The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (6 page)

“How will you protect me if your superiors don’t even know I’m involved? I would feel much better if you told them—”

“Can’t.” He shook his head. “Believe me, it’s better they don’t know the scoop isn’t coming from me. I’m doing you a favor.”

“That is the most incorrect thing you’ve said yet.” I snarled. Anger is my least favorite emotion because it is so dangerous. Not black. Not red. A terrible violent swirl of the two colors. (The counselor my mother had splurged on just after I turned twelve, for a total of four sessions, told me it helps to understand emotions if you visualize them as colors.)

Sullivan smiled and clasped my leg. “You’re right. You’re the one doing me a massive favor. And I plan on making it up to you. I promise, like I said. Now how about a bottle of the amber fluid?”

A beer? How could he be so casual? My heart was beating loud. I remained motionless on the edge of the bed, pining for his departure. And he did leave, shortly thereafter, perhaps realizing I had no intention of conversing with him about banal subject matter, such as whether I liked Sydney so far and if I’d gone surfing yet, and might I like to try.

I stared at the one half-drunk beer bottle and the cold pizza. Dizzy, I finally lay down, feet still on the floor, unable to think at all (a rarity, for certain).

When I felt Miss Moneypenny’s wet nose on my calf, all the horror took a backseat.

My heart opened up readily for an exchange of pink (euphoria caused by powerful combinations of chemicals such as endorphins and oxytocin; others call it love, of course). I popped up, in desperate need of something positive, and stroked her as she head-butted her precious face all over my bare legs.

Miss Moneypenny clearly hadn’t been upset at me at all. I nearly cried, after all, only with relief.

She hadn’t liked Sullivan Blaise.

She was always a good judge of character.

I started off Tuesday groggy but optimistic. I was dulled because I had fallen asleep well past my usual bedtime. But I was optimistic because at 1:30 a.m. I had sorted out the best way to handle the situation Sullivan Blaise had presented.

It was fairly evident that Sullivan was who he said he was, and therefore that the document that outlined Mr. Knight’s criminal past was accurate.

Now, I agree with the saying that one should not judge a book by its cover. Having come from a criminal family myself (my father was a drug dealer, beaten to death in jail before I was born), one could jump to all sorts of conclusions about me, the least likely being I had no criminal record myself and that I tried to incorporate spinach in my diet at least once a week. (It is high in iron and vitamin C, and by doing so I can skip other vegetables, because in truth I do not care for them.) Besides, one might perceive my “turning a blind eye” to my mother’s illegal procurement of narcotics over the years as a sort of crime.

Regardless, in all truth, I found it difficult to feel any relevant emotion about Mr. Knight’s roots. While I did not approve of Mr. Knight’s past, mind you, I did not feel I was in a position to care.

Furthermore, I was encouraged this was the right way to feel since there was absolutely no evidence of the allegations Sullivan wanted me to investigate. And . . . I suppose, it was my ardent desire that it would remain that way.

So in the end, I decided—no, rather, I realized—I could do nothing. I would proceed and operate under the assumption that Mr. Knight and Knight Enterprises were perfectly legal. Any request Sullivan made of me, I would evaluate and consider carefully, and perhaps find a way to dilly about (an expression my mother used when I was young and disliked a request she had; I have no idea of its origins). Sullivan could not fault me if I failed to accomplish what he wanted or the evidence did not exist; he could have no way of knowing if I was attempting to dilly about.

I kept myself busy throughout the morning with various undertakings. Mr. Knight was out of the office until midday. I worked through his general inbox folder and also set about collecting information about property taxes in various South American countries as per his email request sent at eight a.m. (likely before the workout I’d booked for him the day before with one of his several trainers).

I assumed he was researching the possibility of building a new hotel in South America, and I set about crafting an extensive file. It was the first project he had given me, and I was filled with a sense of purpose and a desire to succeed.

When he returned late afternoon, I was not at my desk. I heard him speaking on the phone as I came in from the washroom and slid into my seat. His voice was smooth, deep bass with a hint of gravel.

At 4:15 p.m., he called me into his office.

“Yes, Mr. Knight?”

“You’re doing a bonzer job with that inbox, Miss Sykes.”

“That’s my job—”

I was about to say
sir
but stopped myself when he aimed those black orbs at me.

“Please, pull up a chair.”

