Читать книгу Hired By The Mysterious Millionaire - Ally Blake - Страница 11

EVIE GOT LOST—twice—while trying to find the front door to the Game Plan offices.

For starters, she’d stayed on the train till the next station. No way was she about to follow Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit. If he’d seen her and was smart—and he certainly appeared to be—he’d have called the police. For oh, how she’d bungled that conversation royally.

Once she’d found the funky, arty little alleyway listed on the Game Plan website, she walked to the end and back without finding the door.

Not her fault. She blamed those stormy blue eyes. That accent. The scent—mysterious, masculine, drinkable. The serious don’t-poke-the-bear vibes rippling off the man like a mirage. Wondered if the ten-day stubble sweeping over his hard jaw was rough or soft. How could she make thoughts when he’d held her by the elbow and her nerves had been replaced by fireworks?

Every second of the encounter had been cringeworthy and it had all been for naught.

Born with a talent for seeing patterns in numbers, in lines of text, in architecture and nature, Evie did not have the same gift for reading people—a theory backed up by her choice of boyfriends in the past. But she had no doubt Hot Stuff believed her a chip short of a motherboard.

As to whether—or not—he’d written the poem... Who knew?

Stupid fortune cookie. Whether its powers were mystical or merely persuasive, she hadn’t been the same since she’d set eyes on it. The sooner she put the whole thing behind her and got on with her life the better.

She stopped in the middle of the alley, looked up into the overcast sky and breathed. “Get it together, kid. And fast.”

When she looked back down she found herself in front of a white door tucked into the white brick wall. It had to be the place.

“Okay. You can do this. You want this. You need this.”

She’d only just started making a name for herself, working on government contracts, really intricate work. She was most proud of finding and fixing a fissure in the Federal Reserve’s security system. One they hadn’t even known was there.

But after the way things went downhill in her last job she was tainted by association. Most of her contacts wouldn’t take her calls. Those who did wished her luck and got off the phone. Fast.

She had to convince Game Plan to give her a chance by sheer force of personality alone.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted a finger to press the buzzer when the door opened. Of course, they had video surveillance. This was Game Plan. Meaning somewhere some security dude had seen her talking to herself.

Super.

Her heart played a staccato against her ribs as she stepped into a waiting area with white walls, bright fluorescent lighting, potted plants. Needless to say, her jaw dropped an inch when instead of an HR clone an invisible door finally opened to reveal Jonathon Montrose, Mr Game Plan himself.

He looked exactly like he did on the jacket of his autobiography. Rugged. Imposing. Tall. Not as tall as Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit, mind you.

Really? You want to go there now?

No, I don’t!

Then focus.

Evie whipped her beanie off her head, and once more felt the static turn her into a human generator. Madly patting her hair back down, she walked to the man and held out a hand.

“Mr Montrose, I’m Evie Croft. It’s an honour. Your Code of Ethics textbook is my bible.” Evie imagined Zoe holding out both hands, urging her to pace herself.

“From what I hear you can also tear apart code like a demon.”

Evie’s heart whumped, wondering who he’d heard it from. Her ex-boss? Her ex? The federal police? No way was she getting the job. Nevertheless, she said, “You hear right.”

“Shall we?” Montrose held out a hand, ushering her through another door. “Welcome to the Bullpen.”

And, while she would have liked to appear even slightly cool, her feet ground to a halt a metre inside the room and she gawped at the sight before her.

Despite the modest entry, the place was gargantuan. Two storeys of glass-walled offices circled the outer rim of the floors above, while the ground floor looked as if it had been hit with a paintball explosion. White walls and floors were splattered with brightly coloured beanbags, cubicles, desks, couches, exercise balls, computers, TVs and in between slouched dozens of guys in jeans, T-shirts and baseball caps, laughing, arguing, creating.

When she found her feet again, Evie followed Montrose along a wall of nooks filled with gaming rooms, VR rigs, darts, pinball machines. One room had rows of bunk beds like a camp dorm.

“When can I move in?”

Montrose laughed. While Evie took it all in—every rivet, every light fitting, every gumball machine, in case she never saw its like again.

