A gust of arctic air smacked me across the face and whipped my hair into a frenzy at the top of the Arlington Station stairs. The sky was a clear, pale blue, the crisp winter day blissfully free of clouds and snow. Just a fresh, clean scent that matched my optimism and a cold sting of the north wind that matched my doubt. It needled my confidence and reminded me I was sailing into uncharted waters.
The chaotic sounds of downtown traffic replaced the rumble and screech of the T. I dodged an oncoming businessman who checked his watch while bahking words thick with the Boston accent into his cellphone.
“Excuse me,” I grumbled over my shoulder at his retreating form. “Sheesh.” He hadn’t even noticed me. Typical.
Not today, Satan, I thought, catching the pity party before it started. The Anna who’d liberated herself from academia didn’t blend into the background. People noticed liberated-Anna. That guy was just a self-absorbed jerk.
I landed awkwardly on my pointy heel and stumbled. “Dammit!” I winced and crouched to rub my twisted ankle.
My professor-wear consisted of jeans, V-neck t-shirts, and running shoes. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d walked these streets in heels. Luckily, Terme di Boston was only a few blocks away, just past the bend in Boylston Street. I stood, held my head high, and resumed my tentative, wobbling steps.
Past the Public Gardens on my left and the unending wall of the Four Seasons on my right, a columned portico came into view followed by the stone edifice that was Terme di Boston. The luxury hotel and European spa extended the entire city block, looming over the southern border of the Boston Commons.
Intricate carvings adorned the cream and brown stone, and mosaic tiles decorated the corner pillars and window frames. Two wide, square towers rose on either side of the covered entrance crowned with sculpted balustrades. The east and west wings of the building were set back from the entrance, and French doors opened onto street-level patios. Behind the two floors of the northern façade, the building dominated the skyline with tiered balconies and extensive outdoor living spaces. Above the portico roof, TERME was carved into a solid piece of creamy marble, the capital lettering reminiscent of ancient Rome.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the doorman said. “Benvenuta a Terme di Boston.” He tugged on the wrought-iron handle and ushered me inside.
The interior of the hotel was no less impressive than the exterior. Marble floors and countertops glinted under bright lights. Plush, cream-colored cushions edged with gold thread topped stone benches. Tall orchids and lush ferns emerged from planters on columned bases. The vaulted ceiling was inlaid with the same mosaic tiles that blessed the exterior, and distressed frescoes decorated the walls.
Instead of students, affluent guests hurried across the cavernous lobby, and my heels clicked loudly on the marble floor, reminding me I wasn’t in the finance building anymore. A splinter of doubt wedged itself firmly inside my excitement.
I approached the concierge desk, nervous like the first day of school. The man behind the desk met me with a bright, welcoming smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Dr. Barone with Cambridge Management Group. I have a three o’clock appointment with Mr. DeVita.”
“Ah, yes. Just a moment.” He picked up the phone, and suddenly, the meeting with my new boss was no longer a distant idea but an imminent reality.
The frescoed walls started to close in on me and sent me into a panic. Had I made a mistake? Forty-eight hours ago, the sum total of my experience had been confined to the Sloan School, classrooms, and the same twelve-by-twelve square foot office I’d occupied for the past fifteen years.
“Dr. Barone?” A woman’s velvety voice interrupted the rising tide of my anxiety. I followed the sound of my name to a woman walking toward me with all the grace of a 1920s Vanna White. Her chin-length blonde hair was expertly styled in pin curls, not a strand out of place, and her pale skin was flawless, like porcelain. The retro style of her hair and makeup matched her clothing—a maroon dress with three-quarter-length sleeves, a collared bodice, and a flowing skirt that ended below the knee above what appeared to be vintage t-strap pumps.
What I wouldn’t have given for a fraction of her style and confidence.
“Yes. I’m Dr. Barone.”
“Right on time,” she said and flashed a beauty-pageant smile. “I’m Ms. Connelly, the General Manager of Terme di Boston. Mr. DeVita’s assistant left early for the weekend, so I’m to escort you to his office.”
