The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (7 page)

Standing there, a negative sensation I could not identify fell down on me.

Oh.

“This apartment is valued at more than twelve-hundred dollars a month.” I stated this as I turned to Jenny, who was watching me across the short kitchen bar.

“Three thousand, if they book three months or longer,” she said avidly.

I blanched. “I cannot afford that, even with Mr. Knight’s generous salary.” While perhaps technically I could just (I quickly calculated my expenses), I would never dream of spending so much on an apartment, and especially not since I wished to save for college.

Jenny’s sparse eyebrows shot up in her forehead. “Mr. Knight?”

I grew confused. “Yes, that is who arranged this, and who owns the building.”

“Uh . . .” Jenny stared at me, two lines formed between her over-plucked brows. “Right. Yeah. Mr. Knight. I mean, you don’t call him Jace?”

“I cannot justify this expense. I will email Mr. Knight right now. Perhaps he has a smaller apartment. Unfurnished. Miss Moneypenny, my mother and I fared quite well in less than four hundred square feet of space for years.”

I headed back through the other entrance to the hallway to retrieve my satchel, while Jenny backtracked through the kitchen to meet me, eyes wide open. “Wait,” she said, and added, “You cracked? You’re going to turn down this place? I mean I thought . . . given the chinwag, but . . .”

I stared at her, phone in my hand. She had that look on her face: skepticism. But there was something else—confusion.

I, too, was confused. I needed B’s advice badly to sort this matter out. However, she would be asleep right now. Perhaps . . . could I rely on this Jenny? She was Mr. Knight’s head of relocation and travel services, after all.

“Please, can you help me? Do you think it is appropriate to pay twelve hundred dollars a month for a three-thousand-dollar apartment? Someone else pointed out to me that it was not commonplace for an employer to make such a provision. I would greatly appreciate any advice you could provide, with no fallout should it be incorrect, of course. I find identifying the right course of action in certain situations, such as this one . . .” How best to explain . . . “Well, it eludes me at times.”

Jenny’s expression was one I had seen before. She uttered the word “Strewth.”

I am not without feelings, and there are times when this continual repeated disconnect from everyone and everything takes a toll. Here I had expressed my vulnerability to her. Should I not have asked for her help? If not, why not? I would never know.

“Never mind,” I said quietly. “I will call Mr. Knight.”

Jenny’s small face, with features that best suited the description
perky
, seemed to come to life.

“Bugger me,” she whispered. “No, no. Now, come in here, let’s sit down.” She took my arm rather possessively and moved us into the kitchen. “Uh, why don’t you pull up a chair?” I did as she asked, taking a stool on the other side of the peninsula.

She searched the cupboards. I wondered if she was one of those kinds of energetic people—always on the go. Frustrated, she eyed the bottle of champagne on the counter. “You mind if we open the welcome champers?”

“Help yourself,” I said.

I watched her open it, search for two glasses, and pour one for each of us. She passed one to me.

“Up your bum!” she said, tapping glasses with mine before gulping back hers.

What a strange toast. I truly had come to a strange land.

I took a sip and eyed my tiny acquaintance. She had freckles all over and lovely amber eyes which almost matched her hair. She came around to my side of the bar and took a stool.

“Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself, Charlie.”

I frowned. “Is that necessary in order to get your advice on this apartment matter?”

She froze, and then laughed, a sharp, high sound.

“Yeah, I reckon it is.”

I filled her in on my background, running through a brief chronology. She was very quiet when I was done.

“You know, it’s not the first time I’ve heard of someone moving here because of that fuckin’ movie.”

This surprised me, the fact that others had been so motivated by the movie, and I said so. She shrugged.

“Perhaps, you would like to provide similar details about yourself. I am curious about your history,” I added with sincerity. It had occurred to me that given we were around the same age and worked at the same company, we could become friends.

“Not much to tell.” She appeared embarrassed but I was not certain I had read the emotion correctly. “Worked for Knight after a few years out of uni. Spent a year traveling the world, but who hasn’t?”

She flushed then, glancing at me . . . Oh, perhaps because I was an exception to her statement. She drank back another full glass and topped up mine.

