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

Then there was the extended-stay facility I had checked into: it was expensive, and finding an affordable apartment with a viable long-term roommate was exceedingly difficult.

At least I had a positive development yesterday on an apartment interview. A young man named David Stemper, studying medicine, renting a lovely two-bedroom apartment in the heart of Sydney’s business district, was in need of a quiet roommate. Other than the fact that David stared at my breasts several times (which is entirely unacceptable according to social norms but does not ruffle me as I’ve been told it should, perhaps because I am not self-conscious), I was certain we would make suitable roommates. I found myself anticipating a call in the next day or two, and took the opportunity to check my email one more time.

Nothing.

Upon an offer, I would, of course, clearly outline the non-fraternizing policy I had decided would be necessary with any roommate of the opposite sex. B, who checked in with me twice a day since I moved (I had come to look forward to the routine of that), had warned me off doing this, suggesting instead I consider a “roommate with benefits” policy. I reminded her, yet again, that I planned my first experience of sexual intercourse to be with a man who met Cosmopolitan magazine’s checklist: “Is He Eligible Stick-It Material?” This was partly because I did not wish to contract an STD, and mostly because the three romance novels I had read (for research purposes) showed me that sex could lead to love and love could lead to a lifetime commitment. I did not want to find myself tied down to a “boy toy” or a “deadbeat.” David did not yet have a full-time job, nor did he own a home.

I checked the time. The last interviewee had headed into Mr. Knight’s office four minutes ago. I wondered if he was speeding up his process as the interviewee before her had taken only seven minutes. With possibly only three minutes to go before it was my turn, I was brought back to the most pressing challenge of all: landing a clerical and/or personal assistant job that would provide an acceptable livelihood.

I had signed up with a temp agency the day after I arrived because I deemed breadth of experience the most efficient way to make inroads in the marketplace. However, after six interviews, I had had just one day of work at a law firm that did not mind hiring an American to answer the phone. I found the experience mind-numbingly boring.

Now, minutes away from my seventh interview, I was forced to admit I was less than positive about this prospect, and with reason beyond the employer’s inefficient questioning skills.

When I had expressed concern to the temp agency director, Miss Alyssa Reid, about the position being full-time and permanent (I was hoping for casual work so I would have time to decide on fit), she said, “Don’t worry. Mr. Knight goes through assistants like chewing gum.” I asked if that was because he had high standards, hoping perhaps the job had proved challenging. Miss Reid laughed, and said, “Yeah, you could say that.” Upon deeper probing, she admitted that Mr. Knight’s last personal assistant, Rena Kemp, who worked at the agency, had left suddenly. A quick scan of Miss Kemp’s Twitter feed indicated she had not left on ideal terms.

The interviewee emerged from Mr. Knight’s office with a flushed face. I wondered if his high standards involved physical attributes. My competitors could have been twins. They were endowed with genes that society deemed ideal for mating—lithe, blond, breasts that defied gravity.

My physical characteristics were opposite. I was shaped like an hourglass, pale-skinned (I had not thought through my increased skin cancer risk moving here), and a brunette. Men find me attractive, mind you, because they watch me with strange looks on their faces, frequently approach with some inane comment or question, and ask me out on dates. It used to happen back in the Niagara Falls Library where I worked for six years and eighteen days, at the bus stop, in the grocery store, at the mall, and so on.

“Your go,” she said, breathless, on her way out. Her eyebrows were raised at me in such a way to give me pause: did we have unfinished business or something? Her smile, as she walked by, was not unlike the smile Da Vinci painted on his Mona Lisa, which I have always found awfully self-satisfied.

That gave me just the motivation I needed. I may not have the right experience for this position, but I did value the proximity of Mr. Knight’s offices to my would-be new apartment.

I rose up with purpose, tugged down my gray pencil skirt, straightened my white blouse, and strode into Mr. Knight’s office with the intention of knocking his proverbial socks off. One of my mother’s often-quoted sayings might also have applied: “Go hard or go home.” (While most of my mother’s sayings were uttered in some inebriated state, they have merit when suitably applied.)

