The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (4 page)

Just outside his door, finally removing his hand, he asked, “How’ya settling in, Miss Sykes?”

“Somewhat.”

I realized he was hoping for more information, so I told him I expected to feel much better after picking up Miss Moneypenny tonight. “Most people think it is silly to be attached to an animal,” I added, rather needlessly, surprising myself for doing so. I suppose I did not want Mr. Knight to think less of me.

“I had a dog, Miss Sykes. One of my best mates. I understand fully, especially after what you’ve been through.” He put his hands in his pockets, and once again I was struck by how young he appeared for such an illustrious businessman. Perhaps young was not the right word. Vital. Yes, he was vital. I took in his piercing dark eyes and heard my heart thump loud. Wait—he had said
especially after what I’d been through
.

“I do not understand. What do you mean?”

“Miss Sykes, all my new employees get full-on look-overs.” His full lips pursed momentarily. “I’m sorry for the recent loss of your mother.”

Red rushed into my cheeks, and I glanced away.

What had his background check found on me and my mother? Her arrests? Our welfare checks? Our former address? I withdrew, searching inside to find my emotion.

Bitter . . . metallic silver . . . resentment.

I wanted a fresh start.

“I moved here to start new, so I would rather my past remain in the past, Mr. Knight.” I stared at his neck, right above where his shirt button was undone.

“Of course, Miss Sykes. I know that feeling better than anyone.”

I glanced in his eyes then, and felt my own widen at the emotion they held. Anxiety swelled. This was perilously close to being outside of professional territory, I suspected. I crossed my arms over my chest, glanced away and back again.

I longed for a phone app that I could point at someone’s face to discern emotion.

Perhaps . . . perhaps he wished for me to inquire further as to his meaning. But I was eager to end this train of conversation.

A soft smile came and went. “Let’s have that meeting about my schedule now.”

I breathed easier.

“Another thing,” he added, and my breath hitched. What was wrong with me? “My head of HR tells me you’re shacked up at a short-term-stay hotel?”

“Yes, that is correct.” I did not bother to attempt to speculate where this might be going, as I find there is simply no way to work out where people’s minds will go. It is rather like a maze with no entry point or exit.

He remained silent, indicating he wished for more information. Unsure what was appropriate, I offered, “It is proving challenging to find an apartment that is affordable, or a roommate who is agreeable.” David Stemper had not called me back after I had broached the non-fraternization roommate policy over the weekend. B said that is why I shouldn’t have said anything; I beg to differ—
point proven
.

“Well, we can’t have you struggling to find a home, Miss Sykes, can we? I’ve got a lot of events ahead, and I’ll need you spot on. Why don’t you shift over to one of my Pyrmont units? It’s a short walk to the Plaza.”

Feeling curious, perhaps even hopeful, my eyes skidded over his flat, high cheekbones, refined nose and into those eyes. He was watching me carefully, perhaps more so than I had come to acknowledge as usual in my short time under his employment.

My brain worked through his offer: namely, it seemed like an ideal solution. (My goodness, Australian men were very generous of spirit.) So, why was I hesitating?

“That’s very kind, but—”

“No worries about cost,” he said quickly, though that was a worry. “I keep a few empty year-round for guests and write them off.”

I could find no clear reason for my hesitation. We had both clearly stipulated that fraternization was not acceptable.

“I would insist on paying rent, of course. My budget is no more than $1,200 a month.” I had worked this out based on my salary, current apartment costs and the need to save money for university.

“Of course, Miss Sykes, and as it happens, that’s right on par. I’ll let bookings know. They’ll set you up this arvo. You can move in tomorrow after work,” he added, heading into his office.

I trailed after him with my laptop, identifying the source of my hesitation. His kindness, it had me feeling what might best be described as
imposed upon
. But how could that be? That did not make any sense. I would have to check with B.

• • •

“She’ll come out on her own, Charlie,” said Sullivan, behind me.

I was on all fours, peering under the extended-stay motel bed. I had been calling to Miss Moneypenny for some time, but it was clear she was not planning to forgive me. She’d scampered out of her cage the minute we arrived back at my motel room and went straight for a hiding spot. Putting myself in her “paws,” I was understanding, given the perceived torture she had been through.

