Floor sixty-five of the Carrero corporation—Executive house. Lexington Avenue, Mid-town Manhattan.

Walking through the building with a brother who was looking decidedly pale with nausea with his ever-present bodyguard, courtesy of his father, Jake felt that familiar ease move back in. The ease of being back in his own building and in control. This was where he excelled in life. This right here, a building apart from his father’s, was his domain. All business conducted herein had nothing much to do with Giovanni Carrero, just how he liked it. Jake ran the sports side of the company while Giovanni lorded over the hotels. The grooming line had come to Jake, seeing as his face was all over it, and he had a million tiny smaller sidelines run through Carrero House.

His father had his darker dealings, and sometimes borderline illegal mafia shit, going on, and he wanted no part in the old family ties. He’d convinced Arrick to start taking an interest in his side of things; he wanted him working alongside him rather than being pulled into Carrero Tower with the old man. The further he could keep Arrick away from the people his father knew, the better. Besides, Arrick had a good business brain, much like Jake’s, and he could be useful in a couple of mergers and acquisitions lined up in the near future.

Jake ignored the constant flow of female swoons and smiles aimed their way. He was not so big-headed he didn’t realize his brother was getting attention now he was getting older. Not that he cared, Arrick would soon find out how boring the female attention could get.

Hell, the guy was obviously a looker. They shared DNA, after all.

He stifled a yawn in the elevator and shoulder-punched Arrick to wake him up a little, his brother’s obvious fatigue was affecting him a little too much, and he needed to look like he was in control. Arrick was still almost slumped in a ball, and Jake leaned out and pushed his shades back, slotting them back on top of Arrick’s head carelessly.

“Fuck off,” his brother mumbled under his breath, and the security guard glared Jake’s way. Jake glared right back, aggression prickling instantly to put him in his place. No paid heavy of his father’s was going to try to lord over his relationship with his kid brother. He was sure he could take him, even in here. The guy was about five-foot-eight max and looked like he could only bench press half of what Jake did. Besides, Jake had years of cage fighting and mixed martial arts training under his belt. He would give it a go even if the guy were ex-military. With the hot Carrero temper of his, he was sure it wouldn’t take much, just another disapproving look his way.

“Get up, dickhead, we’re here.” He was a little too snippy with Arrick and threw him an apologetic frown. His own hangover was there even if it didn’t have the magnitude of Arrick’s, and he was feeling rougher than normal. He should have had the sense to kill last night’s plans. He was sure as hell regretting it now.

Who was he kidding? A night of craziness, lots of booze, a blow job in his car from that feisty redhead, and a night of hot and heavy sex back home with Trisha… Trudy… Fuck! It was not something he ever bypassed.

Margo swept out into the foyer in a heavy cloud of Chanel No 9 as soon as the elevator doors opened, like a breath of fresh air, ever-ready with her professional smile and attractive body wrapped in Christian Dior tailoring. She had served him well for years and was the temple of cool and efficiency he was looking for in a new assistant. He needed a new Margo to replace her, or this would never work in the long run. Previous temporary assistants had either been useless or tried like crazy to fuck him, and he didn’t ever cross work with play. He knew what he was looking for and hoped she was right with this one. He was in no mood for another repeat of Gloria.

That chick had stripped naked in his office and tried to entice him with some oral before being handed her resume and a swift shove out his door. He was maybe a loose sex mad playboy outside these four walls, but inside was a whole other level of play. Jake was serious about business and serious about never crossing that line.

He smiled back at Margo, his right-hand woman, and slid her arm in his affectionately, Arrick humphing and trailing behind with asshole, soldier boy in tow. All sorts of grumbles and complaints going on behind them. Arrick would be pointless here today, and Jake wondered if sending him home might be a better idea.

“You look particularly suave today, Jake. A little tired, though.” She smiled at him in that motherly way she used in private moments, fixing his collar over his jacket and tutting at his lack of tie. He rolled his eyes as she shook her head.

“You know they make me feel like I’m being slowly choked.” Jake maneuvered her beside him once more and removed her fiddling hand from his lapel. She was being a little too OCD about his appearance this morning, and he wondered if he looked especially rough. He was feeling uncharacteristically so.

“She’s lovely. You’ll completely adore her. You want your run-through as we walk in?” Margo smiled at him adoringly, and despite the urge to lay his head on the floor and take a five-minute nap, he nodded instead.

Okay, this crap was seriously starting to catch up on him. Maybe he was getting too old to behave like a rock star. Twenty-eight wasn’t that old, but today he felt ten years older. God, he needed sleep.

He caught sight of a tawny blonde head over Margo’s shoulder, sitting down as they passed the outer desk, a mere glimpse of the replacement as Margo was standing between them. He was caught by the interesting honey-blonde hair color, none of that bottled white-blonde crap of all his father’s employees. This one looked natural, which was rare in this building. It was rare in his circle. Most girls opted for fakery as soon as they were old enough to hold a makeup brush and a padded bra.

He had no idea why that thought hit him as he strolled through to his own office via Margo’s open-plan one. Women and their guises were not things he ever pondered. If they looked fuckable, and gave him a hard-on, that was good enough for him.

PA, remember? No-go… No fucking.