Right when Evie felt as if she’d hit sensory overload, Montrose led her up a set of stairs to a huge but relatively subdued office on the second floor, tinted windows looking over the Bullpen below. When he shut the door, everything went quiet.

Evie breathed out in relief when the first woman she’d seen in the place popped her head into Montrose’s office and said, “I’m grabbing a coffee. Can I get you guys anything?”

Evie shook her head, frantically gentling her mind. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”

“Nothing for me. Thanks, Imogen,” said Montrose, and the woman walked back out the door, leaving them alone.

Montrose motioned to a leather tub chair. Evie slid her backpack to the floor and sat.

Montrose sat on the edge of his desk—very much in the power position—crossed his feet at the ankles and began. “Tell me, Evie, why did you leave your last job?”

Evie opened her mouth to give the sensible answer Zoe had forced her to rehearse. Something along the lines of, After several years of loyal service, I felt I’d achieved all I could and needed a new challenge.

But she’d always been sensible. Taken small, considered steps. Choosing work she could do with her eyes closed, saving her pennies by sleeping on Zoe’s futon. And it had all come crashing down around her ears anyway.

Because luck was out of her hands. Just ask the fortune cookie.

Hang on a second. If losing her last job ticked off the career part of her fortune’s portent of “bad luck”, this opportunity was uncontaminated. Clean. A fresh start.

And if she truly wanted to make an impression on the likes of Jonathon Montrose, playing it safe wasn’t going to work this time.

Forgoing baby steps for a blind leap off a tall cliff, she looked her idol in the eye and jumped.

“You already know why I left, Mr Montrose.”

The edge of his mouth twerked. She hoped it was a good sign.

He said, “Indulge me.”

Okay then. “I worked for Binary Logistics until my ex-boss’s son, Eric—who also happens to be my ex-boyfriend—embezzled from the company. That company is now under investigation by every federal agency there is and, considering my position, my access level, my connection to the guilty party, I was a suspect for co-conspiracy. Thankfully they caught Eric at the airport and he confessed to everything, their forensic decoders followed his trail with ease and I was cleared. But mud like that sticks. Which means you are the only person who has taken my call, much less asked me in for an interview.”

She would love to have made it to the end without swallowing but if she didn’t wet her dry throat she’d probably pass out.

“And why do you think I would do that?” he asked.

“You’re a risk-taker, Mr Montrose. You actually like that I am marginalised. Perhaps I wouldn’t have piqued your interest otherwise. You like that it has made me hungry and desperate, because I’ll push to prove myself. Qualities you value within yourself.”

A muscle flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. Or maybe I appreciated the gumption it took to even try to get an interview with me, knowing what I know.”

Evie’s laugh was a little shaky. “Every bit of gumption I have.”

From there the interview took a turn into the normal, with Montrose asking about her family—her beloved granddad who’d moved into a retirement village, leaving his farming days behind him—and hobbies—gaming, knitting, hanging with Zoe.

And suddenly it was all over.

Montrose stood and so did she. Grabbing her backpack. And popping her beanie back on her head.

He blinked at the rainbow pom-pom but to his credit said nothing about it. Though he did say, “You are clearly a very bright young woman, Evie. Someone whose name has appeared on my radar more than once. I’ve heard men with far greater experience gasp over the work you’ve done, without knowing whose it was.”

Evie held her breath.

“Unfortunately, though, I don’t have anything for you at this time. I’d suggest you see this career break as an opportunity to look up and out. Read a book, travel, get your hands dirty. In the meantime, we will certainly keep you in mind for future work.”

What? Wait. No. No!

Evie opened her mouth to state her case. To ask to be given a chance. To drop to her knees and beg if that was what it took. Because, having taken the leap, she could feel the wind in her hair and she wanted more.

But Jonathon was already distracted, and old habits were hard to break. Evie stood, put her beanie back on, grabbed her backpack and—

White noise from downstairs burst into the room as the office door was opened and a voice said, “Do you have a second? I need you to look at...”

The voice came to an abrupt halt.

But it was too late. The accent, the gravel in the tone, the huge amount of air that had been displaced—Evie knew who she’d find when she spun on her heel.

