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The best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end.
-Pico Iyer
Chapter One
Angela
Tapping the delete button, I immediately go to my Trash and empty it. There. It’s like the files were never on my work iPad. I drum my newly manicured nails against the case, the soft, dewy pink catching my eye. I’ve never really been a manicure girl, but I could seriously get used to it. I thought I would hate it as I’ve never been good at sitting still, but it was a good way to give myself time to organize my schedule – and Bill’s – in my head.
With a sigh, I stow my iPad into the fancy new matching Louis Vuitton luggage set. I landed here in London with my usual black suitcase. It was cheap and isn’t the nicest thing to look at, but it’s sturdy, and it does the job well enough. At least, it did before Luka, the Harrods of London personal shopper who met me at my hotel when I landed, and who packed my new luggage, threw it out. I don’t even know where he took it, but I would put money on it already being in a landfill somewhere, filled with all my old clothes that I brought.
Fancy clothes brush my fingers as I tuck the iPad into the new-smelling bag, and I quickly withdraw my hand. It would be just my luck to somehow mess them up before I even got to wear them. Fancy clothes and I rarely mix. I shop at Target. Hell, there were times growing up when even Target was out of my league. I’ve only recently graduated from Goodwill.
So how did little old me from nowhere Queensbridge end up in London with Louis Vuitton luggage filled with fancy new clothes purchased by a personal shopper? Right place, right time. William Arthur Gordon Westerhaven is a bona fide American Dream feel-good story. He pulled himself up from his solidly upper-middle-class beginnings and made billions (and billions) of dollars. He happened to be in New York shortly after I graduated from NYU with an eye-watering amount of student loans and a business management degree, and luckily for me, he fired his personal assistant. I was working for peanuts with a temp agency and landed in his office and the rest, as they say, is history.
Bill’s a nice guy. Well, he is if he likes you. I assume he likes me because he’s kept me around for almost four years, which is three years longer than almost any other personal assistant he’s ever had. But he also has some strange quirks. Like the fact that he just dropped over twenty thousand pounds on a seriously amazing new wardrobe for me because he’s throwing a house party at his massive Grade 2 listed house and land in Kent. In England. William Arthur Gordon Westerhaven needs a spy, and I’m it.
Normally I don’t go on vacations with him. Not family ones. I make sure his flight is booked, and he’s going to be taken care of by local staff, and hand over to them. So, when he asked me to come to the UK with him, I thought I was just along for the ride to ensure his luggage got where he needed it to go. But no. This house party at his fancy country estate is a family gathering for Christmas. In attendance will be his five nephews, the sons of his three brothers. They are all in line to run one of Bill Westerhaven’s prosperous businesses.
Hell, the man even gave me freakingfileson them, which I’ve just deleted. I’m sure no one is going to go through my iPad in Kent, but I’m not taking any risks. I think it’s a stupid idea. Like, having your PA spy on your family is weird, right? But Bill isn’t too happy with the way his nephews have been living their lives. And since they’re all technically his “heirs” or some shit like that, he thinks he has a right to have a say. Rich people, hey.
My mission, which I have no choice but to accept if I want to keep my job, is to be his mole. I have to infiltrate this house party, befriend the nephews, and report back to Bill on any interesting tidbits of their lives. Also, I’m not supposed to tell them I’m his PA. It’s a weird job description, but it comes withtwenty thousand poundsworth of a new wardrobe, so sign me the hell up.
Luka kitted me out in everything from stunning lingerie to winter coats and boots. Hell, there are even some evening gowns in my new luggage. Oh yeah, the Louis Vuitton suitcases too. I’ve got to look the part.
The phone rings, jerking me out of my “my boss is a little bit of a weirdo” musings, and I cross to it. “Angie Shepherd.”
“Miss Shepherd, your car has arrived. We’ve sent someone up to help with your bags.”
“Thank you.”
I barely have time to replace the receiver before the knock sounds at the door. Talk about service. Usually when I travel with Bill, I’m clearly designated “staff” or something. I rarely get this kind of treatment unless I’m going to be in the car with him. But he went ahead, and a girl could really get used to service like this.
The bellhop nods to me, moving through to load up his shiny trolley with all my new luggage. There’s so much. Five bags. It’s insane. I stand with a practiced smile, and then trail him down to the lobby. The top-hatted doorman holds open the front doors for me, and the suited driver opens the door to the back seat of the plush Rolls Royce. Wow. Bill’s really having me arrive in style.
I slide in, waiting for them to load up my luggage and leave. Finally, we are away, and I pull out my phone to email Bill.
FROM:[email protected]
Subject: Arrival
Just left the hotel. Should be arriving in Kent in about an hour.
Angie
I tuck my phone away into my new purse. I don’t expect him to answer. It’s more that I feel like I’m on the clock. Bill talked a big game about me being one of his guests and that it’s technically like a vacation. But “like a vacation” and “on vacation” are two very different things. Honestly, I think the “mission” is an excuse to have me there. His medical routine is still new, and I’m the one who usually administers his daily shot. I even gave it to him this morning before he left for Kent. I think I’m here as a safety blanket.
I think the plan is that I’m the last to arrive. I have no idea what Bill will say to explain my presence, but I hope he has a good little story planned to explain why a mouthy broad from Queens is coming to their family event. I have plenty of time to stew on that thought during the hour-long drive, glad to be pulling into the lengthy drive through the wrought-iron gates with some definite old-world charm. I peer through the window eagerly, my eyes drinking in the house when it comes into view.
Harwell Manor looks like you would picture a fancy country estate in the English countryside. Like,exactly. Down to the 17th-century gardens and the rough stone exterior. The property has a “Cottage” and a “Dower House” where the staff lives year-round, and the main house is two stories with ten bedrooms and six bathrooms. On the other side of the house to the wide, circular driveway is a pond, and some stables. I’ve never been to either the house or the stables, but I feel I know the stables almost intimately. As Bill’s PA, I’m in charge of organizing the transportation of his beloved thoroughbred horses. A few horses live full time here, but whenever Bill and his nephews come to England, Bill ships his horse from Illinois, and his eldest nephew’s horse comes from San Diego.
“We’ve arrived, Miss Shepherd.”
I don’t need to be told that; I have eyes, but I still smile and nod to my driver as he exits the car, holding open my door for me. I smooth down my chocolate, wide-legged trousers, and straighten my camel-colored trench coat as I step out, the gravel crunching beneath the soles of my fancy new heeled ankle boots.
“Angie?”