She held out her hand, and I shook it. Her voice had a hint of an accent I couldn’t place—British, perhaps? My nerves mellowed at her unmistakably welcoming tone.
“Please. Call me Anna.”
“Anna. I’m Siobhán. A pleasure to meet you. Let’s check your coat—you must be boiling—and then we’ll head upstairs. We run a tight schedule here at Terme.”
She wasn’t wrong. The layers were unbearable now that I was inside, and the tight schedule comment only served to turn up the heat. I stripped off my coat, scarf, and gloves, and deposited them with the bellhop before following Siobhán to the elevators behind the front desk.
She hit the penthouse button. “Mr. DeVita tells me you’ll be with us for several weeks. There aren’t too many women at the executive level. Let’s do lunch or…” She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Happy hour? If you’re into that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fabulous.”
The elevator glided to a stop, and its doors opened into a wide, semi-circular foyer. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided an unobstructed view of the Commons below, the commotion of the streets silenced by some magical soundproofing. The only sound came from a sculpture of a nude woman trickling water from a jar into a shallow pool at her feet.
Behind her, the rounded wall was made of porous stone and reminded me of the ruins I’d visited on my last trip to Italy. It curved inward in a wide arc, connecting the windows to where we stood in front of the elevators.
Between the fountain and the windows was a set of double doors, cherry, inlaid with copper knobs, knockers, and a mail chute. A matching doorbell and intercom were set flush into the stone to their right. The entryway looked like something out of a tourism brochure for a luxury bed and breakfast.
On the opposite side of the statue, a matching cherry desk topped with a curved monitor, office phone, and ink blotter sat empty beneath silver letters mounted directly into the stone: DeVita Enterprises International. Beyond that, a single, nondescript office door with a stainless-steel handle appeared oddly mundane.
“Wait here,” Siobhán said. “I’ll let Mr. DeVita know you’ve arrived.” She knocked on the office door.
“Yes!” a deep voice boomed across the distance.
She opened the door enough to squeeze into the room while still holding the handle.
Nervous energy heated my chest, neck, and face despite the coolness of the foyer. I smoothed my sweaty palms down my skirt, dreading the inevitable clammy handshake.
But my self-doubt was no match for the excitement inspired by an actual office and the chance at a real-world application of my skills. Twenty years ago, I’d set my heart on working in corporate finance, and this was my chance. Nothing was going to prevent me from realizing my dream.
Siobhán ducked back into the foyer. “Mr. DeVita will see you now. I’ll be in the lobby when you’re finished.”
“Thank you,” I said even as a fresh wave of adrenaline had my stomach doing flips.
She grabbed my hand on her way to the elevator. “Girl,” she whispered and squeezed my fingers, “you look like you’re about to pass out. Breathe.” I let out a tremendous sigh, and she smiled with understanding. “Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite.” She winked and got on the elevator.
“Right.” I lifted my chin and strode into Mr. DeVita’s office with as much confidence as I could muster.
The office echoed the décor of the foyer but held the faint scent of cigar smoke and leather. To my right, a ceramic urn sat next to a leather recliner and a side table. To my left, a bookcase spanned the entire wall, and the small bar set in its middle was topped with crystal decanters and glassware. Straight ahead, two gladiators grappled in a Renaissance fresco under the soft illumination of track lights. And beneath their epic battle, a man around fifty sat behind a cherry desk staring intently at his computer screen while banging away at a keyboard.
I’d always had a type; my kryptonite took the form of tall, dark, and Italian. I thought I’d developed an immunity after multiple failed attempts at relationships with that make and model, but apparently, my antibodies were no match for Marco DeVita.
Thick, glossy waves of dark brown hair were threaded through with silver as fine as the lines of his pinstripe suit. He kept the sides and back cropped close and neat, matching the clean shave of his smooth, olive-toned skin. Like ancient marble come to life, the hard, chiseled lines of his jaw and cheekbones complimented the prominence of his Roman nose. His bearing demanded obedience, as if Caesar himself had been plucked from history and deposited into that office to rule from a high-backed, leather executive chair.
