Shaft Read online

  SHAFT

  Krista Gold

  Copyright @2018 by Krista Gold

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  For my friends.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter One

  Allie

  Dammit.

  I curse as I shoe-horn my car around the parking lot for a fourth time, peering desperately through the rain-battered windows. Only one of my windscreen wipers is working, so half of the windscreen is awash with water. I was hoping that my rain-impaired vision might have been the reason I couldn’t find a spot, but by the end of my fourth circuit, I have to concede defeat. There isn’t a single parking space left on the purpose-built lot – which is, I think grumpily, ridiculously small given the mammoth proportions of the gleaming plate-glass office block it serves. Although in fairness, company parking in Manhattan is as rare as hen’s teeth, so I guess the employees aren’t complaining.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  I take a deep breath as I check my watch: 11.16am. Ok. Ok. My interview is at 11:30am, so I still have time.

  Don’t get stressed, Allie, I tell myself firmly. It’s fine. You’re fine. I take a few deep breaths. The last thing I need is to turn up for my interview at Hart Enterprises looking like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. The interview is for a high-pressure Executive Assistant role, so I need to demonstrate that I can keep my composure. If I give them the impression I’ve been rattled by not being able to find a parking space, they’re hardly going to think I’m capable of solving problems on the go, or dealing with demanding CEOs.

  I pause at the exit, indicators blinking as I wait for a gap in the traffic, car after car hissing by in the rain. Most of them are yellow cabs, and I mentally kick myself for not leaving my jalopy at home and taking a cab here instead. The truth is that my redundancy money has dwindled drastically over the last few weeks, and I could do without spending the money on the fare.

  I let out a heavy sigh. I’m just going to have to park in the next street and walk across to the office block. Except...I groan softly and hit the wheel in frustration as I remember that my umbrella is in my other purse, not in the smart, interview-friendly one currently sitting in the passenger foot-well.

  I look out at the driving rain in despair.

  Could this morning get any worse? I’ve already managed to sleep through my alarm, spill coffee on my only clean blouse (though I’ve managed to hide most of the muddy brown splotch with some careful rearranging of my suit jacket), dropped one of my favourite earrings down the sink in my fumble to get ready on time, and now I’m going to turn up to my interview looking wet, sweaty, and stressed.

  If I didn’t want this job so badly, I’d call to cancel, count my losses and go home. I’d feel much better hiding under the covers with a cosy romantic comedy and a pint of ice cream.

  But I want this job. I need this job.

  Finally, a gap appears in the traffic. I turn into the road, crawl the length of the block behind a honking line of cabs, and then make a right into the nearest available street. It seems like everyone else has had the same idea; the street is crammed.

  I really am sweating now. I check the next street, and the next, and finally I find a space just big enough for my battered old Fiat.

  Gratefully, I coax my car into the cramped spot. Once I’m in, I turn off the engine and take a deep breath as I check my watch. 11:22. My stomach twists. I think I can make it – just – but I’m going to have to hustle, and I’m wearing pin-thin heels I’m not sure I can walk in, let alone move at speed.

  I’ve abandoned my uniform of the last few weeks – pyjamas, fluffy slippers, and a faded, well-worn hoodie - and poured my curves into a (now-coffee stained) white silk blouse, black pencil skirt and matching jacket. My heels are also black, and very high, making my legs look long and slender. I’m a very average 5”5, but the heels elevate to me a statuesque 5”10, and I feel almost regal in them. Or at least I would if I didn’t have to concentrate so hard on staying upright.

  I quickly check my reflection in the mirror and am relieved to see that I don’t actually look as flustered as I feel. I’m wearing mascara, so my green eyes are framed with dark, thick lashes, and a slick of red lipstick makes my lips look full and plump. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I took the time to pin up my unruly copper curls this morning; this rain would have made them puff up into a cloud of red frizz.

  I wrestle out of my jacket, and raise it above my head to make a rudimentary shelter and hopefully shield myself from the worst of the storm. Then I open the car door and slide out, hooking my purse over my arm and locking the door behind me.

  The wind is driving the rain so hard, it’s sheeting sideways. I’m soaked before I even reach the top of the street. Water drips down the back of my neck and squelches in my shoes. The jacket held taut above my head rattles angrily with the pounding rain – the fabric is darkening ominously, and already starting to leak.

  I turn onto the main road, teetering a little in the heels I’m unaccustomed to wearing. My eyes flicker to my watch. 11:25.

  The office building is in my sights. I pick up my pace. The sky overhead is a menacing black, dark with roiling clouds. As I watch, a lick of lightning forks across the sky like the tongue of an angry snake.

  Hmm. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t bring my metal-tipped umbrella, after all. The way my luck is going today, I’d have been struck crossing the parking lot. I imagine a pile of smoking ash in front of the office, my fabulous heels resting mournfully on top, and smile faintly.

