Page 9 of Hard Limits

Sparkling, three ice cubes—I knew that already.

“I’ll bring it in a moment.”

“Meena, why do I have raspberries?”

“Because they looked nice, and it’s important to eat healthily.”

I hurried out before he could complain, although I felt his gaze searing into me as I closed the door. The raspberries were sweet and delicious—I’d tried one—so maybe they’d take the edge off his sourness.

Or maybe I’d get a lecture later.

Herve Weisberger’s number was in the contact list on the computer, and he had an assistant too. She promised to have Herve call Mr. Vale as soon as he finished his meeting. I figured I should probably inform Mr. Vale of that, but the raspberries hadn’t had time to work their magic yet, so I sent him an email instead. My email address was BValeOffice@dunnvalecorp rather than my actual name, which was yet another indication of the transient nature of Mr. Vale’s assistants.

Joyfully, I crossed three items off my to-do list. What was next? Shoes?

Shoes were easy as the file contained the address of Lewis Jefferson, a high-end shoe boutique in Beverly Hills. I could head there after lunch. Moisturiser? What type of moisturiser did he use? I scanned the “personal grooming” section three times, but all it listed was shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and beard balm. He didn’t even have a beard.

Why couldn’t men just say what they meant?

My father was the same—he’d give a vague instruction, then grow upset if it was interpreted incorrectly. Moisturiser… Okay, Mr. Vale had a private bathroom attached to his office, so the manual said. All I needed to do was sneak in and take a look at the products he used, then update the manual so the next poor schmuck who ended up with this job didn’t have to go through the same process. Mr. Vale’s schedule was computerised, and I studied the entries. Lunch was scheduled for two thirty today, so maybe he’d leave the office then? Or was I expected to bring him lunch? The “food” section didn’t specify, although I did find three restaurants located on North Cannon Drive listed as “favourites.” Should I call each one and ask if they had a blue sign? Wait, wait… Google was my friend here. I typed in the first address and switched to street view. No blue sign on that one, but I found it on the third attempt. Mr. Vale wanted to go to Aperitivo for Italian cuisine with a twist.

What time did he want the table? Of course he hadn’t said. I checked his schedule, and he was free from six, so I booked the table for seven and blocked the extra hour out as travel time. LA traffic was a nightmare.

Once the booking was confirmed, I breathed a sigh of relief. Four tasks complete, three to go.

I flipped to the “family” section of the manual, which seemed thinner than the others. Mr. Vale’s mother was listed on the first page, Leonora Vale, with an address in Virginia. The Cardinal Center. What was that? It didn’t sound like a private residence. So I googled—I had a feeling that in this job, Dr. Google and I were about to become the best of friends—and oh my gosh. She lived in a psychiatric facility? The Cardinal Center offers the highest standards of care in a luxurious and private setting. Five-star service from an internationally renowned team of doctors. One of my predecessors had added a note—Leonora likes freesias, lilies, and carnations. Avoid roses.

The numbers of three local florists followed, and one of them had an asterisk. What did that mean? Use it or don’t use it? This was the most frustrating job I’d ever had. At least Lance Clifton had been straightforward in his vulgarity.

Out of curiosity, I flipped the page, and my jaw dropped. Mr. Vale was married? But…but…who would marry a man like him? Had her parents made the decision for her? Or had she tied the knot voluntarily? A gold digger, perhaps? Marrying for money, I could understand—it was a valid choice, just not one I would make—and she sure couldn’t have chosen him for his sparkling personality.

Carissa Dunn. She’d kept her own surname, and now I understood where the name of the company came from. Dunnvale Holdings. Had the marriage been an extension of a business arrangement? She lived in New York, on the Upper East Side. A handwritten note said not to call her under ANY circumstances, underlined in triplicate.

This job got stranger and stranger.

A message popped up from Mr. Vale. Where is lunch?

Oh, crap. What time was it? Two thirty-one, and I didn’t even know what to bring him.

What would you like to eat?

His reply was almost instant. Was it weird, emailing each other when he was in the next room? Yes, but also preferable.

The chef makes lunch. You have to collect it.

Collect it from where? Downstairs?

Gingerly, I exited my office and headed along the hallway. Rhonda had given me a whistle-stop tour this morning (finance, facilities, operations, legal, oh here’s your office, good luck) before she abandoned me to the big bad wolf. The finance department was closest, and I poked my head around the door. The theme for this room seemed to be silver and turquoise with plenty of fan palms. They didn’t have filing cabinets; they had padded ottomans.

“Excuse me?”

The four people working there all turned to stare. Two more desks were empty.

A petite blonde my age spoke first. “Are you lost?”

In every way possible.

“I’m looking for the chef.”

---