The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (9 page)

I let go of his neck and, feeling rather uncoordinated and helpless, attempted to lie back in the water. Both his arms were holding me, and I could tell this took some effort of his legs to keep up both suspended. For a second my mind drew a silly comparison to being christened.

“Go on, Charlie. You can do it.”

Staring into his eyes, I felt the cool water soak the back of my hot head, my heart fluttering wildly, and panicked. I threw myself back at his body, clinging on for dear life, my wet hair wrapped around my face.

“Good-oh,” he whispered in my ear.

I struggled to get oxygen to my brain.

One of his hands slid up my back, the other worked the water to keep us afloat.

Oh. I gasped for air.

Wait. This was not likely an approved swim instructor embrace.

And then . . . I felt
it
.

A large tire iron (that is how my brain computed it initially) pressing into my right leg. It took a full second to identify it, and even then, I did a most disconcerting thing: I pulled back and glanced into his eyes.

As I have explained, I am no expert at reading emotion, but perhaps there was some instinctual capability within me after all. I could have been mistaken, but I believe Mr. Knight was sexually attracted to me in that moment.

As was I to him!

My nether region clenched, with a deep hunger I did not know it was capable of feeling, and I couldn’t swallow from pangs of what could only be described as a debasing ache, no, debasing longing, radiating from the same area. Blood rushed to my vagina, causing swelling in my clitoris, labia . . . everywhere! In fact, tingling, throbbing and fullness were evident throughout my entire pelvic area—all of which was shocking, considering my circumstances. There I was in a pool of angry water, and yet, my eyelids were heavy, my breathing shallow, my whole body pliant!

Anxiety finally surged forth, reason prevailed, and I pushed away from Mr. Knight. Only then did I realize doing so had left me completely alone in the water.

Which was worse? No time. Staring at him, petrified, I realized I was treading water. At the same time, Mr. Knight’s eyes had narrowed and I had the distinct impression (or fear) he intended to reach for me.

All of this—my own successful swimming efforts, and his possible inclination—gave me just the motivation I needed. I turned around and began a rather energetic yet painfully slow doggie paddle toward the edge.

“What’s that rubbish, ay?” asked Mr. Knight in a disgusted voice, again beside me. “Swim!”

Right. I applied my knowledge for the forward breast stroke, eventually getting my body somewhat horizontal, though I did not put my face in the water at each stroke. I managed to move somewhat quicker. “That’s it,” he advised, ordering other instructions, following closely, perhaps not aware that I was indeed swimming in order to get away from him. However, no matter how quickly I managed to propel myself forward, he remained within one foot. Finally, reaching the end (I had not realized how he had taken us right into the middle of the pool) I grabbed onto the edge, panting heavily, mostly from fear. Or dread.

I could not look him in the eye but gathered he was smiling. “You were brilliant! A fast learner after all.” He grasped the edge next to me, blocking my way to the steps.

“Can you move, please. I need out.”

“That’s it!?” he protested. “You should do a full lap.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Knight, but I am utterly exhausted, from adrenaline, perhaps. But you can be assured I am now over my fear of water. I will be fine for the reef, and we do not need to continue. Thank you,” I added between breaths.

“Half a lap won’t do, Miss Sykes.” His tone had changed. I took a chance and glanced at his eyes. He was . . . removed. Thank goodness. We were back to being professional.

“I will practice every night in the pool at my apartments.”

“No, you’ll practice here. You’re a nipper and there’s no lifeguard at that building.”

“Fine. But please. I really want out.” I was exasperated.

Mr. Knight’s brow bunched with concern.

“Of course.”

I dragged myself along the edge, and upon reaching the steps found I was so drained, I lacked the strength to pull myself out. I splashed back in. “I feel as though I weigh five hundred pounds,” I confessed.

“Here,” he said, getting out first and turning around. He grabbed onto my arms and pulled me up so quickly my toes didn’t even make contact with the steps. He put me on my feet, near the edge. I opened my eyes. He released my arms and appeared . . . amused.

