The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (8 page)

Ten minutes later, after navigating the Plaza’s hectic lobby area (a tour bus full of guests was departing for the outback) and traversing through the adjoining corridor to reach the offices, I saw Mr. Knight had left his double office doors ajar. I took a deep breath and knocked lightly. When I did not hear a response, I pushed them open.

The room was empty. I moved to the windows, and, as the porch doors were similarly ajar, I ventured out into his garden. The pathway was what might be described as a verdant paradise, composed of tall, thick, high tropical trees and shrubbery, which stood watch over a much shorter white flowering genus that ran along the cobblestones. It was the same garden style featured in the Plaza’s public pool area.

I greatly appreciated the work that had gone into it. I had once tried to plant flowers outside our trailer in Niagara Falls. They had not made it through the summer. I suspected our neighbor’s poodle had urinated on them, but I never obtained the proof necessary to make an accusation.

I heard someone splashing before I turned the bend in the path. A moment later I took in a long, narrow, azure lap pool. Mr. Knight was swimming, of course. I headed toward the two lounge chairs at the end and sat on the edge of one with my satchel on my lap.

I could do this. Certainly I could do this. One hour—tops. I would simply listen and apply his advice. I had motor skills. And above average spatial reasoning. My high school guidance counselor even recommended air traffic control as a potential vocation, for Pete’s sake—

Mr. Knight’s head popped up at my end of the pool. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Charlie?” His black close-cropped hair glistened with water.

“I suppose, Mr. Knight.” I was unsettled he had used my first name. It was unprofessional enough that we were here on a Saturday.

“Glad you’re here,” he added, heaving himself out of the pool using his strong arms.

“Strong” was perhaps too weak a word for his torso. In fact, the words that came to mind were a favorite of B’s: holy hotness. My breath grew shallow for all that glistening, bronzed, musculoskeletal perfection—because to be certain, this man and his trainers had identified every last substructure and worked it out to attain the ideal amount of strength and presence. Furthermore, his black swim trunks clung to him to such an extent that his penis was distinguishable: I estimated five inches long, positioned downward to the left. I wondered if it was erect, since
Cosmopolitan
magazine said the average penis size,
erect
, is 5.57 inches. No, his couldn’t be erect right now, I realized, since B said an erect penis points straight ahead or up. In that case, stunned, I wondered what the average distended penis length was based on the flaccid length. Was there a mathematical formula for that? Perhaps I would google that, strictly for research purposes. Above his genitalia, emerging from his trunks, was a line of black hair that led up to his belly button, though the rest of his chest was bare.

He was standing in front of me. When I glanced into his eyes, they were alight. “Everything alright, Charlie?”

“Yes. Fine.” I stewed in my own outrage. He was clearly inappropriately dressed. “Do you have a shirt you can put on?”

His brows knitted together though he wore a large smile. “Why would I do that?”

“As a professional courtesy.”

“Charlie, you won’t learn anything if you don’t have the right attitude,” he scolded me gently, sitting down beside me on the lounger. I glanced over. He was still smiling. Long, shapely forearms (and biceps!) casually draped over his knees, elbows open to the side, he wiped away the water trickling down his face.

“You don’t need to teach me anything, technically,” I told him, unable to control the resentful tone in my voice. “I know all the motions one must make to be buoyant and move in water.”

His eyebrows shot up. “But you said you didn’t know how to swim!”

“Yes, well, it was a partial truth. My mother started me out in lessons, but we were unable to finish. So I have solid grounding in theoretical knowledge.” (Which, in fact, I had brushed up on in advance of the flight to Australia in case we crash-landed in the ocean). “I lack the practical application.” I hugged my satchel to me.

“Why’s that?” he asked quietly.

I took a moment, resentful I was forced to provide this humiliating confession.

“Because I was too frightened during the first experience, when I had to put my head under the water, to continue. My mother was unable to assist me further as my dislike of water rather overwhelmed her, which was perfectly understandable.”

There. I had clarified things. Perhaps he would abandon the task now that he knew the parameters.

“Do you miss your mother?”