Regardless of her presence, I was surprised how relaxed I felt in this apartment, and watched as Miss Moneypenny sat on the oversized chaise, perusing the harbor. I was rather in need of calling some place home, I realized.

“So, do you think it is somehow inappropriate for me to take this apartment?” I asked with more emotion than intended.

“Do you mind me asking a personal question?” she answered after a moment. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her question-answer, appreciating instead the advance warning.

“No. Not if it will help.”

She smiled at me. “Have you ever been in a relationship?”

When I stared at her, uncertain what type of relationship she meant, she added, “With a bloke? A boyfriend?”

I shook my head.

Of course, I recognized that at twenty-four, I was an anomaly. “I never had time,” I attempted to explain. “Watching my mother and working to feed us was a full-time job.” Thinking back on it, slightly removed as it were by location and time, I suppose I had not had to sacrifice quite so much, as B often pointed out. I could have carved out time to focus on a personal life despite my mother’s handicap. But . . . one cannot change the past, I decided with certainty—fed up with my doubtfulness. My caregiving had succeeded in ensuring more pink for both myself and for my mother. I would choose to believe we were both better off for my efforts.

“Yeah, I get that. But surely you went out occasionally. To root, you know. A girl’s gotta fuck.”

And people say
I
am blunt. I liked this Jenny, I decided. I experienced a nice bright aqua. I frowned and shook my head. “I am hoping to meet someone here who is a good match, though,” I told her. “Are you considering setting me up with someone?”

She shook her head, never taking her eyes off me, appearing to swallow hard. “So you’re not some distant niece or a mate of a mate of Mr. Knight’s he’s doing a favor for?”

I shook my head. “I assume these questions are necessary to help you provide advice?”

“Yeah. He crack onto you? You know, ah . . .” She eyed me with that skeptic look. “Touch you inappropriately, make comments about you that imply he’d like to root, that sort of thing?”

“No. Not at all. He has been nothing but professional.” I told her about telling him how the relationship would remain strictly professional.

She laughed, much the same way as Sullivan, with great mirth and disbelief, only hers came with something else—a respect, perhaps—which helped me get past the indignation of being laughed at.

“Well then. He knows where he stands. Good on ya!” She toasted my glass again. “You’re no drongo, are you? You had me a bit worried there, Charlie,” she added, smiling . . . relieved.

She winked at me.

Uh-oh, a sign of collusion. For what? I fretted.

I smiled back, as it was clearly necessary to do so.

“So, what about the apartment?” I asked. She had never answered my question.

“Crikey, keep it! You just said he knows where he stands.”

Oh. So . . . she
had
believed he’d given it to me for sex. It would seem Mr. Knight had not done himself any favors regarding his reputation with women. I already knew that was not his motive for providing the apartment, and so wrote off getting any clearer insight from Jenny on the matter. For now I would simply accept circumstances.

I listened politely as Jenny chatted on about people at Knight Enterprises, sharing some gossip from her department, dearly wishing she would leave so I could unpack and familiarize myself with my new home and surroundings. (I needed to pick up groceries and watch today’s episode of E!News on my phone.)

When Jenny invited me to eat lunch with her and her colleagues the next day, I accepted, rising up out of my chair. “I’m going to have to square them up about you, too.” Her parting words were: “You keep him wrapped tight around your finger.”

A few hours later, when I knew B would be awake, I called her. She explained that Jenny had misunderstood my strength of female persuasion with Mr. Knight, but cautioned that I should not enlighten Jenny or her friends as she sounded like a gossipy windbag. She added that the better Jenny thought of me, the better off I would be. When I mentioned that I had accomplished this high opinion through no calculation, and could therefore not replicate it, B said to just keep on being myself (which provided no clarity whatsoever). B did, however, say that if accepting the apartment bothered me (she thought long and hard on this, it seemed to me), there was nothing wrong with me staying there until I found a more affordable option.

