It just didn’t make sense. Her boss had got shot and had missed work and nobody had seemed to miss him. Well, she’d missed him. Arrogant jerk as he was. He never said thank you, was snappish and always glowered at her. Even when she didn’t do anything wrong. Granted, she had only been working for him less than a month and she hadn’t absorbed the dynamic pace under his direct supervision, but she felt she didn’t do that bad a job. He’d hired her to screen his calls, take care of his mail and bring him coffee every morning. It wasn’t a brain surgeon’s gig. Still, it made her wonder why on earth she’d got the job in the first place if he didn’t like her.
Bea wanted to not like him.
She couldn’t. She’d had the hots for him ever since she had met him that day. Her crush had got worse after she had become his receptionist. Pathetic, indeed. Alex was a rich man. Educated. Very good-looking. And ten years older than her. Meanwhile, she was broke. College dropout and now homeless. He was so far out of her league, but Bea couldn’t help it. Each time they locked gaze, she wanted to melt under his sharp stare. Whenever he talked in his deep, authoritative voice, her body shimmered with need. The man possessed a certain animalistic power that drew her to him. God only knew how many other women had fallen for him. Half the city, perhaps. Maybe she was nothing but his fan girl. She could live with that. She shouldn’t be ashamed. Alexandre Larousse was really something.
But now, he was in trouble.
She opened Alex’s wallet and pulled out his driver’s licence. Her heart gave a quick stir. Even in his DMV photo Alex looked good. Copper hair. Lush eyebrows. Intelligent eyes. They were an unusual shade of amber. Feline amber. Like when he was a lion. His expression was as serious as ever.
Her gaze darted to the address beside the photo. The building Alex lived in was only five blocks away from the office. And she had heard from Ms Krueger that he lived on the sixtieth floor or something.
Hmm.
Technically, she had a solid reason to visit him at home to return his wallet. He might need it. All of his important IDs were in it. He couldn’t drive around without his licence. Or buy stuff without his credit cards. What if he needed to go to the hospital from the gunshot wound he’d suffered? He would need his Blue Cross insurance card.
Bea tucked Alex’s driver’s licence back into the wallet and shoved the whole thing into her purse. That was it. She decided to give Alex a visit. He might be at home and sick. And she simply needed to know what had happened to him.
She started the engine then drove out of the parking lot.
It took her fifteen minutes to get into Alex’s building. Bea’s hand trembled as she emerged from the parking elevator to the grand lobby. The place was a mix between commercial and residential. There were cafés, restaurants and gift shops on the ground base. Offices and a boutique hotel were on the upper levels. She sauntered across the atrium as if she belonged in the place and headed into another elevator near to the reception area. The elevator from the basement lot didn’t reach the sixtieth floor.
The elevator door closed. Bea was secretly glad she was wearing her best business suit. Her other clothes needed cleaning and she had reserved this one for special occasions. She didn’t feel she stuck out like a sore thumb among the people in this building. The black pantsuit with the pink silk blouse she was wearing had cost her a week’s wage. And a pair of black, four-inch-heel pumps that she’d got on sale in J.C. Penney made her taller than her five-foot-three-inch frame. She looked proper. Like a low-paid administrative employee. The truth wasn’t far from that.
She clutched her cheap, imitation leather purse, feeling self-conscious when her gaze drifted to the businesswoman who was standing next to her. Her handbag was genuine Birkin. How nice. It would probably cost a year of her salary. Bea directed her gaze down and studied the tips of her shoes as the elevator brought her to Alex’s floor.
Bea didn’t know that the sixtieth floor was a private storey. As soon as the elevator doors opened, she was greeted by the view of a large, marble-plastered reception room that was manned with men packing guns. They weren’t typical building guards in uniform. These men were dressed in impeccable suits, their weapons bulging from under their jackets. She stepped out with uncertainty. One of the security men spotted her. He slipped out from his desk, holding some kind of metal wand. It was a portable metal detector, the same as the ones they used in the federal buildings. The device beeped at her purse. Before she knew it,
the man had her surrendering her bag. He checked the contents before he even said a word. Nothing alarming. Her set of keys had made the metal detector whine. Another guy flawlessly gave her a pat down.
Jesus on Crackpot. She wouldn’t have guessed the security in her boss’ floor would be tighter than the airport.
“Your name?” the first guy demanded.
“Beatrice Summer. I’m Mr Alex Larousse’s receptionist.”
“Let me see some ID.”
Bea snatched her wallet from the upturned contents of her purse. “Here.” She showed him her driver’s licence.
The guy seemed satisfied. “What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“Work related.”
He shot her a laser beam kind of look.
“It’s an important message that I must give Mr Larousse in person.” If she’d said she was going to return Alex’s wallet, the man would have demanded it instantly. And she would have no reason to meet Alex.
The man checked his computer screen. “Mr Alex Larousse isn’t in his apartment at present. Try later.”
“Do you know when he’ll be home?”
“No, I don’t. Do you want to leave a message?”
She pondered. “I think I’ll try his cell again.”
The man helped her put back the contents of her purse. Bea shouldered it cautiously and threw him a weak smile. He didn’t return it. His face was stony.
“Thank you.” Bea said it anyway just to be polite.