I glared at him, quickly, flashing back on the now perfectly still pool. Why would he ask such a question?

“That’s a very personal question, Mr. Knight.”

“Yes, it is.” His voice thrummed—literally. It was like a didgeridoo. One of the first things I did upon arriving in Australia was go to a live musical event featuring the didgeridoo. I am fascinated by music, all kinds, and in my free time marvel at the poetry of its mathematical foundations.

He had not said another word, and, it would seem, required an answer.

“I am unsure as to whether I should answer that truthfully, Mr. Knight.”

He chuckled, and I took in his amused face. Up close, he had a perfect matching set of dimples.

“Ah, God, you’re such a pleasure, Charlie, I gotta say.”

I felt myself flush, and then, experienced a second unsettling sensation of flushing further, simply because I had been flushing in the first place. Ridiculous.

“Piece of advice: next time you think about lying, don’t give warning.”

I was forced to smile. I nodded. “You are right. That was silly.”

He waited for the answer. “The truth is . . . I don’t miss her as much as I should.”

It had been weighing on me terribly that I had missed Miss Moneypenny, while she was in quarantine, more than I missed my mother. I reasoned that that was because our cat was alive, whereas what was the point of longing for the impossible? It hurt, physically, to do so, somewhere, near the heart, in the solar plexus.

I glanced into his eyes, wondering how he might take this news. In my experience, people say they want the truth, but often don’t like it.

“I understand fully, Charlie.” Relieved, I resumed relaxed breathing. “Family is both a strength and a weakness,” he added, gritting his teeth and staring off into the distance.

I wondered what family he spoke of, since I had thought he was an orphan. But we were already compromising our professional integrity by simply being here, so I said, “That is a very apt observation, Mr. Knight.”

“Why don’t you call me Jace. Just for today,” he added quickly. “I’m about to help you get over your greatest fear, Charlie. Surely that warrants us being on a first-name basis.”

“Water is not my greatest fear, Jace.”

“Oh. What is?”

“You first,” I said, attempting to irritate him with a question for a question. However, he seemed . . . amused.

Confusing.

“Loneliness,” he answered baldly, placing his hands on his knees, sitting up.

“Really? I would not have expected that Mr.—I mean, Jace.”

“Not many do,” he said in his deep, even-toned voice. “People assume wealth’s a potion for all kinds of things, like friendship and love. It’s actually a pretty nasty poison. Takes a strong heart to withstand real power, Charlie.”

I glanced into his eyes and they hugged mine, holding us both on a tightrope even though I was teetering madly.

“So, what’s your greatest fear, then?” he asked finally, releasing me.

“Failure,” I answered readily, having identified it at the age of six when I was informed I did not play house correctly by one of the many children who had come and gone from the CrissCross trailer park. “I need to succeed in all things.”

“Why are you smiling?” I heard myself ask. I’d never asked anyone about the meaning behind their facial expressions, frankly, preferring not to bother. But with Mr. Knight, I cared very much in that moment.

“Because there are two kinds of folks in this world. Those who are shit-scared of death, and those who are shit-scared of failure. I prefer the latter.” He stood up and reached out a hand. “So, are you ready to succeed at swimming, Charlie?”

I put my satchel on the ground, took his hand and rose up, anxiety swelling in me. “Just so you are aware, Mr.—Jace. I do not perform well in high-pressure, time-intensive situations. My brain is hardwired such that it requires gentle exposure to new undertakings. I tell you this in case you are among those who believe in a trial-by-fire learning approach.”

“Good to know. We’ll start off slow. Take off your dress, assuming you’ve got your cozzie on underneath.” He eyed me, speculatively. “And sit on the edge of the pool with your legs in the water.” He dove in, creating a perfect arc. I spotted something on his back, scars of some kind, and made a mental note to examine them later. I pulled my jersey dress up and over my head as Mr. Knight’s head emerged from the water. He cleared his eyes of moisture and watched me walk to the edge.

It was baffling to me why my face was red (again, no less). My mind shot off on an awkward tangent, daring to wonder if he approved of what he saw.

