Page 4 of Fierce

“Good afternoon,” the woman behind the desk said as she rose to greet me. “I’m Martine Devereaux. You must be Hope.”

She was cool. Poised. Perfect. A slim, elegant figure, white, white skin, dark hair that fell in a smooth glossy sheet that spoke to a perfect cut, nails French-manicured into delicate ovals, and a cream suit with black edging that most definitely had not come from a consignment store.

I stepped forward and took the hand she offered. “Thank you for seeing me today, Ms. Devereaux.” Project confidence. Yeah, right.

“Martine. Please. You’ll find we’re all quite informal here.” She smiled, and didn’t look quite so scary.

The Human Resources lady left, and Martine said, “Please sit.” She asked a few questions about my job with Vincent and listened to my carefully-rehearsed-to-sound-upbeat answers, though I had a feeling she saw straight through them. And that took all of twenty minutes.

After that, she sat silently for a minute. Was this a test? Was she seeing if I’d blurt something out, or have the composure to wait? I bit my lip to keep myself from babbling and gave my palms a surreptitious wipe that I hoped she didn’t catch from under her half-lowered lids.

Finally, she sighed, clicked a gold pen, and fingered an impressive diamond pendant at her white throat. “You know the fashion world,” she said. “That’s a plus. The job isn’t glamorous, but you’d learn, if you were willing to put in the time. And I mean time.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.” If that sounded eager-beaver, too bad. I needed this job. Even without the career prospects, I’d take it for the benefits alone. “And whatever I said on that resume,” I added, trying out a rueful, we’re-all-girls-here smile, “the job I have now is the last thing from glamorous. You can’t be asking me to do anything worse than what I’ve been doing.”

Her gaze sharpened. Oh, dear. Too honest. “But of course,” I went on hurriedly, “I’ve had all that coursework in business as well, and I’m a whiz at picking up software.”

Another minute of this, and I was going to be jumping up and down, screaming, “Pick me! Pick me!”

That was when Mr. Te Mana showed up again. The man really had a knack for catching me at my best.

I only knew he was there because of the way Ms. Devereaux—Martine—reacted. Her posture was erect anyway, but now she stood as if she were being lifted by a string and said, “Good afternoon.”

I turned in my chair, and then I was standing up, too. He cast a look my way that didn’t tell me anything at all, and then his gaze was back on Martine.

“Ah,” he said. “I see I’ve come at an inconvenient time. A few things I’d like to run through with you about Paris, when you have a moment.”

“Of course it isn’t inconvenient,” she said with a little laugh. “I’m done here. Thank you, Grace. Human Resources will be in touch.”

“Hope.” I could feel my cheeks burning as the humiliation rose. “Thank you for seeing me.”

She held out her hand in dismissal, and I took it and willed the hot tears back. Crying’s for the subway.

Hemi was speaking now, though. “Hope from the photo shoot last week, eh. You were quite impressive. Nice to see you here.”

Quite impressive? Not hardly.

“I don’t need to introduce you, clearly,” Martine said. “As you already know Mr. Te Mana.”

“Hemi,” he said.

I held out my hand uncertainly. Was I supposed to pretend I hadn’t seen him in the elevator? He took my hand in his much larger one, and something shot through me, sharp and electric. I remembered the way he’d touched my face and licked his fingers, and I had a crazy feeling, looking into his eyes, that he remembered it, too.

“Hope.” His voice was quiet, his mouth firm. His eyes held mine, and my knees were all but knocking together as he let my hand go.

Martine cleared her throat in the most ladylike way, and I tore my eyes from Hemi and stared at her, sure that I looked like a deer in the headlights.

“Thank you again for coming in,” she said. “Let me see you to the elevator.” She looked at Hemi. “I’ll be right back.”

“No worries,” he said. I sneaked a peek, and he was still looking at me. “I’ll wait.”

Martine walked around the desk and inclined her head a little toward the door. I stood up, grabbing my purse and the folder that held the extra copies of my resume that nobody had asked me for, and followed her out. I had to walk straight past Hemi to do it, nearly brushing his side. And I could feel him watching me leave.

I was at work when I got the call. Or rather, when I got the voicemail, because I couldn’t take calls at work.

I listened to it in the bathroom, while Vincent was on his lunch break. And I called back from there, too. Standing next to the paper-towel holder, absently noting that I needed to refill it. Models, for some reason, were murder on paper towels.

As the phone rang, I was chanting in my head. Please. Please. Please. And it didn’t matter that Martine hadn’t exactly seemed like the easiest person to work for. “Better the devil you know,” they say, but I knew my devil, and anything else had to be better.

---