Trust Me to Know You Read Free

where Mr Lucas’s Personal Assistants presided over his appointments and correspondence.
    He had three Personal Assistants and Carla was the chief. Her demeanour demonstrated her status as his gatekeeper, first point of contact and filter of timewasters and annoying trivial matters. Set back from her desk were two others. Melissa, a slightly timid looking woman who did the legwork for Carla and, I had been told, was under Carla’s thumb. Whether it was true or not, I could not tell, but she did glance up and give me a welcoming smile. Next to her, with his head buried behind folders and files was Oliver, Mr Lucas’s researcher. Andy had told me the man was tasked with finding out anything Mr Lucas needed to know with regard to business, finance or legal issues. A demanding role I decided.
    “You can go straight in, Miss Marshall,” Carla Duke stared up from her desk looking me up and down and not hiding her leering gaze. She was attractive with long dark hair tied back and braided. Her extravagantly long finger nails must hinder her typing abilities. However, after a cursory glance at me she returned to her keyboard and preceded to type at a galloping pace.
    Mr Lucas’s office was vast, as you would have expected from the owner and managing director of a significantly sized company. There was a l arge, unadorned oak desk with monitor and keyboard set to one side, documents organised neatly across the other side. There was the necessary conference style table with six modern, unfussy straight-backed chairs set around it. Elegant abstract pictures lined one wall to the left of his desk and behind the desk a wall of glass with the blinds drawn to hide the bright sunshine. The other wall had a door and two rows of shelves. No books on them only a series of small African styled figurines in naked poses.
    Mr Lucas rose from his desk as I entered. He looked almost welcoming and indicated we were to sit at the meeting table. I had decided to keep my eyes off him as much as possible.
    “Thank you for coming, Miss Marshall,” his voice had changed from yesterday, gone was the harsh edge and inste ad more softy toned. It had not lost any authority though and I responded positively to its timbre.
    “Please it’s Gemma.”
    I smiled my radiant curly lipped version as I aimed for the personal touch – did he expect me to call him Jason? I laughed inwardly, no chance of such informality. I placed my laptop on the table and opened up the lid. Before I left my desk, I had checked and rechecked the battery level, not wanting to face the embarrassment of a power failure.
    He sat next to me as I fired up the software. He edged his seat closer so he could see the screen and I felt like the lid of a seductive chemistry set had been lifted up. He was perfumed and it was the pervasive odour of manly cleanliness: shower gel, after-shave and minty breath. I desperately tried to remember what I had sprayed on my body earlier in the morning. Had my own perfumed aromas survived a day of crowded buses, office air conditioning and the smoked salmon sandwiches I had made for lunch. I was tempted to whiff my armpits and again I reminded myself the exercise was pointless - what did he care?
    “Talk me through what you did,” he leant forward on his elbows, chin resting on his hands.
    My attempt at dismissing my meandering thoughts were useless as I could hear his breath and sensed his body warmth.
    My skin tingled – breathe and focus – I repeated.
    Stow it Gemma , I yelled to my wayward psyche as she nudged from her hiding place and then I put my work brain into gear.
    I explained my methodology and was pleased my hands did not tremble on the keyboard. He asked really incisive and good questions, far more insightful than my boss did at the meeting. A couple of times I squirmed trying to come up with the best answer. Then he sat back and arched his back, hands behind his head.
    “I’m sorry, Gemma, I forgot to ask if you wanted a drink,” he