I am certain my white skin reflected enough sunlight to short a satellite in space. (That was the downside to reduced cancer risk.) However, I reassured myself it was unusually smooth, my legs were lean, my stomach flat, my waist narrow, and my breasts above average in size. I had compared my physical form to women in magazine ads and found nothing to be ashamed of.

I bent down, resting my bottom on the edge, and winced at the sensation of water soaking into my suit. Slowly, I swung my legs around and eased them into the pool. The line tickled where the water merged with air, just below my knees, while my submerged calves and feet begged for release.

“Breathe, Charlie.”

I found the source of the voice, opening my eyes—Mr. Knight’s face—in the soup of dangerous fluid. Right. I exhaled the breath I had not realized I was holding. I could do this. After all, he was in the water, and it was not mistreating him. He swam closer and grabbed onto the edge.

“How does it feel?”

“Angry.”

“Angry? Why do you say that?”

“Because there is increasing evidence that water is not just inert molecules,” I explained quickly. “It acts outside all known laws of physical nature. For example, hot water freezes quicker than cold water. It can create a membrane to suspend things that are denser than it. And recently, German researchers have shown it is capable of things such as memory. In fact, while less established, it may even have consciousness and therefore intent. And given how we are polluting our planet I cannot help but think it will have malicious intent—”

“Miss Sykes!” I caught my breath. “Supposing all that’s true, how is thinking it helping you?”

I stewed on that for a moment. “You are correct. It is not useful. I will try to block that out of my mind.”

“Good, because you’re giving me the skeebies. Now, first, you’ll tread water. Do you remember how to do that? You kick your feet about and move your arms out like this.” He had moved away from the wall in order to demonstrate. My breathing was shallow so I began taking deep, long inhalations.

“Are you alright, Charlie?”

“Yes. No. I am not certain I can fully submerge myself.”

“Well, you won’t have to just yet. I’ll stay near you, I’ll be right here, and I won’t let anything happen to you, ay. When you’re ready.”

Some time passed while he waited.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said again.

I fought strenuously to embrace the notion that would send the appropriate communication from my brain to my body, and for a moment, felt certain I was ready, but caution won out.

“Charlie, you’ll need to get into the water. I’m right here. Just feel it for a minute, and I’ll put you back on the edge, can you do that? Charlie! Look at me!”

I found his eyes, and they held mine fast. He repeated what he had just said. He was right in front of my legs, and grasped them.

“Don’t rush me!” I protested.

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” he said, tightening his grip. “I’ve got ya, that’s it, I’ll take you in slowly,” he said, and, before I realized what was happening, he was gently pulling me forward.

I panicked, and then panicked doubly when he pulled me right off the edge. My body—suffocating in fast-rising water—stiffened. My hands clutched his head, and, for an awkward moment, I bent over, but he managed to slide me down. My breasts muffled his face momentarily, but I couldn’t focus on that, as the water reached my neck. I heard myself whimper.

“Charlie! Look at me.”

I did as he asked, but he was too close to focus on properly.

“Breathe.”

I was nearly hyperventilating.

I tried to steady myself.

“See. I’ve got you.”

He did, I realized. Or, rather, I had him.

I was clinging to him like I assumed Titanic survivors had clung to refuge.

“Quit thrashing about or we’ll both go under.”

Instantly, I quit moving. I would not be so silly as to jeopardize my only salvation.

“There,” he said gruffly. “You’re floating.”

I briefly let go of the commotion in my brain and felt my own weightlessness as he pushed me away gently while maintaining a strong grip.

“I am!” I whispered shakily. “I have never got this far before!”

“Ace. Right, now think about how safe you are. How pleasant the water feels, and how it supports your body.”

I thought about his words. And then, after a moment, I felt the levity, which is what I think he wanted.

It hit me then, that I did feel safe. He made me feel that way. There was no other explanation. We shared a smile. “Now I’m going to help you rest your head back, not all the way, just dip it back, and I’ll hold you.”

I would have protested, but I ranked professionalism above personal safety. Plus, I was anxious to comply so I could get out of the water as soon as humanly possible. I nodded.