The movie magazines and tabloids made him sound like a handsome, sophisticated hunk who dated movie stars and European royalty. The Wall Street Journal said he was "a corporate genius with a Midas touch." Mr. Haskell said on the day he left that Matthew Farrell was "an arrogant, inhuman bastard with the instincts of a shark and the morals of a marauding wolf." As Joanna and Valerie waited for a glimpse of him, they were already predisposed to despise him on sight. And they did.
The soft ding of the elevator bell struck the reception area like a hammer on a gong. Matthew Farrell strode out, and the very air suddenly seemed to crackle with the suppressed energy of his presence. Deeply tanned and athletically built, he stalked swiftly toward them, reading a report and carrying a briefcase, a beige cashmere topcoat looped over his forearm. Valerie stood up uncertainly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Farrell." For her courtesy, she received a daunting glance from cool gray eyes, a curt nod, and then he swept past like the wind—powerful, unsettling, and completely indifferent to mere mortals like Valerie and Joanna.
Matt had been here once before to attend an evening meeting, and he walked with unerring certainty into the private suite of offices that had belonged to Haskell's president and his secretary. Not until he closed the door of the secretary's office did he tear his attention from the report he'd been reading in the elevator, and then it was only to glance perfunctorily at his own secretary, who'd worked closely with him for nine long years. They did not greet each other or indulge in small talk; they never had. "How is everything going?"
"Quite well," Eleanor Stern replied.
"Is the agenda ready for the meeting?" he added, already starting toward the tall, rosewood double doors that opened into his private office.
"Of course," she replied, matching his brisk manner perfectly. They'd been an ideal match from the very first day she'd arrived at his office along with twenty other women, most of them young and attractive, who'd been sent over to Matt by an employment agency. Earlier that same day, he'd seen a picture of Meredith in a copy of Town and Country magazine that someone had left in the cafeteria. She was lying on a Jamaican beach with a collegiate polo player. The caption said she was vacationing with school friends. More bitterly determined to succeed than ever as a result of that picture, he had begun interviewing the applicants. Most of them were airheads, or openly flirtatious, and he was in no mood to tolerate either stupidity or women's wiles. What he wanted, needed, was someone smart and reliable, someone who would keep pace with his newly reinforced drive to make it to the top. He'd just tossed the last applicant's resume in the wastebasket, when he looked up and saw Eleanor Stern marching toward him in her stout-heeled shoes, plain black suit, her gray hair in a prim bun. She thrust her resume into his hand and waited in stoic silence while Matt read the pertinent facts which included the information that she was fifty years old, unmarried, and that she could type 120 words per minute and take shorthand at 160 words per minute. Matt had glanced up at her, intending to question her, only to have her announce in a frosty, defensive voice, "I am not unaware that I'm twenty years older than those other applicants out there, and twenty times less attractive. However, because I have never been a beautiful woman, I've had to develop and rely upon my other qualities."
Taken aback, Matt had asked, "What are those qualities?"
My mind and my skills," she'd replied. "In addition to my typing and shorthand skills, I am also a paralegal and a full-charge bookkeeper. Furthermore, I can do something that very few twenty-year-olds can do anymore—"
"And that is?"
"I can spell!"The remark with all its prim superiority and implied disdain for anything less than perfection appealed to him. She had a certain aloof pride that Matt admired, and he sensed in her the same rigid determination to get the job done that he felt. Based on that instinctive belief that she was right for the position, he said bluntly, "The hours are long and the salary isn't great now. I'm just getting started. If I make it to the top, I'll take you with me. Your salary will go up according to your contribution."
"Agreed."
"I'll be traveling a great deal. Later, there may be times when you'll have to accompany me."
Amazingly, her pale eyes had narrowed. "Perhaps you ought to be more specific about my duties, Mr. Farrell. Women undoubtedly find you an extremely attractive man; however—"
Dumbfounded that she apparently thought he was planning to make a pass at her, and angered by her censorious, unsolicited opinion of his appeal to other women, Matt had replied in a voice even colder than hers, "Your duties would be purely secretarial, and no more. I'm not interested in an affair or a flirtation; I don't want cake on my birthday, or coddling, or your opinions on personal matters that pertain to me alone. All I want is your time and your skills."
He'd been much harsher than he'd ordinarily have been, which owed itself more to that picture of Meredith than to Eleanor Stern's attitude, but she didn't mind in the least. In fact she seemed to prefer the sort of working arrangement he'd described. "I find that completely agreeable," she announced.
"When can you start?"
"Now."
He'd never regretted his decision. Within a week, he'd realized that like him, Eleanor Stern could work at a ceaseless, killing pace without ever wearing out or wearing down. The more responsibility he gave her, the more she accomplished. They never bridged the barrier that had been erected between them when she expressed alarm over his intentions. At first they had simply been too absorbed in their mutual work to give it thought. Later it didn't seem to matter, they had fallen into a routine, and it worked magnificently for both of them. Matt had made it all the way to the top, and she had worked day and night beside him, without complaint. In fact, she was a nearly indispensable asset to his business life, and, true to his word, he had rewarded her loyalty and efforts liberally: Miss Stern's salary was $65,000 a year—more than many of Intercorp's mid-level executives were paid.
Now, she followed him into his office and waited as he laid his briefcase on the polished rosewood desk that had been delivered recently. Normally he handed her at least one microcassette filled with instructions and dictation for her to transcribe. "There's no dictation," Matt explained, unlatching his briefcase and handing her a stack of files. "And I didn't have a chance to go over the Simpson contract on the plane. The Lear had an engine problem, so I had to take a commercial flight here. The baby in front of me was evidently having problems with his ears, and he screamed for the entire flight."