The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (11 page)

“Yeah, so do crims, Charlie!”

I pursed my lips.

He was staring at me.

“Slip the trip,” he murmured.

“I cannot. I already tried,” I complained. I told Sullivan, whose face grew increasingly twisted, about the dreadful swimming lesson I had had to endure.

“Why do you not want me to go? I would think—”

“Never mind that.” He glanced away and appeared to be brooding. When he turned back to me, his eyes held tension. “Just . . . just don’t fall into any of his traps, ay. You have to watch for them. Use some common dog fuck!”

“Traps?” I asked, even though I had an idea what he meant by that. He pursed his lips, and I could not help but defend my employer to this man.

“Mr. Knight is not laying any traps.” I insisted on rectifying at least
that
part of his tarnished image. “We have been nothing but honest with each other.” With the exception of this, I brooded. Yes, that is right. “Frankly, you are the only one laying traps, through me!” I added, resentment rushing back to me. He would have me trick Mr. Knight right into bed, perhaps, if it served his purposes.

“Yeah, for justice. Fair go! You think I’m the crook, don’t you? You need to get some bloody perspective!”

My mind halted in its tracks, and I sat upright, assessing what he’d said. No one had ever accused me of having an incorrect perspective. That is one area in life where I excel.

Frustration rushed at me. This move to Australia had required a constant breaking with my logic, my systems and structures, and, frankly, an unbearable amount of self-examination.

“He’s a gangster!” shouted Sullivan, causing me to flinch. I eyed the ASIS agent’s tattoo and face scruff. “Laying traps is all he does, all he’s ever done,” he carried on. “That’s how he got where he is today, right. He’s a crook, puts himself first, manipulates everything and everyone. Jesus, use that special brain of yours.”

I tried to listen to Sullivan, rigid and red-cheeked, but anxiety had slowed down my processing center—his words were coming in staccato.

“I told you, he’s connected with all sorts around the world. They call him the Peacemaker. And it sure as ’ell isn’t because he resolves conflicts Ghandi-style. You get that, right?”

I couldn’t hold Sullivan’s stare because panic was taking hold: I felt almost . . . almost as if I was lost at sea. I clasped my neck and stared down at the white sheet. I couldn’t seem to absorb the two perspectives: mine and Sullivan’s. 

“You need to open up those eyes of yours,” added Sullivan, softly.

I tried to calm the rocky waters in my mind.

“He fuckin’ wants you, Charlie, in his bed.” The boat I was in capsized. “You’re a bit of fun for him, a game. Crikey, he’s already got you where he wants you, putting you in his flat, and you don’t even see it, right. Jesus, I almost feel sorry for you. I wish you’d never . . .” he trailed off. “This takes the piss, I have to say.”

Sullivan was staring at me with a strange mix of emotion I could not possibly identify. His mouth was twisted up as though he were chewing on something.

I could not assess or analyze anything. I was bobbing aimlessly, held up by a fast-deflating lifejacket.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, not because I wanted to know, but, perhaps, because I could not bear the look.

He shook his head. “Forget about it,” he muttered. “
Forget about it!
” he repeated sharper. “Just don’t you forget who holds all the strings,” he hissed, wearing the stony mask I had begun to associate with a deliberate attempt to be taken seriously.

“While you’re on the trip, making sure you don’t slip and fall onto his todger, you listen in on convos. Not too obvious, right . . . or it’s homeward bound for you.” He said the last bit over his shoulder, having stood up. He left without a second glance or another word.

Sullivan’s much-anticipated departure from the apartment did nothing to appease my racing heart or my achy chest.

Even Miss Moneypenny, who crawled out from the under the bed a few minutes later, could not console me.

Try as I may thereafter, I could not emulsify the two versions of Mr. Knight. The idea that he was a bad man was rather like beads of oil in the watery perspective of my mind.

The Port Douglas trip was upon me. I could not successfully conjure up a fireable offense Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, .

It was . . . stressful.

I had deliberately avoided two swim lessons, and only endured the third because Mr. Knight was very cross, so much so that I did not have the courage to say no to him again. I brooded on my cowardice on the drive home (his town car took me) for my
cozzie
. That said, during the lesson, Mr. Knight had managed to get me to hold my breath underwater and make me comfortable using goggles and a breathing tube.