Dazed, I staggered over to the lounge chair. I wrapped myself in a towel and asked if he had a change room. He pointed to the cabana behind me, and I left quickly with my satchel, never once looking at him, in the face or in the crotch.

When I came out, changed, somewhat settled, I was surprised to see he had toweled himself off and changed into a pair of shorts and a dress shirt.

What if I had come out earlier? I might have accidentally seen him naked.

I found the idea not at all appalling, which gave me yet more anxiety.

I did
not
want to be sexually attracted to my employer, especially when I had clearly stated I would not allow the same from him.

“I am absolutely drained,” I admitted, when he asked if I was okay. I told him I needed a rest, thanked him again, and shoved my wet swimsuit and my wet towel into my bag.

“I’ll walk you back,” he offered.

“Oh. No. That’s not necessary.”

“Miss Sykes. You’re white as snow. And for the record, moving forward, I’ll be the judge of what’s necessary, if you don’t mind,” he added softly.

Left with no choice, I frowned and nodded. He was back to being my employer, and his word was my command.

“Miss Moneypenny!” I admonished her. “I can’t believe how she is acting.
Miss Moneypenny!
” She was rubbing herself all over Mr. Knight’s bare legs. As a courtesy, he had bent down in my doorway and was rubbing her ears.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Knight. She’s practically throwing herself at you.”

“That’s alright. I’m used to it.” He glanced up at me with some kind of silent message in those piercing eyes.

He stood up, then, and surprised me by stepping forward. “Been a while since I’ve seen inside one of these suites. Mind if I have a walkabout?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. He stepped into the kitchen, Miss Moneypenny hot on his tail.

I could not think what had gotten into her. She had never embarrassed me in this manner before. Perhaps she was punishing me for her quarantine. Yes. That must be it.

I had regained my strength on the short walk back. Mr. Knight had done most of the talking since I informed him I do not care for small talk—it is nonsense and a waste of time as it does not support social bonding in any enriching way. This declaration usually shuts people up; however, he persisted, choosing to share personal information instead. For example, as we passed by Darling Harbour, he told me how he had slept there when he first arrived in Sydney as a young boy, before he moved to Melbourne, and pointed to a few of his hiding spots. Curious, I asked him why he had run away, as the Wikipedia article had stated. He corrected me, contending that you had to have something to run away from. No, he had run
to
Sydney, stowing away aboard a transport ship, because he believed here was where “the action” was.

I thought him very brave, and told him so. He said bravery and stupidity are the same thing in a man until he turns twenty-five, or falls in love for the first time and discovers something worth living for. I did not ask him which came first for him, though I nearly did, which surprised me to no end.

On our walk we were followed by Jimmy, to whom Mr. Knight had introduced me just outside the pool before we set out. I had never noticed him before, but Mr. Knight told me he had always been close at hand. He was blond, and excess sun exposure had turned him lobster red. I had smiled at him, but he barely acknowledged me. His hands were the size of baseball mitts and he had tattoos all over his chest and up his neck. I could easily picture him in jail.

When I mentioned this discretely to Mr. Knight—yes, perhaps to assuage Sullivan Blaise’s voice in my head—he smiled and said that was because he
had
been in jail. “He’s been my backup for four years, ever since I recruited him.”

“Backup? Are you planning to rob a bank?” Dread simmered in me.

Startled, he gaped at me for a second and then laughed. “Hardly. Those days are behind me, Miss Sykes.” He eyed me for a moment, and I tried extra hard to maintain his stare. I had dug deeper into Mr. Knight’s past online since being hired, and there was information about his alleged criminal past—and also that it was behind him. In that moment, he wanted to know if I knew, I suspected, and I felt quite pleased at identifying the source of his focus. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t still got enemies,” he had added. “Jimmy’s here for protection. I don’t take risks, not anymore.” He had eyed me sideways as he said this, holding open the door of the hotel lobby for me.

His proclamation of no longer conducting illegal activities gave me no end of relief. (If and when I heard from Sullivan Blaise, I could tell him nothing.)

And now, Mr. Knight stood in my living room—Jimmy waiting outside. Surely this had to fall outside the gambit of acceptable employee-employer relations?