I was struck by the size of Mr. Knight’s office, though I should not have been (given his net worth of thirty-seven million as reported in
Forbes
), and appreciated how the large room was surrounded with windows that appeared to look onto a private garden. Even more so, I was taken aback by the physical appearance of Mr. Knight, leaning back in his office desk chair, watching me walk in.

Google photos had done him a disservice. His physical appearance was younger than his thirty-four years, though his eyes were wiser, perhaps a result of building up an empire from nothing. (He had started out as an orphan ranch hand on a cattle station in the Australian outback.) And while I had noted he was photogenic, in person he made a much more impressive . . . impression.

I found myself acknowledging how striking his bronzed skin, black close-cropped hair, and opulent, dark-brown eyes were, which was odd because I do not typically admire physical features. All of his features were large, but of perfect symmetry and proportion—ruggedly so, I should add—and he had a strong jaw. A prominent scar across his forehead and a smaller one under his left eye brought an unexpected air of masculinity to his already domineering presence. He rose up, all six foot one or so (only working out daily gets a man that fit, I noted) and leaned across the desk, reaching out his hand, which I took.

My hand looked tiny and pale in his rough clasp.

“Hello. I am Charlie Sykes.”

“Are you, then,” he answered, in one of the lowest registers I have ever heard a man’s voice—quiet and steady. I held his gaze for a moment, unblinking, as that was what I felt he wanted since he held my hand for a moment longer than was the accepted norm. I wondered then, rather ridiculously, if he was trying to see inside of me, and that contemplation was accompanied by goosebumps, which started at my wrist and spread up my arm, across my shoulders and onto my chest, causing my nipples to harden. I did not blush, as these were all perfectly normal bodily functions.

“Pull up a chair,” he said, finally releasing my hand.

The Wikipedia article stated that Mr. Knight was born in New Zealand but ran away to Australia at the age of seven; however, I noted only a soft Australian accent. Also, I had identified no discernible emotion on his face upon our initial greeting, but I knew from past experience that I could not conclude he had not had one.

I slid into a soft leather chair and put my satchel on the floor beside me. Mr. Knight said nothing.

I waited, calmly, expecting him to peruse my prominent breasts, especially since my nipples were no doubt peaked and visible through my thin blouse and bra. But he did not, which indicated he had a good handle on his biological urges to mate. Instead, he openly appraised my face, and, finally, smiled.

“So Miss Sykes, what brings such a beautiful yank to Sydney, then?”

“My looks are not at all pertinent, Mr. Knight.” His smile dropped. “I chose Australia spontaneously,” I offered, having enough sense not to share the
Muriel’s Wedding
detail. “I simply moved here to start fresh.”

He leaned forward in his chair, examining me much closer, eyes narrowed. “There are only a few reasons why a woman such as yourself leaves America for Down Under . . . Miss Sykes.”

I waited for his assumption.

“You’re running from someone. An ex? Husband? Boyfriend?”

I did not like the way he eyed me just then.

“Incorrect on all counts,” I informed him. “I have never had any of those. But I do not believe my sexual history, or lack of it, is pertinent to the job interview.” As I spoke, his full lips popped open and his eyebrows hiked farther up, creating strong lines on his forehead.

Here we go
, I thought, frowning. Something I was doing was confusing him. Of course, I had no idea what it was. My tone of voice? Something I had said? It was like trying to figure out a foreign alphabet. I cleared my throat. “However, you can rest assured I am in Australia for no reason other than a desire to live life, finally, and that I have no intentions of leaving.” I did not want him to think I was not capable of a long-term commitment to the company should things work out.

He closed his mouth, but had not blinked once. What was troubling him? I frowned.

When he did not say anything, I added, “Perhaps we could discuss what you are looking for in a personal assistant, Mr. Knight. It is not clear to me whether my temp agency has sent you quite the right fit.”

His face grew yet more serious, and an electric air filled up the gap between us. I had asked a perfectly appropriate question, raising a reasonable concern for both of us. Had I not?

