Crossing the Line Read online

  Crossing the Line

  By Annabelle Eaton

  Copyright 2013 Annabelle Eaton

  All rights reserved

  The right of Annabelle Eaton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you to my beta readers, editor and cover designer.

  This book is for my best friend.

  Chapter One

  Starting a new job is always scary but starting your first job in the hope that you’ll earn enough to escape your bat-shit crazy, Stepford family is plain terrifying. This has to work out because if I end up a sad old housewife like my Mum, I’m going to shove my head in an oven.

  I flatten my shirt, for the thousandth time. Not that it was creased before, nothing is as flat as Cordelia’s ironing, but that’s probably because she’s too scared of Mum to allow a single crease. Don’t mess this up, Amelie. I’ve already done my make-up three times, any more, and I’ll look like a bloody drag queen.

  “Amelie, if you insist on going through with this then you’d better hurry,” mother dearest calls from outside my door. She always does that, calls through the door. I don’t know if she constantly expects me to be naked or surfing porn on my laptop, probably. My door is ajar so she can see I’m clearly just in front of my mirror, obsessing about my appearance.

  Of course, my parents weren’t thrilled when I told them I’m going out to work – most parents would be. I’m supposed to find a nice man, get married, look after a house and raise children. Which is ironic really, since the staff and nannies did the domestic stuff while I was growing up. I’m not quite sure what my mum’s role is. Redecorating constantly and going out to long lunches with her friends doesn’t really seem like a major role to me.

  My two older sisters, Harriet and Isabel, have chosen Mum’s ‘path’. I like to think of myself as the one that hasn’t been brainwashed. I’m sure my parents think of me as the black sheep and/or the huge disappointment.

  Harriet already has a family of her own and lives a few minutes away with her husband and baby daughter, Harmony.

  Isabel is still trying. At twenty-three, she’s desperate to settle down, which is plain crazy. She genuinely worries about being left on the shelf in her early twenties. Your early twenties are for going out and having fun. There is no way I’m going to worry about dying alone until I’m at least fifty, so I have twenty-nine years left. Half of the worry is due to the fact that she’s been engaged once before, two years ago, to a lovely gentleman that my parents adored until he ran off with a French model. We don’t speak of that incident, though.

  To me, a man is someone to spend your life with, not someone to enable you to live your life. Apparently, I’m wrong.

  “I’m ready, Mum.” I don’t even think Mum sees anything odd in calling her twenty-one year old daughter for work. She doesn’t see me as grown woman. Until I leave the house with my husband, I’m still ‘theirs’.

  “You’ll be home for dinner on time too? Oliver and the boys are coming.”

  I groan. Fabulous! My big brother and his devil children. Oliver is all right; he’s the one person in the family that is actually supportive of me, but his children, wow. The boys have something about them, a look in their eye that screams either sex pest or murderer. I will have to wait until they’re grown up to see which.

  “Is Harriet coming?” I ask.

  “No, she can’t make it.”

  Good. Since Harmony was born a year ago, my sister has turned into an over the top overprotective mum. If someone sneezes in the same room as Harm – not a nickname to be used out loud – Harriet flips out and makes them leave. After my first day, I know I won’t be in the mood to clean my hands four million times, and that’s if I don’t even hold her.

  I pull my fingers through my now glossy hair – thank you extra shine serum – and take a deep breath. Here goes. Opening the door, I almost walk into Mum. What the hell is she doing just standing there waiting? I look around. Why hasn’t she moved? Has she flipped? I’m not sure what to do. Pretend she’s not there?

  She finally looks me up and down. “You look presentable.” Does she mean that or should I change? Elizabeth Cohen is the result of a shark and a bee reproducing. She’ll sting you and rip your head off at the same time and do it just with her words. Sometimes I don’t even realise she’s having a dig until days later. I’ll be laying in bed and think fuck, that’s what she means!

  “Thank you…” I reply, almost making it sound like a question. She nods curtly and steps to the side, allowing me to pass. I feel like I should always have my eyes on her in case she goes postal. There is no way she can live the way she does and not have some sort of life crisis at some point. “See you tonight,” I say and run downstairs so she’ll stop looking at me. I get to the bottom of the marble staircase and dash towards the kitchen.

  “Walk, Amelie,” my dad scolds, looking at me through the mirror in the hallway as he adjusts his tie. Dad is a male version of Mum; they’re perfect for each other. Although I have a feeling he’s slightly terrified of her too. He brushes his dark, greying hair with his fingers.

  I slow down, walking too slowly. Yes, I’m acting like a child. But in my defence, it’s the only thing that made me smile in their huge oppressive house. It’s the little – usually immature – things that get me through.

  I turn into the kitchen to grab something for a breakfast on the go and see Isabel sitting at the kitchen island with Mum. I stop dead. How the fuck did she get down here so quickly? There is another staircase at the far end of the house, but it’s a much longer route, and she definitely didn’t pass me. I swear she can teleport. Either that or there’s two of her. I shudder.