I had begun to speculate (and I never speculate) whether Mr. Knight suspected something was afoot with me, as he had his town car pick me up at the apartment for the flight this morning, rather than wait for me to walk to the Plaza first.

Upon boarding his private plane, I had been careful not to appear too awestruck by the plush interior, as B had cautioned me about a few things before the trip, including not making my alien face. (Apparently on occasion when I am exposed to new environments I go wide-eyed like an imaginary alien might upon arriving on Earth.)

After settling in, before take-off, I was caught unawares several times by Mr. Knight’s stare. He wore a new facial expression, one I had not seen before. His eyes were narrowed on me, and his mouth was flat.

Sipping my orange juice, served by a very well-endowed flight attendant (and I only noticed that because her low-cut uniform was designed to reveal her assets), I brooded over the week.

Somehow, I had actually achieved the exact opposite effect I had wished for: his displeasure. Each day, Mr. Knight appeared increasingly complimentary. For example, he offered excessive praise over the South American corporate taxation dossier I had put together, and even said it was better than those done by his business consulting company. Furthermore, he insisted that that kind of quality couldn’t be rushed, and that being two days past deadline was perfectly justifiable and most certainly not a sackable offense. He assigned me to do the same thing with a Las Vegas property, and I was deeply regretful knowing I would not be able to follow that through as, surely, I would get myself fired soon.

Mr. Knight, seated beside me across the aisle, barked an order at someone. I jolted, as his angry voice is exceedingly menacing. I could not be certain, but he seemed unlike himself. Tense. Typically, when our eyes meet, his facial muscles relax slightly, his eyebrows and ears tug back, the corners of his mouth tilt up. But not this morning.

In turn, this made me more tense than I would have liked, and B’s voice replayed in my mind. Her other recommendations for me included the usual: watch for TMI and don’t ask
any
questions of people you don’t know. I am to nod or smile when I am confused by something. When I expressed concern to her that others may jump to the conclusion I am not bright, she reassured me that men often prefer less-intelligent women, and women feel less threatened by them. Her final offering, be open-minded, gave me pause. I was surprised because she knows I pride myself on inquiring after experiences. I reminded her of this, and she clarified that she meant I should be open-
hearted
. She elaborated without prompting, which I greatly appreciated, suggesting, “Charlie, just for once let yourself feel things without questioning them.”

I brooded on this, standing in The Bangalow’s living room, staring out at Port Douglas’s famous Four Mile Beach.

The executive resort home had turned out to be everything the website had promised it would be: two levels, a large pool, surrounded by lush greenery and only five minutes’ walking distance to Port Douglas’s main street, which boasted bustling shops and restaurants (based on the glimpse I got on the drive in). Even the view from The Bangalow’s porch was postcard worthy—a long, gently arched pristine white strip of beach, bordered on one side by deep-blue ocean and the other by lush green rainforest.

B had been more than emphatic about her last request than I recall her ever being. And since B has only ever wanted the best for me, I tried then to do as she suggested—feel without analysis.

My bare feet were cold against the marble floor.

My stomach was knotted from hunger.

The humidity, despite the air-conditioning, made my skin sticky.

I shook my head. That is not what she had meant. I drew inwardly slightly, not too far, as I can get lost sometimes. There was a sense of lightness within me, a feeling of serenity . . . created perhaps by the beauty of the beach—oh, B said not to think about it . . .

. . . and also I felt a lovely humming in my sternum.

“Beautiful.”

I spun around. Mr. Knight was looking at me.

“Yes, it is,” I uttered, glancing back at the beach,
just feeling
, maybe for the first time ever in my life. I believe I was even smiling from within in that moment, an expression I had never understood before.

I would have to thank B for this advice. A gift. I would buy her something.

“So you’re pleased about the perk after all, Miss Sykes,” said Mr. Knight who had moved over to my side.

“Yes. Thank you.” He smiled slightly, and I admired the view of his profile. Unfortunately, his smile had not worked to remove the tension in his face or his body. Even so, his lips were one of his best features, and perhaps being caught up in
just feeling
, I nearly told him so. Shocked, I decided I needed to snap out of it.

