The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (13 page)

Realizing I was ready well before the nine o’clock reservation, I took the heels off and lay down on the side of the bed that was clearly mine. Mr. Knight had put a notebook and a giant wad of cash on the opposite nightstand. I could hear men’s voices outside the door. There were lots of them, and I tried not to anticipate the social interaction soon required of me, or to think of who they were, though, in truth, my stomach was sloshing lunch about aggressively.

I carefully arranged my hair on the pillow so I would not ruin it, and closed my eyes. Deciding preparation was required, I thought about polite things I could say to the strangers I would be dining with, and—bored silly with the mind-numbing inanity of small talk—fell asleep.

I woke up abruptly. As my eyes opened, they did so wide. Mr. Knight was standing on my side of the bed staring down at me. At first, I assumed he had said something, and that that was what had woken me up, but . . . perhaps not. His eyes were fixed to me like Velcro—unblinking.

“Mr. Knight,” I murmured, rising up on my elbows. “Is it time to go?” I tugged down my dress, realizing I had rolled over onto my side and likely exposed butt cheek.

“Do you know how innocent you are . . . when you sleep?”

His question startled me. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I sat fully upright.

“I wouldn’t like to see that change, Charlie, ever.”

Anxiety exploded inside. Did he suspect I was trapped in a wretched plot to spy on him? I struggled to find the right response. “I cannot think why it would, Mr. Knight,” I murmured, hoping to steer him back to professional ground.

I swung my legs around and glanced up into his eyes. Night was just beginning to fall. I had left the window open and a lovely breeze swept across our veranda, lifting the curtain behind him. He had added a dress jacket to his dark blue jeans and mauve dress shirt. I picked up the familiar scent of his cologne, sandalwood and lime. His giant gold Rolex glowed in the light. His eyes held nothing but darkness.

I smoothed my hair, and spotting my heels, leaned over to strap them on.

“Do you know why I hired you, Charlie?”

What a peculiar question. I was about to answer
yes
, when I realized, given my lack of hospitality and personal assistance experience,
no
, actually I could not be sure. I shook my head as I took his hand and rose to stand. His brow was stern and his mouth was flat.

“Yours was the first pair of eyes I stared into in a long time, ever really, that I could see straight through to the bottom.”

Oh. He must be speaking figuratively. Was that a compliment? His thumb rubbed my hand like it was a feather. Perhaps he was practicing pretending to be lovers?

“Maybe that was wrong of me, to think how I wanted to keep you like that forever. Maybe hiring you, bringing you in close . . . maybe that’ll change you.”

I stared up at him, hearing my heart pound. Wait. Maybe . . . he
was
suspicious.

“Are you saying you regret hiring me, Mr. Knight?” I tugged my hand free.

I could not meet his eyes.

“No.” I did not dare look in his eyes. “But I’m worried I will,” he stated flatly. He stepped close after I stepped away. “Look me in the eye, Charlie, and tell me I won’t regret hiring you,” he demanded suddenly, his voice calm, deep and impending.

I needed a glass of water to swallow my heart back down.

What had happened? Why this sudden strangeness?

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Knight, I think your request is ludicrous.” I glanced at him, finally. After a moment’s pause, almost as if he were stunned, his brows bunched up. “Asking someone to state you can trust them is hardly proof. You will require me to show you can trust me over time. So . . . that is all I can offer you at present.”

“If that is not good enough, I understand if you wish to terminate me,” I added quickly, breathless, realizing that this could be it. I could find myself staying at a budget hotel in under an hour, worrying about finding a new job tomorrow, never to see this man again.

He grabbed my arm before I could move away. “Charlie, that’s not what I’m after. Why do you keep trying to get yourself sacked?”

I didn’t answer, flabbergasted I had been so obvious.

“I’m saying the opposite. I want to hold onto you just the way you are.”

Oh. He had faith in me after all.

That felt even worse.

I needed to sit down . . . or to run. I tugged my hand free.

“We have several months to go in our contract before any decision needs to be made, which is ample opportunity for you to decide on the state of my . . . suitability. We probably should not keep your guests waiting.” I headed toward the door in a rush, grabbing my evening bag from the console on the way. I nearly tripped in my panic to remove myself from his vortex, and by that I mean, no room was big enough to cope with his intense examination and whatever else it was he seemed to need from me in that moment.