I did so, and readied the company laptop I’d been given for note-taking.

“Are my bookings all set for Thursday and Friday?”

“Yes, I have informed the Melbourne Plaza of your arrival, and their team informed me they will arrange everything as you like it. I asked for a list of your wants for future reference.”

I grew uncomfortable under his gaze. His white pinstriped collared shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his cuffs rolled up. The oddest thought crossed my mind in that moment: him naked, standing before a wardrobe, deciding what to wear. I nearly gasped at my own highly inappropriate speculation and my effort to prevent the gasp resulted in a weird strangled noise.

He stood up and poured me a glass of water from his beverage cart before continuing. “Business associates of mine, from Italy, are blowing in. Seems they want to experience the Great Barrier Reef.”

My pulse sped up as he spoke—no doubt a result of my licentious imagination. Also, perhaps because I do not like embarking on conversations without a clear sense of their purpose. Fortunately, I regained my ability to breathe again, and left the glass untouched on his desk.

“Playing host to a bunch of big-notes is not my idea of fun,” he said.

“I am sorry to hear that.” I wasn’t sorry, actually, as I rarely identify suitable moments for sympathy, and certainly not for a wealthy man complaining about entertaining other wealthy men. But my mother had taught me how to pretend to be sympathetic to others’ suffering even when I deemed it an inappropriate response. My insincere condolences toward her own self-inflicted physical pain gave her no end of consolation.

He sighed and sat back in his chair. “I’ll need you to join me on this trip, Miss Sykes. Next week, Thursday to Saturday.” My heart sped up. A surge of anxiety had me clasping the edges of my laptop. “I’ll leave it to you to book my private charter. We’ll fly in Thursday afternoon. Book a private boat for the reef on Friday, I’ll get you a name. Probably best to use Port Douglas as home base. We’ll also need to book The Bangalow, a perfect executive home near the main drag. If it’s already booked you give them my name and they’ll make room. And for Thursday night make reservations at Harrisons for nine p.m. We’ll sort out Friday night’s grub on the fly.”

“But Mr. Knight, I don’t . . .” I murmured, quickly hitting
save
on my laptop notes before closing the lid. I did not know what to say. I had not expected to travel so soon. But, I
had
agreed to travel.

“Is there a problem?” he asked sternly.

What could I say? For the first time, my rapid-fire brain failed me.

“Don’t you want to see the reef, Miss Sykes? It’s one of the seven natural wonders of the world.”

I was holding my breath and had to remind myself to breathe out. I
did
want to see the reef—and all that Australia had to offer—but in good time. I had only just settled into a new job, I would be moving to a new home tonight and I did not relish the thought of packing up belongings and sleeping in a strange bed, with strange linens, yet again. I would need to find a cat sitter for Miss Moneypenny, although perhaps after moving into our new permanent abode tonight, she would settle in and be okay left on her own for a few nights.

An idea occurred to me, delayed, perhaps because I felt unnerved by my strange reactions to Mr. Knight. When I glanced up, I flushed, suddenly aware of being watched. Only Mr. Knight created this sensation in me, and it wasn’t actually self-consciousness. It was . . . violet and burgundy and fuchsia—a bizarre mixture of colors.

Perhaps it was the result of the way he was watching me: it put some kind of internal mechanism on alert. I was not in danger per se. Yet somehow I felt . . . threatened, but not in a scary way. Oh, it was most irrational.

“I’m sorry to inform you I cannot accompany you as I do not know how to swim.”

His eyelids opened ever so slightly. A smile replaced his frown. Instead of upsetting him, I wondered if this news had perhaps pleased him in some way.

“No worries there, Miss Sykes. Plenty of time to teach you.”

“But—”

“I was a champion surfer in my youth and love to swim. It’s why I’ve got my own private lap pool out back.” He motioned to his garden that his office led out to. “We’ll start on the weekend, Saturday morning.”

I took a breath and stretched my fingers, stiff from clutching my laptop.

“Mr. Knight, are you suggesting that
you
will teach me to swim?”

“Who else? Miss Sykes, I made it clear that travel was part of the job. If the only thing keeping you from seeing the reef, a once in a lifetime experience, is learning to swim, it’s an easy enough fix.”

I pursed my lips. He was right; however, I did not wish him to be. I find these moments the most vexing of all social interactions. “Do you mind if I think about it?”