Perhaps not if the employer owned the premises.

He glanced around.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you, Mr. Knight. Miss Moneypenny and I have never had such a lovely, spacious home.”

“No need,” he mumbled, attending to the view outside the window.

“But since discovering the actual cost, I will be searching for a more affordable alternative.”

He turned around and those charcoal eyes nearly shoved me back.

“Why?” he asked sharply. He crossed his arms over his chest, which appeared awkward. There was too much bicep and trapeze mass getting in the way. His eyes . . . they were glittering again.

I realized then how much I did not like to experience negative emotion in Mr. Knight; worse, that I should be the source of it.

“It has been brought to my attention that providing me with this accommodation at such a discounted rate is abnormal for an employer. Therefore—”

“You want to make it absolutely clear that this is all on the up and up,” he finished my sentence. “Again.” He shook his head.

For the second time in my life, I found myself asking what he was feeling: “Did . . . I . . . Are you upset by something?”

He stared at me, and ground his teeth. “Don’t believe everything you hear about me, Charlie. Can you do me that . . . kindness?” He uncrossed his arms. “I’m just a bloke who generally means well enough. People like to paint me as a villain and all sorts. But life’s not a . . . bloody story.”

His words struck me as sincere, so much so I found myself sympathizing with his plight.

“I can absolutely assure you I have no illusions, or delusions, about what life truly is, Mr. Knight.” I believe much of my mother’s disappointment resided in the fact she’d pursued an idea of what life should be instead of embracing what it was. “Also, I question—with vigor—everything I am ever told, by anyone. You included.”

He held my eyes for moment, and then laughed briskly. “Yeah, of course you do. What was I thinking?”

I breathed deeply. The tension, which is frankly the greatest mystery of all human interactions to me, must have lessened, as I did not feel the need to move or shift on the spot as I do so often around him. Oh! Just then my brain connected the dots. He knows how poorly others think of him. “If it means anything, Mr. Knight, I never once believed what others said about you wanting sexual favors in return for an apartment.”

His eyebrows shot up, he pulled his head back, and he shook his head. “Jesus, you’re honest to a fault.”

I ignored his comment and continued with what I had intended to say. “I simply do not want charity from you, Mr. Knight. It does not sit well with me.”

His head tilted and he presented me with a half-smile. “Ah. Well then. Guess we’ve got that in common, too.”

He was keeping track of aspects we had in common. Why was he doing that? No. Perhaps the question was, why did he want me to know he was doing that? He smiled fully, and added, “No worries. But don’t look just yet, ay? We’ll apply the overtime you’re bound to rack up to balance out the cost. I’m happy to look after your pride.”

Pleased at a possible solution, I told him I would do as he asked and wait and see if this alleged overtime made up the difference.

I could not hold his stare, so I unloaded my satchel, hoping he would not notice the red in my own cheeks. Why were our conversations so intense? I was certain they had a deeper meaning, but could neither identify the reason nor adequately explain it to B in order to gather her input.

Mr. Knight had crouched back down and was rubbing Miss Moneypenny again, who was purring so loudly I could hear the vibration across the room.

Shameless.

And yet, for a moment, I allowed myself to contemplate a possibility that sprang to mind—the three of us being a family. My breath caught at the sheer audacity of the postulation, the unprofessionalism of it, and I said, “I need to have a rest now. Thank you for walking me back, Mr. Knight.”

He rose up, glanced around.

Guilt swung a mallet in my face. I was being socially discourteous. I did not mean to be. I just am. Perhaps I should tell him that. No. No. That was likely TMI (too much information), as B would say.

“Right. Well then, I’ll be on my way.”

Not sure what else to do, I walked him to the door. Miss Moneypenny nearly toppled him, dashing between his legs. He bent back down to rub her. When he was done he said, “I’m glad you’re settled, Charlie. Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?” I could not be certain, but Mr. Knight seemed reluctant to leave. Why else would he make small talk when I told him I did not like to?

“Yes.”

He waited for more. “I am going to a movie tomorrow with a prospective new friend.”

“Who’s that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.