He shows no sign of calling anyone else for an interview and the inner door remains shut, so I stand up and edge over to him. He looks up. He’s not pretty, but he has a very striking appearance with big hazel eyes and a tumble of black hair around a thin face. But my purpose isn’t to flirt today.

I perch on the edge of the desk, and he eyes my bum. His mouth quirks. “Can I help you? Did I not give you a chair? How very remiss of me.”

I look down at the nameplate on his desk and smile. “Yes, Felix, maybe you can help me. Is there any chance of me being interviewed today, or should I just settle down and wait for death to find me?”

He smirks. “Mr Evans has a long queue of people waiting.”

That’s not surprising. The Evans Agency is well known in London for catering to the needs of its customers who are largely from the LGBTQ community. Its employees can help a person with their business, do their gardening and their shopping, walk their dogs, or even pose as a fake boyfriend or girlfriend to help in awkward social situations. No job is too small for them, and the agency has become a byword for discretion and capability.

I’d heard about the job vacancy from my friend. His boyfriend had cheated on him just before his office Christmas party, and within a couple of hours an extremely gorgeous bloke turned up and escorted him to the party, much to the displeasure of the cheating ex.

“Mr Evans is very busy,” Felix says happily.

I look at the outer door which is still swaying gently in the breeze from the previous applicant. “He’s busy pissing people off from the looks of it,” I mutter. There’s a stack of post on the desk, and I lean closer and whistle. “Zebadiah Evans. Fucking hell, that’s a mouthful. Sounds like someone who’d be at home on The Tudors. Wearing a wimple and chucking brimstone at a peasant.”

Felix’s eyes widening are the only sign that I’ve just stepped in shit. That and the low, posh voice from behind me.

“I know The Tudors took a lot of liberties with facts, but I don’t think that even they went that far.”

I stiffen and then spin round. A tall, wide-shouldered man is leaning against the open doorway of the inner room, and fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. Thick, black, wavy hair frames a craggy face. There are faint lines around his eyes telling me that he’s quite a bit older than me, but his eyes are the deepest blue I’ve ever seen. As blue as a cornflower. He’s wearing a very expensive pinstriped suit with a white shirt and red tie. I pause. And a very sardonic smile. Shit, this is the boss man.