I dropped into my seat to start organizing her notes in case I needed to refer back to one later. I shoved one note that was presumably written in hieroglyphics into my plastic-sleeved binder and then set about dealing with the rest of them. First things first, I tried to figure out which Ben she meant. Checking the database, I saw our office had three Bens. Two of them hadn’t booked a job in several months, so by process of elimination I assumed she was referring to Ben Shaw, one of our most popular models. I took a deep breath and dialed his number.

“Yeah,” a deep voice answered.

“Um, yes, hi. This is Emmy Clarke from Status. Fiona would like to see you today.”

“Okay.” He sounded mildly annoyed. “What time?”

I opened her calendar, silently cursing myself for not having that information ready. Thankfully my computer cooperated and quickly loaded the information. She was free all morning. “You can come in any time before noon.”

“Sure,” he replied. “I’ll be in later this morning.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

I sighed and returned the phone to its receiver. Okay then. Task one complete. That wasn’t so bad.

Now to take care of the few emails I had. I liked being privy to the inner workings of a modeling agency, and Status Model Management was one of the more powerful New York agencies, often winning seven-figure contracts with major advertisers. It had a fleet of fresh new faces to feed any executive’s desire. The unique thing, though, was that my boss, Fiona, who ran the agency, represented only male models. Fiona made it widely known she didn’t work well with females. She’d once said it was too much estrogen, or something like that.

As Fiona’s assistant, my job description included maintaining the agency database of models and passing their info on to her for specific jobs. Requests would come in for certain looks, hair color, eye color, height, and weight, and I would comb through the files to find the right beautiful men for the job before sending their headshots and files over to Fiona for approval. The position certainly had its perks. Ogling delicious man candy daily was the main one. Did that make me shallow? No. I didn’t think so. I’d had a bunch of crappy jobs and crappier relationships before all of this. If I wanted to be surrounded by completely delicious and highly unattainable men all day, I felt that was a God-given right. And getting paid to boot—yes, please. Sign me up.

It was my job to know the nitty-gritty details of each model, to help determine which one was right for each type of job—editorial, high fashion, fitness, lifestyle—before giving their comp cards to Fiona. This entitled me to intimate information on the couple hundred or so young men we worked with. Their shoe sizes, personality quirks, and even little-known facts, like that Nico couldn’t work with Sebastian because they’d once dated and it had ended badly. Or that Leo had a phobia about anything fluffy and couldn’t be around tulle or feathers.

I made sure things ran smoothly on set, and many times the photographers were worse than the models—demanding and pissy, with a tendency to degrade the models when they couldn’t get the shots they wanted. I’d already learned part of my job would be to act as a mediator, helping to smooth things over and finding out about the expectations of the photographer and explaining them to the model.

Of course, my biggest challenge was dealing with Fiona Stone, the ultra-British, ultra-bitchy head of Status Models. She was truly a rare breed. Somewhere between thirty and forty, she was stunningly beautiful. She definitely fit in among the pretty people working at the agency. Smart as a whip at business, but with the social skills and politeness of a mosquito. She was cunning, conniving, and most of all, ruthless. She negotiated hard for her models, often earning them higher rates and better contracts. But she ruled with an iron, though well-manicured, fist. And I had the distinct pleasure of dealing with her day in and day out. Lucky me.

My little desk sat right outside her office. From her immaculate red leather perch, she could glance up whenever she wanted and see my computer screen and whatever I might be looking at. So online shopping, catching up on Facebook, and personal emails were all a big no-no.

I’d applauded myself that I wasn’t the receptionist out front or one of the production assistants. They seemed even more miserable than I was. Nope, I’d landed the executive assistant position—yay me! Rolling my eyes, I remembered how extremely self-conscious I had been my first day among all the toned and stylish women already working here. Little did I know that working for Fiona would prove to be a special kind of torture. She criticized everything, from my brown hair to my nonexistent sense of style to my southern accent.