  After what seems like an eternity, I finally reach the revolving doors and the shelter of the large marble overhang. I lower my jacket and give myself a shake. My blouse is mostly dry, but my suit jacket and the bottom few inches of my pencil skirt are soaked through.

  Grimacing, I shrug the jacket back on. It feels cold and clammy, and I shiver, but I’ve no choice; it’s either that, or go to the interview displaying the huge coffee stain flowering over my breast.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself. And then I step into the revolving doors.

  Chapter Two

  Allie

  The atrium of Hart E
nterprises is something else. I gaze open mouthed at the beautiful space that looks more like the lobby of a boutique hotel than a company reception.

  To my left, a long bank of marble stretches a good fifteen or twenty feet. Gold lamps bloom periodically along its surface like exotic flowers, dimly lit and glowing softly. Behind the marble, a row of perfectly coiffured, expensively manicured, and supermodel-beautiful receptionists are busily taking calls or dealing with guests. The whole area is carpeted in a rich wine-colored carpet that is so plush it feels like I’m about to sink into it. Dotted about are tastefully upholstered sofas and huge sprays of snowy lilies. The impression I get is one of wealth and good taste – in huge contrast to my wet, dishevelled, coffee-stained self.

  I make my way over to the marble desk, where one of the receptionists has just smilingly despatched a sharply-suited man. She turns to me with a practiced smile, and I pull uncomfortably at my wet jacket, acutely aware of the fact that I’m dripping all over the expensive carpet.

  The receptionist looks like she should be working for Victoria’s Secret. She has honey blonde hair that falls in lush waves to her tiny waist, flawless skin, and large china-blue eyes. She looks like she’d be more at home on a runway than perched prettily behind this grand marble desk.

  “Good morning!” she says perkily. “Welcome to Hart Enterprises! I’m Kacey, how may I help you?”

  “Hi - I have a meeting with Mr. Hart at 11:30,” I say, my eyes flashing to the elegant baroque wall clock behind her which shows the time is now 11:32. “I’m so sorry I’m running a little late.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Car trouble.”

  Kacey smiles sympathetically. “Can I take your surname?” she asks.

  “Sinclair,” I tell her, and her fingers fly over her keyboard.

  “If you can sign the visitor’s register for me, Ms. Sinclair, and I’ll just need to give you a visitor’s pass.” She gestures to a leather-bound journal lying open on the desk, and I sign my name along with the date and time of my visit, mortified when a large drop of water drips off my cuff and blots the neatly inked page. I put the pen down over the splotch, hoping Kacey won’t notice.

  “There you go,” she beams, handing me a visitor’s pass on a black lanyard. Is there anything about this company that isn’t tasteful and expensive-looking? It’s a far cry from the makeshift laminated pass I’d been expecting. This pass is a slim black card like a hotel room key, or an exclusive credit card, with the letters H and E – presumably for Hart Enterprises – embossed in gold on the front.

  “Your pass is also your elevator key,” Kacey explains perkily. “Each key is programmed for the floor our guest is visiting, so you’ll just need to swipe your pass when you get to the elevator, and our systems will do the rest.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her gratefully. I straighten my wet jacket again and take a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

  Kacey flashes a straight white smile that would send any orthodontist into paroxysms of delight. “Good luck, Ms. Sinclair,” she says prettily. “Have a wonderful day.”

  “You too!” I smile back, and slip the lanyard over my head.

  Ok, Allie. You’ve got this, I tell myself as I make my way to the bank of elevators across the foyer, trying to ignore the squelch of my feet in my wet shoes, and the fact that my jacket has soaked my blouse, so I’m shivering in a thin layer of chilly silk.

  I may have had the morning from hell, but I’ve prepared for this interview. I’ve done my research, and I know – I know - that I’m the right person for this job. Contrary to what this morning’s events would imply, I am usually efficient, organised, and cool under pressure. I’m also bright, forward-thinking and creative - exactly the qualities this company champions. I’m the perfect candidate for this role.

  Now I just have to convince Lionel Hart of that.

  Chapter Three

  Allie

  Hart Enterprises was founded by Lionel Hart in the decade I was born. Originally a company specialising in data analytics, Lionel used his Harvard business degree and shrewd instincts to turn Hart Enterprises into a billion-dollar conglomerate. In addition to the original data analytics arm of the business, he gradually added one field after another to the portfolio, hiring the most respected experts in each field. By 2018, the portfolio included internet services, e-commerce, biotechnology, business and financial software, and alternative energy. The latest venture – driven by Lionel’s son, John – was social media, and the company had already seen significant success with the handful of apps they had developed.