“You’ll be doing me a massive favor,” he added softly. I flushed again, and instead of withdrawing inside myself to find out the source of it, I ignored it. It was clear something was on the fritz in me. I would have to consult the Internet.

“Of course. I will accompany you as agreed upon in our contract. But . . . perhaps I could skip the reef part. Teaching me to swim is above and beyond the call of duty. And I would not wish to dilute your enjoyment of it, as one week is hardly enough time to enable me to be comfortable in the water. I thought perhaps you would need me to travel with you to sort out problems on trips,” I added, unable to keep the resentful tone at bay. “I wasn’t aware you wanted me to accompany you on activities.”

He had stood up and walked around his desk as I was talking. I was forced to stare up at him.

“We call them work perks, Miss Sykes. Ask around. It’s a point of pride for me that my employees feel appreciated and . . . special.”

I cleared my throat.

What on earth? No. I checked again. No. I was not mistaken. Mr. Knight’s deep-throated remark had triggered a sexual response in me. Panicked, I tried to ignore it.

I did
not
wish to be attracted to my boss.

I glanced into his face. “You do know what work perks are, don’t you, Miss Sykes?”

“Yes, of course. But I have not done anything worth rewarding or recognizing yet.” I tried one last time.

He put up a hand. “I can’t be arguing with my offsider over perks. I think even you’ll agree with me on that score.” His cell phone rang. “Saturday morning. Nine a.m. Bring your cozzie,” he ordered before answering his cell and standing in front of a window with his back to me.

I had no choice but to leave. Back at my desk, I googled “cozzie.” Swimsuit, of course.

I had not agreed to this perk, I stewed, and thus, I reasoned I could refuse to show up on those grounds. But as much satisfaction as contemplating such an action gave me, deep down I knew better. No matter how much I desired it to, life did not follow clear contractual rules. No. Life is full of one-sided expectations one would rather ignore. Determining when to decline, and how that would impact a social bond, was beyond my capability—better to simply live up to them all. Mr. Knight expected me to learn how to swim so that I could better enjoy one of his job perks, therefore I must allow it. He was incredibly selfish.

However, I tried to generate a more positive emotion toward Mr. Knight, especially after I arrived at my new Pyrmont apartment after work. (The key had been delivered via interoffice mail.) The Plaza concierge had indeed collected my belongings, including Miss Moneypenny, while I was at work, as per Mr. Knight’s relocation expert’s instructions, and deposited them in the foyer of the one-bedroom suite.

Miss Moneypenny darted toward me the minute I stepped inside, which made me feel pink. She was like a dog in her affections: expressing them with proximity. “Hello, Miss Moneypenny,” I said, rubbing her wonderfully soft fur, allowing her and myself a moment of shared affection. I had greatly missed her presence in my bed at night these long weeks, and looked forward to a second night’s sleep with her cuddled into me.

Movement caught my eye. I stood up quickly.

“Howya doin’,” said a short, tiny woman, perhaps late twenties, with auburn-dyed hair and a pleasant face, peering around the hall. “Jenny Williams, Knight Enterprises’ relocation expert. I wanted to see you settled in, and meet the boss’s new pearler.”

Perturbed—as I am at anything unanticipated—I decided this was not worth getting upset over. I took her hand, acknowledging just how tiny she was; she could not have been more than five feet tall.

She was smiling, but B told me to beware of overly friendly people. I wondered if this was an instance.

“What do you mean by ‘pearler’?”

“Too right. Mr. Knight’s never housed one of his assistants before. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“The term ‘housed’ is wholly inaccurate,” I informed her. “I am paying rent for this apartment.”

“Right,” she snorted. Her eyes narrowed on my no-doubt confused face. “Yeah, right, I know,” she added.

I was not in the mood to sort through yet another baffling social encounter. Desiring to see my new home, instead, I stepped around her and through the modern galley kitchen, pleased at the sensation that the furnishings created. I touched my first stove, my first microwave, my first dining table—small, round, poly-coated metal. I wandered into the living area, more than satisfied with the space. A white leather tufted sofa sat against the wall, across from a large flat screen TV, with a floating soft gray, shiny cabinet beneath. An oversized red lounger was parked in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, presenting a spectacular view of the ocean and a corner of Darling Harbour.