a natural wildness t hat could barely be contained.
    “Mr. Wolfe?” I said, and my question came out breathy and cautious.
    His eyes were as black as his hair and were narrowed in surprise at the sight of me, as though I had somehow caught him off guard.  His face was swarthy and tanned, and his features were incongruously rugged for the setting, as though he spent more time sailing the Southern seas or wrangling broncos than doing deals in an oppressive, airless boardroom.