Okay, it was trust. He wanted to know if he could trust me.

Now I know why people act obtusely.

He stayed close to me and followed me out into the living room, which, as it turns out, provided even less respite.

One man stood up from his chair right away upon my entrance. The others stayed seated. I tensed with anxiety as Mr. Knight introduced an older Italian gentleman as Giuseppe. He nodded from his chair. Poor Giuseppe was so overweight he appeared uncomfortable. It had had the most unfortunate effect on his face, stretching out his jowls and chin so much so that the
Star Wars
character Jabba the Hutt came to mind.

His son, however, Joseph (but Joe would do, he said) could not have been more different. He was the gentleman who stood up. I breathed a sigh of relief that no last names had been given—I enjoyed the idea of Sullivan Blaise searching the ASIS criminal database for Italians called Joseph—and took Joe’s hand, giving him a warm smile.

Joe was young, maybe not much older than me, lithe but in a strong way, with a head full of thick, dark curly hair. I was reminded of the actor Orlando Bloom, but more menacing. He said, with Italian-accented English, “It is a pleasure to meet you.” Then he did that thing a lot of men do, where they show little interest until they look at me up close, and then their stare gets snagged or they do a double take. He did the latter.

Men are obsessed with physical features. It is very nearsighted as, of course, they are meaningless.

I looked to Mr. Knight rather concerned about what to do next. There were other men in the room, wearing suit jackets, standing in corners; evidently, more bodyguards.

A sinking feeling drew my attention, but this time I could easily identify the source. These were clearly powerful men. I fretted over Sullivan’s words, about perspective, and mine being incorrect. It was now revised for accuracy: while I could not be sure these men were criminals, nor could I be sure they were
not
criminals.

I knew with certainty, however, that I had no intentions of proving it either way. Since I was here now, I could only move forward. And stick with my plan, which was to avoid acquiring knowledge,
any knowledge
, and succeed in putting myself in a compromising, naked position with my employer so he had to fire me. Surely I could accomplish those two things. After all, Mr. Knight, in his clever, noble gesture, had even made the latter much easier for me.

With controlled ease, my employer proceeded to usher us all out into waiting cars, chatting about the restaurant and Port Douglas along the way.

Only, I believe it may have been an act. Mr. Knight’s voice was usually calm, smooth, indifferent. Tonight it was edgy, sharp, and affected.

Once in our stretch limo, Mr. Carlisle and Mr. Bennett tried to add to the conversation, but I realized every time Mr. Knight directed Giuseppe and Joseph to one of his colleagues, they focused back on him. It was like a game of ping pong, only Mr. Knight kept getting lobbed the ball. I recalled the conversation I had overheard earlier, about how Mr. Knight did not want to do something, because he was “done.”

My chest burst with sympathy for him in that moment, and then, with controlled focus, the feeling passed. I do not like to feel negative emotions, and certainly not in the midst of a demanding social situation.

After the ten-minute drive (we would have been quicker walking), we were immediately seated by the restaurant hostess in the middle of the large veranda-style restaurant. Mr. Knight was on my left, and Joseph on my right.

I felt the young Italian’s eyes on me throughout the meal, and wondered what he was trying to ascertain by staring at my candlelit profile. During my shrimp cocktail, he asked me where I was from in America.

“Niagara Falls.”

When he didn’t say anything further I asked, “Where are you from in Italy?” thinking that was a safe question. His father paused mid-conversation to glare at me. I stiffened. Apparently it was the worst possible question I could have asked.

B was right. No questions of
any
kind.

“South,” said Joe, quickly smiling. “From the south.”

Mr. Knight squeezed my thigh, and I had no idea whether it was for reassurance or admonishment. He kept his hand there.

“Are the falls as beautiful as you?” Joe smiled when he asked. I had heard Italian men could be quite complimentary, flirtatious even. However, he was not interested in my reaction. He was watching Mr. Knight. Was he trying to provoke Mr. Knight? I could not be certain. Joe glanced back at me with what I believe are called “bedroom eyes.”