A small noise left her throat as she found herself staring down Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit. He filled the doorway, the light from below tracing his broad shoulders, his wide stance, his mussed hair.

But gone was the bare hint of that smile he’d given as she’d babbled on about poetry and wooing. The one that had scrambled her brain, making it impossible for her to work out what was real and what wasn’t.

Instead his entire body was taut as he glared as if he’d found her in his kitchen boiling his bunny.

“You,” Hot Stuff accused, his voice deep and rumbling.

Feeling like a squished bug under the microscope of a stranger’s unflattering glare, Evie was finally overcome by the dire reality of her situation and something snapped. “Oh, my God, did you follow me here?”

“I believe that is a question I should be asking.”

“Pfft. Why would I follow you?”

The self-assurance in his gaze made her knees go a little weak. And fine, he had a point. But still!

“Excuse me,” said Evie. “I made it perfectly clear I’m not interested in your...” She flapped a hand at him, taking in his tousled hair, his arresting face, his slick suit, before blurting, “Your poetry.”

Perhaps “perfectly clear” was pushing it, but it had been her intention, which had to count for something.

Yet the man glowered at her, Why me? written all over his face.

Seeing him with Montrose’s book might have given her the idea to apply for a job with Game Plan. And, come to think of it, had she seen him reading a file with the Game Plan logo on the front? Either way, it didn’t seem like admitting it would help her cause in that moment, so she kept her mouth shut.

She saw something move out of the corner of her eye, and was reminded that they weren’t alone. She slowly turned to find Jonathon leaning against his desk, looking as if he was enjoying himself immensely.

“I take it you two know one another?” Montrose asked.

Hot Stuff had gone all silent and broody once more, forcing Evie to answer. “We don’t know each other, exactly. We catch the same train. Every day. Morning and night. Across the aisle and three rows down.”

She took a deep breath in though her nose and caught a scent. Like sailing. And sunshine. Serious masculine heat. Evie knew Hot Stuff had moved to stand next to her. Trying to intimidate her with his presence, no doubt. Arrogant so-and-so.

She half-closed her right eye to block him out as she said, “Though I did elbow him in the gut once. Stood on his foot as well. And that about covers it.”

“Is that right?” Jonathon asked, eyes bright.

When Hot Stuff cleared his throat, Evie leapt into the silence with, “Maybe you could do me one favour, Mr Montrose, and say the bit again about how bright you think I am. For I believe your friend has other ideas.”

Montrose turned to the man at her side. “Do you?” he asked, laughter lighting his voice. “Do you have other ideas about Evie?”

She glanced sideways to find Hot Stuff gritting his teeth so hard he could pull a muscle.

Deciding to give the guy a tiny break—he had to be as much in shock as she was, after all—she cleared her throat and held out a hand. “I’m Evie, by the way. Evie Croft.”

Hot Stuff blinked at her hand, then his gaze lifted to tangle with hers. For a beat. Another. Something dark swirled behind those stormy eyes before he took her hand in his. Of course, it was warm and smooth. The moment they touched a little shock ran up her arm and landed with a sizzle in her chest.

“Armand Debussey,” he said in his deep French drawl. Then he took his hand back and looked, deliberately, at Montrose. “What’s she doing here?”

Evie scoffed. So much for letting bygones be bygones. “She is in the middle of an interview for a coder’s dream job,” Evie said. Well, it had officially been the end of the interview. Semantics.

“What job might that be?” Hot Stuff asked.

Evie opened her mouth, only to discover she had no idea. She looked at Montrose. And smiled. Like me! Want me! In a purely professional sense. Okay, stop thinking before you accidentally say any of this out loud.

Montrose pushed away from his desk and ambled around the edge until he was behind it. Showing who was boss. Then he looked to Armand and said, “She’s a forensic code investigator.”

Evie bit her bottom lip so hard it hurt. For something in the way he said it made her wonder, made her hope—

“You cannot be serious,” said Armand, his voice taut. “She cannot do it. She can’t. She’s too...” Armand looked at her then, the fire in his eyes filled with danger. And warning.

Evie was a good girl, a smart girl. She kept her goals manageable and took her wins where she could. For her mother had been the exact opposite and it hadn’t worked out well for her at all.