  “Morning,” I say, keeping one eye on Mum as I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and my keys from the side.

  “Morning, Amelie,” Isabel replies.

  Small talk is awkward, and since I have nothing in common with any of them – apart from genes – there’s almost only ever small talk. “Okay, see ya,” I shout and head out of the kitchen.

  Mum sighs sharply, probably because of my appalling vocabulary. Ya isn’t an acceptable word in this house, like cool, kid, any nickname – shortening someone’s name is a sin, even if the person wants it to be shortened. I remember when my primary school friend called me Millie and Mum almost had a coronary. I don’t tell her my university friends call me Millie.

  “Goodbye, Amelie.”

  I turn salute but leave before I see her reaction.

  Outside sits my ridiculously expensive convertible Mercedes. I love it for being a pretty car, fast and shiny, but it’s far too expensive for being just a car. While I live with my parents, I get all the expensive stuff that goes with them. Not that I’m not grateful – I am – but I don’t believe material things make you happy or that you should be in competition with your friends. The Holden’s get new cars; my parents get new cars, the circle is never ending. Surely if you’re friends with someone you accept each other no matter what label they wear or drive.

  I weave through the busy streets of London and wish I parked at a station and took the train in. People drive like they’re on a suicide mission in London.
It is quite literally terrifying, but it’s that or stay at a junction all day waiting for someone to let you go. No one in London lets you go; therefore you drive like a maniac and hope.

  As I approach the large car park beside the intimidatingly massive glass tower, my stomach flutters with nerves. It was home to, well, lots of big companies. Aden Ford, my new boss shares a floor with his father. Their companies are separate, but they work closely together. I haven’t even met Aden. It was his dad, Richard, who hired me on his behalf of his son as Aden was out of the country but needed a PA as soon as possible.

  I park in the first empty spot that isn’t a long walk to the building and make my way to the lift. Glass lift might I add, which means if it falls you can see the horrified faces of people as you whiz past to your death.

  Inside is buzzing with life. People walk with purpose, and I’m intimidated by how much they seem to know what they’re doing and what they want. I feel like I should be in a lesser building with people that aren’t sure where their life is going. It smells of ambition and success, and I’m now a part of it. I straighten my shoulders and walk like they do, but I’m sure I just look constipated.

  When the lift opens, I look around, surprised to be the only one getting in. Great. Whizzing to my death alone. Now everyone on every level, up to floor seven, is going to see me go past like I’m in some sort of fucking human vending machine.

  I press the button to take me to the seventh floor and take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. This is important, and I want it to work out so much I’m sick with worry that it won’t.

  Closing my eyes, I picture moving into my own flat and being fully independent. As a twenty-one-year-old woman, that isn’t an unrealistic goal. Unless you’re my parents, then the only place for a twenty-one-year-old woman is at home, waiting for her husband to finish work – probably knocked up already too. Fine, if that’s what you want.

  The lift stops and the doors open. The lobby is large with two red leather sofas on either side of the room. A long chunky oak reception desk with glass desktop dominates the area. Behind it sits Samia, the receptionist. I met her at my interview, and she’s lovely. She’s the receptionist for Ford Records – who I am now employed by – and Ford Entertainment and Leisure.

  I walk over to the desk. “Hi, Samia.”

  She stands, and I hate her. She’s tall with longer, darker, shinier hair and striking bright red lips. I feel ugly beside her. “Hi, Amelie. Are you looking forward to your first day?”

  “Yes. Nervous, though.”

  “That’s to be expected but don’t worry, you’ll get along well with Aden.” She winks and steps out from behind the desk. Apparently I’ve met Aden at one of my mother’s parties, but I can’t remember him. Probably because I always make sure I have the required amount of alcohol – a lot – to make it through one of those first.

  “I’ll take you to your office,” she says. I follow her behind the frosted glass screen with the words ‘Ford Records’ engraved into it. To the right is the same frosted glass but Richard’s, ‘Ford Entertainment and Leisure’. I make a mental note not to sing at work with all this glass around.

  “Your office is here so make yourself comfortable. The kitchen is the door at the end of the corridor; it’s shared with Samuel’s offices. Aden will be in soon.”

  “Thanks,” I say, putting my handbag down on my desk. I look around and decide that I like my office. It’s not that big but has what looks like a brand new oak table and high back black leather chair. One side of the room is lined with shelves, some filled with blank folders already. A frosted glass wall separates my office with what must be Aden’s. There are no plants, though. Shouldn’t every office have a plant? I make another mental note to get a plant – an artificial one because I kill living things, not intentionally, though, of course.

  I walk around the desk and sit on the chair. It’s far too big and far too comfortable. I’m going to have to concentrate hard on not falling asleep in it. Pushing my foot on the floor, I spin around, doing the chair test that everyone does, even if they don’t admit to it.

  “Hello, Amelie.” I stop immediately at the sound of my boss’ voice. Oh nice one, Millie. I cringe inwardly and turn the chair to face him. My eyes widen. Oh sweet Jesus! I now completely understand Samia’s wink.