My first Friday night, I’d gone out to happy hour with Gunnar and a few of the other assistants. He’d informed me that Fiona didn’t hate me, that the sharp tongue was just part of her way. Apparently I’d already lasted longer than her previous three assistants combined. Gunnar was a production assistant and occasionally worked with Fiona, too, so he knew what I was talking about. After that pep talk, I’d convinced myself I could endure anything. I would win her over. I would succeed where others had failed. No way was I going to hang it up and crawl away with my tail between my legs. No ma’am. This was my first real job, and in New York City no less. I would make this work. And with the promise of the travel schedule taking us to Paris and Milan soon, I wanted to make this work. Back home, no one got opportunities like this. I would be stupid to quit just because I didn’t like my boss.

Fiona’s British accent cut through my thoughts like a siren. “Stop drooling over that boy, and get your arse in here.”

Crap! My screen had been sitting idle on the seminude photo of a male model. Oops. I shuffled my tight-skirt–wearing-self into Fiona’s office. She was dressed immaculately, as always, in a Versace linen dress with a bright royal purple scarf and a pair of the highest Prada heels I’d ever seen. Those suckers put the Empire State Building to shame. Her hair was pinned back in a loose chignon, shiny dark tendrils framing her elegant face.

“Yes, Miss Stone?” I asked.

“Do you know what time it is?” Her expensively clad foot tapped the floor and she didn’t bother looking up from her computer screen. Tap, tap, tap.

Oh, shit. Was this a trick question? “Uh, it’s ten o’clock—”

She leaned back in her chair, peering at me intently. “And?”

And? And what? She gave me an icy glare, making my heart pound and a cold sweat break out under my arms.

After ten seconds of stony silence, during which she looked me over from head to toe in disgust, making me want to hide behind the big potted plant in her office, she finally spoke.

“It is time for my tea.” She grunted and waved a dismissive hand in my direction.

Oh. Right. Her midmorning tea. How very British of her. I dashed for the kitchenette as quickly as my restrictive skirt–Spanx-heels combo would allow to heat some purified water for her tea. I added the package of English Breakfast to the cup and scuttled back, just in time to see a man entering her office. Great. Another blunder. I was sure I’d catch hell later for letting a guest inside unannounced.

I stepped into her office behind him, still carrying the tea.

“Ben, love, come in,” Fiona drawled and gestured to the leather seat facing her desk.

Oh. So this was Ben Shaw. Seeing his photos on the computer was one thing. Seeing this delicious piece of man meat in person was quite another. My damn mouth was watering. He was tall and poised, with dark hair, broad shoulders, an angular jaw, and a pouty mouth built for kissing.

I briefly wondered if I’d be scolded for letting someone into her office unannounced, but Fiona was all smiles where Ben was concerned.

Benjamin Riley Shaw, the agency golden boy. Our most in-demand model and top earner by a wide margin. Seeing him in person for the first time, it was obvious why. He had a certain aura about him, a glow. My eyes were unconsciously drawn to him. He was by far the most captivating thing in the room. Having just reviewed his file, I felt slightly pervy knowing so many personal details about him, but it also made me feel just a little bit smug. Height:6 feet 3 three inches; Eyes: Hazel; Hair: Brown; Shoe Size: 12; Suit: 42L; Inseam: 34 inches.

I watched in stunned silence as Fiona rose and went around the desk to lean in and brush her boobs against his chest. She air-kissed both of his cheeks. He remained still, politely allowing it but not returning her affections. Something inside me liked that about him. Fiona was a grade-A bitch, and to see a fine specimen like Ben pretend to fawn all over her would have twisted the knife in my heart.

“Of course it’s lovely to see you, but did you need something, darling?” she asked him, pulling back only slightly. Ugh. Personal space much?

Ben shifted his tall, statuesque form moving away from her in the most elegant way. “I was asked to come in today,” he said flatly.

Fiona’s eyes landed on mine. Panic coursed through my system and I felt the teacup rattle in my hands. Her icy glare pinned me in place, imploring me to explain.

“But your, um, note . . . said to call Ben in,” I stammered.

Ben’s gaze traveled to mine and my stomach did a little flip. Whoa. His eyes were a brilliant hazel color with flecks of deep mossy green, and they held such sadness, such mystery that I was stopped cold. As he continued to stare at me, my ovaries did a little happy dance, totally defying the strictures of my Spanx. This guy was wreaking havoc on my libido.