But here, now, instead of taking a rational step back, she felt herself sway towards Armand. Her hands went to her hips, she looked him dead in the eye, and said, “I’m too what?”

The man didn’t flinch. If not for his radiating warmth he could have been a statue. The statue said, “You’re a dewy-eyed naïf, Ms Croft. This place will eat you alive.”

As she gawped at him his eyes went to her head. Or, more precisely, her beanie. Then, as if she were three years old, he reached out and tugged on the rainbow pom-pom, no doubt sending it wobbling like crazy.

She smacked his hand away but it was already gone. The man had lightning reflexes. “Well, you, Mr Debussey, are seriously hostile. And what do dewy eyes have to do with my ability to ferret out secret passages, hidden codes, keystones, Easter eggs, back doors in code? With cutting viruses from the flesh of a program without spilling a single drop of blood?”

Armand looked at her as if she was the one talking a foreign language.

“Just because I don’t wear fancy suits, or come from a big city, or get my hair to look all perfectly wind-mussed, and finger-fussed, at Ooh-La-La Salon, doesn’t mean I’m not killer at what I do. I am the best forensic code investigator you will ever meet, my friend. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Put that in your pipe and smoke it? Who said that? Dewy-eyed naïfs, that’s who. As Evie’s words swirled around the room like crazy little whirlwinds, she stopped to catch her breath. And wished with all her might she’d never leapt in in the first place. For ever since she’d struggled to regain solid ground.

Biting both lips together now, Evie slowly turned back to Montrose with the full intention of apologising. Only to find something had lit up behind Montrose’s eyes. Even with her poor ability to decipher such subtleties, deep inside her instincts shook.

“Right,” said Montrose. “Now you’ve both cleared the air of whatever that was, I’m sure it will make working together all the easier.”

“I’m sorry?” said Armand, his voice rich with warning.

“Working together?” Evie asked, her voice sounding as though she were on helium.

“I’m putting you on contract. One project. A trial run, if you will. Congratulations, Evie, the job is yours.”

Evie rushed over to the desk and shook Montrose’s hand. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Montrose nodded. “I know you won’t. Take a right outside my door and you’ll find Imogen’s office. She’ll get you set up with employee paperwork, security card, pay details etc. Be back here at eight tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Evie spun in a circle—beanie, check, backpack, check—before darting out the door and shutting it behind her. The murmur of rising male voices faded as she hotfooted it to the office next door.

So what if she’d be working in the same building as Armand Debussey? And hadn’t asked about pay, benefits, hours? She had a job! And not just any job! Forensic code investigation for Game Plan!

Her luck had surely turned.

She’d just have to steer clear of Armand Debussey as much as humanly possible, which shouldn’t be hard in a company this size. And over time, her discomfort around him would fade.

And she’d remember this day not as one of her most bumbling but as one of her best.

* * *

Frustration riding every inch of him, Armand stalked behind Jonathon’s desk, opened the mini-bar and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. He didn’t bother asking Jonathon if he wanted one. He could get his own damn drink.

Armand poured himself just enough to cover the bottom of the glass, needing the burn in his throat to take the edge off whatever had just yanked him so vehemently from the mouth of ennui. Had made him burn.

He glanced at the screen embedded in Jonathon’s desk to see the note Jonathon sent to Imogen about Evie Croft. A contract, as promised. One project. Armand translated Australian dollars to Euros and scowled at the pay offer. Why anyone chose to work for the man he had no idea.

“It’s not even ten in the morning,” Jonathon noted.

Armand tossed back the drink, wincing at the heat. “It’s midnight in Paris.”

“Then go for your life. And to answer your burning question,” said Jonathon, “she did not follow you here, she applied for the job a few days ago. Nice girl. Next-level intelligence. Yet I had decided not to hire her when you came storming in.”

“What the hell changed?”

“You tell me.”

Armand knew Jonathon was baiting him. And why. Armand took a long, deep breath and waited. He could wait for ever, if that was what it took. One good thing about not giving a damn—his indifference knew no bounds.

Jonathon squinted his way. “Is it hard for you to believe I hired her on her merits? Is it because she’s a woman?”