I glanced around. Sullivan was staring at my backside. When our eyes met, my stomach flipped. He was sexually attracted to me, of that I could be sure. I sat back on my heels, stood up beside the bed and clasped my hands together.

“She’ll come around,” he said.

“I hope you are right.” I sighed deeply, pleased that at any rate Miss Moneypenny was back safely in my care.

“Why don’t you grab a bite?” he added. We had picked up pizza on the way back and the aroma filled up the tiny room. I sat on the edge of the bed, near where Sullivan had pulled over the room’s one desk chair.

I thought about what I knew of this man as he sipped a beer, eyeing me eating my slice. In the car ride to the quarantine facility, he said he worked in Mr. Knight’s security division, which, I felt, explained his on-alert state. He was always observing, watching his surroundings. I suppose that vigilance was especially important for effective security employees at the Plaza Casino.

It struck me how unconventional this date was turning out to be, and especially that we were in my room. I almost asked him if he had the wrong impression, but then applied B’s universal situation advice, which was to stop and think before asking any question.
Is it something you really need to know the answer to?
she had advised me to ask myself.

“I am greatly relieved I will no longer have to eat sitting in bed,” I said instead, after swallowing another bite. Sullivan swallowed his own mouthful, watching me from the desk chair. The air-conditioning was adequate but I could still feel moisture in the air.

“Oh, yeah, why’s that?”

“Mr. Knight has offered to let me stay in his Pyrmont condo complex. I am moving there tomorrow evening.”

I felt those blue eyes on me, and sensed an unsaid burn.

“Did he, then,” he muttered.

Sullivan’s tone held hidden meaning. I loathed the frenetic silence between us, its mystery. “Sullivan, I am not the kind of person who reads between the proverbial lines. If you have something you want me to know, you need to state it.”

He leaned forward. “Alright. You don’t think it’s off, him just givin’ you one of his deluxe condos?”

Clearly he was not aware of the arrangement’s details. “I am paying rent.”

He stared at me long and hard.

I did not know what to say.

“Fuckin’ ’ell,” he muttered, startling me. I knew it would take some getting used to—Australians’ flagrant use of cuss words—but there was something else in his tone that set me on edge, though I could not say what.

“You know he uses temp agencies like a dating agency, right?” He appeared . . . angry. “His last assistant chucked a wobbly when he sacked her,” he said. “I had to escort her out.”

He rubbed his hands on a napkin. I glanced into his blue eyes appraising me. He had changed his mind: he did not like me. No. Perhaps he did not like himself—he shook his head, and said, opening his hands out and up, “Reckoned you needed to hear the truth. I’m thinking you’re not so good at sorting that out either.”

I eyed Sullivan Blaise—a new perspective was beginning to form.

“For your information, I did arrive at that conclusion myself,” I said, in turn, emotion rising up in me. “And I informed Mr. Knight in the job interview we would not be having coitus, ever.”

Sullivan stared at me for a minute, before bursting out laughing.

My cheeks flooded with blood.

He was being rude.

“Strewth! You did, didn’t ya?” He laughed some more.

I greatly wished him gone at that point, and began to run through ways to ask him to leave. When he had finished expressing his mirth, he asked, “And just what did he say to that?”

Pleased that I could show this man my actions had not been laughable, I told him proudly, “Mr. Knight asked me if I would like my chastity preserved in the employment contract.”

“Chastity?” Sullivan said, eyebrows raised.

I nodded.

He stared wide-eyed at me, cleared his throat, and shook his head. “Bloody ’ell,” he muttered, drinking half his beer in one gulp. His eyes roved over me in a different way, though how, precisely, I could not say.

Sullivan was not amused anymore. In fact, I could not be sure, but something major had changed in the energy, if there is such a thing. He pushed the beer aside, leaned forward, and clasped his hands between his wide-open legs.

“Chastity,” he said, shaking his head.

I frowned.

“Are you dinky-di or what? Tell me something. You’re not capable of lying, are ya?”