  Aden’s dark blonde hair and deep, sky blue eyes – eyes that you can get lost in, hypnotising eyes – is exactly what I like in a man. It’s as if he was made straight from one of my fantasies. His body, although covered in an expensive looking charcoal suit, is in-freaking-credible. My pulse quickens, and I squirm. Working for him is going to be both amazing and painful in equal measures. How the hell could I have forgotten him? I must have been trashed that night.

  I stand in a daze, still swooning. “Aden, hi.” Should I apologise for swinging on the chair like a child or ignore it? In my defence, you put wheels on a chair, and someone is going to spin it.

  He smirks; the right side of his mouth stretching up and steps forwards, and holds his hand out. Don’t kiss it! I reach out and shake his hand, ignoring the urge to suck on his fingers. He’s standing too close – I think on purpose – and staring down at me. The top of my head reaches his shoulder, and I’m the perfect height to tuck myself under his chin.

  My knees weaken. His hands are soft and smooth and big and manly and oh my God what do I have to do to feel them all over me?

  “It’s nice to meet you properly, Amelie. Settling in okay?” His eyes twinkle with amusement and he pulls back his hand. Well at least he’s not firing me.

  “Um, yes. Thank you.” I want to die. Do I really have such little self-control? Yes, I do. ‘Act now think later Millie’ is what my friends from Uni call me.

  “Good. Okay. How about I make us some coffee, then we can get started on my diary. I have a lot of meetings coming up and I’m terrible at organising my time.”

  I nod; grateful that he’s let the whole me making an idiot of myself thing go. “That sounds great.” I follow him to the kitchen, and my eyes flick to his perfect bum as we walk. I wonder if he has a no intimate relationship with employees rule. I bloody hope not.

  Chapter Two

  “So you’re Samuel and Elizabeth Cohen’s daughter,” he says as he pours the water into our mugs. I watch his forearm muscles flex as he pours and gulp. How can anyone make fixing a cup of coffee sexy?

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “I remember you.” He tries hard not to grin but fails. His eyes, showing how amused he is at whatever memory is about to embarrass me, look bluer and brighter than before. “Two years ago at your house. Wow...” He chuckles and shakes his head. Wow what?

  “Uh-oh,” I mumble under my breath as suddenly I remember exactly what party he attended. That Christmas party. The one where I got completely drunk – hence why I don’t remember him – and danced on the table. I vaguely remember knocking over Mum’s crystal champagne glasses too. That was a bad night in the Cohen house. “Sorry I don’t really remember you,” I reply casually.

  He lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m not at all surprised.” Oh God I should just go home now, shouldn’t I? “I don’t often attend those parties, but I made an exception for that one. Glad I did too.” Perfect. My parents didn’t talk to me for weeks after that. “So, have you calmed down since then?”

  I want to say yes, I really do. I open my mouth to answer. I could lie, but I don’t think anything else could make this worse. “No, not really.”

  “Good,” he replies and hands me my coffee. Good? It’s good? I bite my lip and scramble after him, checking out his peachy behind as we head back to his office.

  Aden pulls another chair beside his, takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat hanger. I lower myself on the chair and bite my lip, the whole time watching his every move like a stalker. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Oh wow.

  “So you recently finished Uni”? he asks and sips his coffee.

&nb
sp; Lucky mug. I gawp at his full lips. They look soft and kissable, and he asked me something. I nod. Uni. “Yes, just finished. Did you go?” I know he went to mine, but I’m making conversation and I don’t want him to think I knew before he told me, it’d look like I was checking up on him, which I was.

  “Yes, though it was a few years ago now.”

  “How many?” My eyes widen as I finish my sentence. First day of my first job and not only do I spin on a chair like a five-year-old, but I ask my boss his age too.

  Aden turns his head towards me and smirks. I like that smirk, it’s very, very sexy. “Are you trying to find out how old I am?”

  Yes. “No.” I shake my head, though I do really want to know. “Sorry, that was rude, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

  He grins and his bright blue eyes are alight again. “It’s fine, Amelie. I finished four years ago. I’m twenty-five.”

  “Younger than I thought.”

  “Really?” He intrigued. His eyebrows rise. “How old did you think I was?”

  “Not old, old if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t know, about twenty-seven, I guess.”

  He nods. “I would ask how old you are, but it’s rude to ask a lady her age.”

  “Plus my date of birth is on my CV.”

  “Hmm, I’ll have to take a look at that.”

  I frown. Surely he would have at the very least looked at my application and decided which people he wanted his dad to interview? “You haven’t seen it?”

  “I’ve been in Dublin for the past month. Part business and part pleasure. My father and his assistant took care of the PA position.”

  “So you really had no clue who was walking in here today?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve met you once, sort of. I know your family, and I trust my father’s judgement… in business anyway.” Oh that sounds like resentment. I am totally on board with you there, buddy.