My sweaty palms redoubled their efforts in the presence of such devastating masculinity. I wiped them on my skirt and reminded myself why I was there—an opportunity to reshape my career. I focused on my breathing to slow my heart rate and realigned my thoughts. Now was not the time for lusty gawping.
“Dr. Barone.” Mr. DeVita’s deep baritone filled the space between us. “Have a seat.” The words were an order, not a request, and although he didn’t spare me as much as a glance, I knew he expected me to obey.
I sat in one of the two chairs opposite his desk and surreptitiously wiped the sweat from my palms by smoothing my skirt, but his eyes never left his screen. His left hand enveloped the mouse, making it look unnaturally small. No wedding band. Just a fat gold ring on his right pinky finger. My stomach flipped.
Get a grip, Anna.
He clicked the mouse with finality and turned to face me. Dark eyes widened slightly beneath thick eyebrows. Someone else might have missed the subtle sign of surprise, but I’d seen that look before. He’d been expecting a man.
“Dr. Barone. I’m Marco DeVita,” he said, not missing a beat. He made no move to rise, instead folding his hands on his desk and staring at me with unnerving intent. Eyes of the deepest brown met mine without hesitation and captivated me with the depth of their darkness.
“Anna,” I breathed. “Please.”
“Anna.” My name in his deep voice sounded sinful, and a shiver pebbled my skin. “Before we get into the details, I require a signed non-disclosure agreement. CMG has already agreed to this contract, but Mr. Levitt explained this is your first consulting assignment. He’s asked that I provide you with the right of refusal if the work doesn’t align with your career objectives. After you sign, I’ll explain the details, and you’ll have an opportunity to decline.”
“I have no problem with that. Jeff—excuse me—Mr. Levitt mentioned you’d require an NDA. I’ve signed them in the past, and I want to assure you I approach all working relationships with discretion. This will be no different.”
“Even so,” he said with dry skepticism, “I have rather particular requirements, and I expect thorough compliance.” He punctuated those final words as if I needed the extra clarity.
“I understand.”
He slid a manila folder across his desk. I took it and leafed through the papers inside.
“Read carefully. I require a signature agreeing to full cooperation before we proceed. If you are unwilling or unable to meet the terms, I will take my business elsewhere. If at any time during the contract you violate the terms, the contract with CMG will be terminated, and I will take my business elsewhere. Understood?”
Intimidated by a tone that brokered no debate but irritated by the implication I lacked the professionalism to adhere to an NDA, I nodded and started to read.
Boilerplate legalese filled the first two pages, content I’d seen before in my partnerships with industry while at the university—use of identifying names, titles, and data sets in publications or presentations strictly prohibited—standard and unsurprising. I flipped to the third page where Additional Mandatory Clauses was printed across the top, bold and uncompromising. Below the heading, titles were listed with spaces for my initials. I frowned and flipped through the remaining pages. Six in total, the final of which contained a declaration of compliance with a blank line for my signature and the date. I puffed out my cheeks, exhaled, and turned back to the first page.
My eyebrows lifted at the first title.
No Pictures
What an odd requirement for a finance NDA. And the paragraph that followed didn’t make the clause any less strange.
The signatory agrees to refrain from any and all use of digital or analog photography, videography, and audio recordings, including those functions provided by cellular telephones, while on any property owned or operated by DEI. The signatory agrees to refrain from taking digital or analog photographs, videos, and audio recordings of the DEI Chief Executive Officer, Marco Luciano DeVita, at any time while under contract or thereafter.
My eyes scanned the other bold titles. They had just as little to do with data breaches and intellectual property violations as No Pictures.
Do Not Name DEI as Your Current Employer
Do Not Discuss Your Contract with Other DEI Employees
All Personal Travel Must be Preapproved for the Duration of the Contract
What the hell?
“Excuse me, but I don’t understand how my personal travel plans have any bearing on my ability to discreetly fulfill the responsibilities of the contract. Is this clause really necessary?”
“Every clause in the NDA is necessary. It’s your choice whether or not to sign it.”
