Page 16 of Peasants and Kings
Annika turned around as she pushed the door farther open. “Genevieve will see you now.”
“Thanks,” I said as I strode past her into the room.
The door closed behind me and I took a moment to marvel at the space. It wasn’t at all like the front room I’d just walked through. It looked like an English library, complete with leather couches, a gas fireplace, and shelves lined with leather bound books.
A woman with a brown chin-length bob wearing a short-sleeved black silk dress sat on one of the small couches that faced the fireplace, papers spread out on the dark wood table in front of her.
She looked up and gave me a cursory glance. “Have a seat,” she commanded. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
I did as she said and sat down in one of the leather chairs—the one facing away from the window so I wouldn’t be distracted by the view of the outside world.
While the woman ignored me and focused on the papers in front of her, I let my gaze wander around the room again. It didn’t look at all like the sort of place one would conduct an interview. It wasn’t a sterile environment meant to keep someone on edge, but rather warm and hospitable.
“What do you think?” Genevieve asked.
I jumped and then let out a small laugh. I’d been so engaged with the thoughts in my own head that I’d forgotten she was there.
“It’s stunning,” I admitted. “Completely at odds with the front room.” My gaze met hers.
Genevieve set down a black fountain pen and then casually leaned against the couch. She lifted her arm so her elbow rested on the back of the leather sofa as she peered at me.
“I spend a lot of time in here. I wanted it to be comfortable.”
I nodded, setting my clutch aside, wishing I had something to do with my hands.
There was another knock on the door and Annika came in with a tea tray. She set it down and then discreetly left again.
I looked at the tea tray and held in a snort of laughter.
Tiffany, you wily bitch.
We spent the next few minutes fixing our tea. I held my teacup like a shield, waiting for Genevieve to direct the interview. So far, all she’d managed to do was peruse me from head to toe. Her eyes gleamed with shrewd intelligence and I wondered what thoughts were circulating through her mind.
“Tiffany told me you need a new identity. Why?”
I sucked in a breath, unprepared for such directness, but then I told her. It was an abbreviated version, and I essentially explained that the Foscari were after me without telling her about my family, The White Company. When I divulged the Foscari name, I watched to see if there was a flash of recognition in Genevieve’s eyes. There wasn’t.
She took a sip of tea, acting like I hadn’t just revealed an outlandish story.
Hating her lack of reply, I continued to speak. “I didn’t bring a resume, but I’m not picky. I’ll take whatever job is available, as long as I can get a new identity.”
“Whatever job is available,” Gen repeated. She set her teacup down in its saucer, which rested on the coffee table. “Do you know why you’re interviewing with me on The Fifteenth Floor and not downstairs with the rest of the staff?”
I shook my head.
“What is it you think Tiffany does for a living, Sterling? You’ve seen her condo and her clothes, her car, the way they waited on her at Folson’s. There’s no way you actually believe she works the concierge desk, do you?”
She didn’t give me a chance to reply.
“The Fifteenth Floor is a brothel, Sterling,” Genevieve said plainly.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“A brothel.”
My head spun.
Gen went on, “Tiffany is a Rex girl, a courtesan.”
