Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,12

all too aware that other people were listening. I grabbed my bag and the fake “file” and swung away. He was right though; if I were invested in this corporate life thing, if it weren’t just a game, then what I was doing was totally wrong.

Of course, it was a game. Even if the rules were still being defined.

• • •

I stepped out of the elevator and into the spacious hallway of the thirty-second floor, which was decorated with artwork that could easily have hung in the Museum of Fine Arts just a mile away. Large frosted glass double doors stood open before me, and beyond I could see the empty outer office. Until I stepped in, and found a thin woman in her fifties with pale, grayish blonde hair standing by the left wall, sliding sunglasses onto her head.

I stepped in a bit further.

“I’m here to see Mr. Hartmann.”

The woman glanced at me impassively.

“I’m Emily Anderson,” I added.

Without the slightest change of expression, she strode over and opened the second set of glass doors, which were tinted just slightly darker than the last.

“Mr. Hartmann asked for you to wait in his office until he returns.”

Warily, I stood on the threshold of the empty office. I looked back at the woman, who seemed about to leave me there—to leave the entire floor completely—to go to lunch.

“Thank you,” I said, but she was already walking into an elevator. I stood there and stared. Blinked at the emptiness. The phone on her desk rang before stopping abruptly. A red light flashed on the phone bank. Turning around again, I let the glass door close behind me and stepped fully into Hartmann’s private office.

It was strange being in the man’s space without him around. Almost invasive. But clearly he had known I would be in here alone while he was off somewhere else. Making me wait.

The office was large and modern, yet with the slightly retro color scheme of taupe, brown and orange. The far wall was completely glass. The last time I’d had this expansive a view of Boston had been from a plane, or maybe from the top of the Prudential building.

Just as in the lobby, artwork punctuated the walls. A large ovoid sculpture stood in the corner, and I recognized the work of one of my mentors. One of his works was in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and yet this piece had become a temporary bookshelf, with two hard covers and a yellow legal pad lying flat on the peak. I fought the urge to go to it, to pick up that pad. Instead I turned to the clean lines of the large, light wooden desk that was intended to be the focus of the room. I walked toward it hesitantly, and then ran my fingers along the edge. This was where Hartmann did his work, made his millions. Billions.

I couldn’t quite wrap my head around what such wealth meant. Sure, my father had been wealthy before the “retrenching” but this billionaire thing was new to me. As a child, wealth simply meant a private school, and a nanny who took me shopping at Barney’s and Bergdorf’s. It meant friends’ birthday parties that were fantastical and ridiculous. Tea parties served on priceless, antique tea sets and gift bags full of iPods and Marc Jacobs headbands.

A silver pen, a closed laptop, and thick leather portfolio with the edges of papers peeking out, were all that rested on the surface. He was neat, but not too neat, not too careful or precious about his possessions.

Who was Hartmann, and what was I doing here, touching his desk, waiting for him? An image of his lips filled my mind, a memory of their taste, the sharpness of the sensations of touching him, of breathing in his scent … I was making myself dizzy.

My purse vibrated against my side as my phone rang. At least not another text. I fumbled for the phone, saw my father’s number and pressed the button on the side to send the call to voice mail. Of course, he would call right at this moment. The room was too hot, too constrictive.

The phone call was a good reminder. When would I ever again have a chance to be alone in Hartmann’s office? To look through his notes and his files. Would he really be that careless to leave important documents around in an untended office?

Tension made my stomach cramp. What did I expect to find if I did look?