Angel Falling (Falling #1)(3)
Long ago, I made the decision never to let anything or anyone get in the way of being successful. Growing up, my parents were beyond rich; the perfect socialites. I was groomed to be the epitome of high society. After my Ivy League education, I used my trust fund for the startup costs to build AIR Bright Enterprises from the ground up. Seven years later, I’m worth billions and have my own spot on the Forbes Top Ten Most Successful Women list — a huge feat for a woman only twenty-eight years old.
A half hour went by and the stale air surrounding me changed. Oliver must have arrived. His presence hit me before I even heard his wingtips clacking against the linoleum floor. His gait was rushed. A frown marred his familiar pointed face. The frosted tips of his hair gave the appearance he had been in the sun for hours on end, but I knew his secret — a visit to New York’s finest hair salon twice a month. It was one of my gifts to him for Administrative Professionals Day. A garment bag hung loosely over one arm, man purse over the other, and he clutched a pair of black heels in one hand. His eyes were the size of saucers. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw my blood-crusted suit.
“Oliver!” I hugged him fiercely. He was warm and solid as we stood holding one another.
He pulled back, still holding onto my shoulder. His lip trembled as he looked me over. “Princess ... I — you look awful. Are you sure you’re okay?” Tears filled his eyes, and I wiped them away with my thumbs and smiled for his benefit.
“That bad, huh?”
He nodded. “Here, please go change. I’m burning that suit.”
My smile didn’t quite reach my eyes, but I took the clothes and changed in the ladies room. Once situated in the black suit and heels Oliver brought me, I exited and handed him the bag of soiled garments. He rolled up the bag, walked over to the nearest trash can and tossed the whole lot of it in it without a second thought. He just pitched a three-thousand-dollar suit as if it were a wad of chewing gum that had lost its flavor. I couldn’t care less. I’d never wear it again. Even if the dry cleaners removed the bloodstains, my memories of the experience would never fade. Oliver knew me well.
“I feel better. You?” He rubbed his hands together and straightened his suit jacket.
I swiped my hair off my face and neck. Oliver walked over and caught it in his capable hands. He pulled a black elastic hair tie and bobby pin out of his suit pocket and adeptly streaked his hands through my hair. The calming motion of his fingers combing along my scalp soothed me, reminded me that I was here. Still alive.
Oliver was not only my assistant, but also my best friend. Technically, aside from my sister, my only true friend. Most people in my world were there because of what I could do for them. Money brought out the leeches in droves. I paid Oliver more than I paid my high-powered executives, but he was worth every cent. Oliver never complained and was always there when I needed him, day or night. He was the perfect man.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I tipped my head back and smiled.
He leaned over and kissed my temple. “No, I don’t think you have.” His grin was playful.
“Tell me about the man.”
Oliver fastened the severe ponytail low on the nape of my neck. He spun a piece of the hair he left out around the elastic tie, hiding it from sight, then slid the pin through the hair along my scalp, securing it in place. I’m sure it looked flawless. He was incredible at styling me, buying my suits, fixing my hair. The best I could do on my own was a blow-dry and a few rounded curls when my hair was down. Growing up, I spent too much time hitting the books and not enough time socializing with women to learn simple things, such as styling one’s hair.
The only source I had for things that one would consider “girly” was my sister, London. She was everything I wasn’t. She had honey-colored skin and black hair, like our father, while I had pale skin and blond hair, shared by our mother. We both had our father’s gray-blue eyes. London wasn’t as big in business, but she was a very sought-after interior designer who did very well for herself. Not as well as I had done; my financial worth far exceeded that of my family’s, but it had never been a problem in our relationship. London cared nothing for money, whereas the more money I had, the more secure I felt.
“… and he owns the firm we contracted.” Oliver’s voice brought me back from my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He rolled his eyes. “I said his name is Hank Jensen. He owns Jensen Construction.”
“Hank?” The name rolled off my tongue and ended with a sharp click. It suited him.
“Yeah, Hank the Hunk,” Oliver laughed. “Look at the picture from his badge entry photo.” He handed me the image. Though he looked handsome in the photo, my memory of him was better, only tarnished by the pain I saw in his eyes.
Oliver was right. The man was attractive, in a rugged manly-man way. His hair was dark, full, and thick. Even white teeth stretched into a forced smile. Subtle green eyes complimented his tanned skin. Made me curious as to what color the skin was under the T-shirt he wore for the picture. Would he have a hokey farmer’s tan? I wondered if I would ever know the answer to that question. Probably not.
“Where did you say Mr. Jensen was from?”
“Texas. It says here on his background check that he owns several acres of land. According to Google Earth, it looks like a ranch. Oh, color me pretty — he’s a cowboy. I love cowboys!” Oliver fiddled with his phone and flipped it over to show me a large green expanse of land.