Mr. Prime Minister Page 2

  An important and powerful man, who also happens to be sex on legs. I’m not saying his appearance is why he won the election, but it certainly didn’t do him any harm. When compared to the old guy he was up against, I didn’t have to think much before putting an X in his box.

  “You don’t need to worry,” Lionel says. “Everyone in there is really friendly. You wouldn’t believe it was the most important house in the country from the atmosphere inside. There’s only one person you need to worry about.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The Chief Mouser. He has a temper on him.”

  “Chief Mouser?” What is it with the Brits and weird titles?

  “Yep. Try not to get on his bad side. Even the PM is scared of him.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Lionel lets me through and tells me to follow the path around to the back of the house. There are enough policemen around to stop me from wandering off course, and I’m greeted by a member of the staff when I arrive at the back door.

  I’m shown to a small wooden chair and asked to wait until I’m summoned. No one has specifically told me I can’t use my phone, but it seems like a bad idea to take it out in here. Besides, it’s probably not professional to take a selfie just before an interview. My mom would love it, though.

  Mom lived in England for thirty years until she met Dad, who was stationed in the UK while serving in the Navy. They moved to the US just after I was born, so I have dual citizenship.

  The house is a hell of a lot bigger from the inside. From the street, it looks like a tiny, thin place, but it’s either been extended or merged with another house, because at the back it’s massive. There’s a fair amount of hustle and bustle, with civil servants rushing around in a constant state of panic. However, there’s a distinct lack of the clutter you usually find in work environments and it feels a little sterile.

  I’m not as nervous as I should be. I’m qualified for this job. I never managed to get a journalism job after college, so I’ve worked as a secretary and personal assistant for three years. The job isn’t cause for nerves, but there is the whole ‘espionage’ thing to worry about. Stephanie assures me that my assignment doesn’t require me to commit actual treason. So long as I stick to uncovering the truth about the Prime Minister and don’t leak state secrets I should be protected by whistleblower protections.

  Lots of people walk past, but I don’t see anyone who looks particularly scary. Stern, perhaps, but not scary.

  “Can I help you?” a young lady asks, after noticing me looking around like a lost puppy.

  “Oh, no, I’m fine. Just waiting for an interview.” I stop her, just as she goes to walk away. “Actually, maybe you can help. Where is the Chief Mouser?”

  “He just went past. I can send him back this way if you like?”

  “Uh, no, that’s okay. Maybe I’ll see him after the interview.”

  “It’s worth getting in his good books if you can. It will make your life here a lot easier. Good luck with the interview.”

  As she’s walking off, I hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and a man approaches with his hand outstretched.

  “Ms. Tucker?”

  I nod. “Please, call me Janie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Janie. I’m Terrell Wilson. I’m the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff and a dreadful temporary secretary. Let’s get you to your interview. I know this all feels quite intimidating, but try to think of it as a normal interview. If you can manage that then I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Me too. I’m a de facto secretary at the moment and I make a lousy cup of tea. Okay then, let’s go meet the Prime Minister.”

  Chapter Two

  Wade

  “I’m still concerned about the NHS. It’s understaffed and underfunded.”

  “I agree, Your Highness,” I reply. “My government will prioritize the NHS above all else. It’s going to get the funding it needs.”

  “Good, good,” the Prince of Wales replies. “You see the stories about people waiting hours for treatment… it’s really not on.”

  “Completely agree.”

  I can’t tell whether he truly cares, or if he’s just regurgitating talking points from a memo. These weekly conversations are pointless anyway. The monarchy has zero influence on politics these days, and yet the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is still expected to call the Prince of Wales once a week to give him an update.

  To his credit, the Prince is actively involved in charity work and tends to keep the conversation focused on issues he considers important. It’s not like he spends the entire time pestering me about legalizing fox hunting.

  We’ve met in person once, and I must admit, he’s a nice bloke once you meet him face-to-face. His voice tends to be a bit monotonous though, so these phone conversations can drag.

  “You really must come by for dinner,” he says. “The family is keen to meet you. My daughter might be a little too keen. Are you interested in becoming a prince?”

  “I’ll hold off on that until I’ve been booted out of office. Things are hectic enough for me as it is.”

  “Well, we all think you’re doing a great job. Keep it up.”

  “Thanks. Until next week, Your Highness.”

  I put the phone down and wonder what I’m supposed to do next. I’m not short of things that need my attention, I just don’t know which ones to look at first. The Chancellor of the Exchequer needs me to look over her proposed budget, and every single one of my Cabinet ministers have proposals for me to sign off on.

  I can’t do anything else until I’ve had a decent cup of tea. Terrell is an excellent Chief of Staff, but he’s a shit secretary. He was supposed to hire a permanent employee a month ago, but the desk outside my office is still empty.

  It’s not like I’m fussy. The only instructions I gave were to avoid attractive young women. I’m not after a Miss Moneypenny. Ideally, Terrell will find a nice lady in her fifties who can make an excellent cup of tea and make sure I’m in the right place at the right time. Distractions are bad. It’s hard enough trying to focus on running the country without having to think about some hot young arse just outside my door. I might be Prime Minister, but I have the same weakness as most guys.