  I go over all these details mentally as I cross the beautiful lobby to the elevators; a bank of six, tastefully disguised by a floor to ceiling trellis of fresh flowers. White and burgundy roses braid their way up the ceiling, woven in with lush ferns, and I breathe them in as I fish in my cleavage for my elevator pass; the scent is heavenly.

  As I wait for the elevator, I rehearse my lines about why I would make a good Executive Assistant. Why I did make a good Executive Assistant, until my former employer decided to shut down the business so that he could retire to the Caribbean with his new and much younger wife.

  It’s been three months, and my redundancy money is all but gone. The rent on the apartment I share with my best friend Norah in Williamsburg isn’t cheap, and vacancies for Executive Assistants seem to be thin on the ground at the moment, so when the opportunity came up at Hart Enterprises, I jumped at the chance. It’s true that I needed a job – any job. But it just so happens that Hart Enterprises is right up there on my list of dream employers. They’re known for recognising talent in their employees and driving it forward. They’re particularly known for developing women: three of their five board members are female. Their pay scale is way over the average, their benefits package is top notch, and they’re dynamic and exciting, changing the face of their business to keep up with current trends and technology. After three years straight out of college with the same nice but staid employer, I’m ready for something a little more exciting. I want to be challenged. I want the opportunity to make something of myself.

  All of this is running through my mind as I wait for the elevator, making my heart beat that bit faster. The doors slide open soundlessly and I step inside. The elevator is large, and almost as lavishly furnished as the reception area. Plush burgundy carpet lines the floor, and a mirror hangs on one wall in a heavy gold frame. The walls are lined with heavy black wallpaper embossed with the same gold initials stamped on my pass, that looping H.E in elegant scrollwork. There’s even a bench beneath the mirror, tastefully upholstered in a velvety cream material. I steer well clear of it, aware that I’m dripping rainwater all over the floor. I don’t want to mar the beautiful material.

  As the doors slide soundlessly closed again, I turn to face the mirror. A single copper curl has sprung free from its pin, and I hastily tuck the loose tendril behind my ear. There’s nothing I can do about being soaked to the bone, so I simply straighten my jacket for the millionth time, making sure the coffee stain on my breast isn’t visible, and then I take a deep breath.

  Going up, says a cool female voice.

  I hope so , I think. I really hope so.

  Chapter Four

  Allie

  I watch the last millimetre of space disappear as the elevator doors slide shut, already in interview mode, practicing the megawatt smile I’m planning on dazzling Lionel Hart with. And then suddenly, there’s a small ping, and the doors are sliding smoothly open again.

  My megawatt smile drops, and I feel a sharp twinge of frustration – am I ever going to make it to this interview? I’m already late, and now I’m going to be that bit later. And then I freeze, my interview momentarily forgotten, as the most drop dead gorgeous man I have ever seen briefly meets my eyes as he steps into the elevator.

  He nods curtly, then looks away. I feel the heat steal into my cheeks, and a sudden thrum kicks up between my thighs. It seems my body is intent on letting me know – as if I hadn’t noticed - th
at this man is attractive.

  Very, very attractive.

  He’s tall, maybe 6’2. Athletically built, with designer stubble and dark hair, and the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing an exquisitely cut dark grey suit that hugs his muscular body to perfection, with a crisp white shirt and dark grey tie. Not to mention, he smells divine, like fresh air, and cedars. I watch from the corner of my eye as he fiddles with his cufflinks, his gaze firmly trained on the elevator door.

  God, he really is gorgeous.

  My mouth is suddenly painfully dry, and my heart is hammering so loudly I’m surprised he can’t hear it. I swallow hard, feeling lightheaded. What is wrong with me? Sure, this guy is sex on legs, but I’ve been around attractive men before, and I’ve never had this visceral a reaction. I take a deep breath to settle myself, but it only makes things worse. I breathe in his intoxicating scent, that fresh, woodsy smell, and the little drumbeat between my thighs kicks up a notch.

  A soft moan escapes my lips. Immediately I blush a furious shade of fuchsia and try to disguise the noise with a fake cough. I take a discreet step away from him. The elevator is spacious, but it suddenly feels way too small. I can’t breathe him in again; I’ll fall right off my pin-thin heels.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the elevator doors as they slide closed – fully closed this time - and we start to rise smoothly.

  Here we go. My stomach twists with nerves as I remember the reason I’m here.

  Focus, I tell myself sternly, adjusting my jacket again and checking quickly to make sure the stain is hidden. Don’t get distracted now, Allie. You’ve waited a long time for this opportunity. Don’t mess it up.

  Even as I’m giving myself this little pep talk, I’m wondering if he works here, in this very building. I inhale sharply as I imagine the possibility of sharing an elevator with him every morning. Perhaps we’d become friends. I imagine us sitting in the canteen together over coffee. Going for drinks after work. His hand under the table in the pub, running lightly up my thigh, his eyebrows lifting as he realizes I’m not wearing any panties…