“Uh . . . ” I hesitated. What an odd question. “Yes, yes, I can lie. I just don’t do it very well.” In truth, I had encountered few occasions when it had been necessary. “I suppose it is like anything else. One needs practice to be a good liar.”

He snorted.

I was certain I no longer understood the context of our conversation. He had called me a name (dinky-di) I had never heard before.

“I think it would be best if you—”

“Bloody oath, this changes things, Charlie. Speeds them up, really.”

I stared at him much the same way he was staring at me, with skepticism. He was speaking riddles.

“What do you mean, speeds things up?”

He scoured my face, as if searching for an answer to a silent question.

“You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what’s going on, do you? It’s like stealing a bloody loaf of bread. I’d call you drongo but I know your IQ.”

My eyes flashed wide at his harsh tone, and I felt my stomach drop. His entire body language had grown aggressive. How . . . how could he know my IQ?

Nausea sucked the air out of my lungs as the situation suddenly became clear. I had let a man, with significantly more muscle mass than myself, into my room. He had been deceiving me, with kindness, flirtation and . . . and mesmerizing eyes, and now the real man, a mean, rude . . . predator had been revealed!

What did he want? Why was he here, if not to get to know me better?

I did the only thing logic dictated: I rose up and dashed for the door.

In my mind, flashing orange lights screeched red as his large body slammed up against mine halfway to the exit.

I tried to scream but his hand clamped over my mouth.

I squirmed but his body was more than twice the size of mine, and his strength, well, simply much, much greater than mine. He lifted me effortlessly back over to the bed and crushed me down into the mattress on my stomach.

I thought of everything poor Miss Moneypenny had had to endure and writhed violently in agonized horror.

It was some time of strained thrashing before I heard the perpetrator saying my name over and over. Drained of energy, dizzy from cortisol and adrenaline, I had absolutely no choice but to relax in his hold—perhaps a worse sensation than being caught.

I had to give up
.

“There you go. Bloody ’ell. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m ASIS,” he grunted. “Australian Secret Intelligence Service.”

I could feel the perpetrator’s rapid breathing on the side of my face that was not squished into the mattress, and I grew aware of his body pressing down on mine. My dress had been pushed right up. His arms were wrapped around my body, underneath, pinning mine in place. My mind fought through the sludge. Australian. Secret. Intelligence. Service.

“I’m not going to hurt you, ay?” he whispered in my ear. “I shouldn’t’ve scared you like that. Now I’m going to get off you, and explain this. We need your help. There’s nothing more to it. Fair enough?”

I tried to nod into the bed frame.

“There’s a good girl. I’m going to get off. Just flip around and stay calm.”

He did as he said, and, beyond relieved to no longer be dominated in such a manner, I quickly pulled down my dress before turning over. I wormed over and got my feet back on the floor, sitting stiffly on the very edge of the bed. He stood before me, all sinewy vigor. I stared at his crotch, as I was not able to make eye contact. He crouched down, looking into my eyes, but I could not focus on him.

“Here,” he smoothed my hair. I was too exhausted to flinch or pull away.

“Jesus. You really threw a wobbly. I’m not going to hurt you. Right?”

Australian Secret Intelligence Service.

Could this be true?

The most logical conclusion: Why else would he say it?

I did not think he was schizophrenic, but how could one be sure?

I needed to sort through the emotions, yes, in order to process the facts. I felt . . . fear. Mostly of the complex unknown frontier I found myself in. And . . . anger. Yes. He had no right to . . . disrupt my life in this manner, just when it was starting to fall into some kind of order!

Perhaps I could mute these emotions with a few logical steps.

“I would like to see some ID, please.”

His face opened up in a silent exclamation. “Really?” might have been the word used had he spoken.

“Please, or I will call the police.”

He sighed, standing up, and said, “I own the police.” Nerves fluttered as this man revealed himself to me differently yet again. He clearly had a highly-inflated ego.

“Here,” he held out his wallet, flipped open.

I peered over at it. I had never seen a law enforcement badge before, and I must say, this one was very disappointing. Nothing more than a paper business card that read: “Sullivan Blaise, ASIS. Case Officer.”