Those jet-black eyes seemed to glitter. Was it annoyance?

“Why don’t you—” he searched for my resume, pulling the file from under a pile of papers, which clearly indicated he had not read it “—tell me why you think you’re not a match?” I watched his eyes quickly scan my resume. I now knew the reason for his ineffective interviewing skills: he was unprepared.

I sighed. “I do not have any personal assistance experience in the hospitality, entertainment, or tourism business. That said, I should point out, I have a higher than average IQ, which means I certainly learn fast, faster than most. Also, you appear to be seeking a permanent, full-time assistant. I am looking for a part-time or casual position so I can decide whether the employer is a good match for me. I find not everyone appreciates how highly I value efficiency. Finally, with all due respect, I am not certain what this job entails, and I greatly desire employment that provides me with new challenges and a good deal of daily satisfaction.”

An unusual breathy noise came out of his mouth, as he stared at me over the top of my resume with a degree of intensity, I admit, I had never experienced before.

“I can absolutely assure you of the latter, Miss Sykes,” he said, his gaze bearing down on me like the high-noon sun. It took concentration to not glance away.

I was confused. Did he mean daily satisfaction? What about the former; plenty of challenges? “Perhaps you can outline what the job consists of, Mr. Knight, before we agree to anything.”

He coughed, and said, “Certainly, Miss Sykes,” covering his mouth momentarily. He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk.

Finally, he was taking this seriously.

Or . . . was he? I watched his mouth, the corners twitching, and wondered momentarily if he was fighting a smile. Why?

“I need an offsider of . . . utmost diligence to manage my daily schedule, which is very busy. And I’ll expect you to anticipate conflicts, book travel, and”— he glanced away and back, eyeing me again—“travel with me. Now, supposing you don’t find that challenging, given your research experience I see here, I could test you out with some management consulting project work.”

I stared at him, working through what he had said. I would never grow accustomed to hearing the peculiar local term for personal assistant (offsider). He shifted and frowned.

“You could also . . .” He looked up in the air, pausing a moment before looking back at me. “. . . take on any office management task you think’s fitting.”

I was quiet because I was distracted by a growing sense of excitement. Perhaps this was the meaningful job I wanted. Just a few more concerns I needed to address. “What sort of travel would be involved?”

“Hotel inspections, new site possibilities and such. It’s paid for.”

“How often?”

“Once a month, maybe twice. Why the worry, Miss Sykes?” He had read my facial expression and tone correctly. “Most young women would be chuffed over open slather trips to the world’s greatest resorts and cities.”

“You’ll find, Mr. Knight, I am not most women.”

After a moment, he murmured, “No, I see that.”

I frowned deeper, unable to discern the tone in his voice or to hold his intense eye contact, but carried on (focusing on his nose). “I think I could manage the frequent disruption travel might involve, but I would appreciate as much notice as possible to prepare for trips. Perhaps it would be best if we approach this position with a three-month probation period. That way we can both assess fit with no hard feelings should either of us discover one is not suitable for the other. A permanent position is a major commitment, which I take quite seriously, Mr. Knight.”

He leaned back, staring at me somberly.

“I haven’t offered you the position.”

“Yes, you did, when you said you would assure a great deal of daily satisfaction.”

He raised his left brow.

Yes, he was definitely fighting a smile. “You always so literal, Miss Sykes?”

I frowned. I was frustrated by the fact he was being obtuse, and I suspected, deliberately obtuse. “I simply take people at face value. I believe the world would be a much easier place to live in if everyone would just say what they mean.” I flushed this time, worried I had strayed out of professional territory.

He eyed me with something much more familiar than I would have liked, and nodded slightly.

“You’re likely right, Miss Sykes. I’ll have to keep that in mind, moving forward.”

Our eyes locked. This time he blinked first. He’d said “moving forward.” Did that mean he was offering me the job? Why are people not more direct?

“Salary is fifty thousand dollars. Three weeks’ vacation. If and when I require overtime, I pay double. I’ll have a probationary contract drawn up. You’ll start on Monday, when human resources’ll outline the benefits.”