“Let’s pop into town,” he said after a few long moments. “We’ll grab some grub, and I’ll show ya about.”

I agreed, but only after he reassured me that just being here was considered work because
yes
, this was a work trip. The edge in his voice suggested I had annoyed him. This time I did not ask him to confirm if I was correct.

We spoke not a word on the short walk there, Jimmy and two more men in tow (I had noticed six men in total on the flight with us—and thought it was a rather large security detail). We sat down at one of the many casual eateries populating the lovely main street in Port Douglas, both agreeing it had the nicest patio. I ordered a sandwich and a side salad. Mr. Knight ordered the same, though he was deep in a phone call throughout most of the meal with his CFO (I gathered), until we were joined by Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle.

I had not known they would be joining us in Port Douglas, and felt the ground shake under me when I realized they too were staying at The Bangalow. Furthermore, it became apparent, as they discussed how one of the arriving parties—a last-minute guest I gathered Jace had not been expecting—was a Russian associate who would need “careful minding,” that there simply were not enough bedrooms at our accommodation. Mr. Knight had had me book extra rooms at a nearby less-expensive hotel. Perhaps guests were staying there, along with all the other security men amassing. I decided to bring up The Bangalow room shortage at the earliest available opportunity with Mr. Knight, as our lunch had turned into a business meeting between the three men. I pushed aside another niggling feeling—it demanded an examination of the increased security, and Sullivan’s accusations about this trip and my perspective, which I was not in the mood for.

While Mr. Carlisle completely ignored me, never once making eye contact, Mr. Bennett was the opposite. As the three chatted about some issue involving a piece of property in Melbourne, his small green eyes constantly scanned my face and breasts, though in my white silk short-sleeve blouse they were not any more prominent than they usually were. It did not bother me; however, I appreciated Mr. Knight establishing boundaries by stating rather abruptly and loudly, “She’s off limits, Bennie.” Mr. Bennett eyed Mr. Knight. Mr. Bennett looked away first.

Shortly after that, Mr. Knight suggested we head back. His colleagues remained to enjoy another drink.

Walking along the strip, with my employer and his security detail, I was struck by how fortunate I was to experience a new place, yet again, and indeed a new place such as Port Douglas. I had read, in advance, that celebrities often visited this quaint town, and I found myself keeping my eyes peeled for a spotting. (I cannot account for this strange fascination of mine.)

Tourists strolled by with baby carriages, ice creams and cameras, all of us protected under the ample shade provided by the giant-leafed trees lining the boulevard. I applied B’s advice, took in the wonderful fresh air, no doubt put out by the abundant rainforest area surrounding the town, and decided I felt content. Goosebumps spread down my arms and pleasure snaked down my back—for the first time since moving to Australia I had the feeling it had been the right thing to do.

Perhaps my days of doubting were behind me.

Mr. Knight was silent and it was not until we neared the turn-off for the lane that led through the rainforest to The Bangalow that he spoke. “Charlie, let’s have a chat, ay.” He invited me to sit on one of the benches along the main street. Perhaps now was a good time to raise the shortage of bedrooms. Before he spoke, I blurted out, “Mr. Knight, I believe you may have miscalculated the size of accommodation required for our group. The Bangalow only has six bedrooms.”

“Yes, that’s right, Miss Sykes.” I glanced away. Yes, there were six rooms? Or, yes, he had not anticipated the right number of rooms needed? He removed his sunglasses, hanging them off his shirt collar. I left mine on. “Charlie, I need a massive favor.” He was resting back on the bench, his elbows perched on the edge, dressed casually in a short-sleeved T-shirt and dark jeans.

My stomach fluttered, not at his words, but at the way his eyes roamed over my face and ever so briefly flashed on my breasts. He had never done that before. I glanced down quickly, wondering suddenly if I had spilled something on my blouse. What else could explain all the attention? My stomach squeezed as it was evident two buttons had come undone—damn silk!—giving anyone and everyone so inclined a full gander at the top side of breast flesh squished up high in my push-up bra.