  If you believe all the stories, my cock is a security risk. Everyone’s worried I’m going to end up in bed with a hot young spy and spill national secrets as pillow talk. That’s why prime ministers usually marry before getting the job. It’s a ridiculous and somewhat insulting notion, although I didn’t do myself any favors by fucking the Chinese ambassador in my first week on the job. It was a stressful campaign, and she helped me unwind.

  That’s why I don’t need the temptation of a hot secretary. Best to get a nice mother figure out there instead.

  There’s a loud knock at the door. Only Terrell knocks that loudly.

  “Come in,” I yell, although Terrell is on his way in anyway.

  He hands me a piece of paper. “That’s her CV. Her name is Janie, and I hope you like her, because she’s the only candidate worth a damn.”

  “The only…” I trail off as I scan through her CV. Her age isn’t listed, but judging by the dates, she must be in her twenties. “She’s young. Why is she young? That’s not what I ordered.”

  “We don’t browse a catalog for these people. She’s far and away the best candidate,” Terrell replies. “Some of the older ones were a little put off by your liberal policies.”

  “I thought middle-aged women love me.” They certainly voted for me.

  “They do… until it comes to sharing a bathroom with men because of your insistence on unisex toilets. Besides, Janie has never worked in government before. She’s like you—no baggage. At least now you won’t be the least experienced person in the building.”

  “Okay, okay, send her in.”

  I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m too tired and stressed these days to worry about getting laid, and
just because she’s young, doesn’t mean I’m going to be attracted to her.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, this is Janie.”

  I look up from my desk at the nervous young women approaching.

  Oh shit. She’s going to be trouble.

  I’ve never interviewed anyone before, and that is probably blatantly apparent to Janie. I asked her about her previous jobs and listened intently—being careful to keep my eyes at head height—and she recited the information that’s on the CV in front of me.

  God dammit, she’s beautiful. She’s wearing a bland knee-length skirt and a white blouse, covered by a slim fitting jacket. Typical interview attire. No bright colors to draw attention, and nothing too revealing. She doesn’t need that. I could spend all day just looking at her face. All the plain clothes in the world aren’t enough to distract from those eyes. She’s nervous, but she fights it by constantly smiling at me.

  Janie reminds me of a Hollywood actress playing the part of a normal office worker. No matter what she’s wearing, the star quality oozes through. You can stick Jennifer Lawrence in a suit and have her sit behind a desk, but it’s still Jennifer fucking Lawrence.

  “Ms. Tucker,” I say, when she’s finished regurgitating her CV.

  “Call me Janie. If that’s okay.”

  “Janie.”

  I almost instinctively tell her to call me Wade, but she can’t do that. Not even Terrell does that anymore. Everything I know about politics I got from the West Wing TV show. President Bartlett insisted on always being referred to as ‘Mr. President’ while working because he had to make decisions that he could never make as Jed. I have to think that way too. It’s not Wade Chambers making the decision to cut welfare spending which could severely hurt some families—it’s the Prime Minister. The title is important and it’s there for a reason, namely to stop me going mad.

  “You’re overqualified to be my secretary,” I continue. “Why do you want this job?”

  My secretary won’t need to do much more than keep a steady stream of tea coming into my office and remind me the names of people I’m meeting. It’s not a mentally taxing job, but it will be stressful and require a strong personality.

  “I’ve been a big fan of yours since you started campaigning,” Janie replies. “I want to work for your government and this is the only position I’m qualified for.”

  This time she doesn’t smile after answering the question. Maybe I’m freaking her out by staring at her so much. But I’m interviewing her, so it’s allowed, right? She looks away nervously for the first time.

  “I’ll put that down as the official reason,” I reply. “What’s the real reason?”

  She smiles again. There’s even the tiniest bit of laughter this time.

  “I need a job,” she says. “Simple as that. I didn’t even know I was applying to work with you until I passed the second screening interview.”

  “Oh yeah, that makes sense. A lot of people don’t like me. It’s not a good idea to openly advertise for a secretary when you’re one of the most hated people in the country.”

  “You’re also one of the most loved people in the country. It just depends on who you ask.”

  “And what about you? Which camp do you fall into?”

  “I love you,” she replies. “Shit, I mean I voted for you. Crap, I just swore in front of the Prime Minister. And then I did it again.”

  “Relax, Janie. No need to be nervous. And it’s not like I care about swearing. I did it all the time on the campaign trail, and if you work here you’re going to hear a lot worse.”

  “Thanks. I still can’t quite believe I’m sitting here in the Prime Minister’s office.”

  That makes fucking two of us then. Six months ago, I was a nobody. A former SAS and Army soldier who was still adjusting to civilian life. Then my former commanding officer convinced me to run as a Member of Parliament in my district, and suddenly I had a use for that inheritance my parents left me. When the party leader resigned three months before the election, I found myself thrust into the limelight with roughly a ten-percent chance of winning. A few debates later, and I was the odds-on favorite.