My jaw tightened with the realization I’d asked the wrong question. Of course, he thought the clause was necessary; he wrote it. What I should have asked was why. But after his terse response and given the set of his impassive features, I knew asking the question would be pointless.
I had a choice. I could either agree to the terms or find another opportunity. But there was no way my pride was going to let me off the hook. I wanted to prove Tim Fletcher wrong, prove I could handle whatever bizarre situation the corporate finance world might throw at me, even if I was only proving it to myself. Not to mention, I really wanted to know the details of this job and the modeling it required. I hadn’t been this excited about work in a long time, and if it wasn’t as interesting as I hoped, I could always back out. Jeff had given me that luxury.
Tick, tock, Anna.
I initialed, signed, and dated the ridiculous NDA and placed the envelope back on his desk.
He eyed me suspiciously, picked it up, and pulled out the papers. He scanned them and must have decided they were in order, because he tapped the papers along their edge, placed them back in the envelope, and slid it into his desk drawer. He sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and regarded me with a dark, penetrating stare. I squirmed in my seat under the intensity of his undivided attention.
“I suspect one of my employees is stealing from me.”
My head snapped back, and I blinked. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been corporate larceny. “Why—” No, that wasn’t the right question. I gathered my thoughts. “What does that have to do with Cambridge Management Group? I’m not a private investigator.”
He rocked his head from side to side. “Debatable.”
I shook mine in genuine confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“My European properties are taking significant financial losses, and it’s starting to impact the rest of my business. Based on the performance of my properties in the States and Canada, Europe should be doing at least as well. My COO assures me the difference is due to culture, expectations, and spending habits of the European consumer, but—” He paused, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “I lived in Italy for years. I don’t think that’s it.”
“You think someone is skimming your profits.”
“And doing so in a way that isn’t obvious to my accounting department.” He canted his head. “Or someone in my accounting department is involved. Either way I need to find the leak. And fast. I recently signed the deed on a new property in Tuscany, and profits from my European office were earmarked to cover the acquisition and renovations. Now, I have to use Terme di Boston capital. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but I’m in talks with city hall to purchase a significant amount of real estate in the financial district. I have it on good authority there’s another interested party.” His eyes darkened, and the twitchy muscle in his jaw ticked. “And I can’t let them outbid me.”
I nodded like everything he said sounded perfectly normal and not completely paranoid. Something about the heaviness of his mood and the weight in his words told me I shouldn’t question his suspicions. A nervous seed formed in my belly.
“Was Mr. Levitt appraised of your situation?”
“Yes. Mr. Levitt and I have a standing, two-way NDA.”
“Ah,” was all I could manage. My first foray into the world of corporate finance, and Jeff had thrust me into the plot of a poorly written corporate thriller. “And you want CMG to…”
“Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate CMG’s unique skillset. My understanding is you can create complex financial models to uncover potential optimizations, correct?”
“Yes. We use models to determine how companies can become lean, improve staffing and budget plans to increase gross and net profits, minimize unnecessary losses resulting from unoptimized cash flows—” I stopped mid-ramble, my brain connecting concepts in ways that had never occurred to me, in an application of my research I’d never considered.
Jeff was right. He couldn’t have done this without my help. The nervous seed sprouted into eager fascination.
“You want me to create a financial model of your European office to identify discrepancies between what should be and what is.” My eyes widened. “You want me to pinpoint the leak, and the thief, using a financial model.”
The corner of his mouth turned up in the slightest hint of a devious smile. “Precisely.”
I reclined in my chair and stared into the bookcase, chewing the side of my fingernail. Follow the money. I’d never used my research for this type of application, but it made sense. Understanding how cash flowed was the first step in understanding why.
Gears turned and picked up speed.
I’d created hundreds of complex models over the course of my career; this would be no different. It had been a while since I’d constructed a model based in the European economy, but that was like riding a bike.
Model parameters took shape, and the growing seed of excitement took root.
“Anna?”
“Hm?” My eyes snapped to meet the source of my name.
Mr. DeVita stared at me with a raised eyebrow.