I did not inform B about the Sullivan Blaise date, or his demand for my espionage services in exchange for continued residency, since there was nothing B could do. And knowing her reaction to any threat on my safety, I felt it best to protect her from such knowledge. She was deep in student loan debt, constantly overspending, or so it seemed (I found it odd how occupied she was with money), and was the type of person who would not hesitate to put five thousand dollars for a plane ticket on her line of credit to rescue me. Also, I was managing, somewhat successfully, to pretend it had never happened.

I did, however, mention to her that I was having unsettling sensations in the proximity of Mr. Knight—and attempted to describe the colors. B said I was clearly hot for him, but provided no relief when she added that, “Horniness isn’t a handicap, Charlie. You just need to get some!” I assumed matters would be taken care of when I found myself an eligible bachelor and began dating.

After catching up on her plans for the day, I wrapped up the call, asking about the job perk Mr. Knight was thrusting on me. B said she thought it was a good thing Mr. Knight was teaching me how to swim, as, and I quote her, “Visiting the Barrier Reef is an incredible opportunity.” She surprised me, greatly, as over the years I had developed a guide for reading B’s tonal variations, and, while her approval had been sincere, it was mirthful.

When I questioned her on this, she denied it. Confusion should be my middle name.

Saturday morning I woke up at seven a.m. like clockwork, and longed for the ability to sleep in. Perhaps I could have slept through Mr. Knight’s swim lessons. That seemed a legitimate mistake to make.

Alas, there was no suitable way to avoid it. On Thursday evening, from Melbourne, he had emailed a number of diagrams and pointers and told me to read them thoroughly.

I ate my breakfast of yogurt parfait and a side of turkey bacon while reading a selection of online newspapers. Miss Moneypenny loves Saturdays because I always give her a sodium- and fat-laden treat. It had been more than three weeks for her, so I gave her an extra tidbit.

We were both rather enamored with our new apartment, never having had so much room, or modern furnishings. This past week, I had organized a few outings after work to choose personal touches, such as a throw pillow, a vase for my paper flowers (I am an origami addict), a bath towel and a placemat for under Miss Moneypenny’s food dishes. My financial situation was not ideal (though I had seen worse), and I was counting the days to my first pay.

On the whole, my work week had been uneventful. I met Jenny’s friends, three women who gave me a cool reception and chose not to engage me over our sandwiches. I even resorted to attempting to initiate conversation. Jenny apologized later, said it was an “Oz bitch attitude thing” and invited me to a movie on Sunday. I agreed.

Unable to postpone the inevitable “job perk experience,” I had a quick shower in order to shave. B had reminded me, rather needlessly, not to forget to shave before my swim lesson. (There were times when B’s treatment of me is not unlike a parent’s. I try to overlook it as she is a very devoted friend.)

I dressed in my one-piece bright blue swimsuit, not heeding B’s proclamation that one-pieces are for Frigidaires.

Bikinis are only for sunbathing. I do not sunbathe. And frankly, it is one of the most irrational activities humans do. Consider for a moment what aliens, landing on Earth, might make of a species that strips off clothing, rubs itself in oil and places itself directly under exposure of harmful UV rays, thus increasing risk of skin cancer threefold?

I slathered on SPF 50. While I usually apply eye makeup to draw out the black circles around my light gray irises (a girl at the Buffalo Macy’s makeup counter showed me how), it would be silly to do so when it would simply smear in the water.

A wave of nerves thrummed through me, originating in my gut and spreading out through my hands. Water. One of the most dangerous elements on Earth. How would I prevail? Had I not endured enough testing of my resilience by moving here? Would it never end?

I took a deep breath and shouted “Hooroo!” into the apartment, a common Australian slang way of saying goodbye.

Miss Moneypenny did not even look back at me. She was pouting by the window. I could relate, completely.

I set out toward the Sydney Plaza with my satchel, trying not to feel gray by enjoying my surrounds. The area, mostly downtown business offices, hotels, and residences, was relatively quiet. A few locals, tourist couples and solo business travelers, could be seen out exercising or grabbing coffee. It was a typical Sydney morning—dewy pavement and slightly-off seawater melded into a unique urban scent. The sun was so high and bright (as a result of falling on the Tropic of Capricorn line) it made your eyes hurt.