I thought of a sufficient response. “Beauty is relative, Mr.—” I cleared my throat “—Joe. However, I can tell you no one has ever been disappointed by the falls.”

“Ah, I could not imagine any man ever disappointed in you!” he exclaimed loudly. I frowned at him. That was not what I had meant. And for the record, men had been disappointed in me—a lot. Boys in school. The owner of the local gym in Niagara who I turned down repeatedly. And probably, eventually, Mr. Knight.

Joe smiled then, laughed and winked at Jace, expressing the exact opposite of the mood he had left me in.

Oh. Perhaps he was teasing him. I checked, and Mr. Knight half-smiled and glanced back down on me with a possessiveness I thought quite sincere for fakery.

Remembering our game, I made to smile back only to realize I already wore one. He leaned over and kissed my lips so quickly I barely had to time acknowledge it. He lingered, thankfully, just long enough to allow me to recover so when he pulled away I could look sufficiently delighted rather than aghast.

My first kiss!—a tender, brief moment of subterfuge and mockery. His mouth. Had just been on mine. My brain repeated this several times. On mine. On mine. I relished the taste of wine from his lips as I licked my own, my heart swollen to the size of a small pumpkin. It was an obscenely intimate, erotic gesture, tasting a man in public. I touched my lips briefly, glanced over at Joseph, recognizing I
should
feel self-conscious. His brow was furrowed, as if he was confused by me.

He did not speak to me again during the supper, and the pleasant energy took a terrible turn when the Russian arrived. His own entrance announcement, “Dmitry is here,” precluded introductions. He was likely in his fifties, though he might have been taken for being a decade younger were it not for his balding head. He had a few tattoos on his fingers, gold rings on the unadorned fingers, and a giant gold necklace. He did not bother announcing his women either, two of them, dressed in nearly nothing. They seemed content to be ignored, giggling among themselves murmuring in Russian. Mr. Knight motioned to Jimmy, and that is when I noticed there were at least six more bodyguards milling about the room in dark corners and at the entrance, and soon additional seating was acquired.

I stiffened, having lapsed into a state of forgetfulness over dinner. How worried should I be for my safety? I had no way to calculate that. The ASIS file on Mr. Knight had stated that Russian dons had moved over to Australia in the 1990s, many of them highly intelligent ex-KGB members who had been absorbed into crime organizations after Perestroika. These dons had used deep pockets to set up a web of crime in Australia. The file had stated that Mr. Knight had often been spotted with members of the organization, though nothing was ever recorded because of their counter-intelligence savvy.

I reminded myself to try to block out events going on around me, but it was impossible for me to be oblivious. Years of trying to read social situations was a hard habit to break, even if I failed more often than not.

That said, even given my empathetic shortcomings it was clear there was no love lost between all three groups. Giuseppe never addressed Dmitry, preferring to speak through Joe or to Mr. Knight only. Dmitry was barely civil when he spoke English and simply horrid when he spoke Russian. He complained to his women that he hated being here, and called everyone, Mr. Knight included—all of whom were oblivious—some terrible Russian profanity. I don’t know what all it included, but heard the word
dolboeb
, which roughly means “fuckhead.” It so happens I speak rudimentary Russian and Mandarin and read basic Arabic. I chose three challenging languages at the age of eleven and taught myself using books from the library. (Actually, I have quite a knack for languages, what with my impressive memory and superior ear for syntax and pronunciation. Had circumstances been different, I might have become a translator. Anyway, the textbooks do not teach any slang. No, one of my mother’s boyfriends, when I was very young, had been a Ukrainian immigrant. He had used the Russian term
dolboeb
, frequently.)

I tried not to let on I could understand Russian the one and only time Dmitry looked at me during the night. His ice-blue eyes were piercing and I felt, with absolutely no proof, that his bad manners were a game and that he was a very bad man. Mr. Knight’s hand returned to my leg.

Surely, I thought, as I shook my head slightly, real criminals, of the sort Sullivan Blaise thought these men might be, would not be stupid enough to meet together in a public venue. Surely they would be more prudent. Or . . . my stomach clenched . . . or perhaps they did not care. Perhaps they did not need to care. After all, it was just a dinner, wasn’t it?