My cheeks heated. I’d forgotten where I was and who sat across from me, lost in my thoughts. Classic Anna. I dropped my hand and smoothed it over my skirt. “Sorry. I was thinking about how to formulate the model.”
“Before you get started, we need to discuss the parameters of your work. I can’t explain the sudden appearance of a financial analyst without raising suspicion, and I don’t know if this is an inside job or an outside shakedown.”
Shakedown? I scrunched my nose. “Yes, I suppose that would defeat the purpose,” I said, humoring him. At least his paranoia explained why he didn’t want me talking to other employees about my work.
“Starting Monday, you’ll pose as my administrative assistant.”
My eyebrows launched past my forehead. “Excuse me?”
“My assistant Diane is visiting her sick sister in California. You’ll serve as her replacement, supplied by CMG, a firm I regularly use for temporary staffing and IT services. As my assistant, you’ll conduct your work at the desk in the foyer”—he lifted his chin toward the office door—“as well as any administrative tasks she’d normally perform. You’ll direct any questions or requests for information to me, and I’ll provide access to my company’s data.”
My lips parted, but I was stunned silent by the idea of posing as this man’s secretary while performing insider corporate espionage. The logistics alone were going to be a nightmare, not to mention the work itself.
“But my software… My computer... My—my notes… My models are huge, and—and the simulations computationally intensive. I can’t just run them on a commercial desktop. I mean I can, but—”
“I have no doubt you’ll figure out how to make this work. In fact, I’m paying CMG for you to figure out how to make it work. That’s the job. Mr. Levitt asked me to provide you with an opportunity to decline. Are you in or are you out?” His black eyes bored into me, waiting for a response to his challenge.
My breath caught. This is what I wanted, wasn’t it? A nine-to-five? Go to the office every day? Use my research outside academia? I just hadn’t anticipated corporate larceny, posing as a secretary, and a gorgeous, overbearing boss. The situation was far from ideal, but I could make it work, and the unique application of my research was too tempting to ignore. I let go of my breath.
“I’ll need to bring in some equipment.”
“That’s fine, as long as it’s minimal. I don’t want anything to appear out of the ordinary. You’re my admin after all.” His lips twitched.
I narrowed my eyes. Was he teasing me? Enjoying the idea of me serving as his secretary?
“In or out, Dr. Barone?”
“In,” I said definitively.
“I start work at eight. I’ll expect you at your desk no later than seven thirty. Do you have any questions?”
“I… No.”
“Siobhán will help you with anything you need on your way out. See you Monday.”
Flustered by the abrupt dismissal, I remained stuck in my chair searching for words amid the awkward silence.
The desk phone rang, my shrill savior.
“Yes,” Mr. DeVita answered.
My shoulders relaxed as soon as he diverted his attention away from me and to his call. I stood, smoothed my skirt, and spotted my purse on the floor next to the chair. Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that. I bent to retrieve it, teetering on my heels.
I rose and turned toward Mr. DeVita to signal my departure, and his eyes were fixed—obviously and with zero shame—on my ass.
A surge of heat rushed my body, making my neck and cheeks flush. He continued his conversation with whomever was on the line and dragged his eyes up my body to where my fingertips pinched my necklace right between my breasts.
He lingered for a moment, and an ache formed deep in the base of my belly. His dark eyes finished their languid journey to my face, and he held my gaze with guileless ease. After a breath that seemed to take an eternity, his focus shifted back to his computer screen.
I didn’t waste another second. I marched out of his office and closed the door behind me, mortified by my reaction even more than his audacity. I should have been pissed off, or at the very least, grossed out. I’d just been eyed like a side of beef by a man who, for the next several weeks, was going to be my boss. Instead, my insides were on fire, every nerve ending lit up from being stroked by his attention.
The elevator doors closed, and as I descended to the ground floor of my new office building, I decided the interlude had been a fluke, an inappropriate lapse of judgment that a professional like Mr. DeVita would never repeat. And if that wasn’t the case? If leering was his MO? To hell with him and his fancy job. I’d take my brains elsewhere and find an opportunity to reshape my career that didn’t come with a side of tall, dark, and Italian.