  Somehow, I won. I still don’t understand how, and neither do the political analysts. Books will be written about that election one day. Becoming an MP is one thing, but leader of the country… I still can’t wrap my head around it.

  Now I’m here, living and working in 10 Downing Street. The power at my fingertips is mind-boggling and scary in equal measure. I could pick up the phone and have almost anyone in the world take my call. And yet, right now, all I want to do is sit back and ask this young woman to slowly undress in front of me. All this power, but I can’t do what I really want.

  “Where in America are you from?” I ask. There are probably rules about questioning people’s nationality in interviews, but fuck it, I’m the Prime Minister. I can hardly ignore her American accent.

  “Chicago.”

  “Chicago? Interesting.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No, but I have a friend there. I’m hoping to go out and see him one day, but that might be a little impractical over the next couple of years.”

  “Is me being American a problem? I have dual citizenship, but I’ve mainly lived and worked in the US.”

  “It’s fine with me,” I reply. “Besides, I made a big deal about being pro-immigration in my campaign, so I might as well lead by example.”

  It’ll be nice to have an American accent around the place. There are far too many homogeneous voices in 10 and 11 Downing Street. The younger members of staff come from all over the country and often have thick regional accents, but far too many of the older generation sound like they’ve lived within ten miles of this place their entire lives.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” I ask.

  “What are the nuclear codes?”

  “Knowing the last government, probably 1234.”

  She smiles again, and makes me grateful I’m behind the desk to hide the twitching going on in my pants. No wonder Terrell picked her. I’ve not fucked anyone on this desk yet, and she’d be a great pick to christen it for me.

  Fuck, stop thinking about screwing her.

  She’s here for a job. She doesn’t want to bend over the desk and have you slam your cock in her. I wonder if she will be a disobedient secretary. It sure would be nice to bend her over my knee and punish her.

  The silence is dragging on little too long when Terrell knocks at the door and comes straight in.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Tucker,” Terrell says. “Would you mind stepping out a moment while I have a word with the Prime Minister?”

  Janie stands up, but I raise a hand to stop her.

  “Terrell, we’re nearly done here, can you come back in a minute?”

  “No sir, it’s actually about the interview. Specifically about Ms. Tucker.”

  “If it’s about Janie, then she probably already knows. What’s wrong?”

  Terrell clears his throat and looks over awkwardly at Janie, before looking back to me.

  “I’m afraid there’s a problem with Ms. Tucker’s background check. She appears to have lied on her CV.”

  I look over at Janie who appears to be on the verge of collapsing back down onto her chair. The color in her cheeks fades in an instant, and there’s no sign of the cute smile I saw just a few moments ago.

  “Janie,” I say softly. “Care to explain?”

  Chapter Three

  Janie

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I knew I’d get caught out. This was all going far too smoothly. I should have known better than to think I could just walk into a job as secretary for the Prime Minister. Stephanie swore blind that my Bio Pharmaceuticals reference would check out.

  I’d been enjoying the interview. Wade Chambers is truly something to behold when you’re up close and personal. On television, he exudes charm and obvious sex appeal, but in the flesh, he’s so much more than that. Television cameras can’t cap
ture the feeling of being under his gaze. He’s powerful, and that stare feels like it’s peering into your soul.

  Wade embraces the business-casual look; no tie and shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearm. He’s dressed like any normal office worker, but you’d never mistake him for one. It’s not just that he looks like an action movie star, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and remarkably consistent five o’clock shadow.

  It’s his posture that makes me feel insignificant by comparison. I’m doing my best to sit up straight and look professional. The Prime Minister is leaning back in his chair, looking relaxed, and yet ready to go at a second’s notice.

  I can’t say for sure, but the interview seemed to be going well. He smiled at me a few times, although perhaps he was just trying to be polite and put me at ease. The Prime Minister is probably used to people being nervous in front of him, but my nerves weren’t the problem. It’s hard to be nervous, when you’re imagining the man interviewing you bending you over the desk and having his way with you.

  Those eyes tell me he doesn’t play nice. The reaction between my legs tells me I don’t want him to.

  Not that I’ll be getting close to him. Not now his Chief of Staff has uncovered the fabrication that is my resume.

  “Janie,” the Prime Minister says to me calmly. “Care to explain?”

  “What’s the problem?” I ask innocently. “I’m confident my résumé is accurate.”

  “Come on, Terrell,” the Prime Minister says. “Spit it out.”

  “You said you worked for Bio Pharmaceuticals for nine months,” Terrell says to me. “I happen to have a contact at Bio Pharmaceuticals, so I gave him a call. He’s never heard of you, and you aren’t in their records.”

  Crap. Think, Janie, think.

  Bio Pharmaceuticals. According to my resume, that’s the last place I worked before moving to the UK. It’s a large research and development company, and I was there for nine months as personal assistant to the woman in charge of an experimental division focused on developing entirely new treatments for genetic defects. Nearly everything on my resume is worded in such a way that I have an excuse for not talking about it in great detail. I used that excuse a few times in the screening interview.