Accepting the Boss's Proposal. NATASHA OAKLEY

think he’d be particularly impressed that she held a Qualified Private and Executive Secretarial diploma—albeit with a distinction.

      ‘Others are individuals, predominantly working in the media. Many find themselves in a particularly sensitive place in their lives when they first come to us.’

      ‘I see.’ Another door, another corridor. It wasn’t that the building Kingsley and Bressington occupied was particularly large, it was just it was painted in similar shades of cream and it was difficult to get your bearings. There was only so much limestone and travertine a girl could take.

      ‘Confidentiality is an absolute prerequisite,’ Miles continued, ‘as I’m sure you realise.’

      Confidentiality was something they’d covered in her diploma course. It was nice to know there was at least one part of this job she was going to find easy. ‘I wouldn’t dream of repeating anything I learn from working here. I’d consider that very unprofessional.’

      ‘Excellent,’ he said, holding open the door for her. ‘I know Amanda wouldn’t have sent you to us if that wasn’t the case. This is your office.’

      Jemima stepped through into a room that had obviously been designed to have a wow factor. Yet more shades of cream blurred together as a restful whole and made the burr walnut desk a focal point. The computer screen on it was wafer-thin and the chair she recognised as being a modern design classic. A Charles and Ray Eames styled, if not original, chair upholstered in soft cream leather.

      ‘We rarely keep our clients waiting, but if there’s any delay I’ll rely on you to keep them happy until I can see them.’ He turned and pointed to some chairs clustered around yet another shattered glass coffee table. ‘Ply them with tea and coffee. Make sure they feel important.’

      Jemima felt the first stirrings of a smile. Maybe Amanda had known what she was doing when she had sent her here. She knew a lot about making other people feel important. Being a satellite to other people’s bright star was what she did best. In fact, a lifetime of practice had honed it into an art form.

      She glanced back towards the door and noticed the twenty or so black and white photographs grouped together on the wall. Dramatic publicity shots all autographed with love and messages of thanks.

      Miles followed her gaze. ‘Some of our clients,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘You can see why discretion is imperative.’

      She certainly could. Her smile widened as she recognised the chiselled features of an actor who’d scarcely been off the tabloid front pages in recent weeks. His particular ‘sensitive place’ was a pole-dancer from Northampton—allegedly.

      And Kingsley and Bressington had to find a way of spinning that into a positive, did they? She couldn’t quite see how that would be possible. If Miles Kingsley could restore that actor’s persona as a ‘family man’, he was a genius.

      The door opened and a young and stunning blonde in impeccably cut black trousers burst in, an A4 file tucked under her arm. ‘Miles, I’m so sorry. I was caught on the phone and couldn’t get away—’

      ‘Jemima had been in reception for over fifteen minutes.’ His voice sliced smoothly over the other woman’s words.

      ‘Felicity has just buzzed me. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘It’s not a problem,’ Jemima interjected quickly, unsure whether the apology was for her benefit or for Miles’s.

      ‘If you’d like to come with me now, I’ll take you through everything.’ The other woman adjusted the file under her arm. ‘I’m Saskia Longthorne, by the way. Come through to my office….’

      She was halfway to the door before she’d finished speaking.

      ‘Jemima might like to hang up her jacket? Put her bag down?’ Miles suggested in a dry tone.

      He’d strolled over to the walnut desk and had picked up a large black diary and was leafing through the pages. Jemima glanced over as he looked up. His eyes were astonishingly bright against the minimal colour in the room. At least that was her excuse for the sudden tightening of her throat.

      ‘I’ll see you again in a few minutes.’ He picked up the diary and carried it across to the wide double doors that, presumably, led to his own office.

      Good grief. Jemima let out her breath in one slow steady stream. Miles Kingsley was a sharp-suited nightmare. No other way of looking at it.

      Saskia seemed to understand what she’d been thinking. ‘I know,’ she said, walking over to a tall cupboard. ‘Miles is a walking force field. You can leave your jacket and handbag in here.’ She pulled out a hanger and handed it across. ‘It’ll be perfectly safe, but there’s a key to lock it if you prefer. Zoë always did that…and then kept the key somewhere in her desk.’

      ‘Zoë’s the person I’m covering?’ Jemima asked, self-consciously slipping her jacket off and putting it on the hanger.

      ‘Her husband’s job was transferred to Hong Kong. Just for six weeks, but Miles was as irritated as hell. He thought he’d finally found a PA who didn’t seem to want to get pregnant, when Zoë announced she had to be off anyway.’

      Saskia accepted back the hanger and popped the jacket into the cupboard. ‘Not exactly a “baby-man” is Miles. More wine bar and whisky on the rocks, if you know what I mean.’

      That figured, Jemima thought.

      ‘Zoë’s lovely so he’s holding her job open for her. We mustn’t take long over this,’ Saskia said, pushing open the door to the corridor. ‘He’ll want you back quickly. Obviously do put down nine thirty as your start time for today on your time sheet as it’s my fault we’re a little behind.’

      ‘Jemima, I’m going to need you to book a table at The Walnut Tree for this lunchtime,’ Miles said, opening the door to his office, presumably by magic since he had a file under one arm and a mug of black coffee in his other hand.

      Jemima tucked her handbag away in the tall cupboard and glanced down at her wrist-watch. Officially she wasn’t even supposed to be here yet, but this morning the tube had been kind and the boys cooperative. He was lucky she was here. Jemima hurried across to her desk and jotted down ‘Walnut Tree’.

      ‘I’ve arranged to meet Xanthe Wyn and her agent there at one,’ he said, putting the file down on her desk. ‘If that’s not possible you’ll need to contact Christopher Delland to let him know the change.’

      ‘Okay.’

      Miles took a sip of his coffee and then raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Actually, confirm it with him anyway. Xanthe is notoriously difficult to pin down. His number is in…’ He trailed off as her fingers had already pulled the appropriate card out of the strangely old-fashioned card system her predecessor had favoured.

      ‘Excellent.’ Miles flashed her that mega-watt smile that no doubt managed to melt the hardest of hearts, but didn’t do anything for her but irritate. Given the choice she would so much rather he left the charm offensive until after ten o’clock when she’d had a chance to wake up properly. Not to mention grab a coffee for herself.

      Jemima flicked the switch that would boot up her computer. There was something in the gene pool of men like Miles Kingsley, she thought, which meant they had a deep inner belief that they were somehow special. That when they said ‘go’ everyone around them would naturally follow. A leader of leaders. It was in the way he moved, walked and owned the space in which he stood.

      If he thought one smile would mean she didn’t notice the extra ten minutes at the start of the day, the additional twenty minutes at lunch time and the fifteen or so at the end, he was going to be disappointed when she presented her time sheet on Friday.

      ‘Thanks, by the way, for staying late last night.’

      ‘You’re welcome,’ she said stiffly, finding it annoying to be thanked for something she was busy resenting.

      ‘Amanda