“Non,” Armand scoffed, wounded by the accusation. “Mon Dieu—”

“English, please.”

“No.”

“Is it because she’s young?” Jonathon asked.

“How old is she?”

“I didn’t ask. We’re not allowed to these days.”

Armand looked to the ceiling and muttered.

“En Anglais, s’il vous plaît,” said Jonathon.

“You understood every word.”

Jonathon grinned. “Mid-twenties, I’d say. The age of blissful ignorance and creative hubris. An advantage in her line of work. While you, five years older at most, bear the weight of the entire world on your well-bred shoulders.”

Not any more, Armand thought, tipping the last drop of Scotch onto his tongue before putting the glass on the desk.

“How did it come about on your daily train trips, morning and night, across the aisle and three rows down, you came to think her not clever?”

Armand merely slanted him a look.

“Save it for another time, then. Until then I assure you—Evie Croft is special.”

Armand railed against the thought as the embers inside him flared. But he listened, as the mountain of paperwork—legal documents, in-house communications, news articles, company reports—Jonathon had foisted on him had not yet yielded results.

Jonathon went on. “One of my guys picked up on her chatter online a couple of years back. Tough talk about cracking one of our most complicated games. Turned out it wasn’t just talk. The last company she worked for was a lumbering dinosaur, a house of cards waiting to tumble, but her work therein was inspired. I’d go so far as saying she’s a prodigy.”

Armand ran a hand down his face. He knew that look in Jonathon’s eye. The gleam. For Jonathon was no longer pulling his leg.

“If it’s not because she’s a woman,” said Jonathon, “and it’s not because she’s young, and now you know she can do the work, do we still have a problem here?”

Armand wanted to say no problem. To accept the inevitable. For all he wanted was to fix Jonathon’s problem and go home. Back to the familiar, the safe. But for some reason he couldn’t say the words.

“It’s the dewy-eyed naïf thing, isn’t it?”

Armand dropped his face into his palm and laughed, the sound hollow, humourless. “I knew that would come back to haunt me.”

“I’d go as far as to say that’s exactly why Ms Croft got under your skin just now. You are worried when you bump into her in the hall she might spark some proof of life within you. You didn’t die that day, my friend, no matter how it might sometimes feel you did...”

Armand shook his head. Just once. But it was enough. Enough for his old friend to know he’d hit the edge of that which Armand would accept.

“What are we to do?” Jonathon asked. “I will not launch my very expensive, very important program until you assure me it is safe. If you believe you don’t need Ms Croft and her special skills in order to make that happen then I’ll tell Imogen to send her home right now. It’s completely up to you.”

With his high-level contacts, hands-on experience tracking the worst kinds of men, even his very name, Armand could chase down public information and private conversations, money and mayhem, promises made in huts and boardrooms. He had blown open drug deals, illegal gun sales, fraud rings and worse. He could speak five languages and understand many more.

But when it came to the inner workings of computer code, he was at a loss.

And yet Armand’s nostrils flared as he fought against the overwhelming need to make the call that meant not having to deal with the likes of Evie Croft. Those big dark eyes that hid nothing of what she felt. The tip-tilted mouth with the full bottom lip she nibbled on more than could possibly be necessary. That constant frisson of energy that crackled around her. Those odd knitted hats. The woman was a magnet for trouble.

Armand breathed deep, only to find himself enveloped in a lingering cloud of feminine perfume. Or perhaps it was shampoo. It smelled like cherries, of all things.

The women of his experience wore designer scents. They did not smell like fruit. Or wear pom-poms on their headwear. Or have cartoon characters printed on their backpacks. They did not have backpacks at all.

He pictured Evie Croft leaning towards him, hands on hips, lips pressed together, dark eyes flashing, making fun of his suits, his haircut. All while in the midst of a job interview.

She might be dangerously naïve, she might even be a bit of a head case, but she had fortitude. He had to give her that.

Then, before he saw it coming, her image was replaced with another—little black dresses, diamonds and pearls, pale blue eyes filled with judgement, the swing of a neat blonde ponytail heading out the door.

Armand wiped a hand down his face.

At least he could be sure Jonathon had it wrong on one score—Evie Croft was as far from his type as it was possible to be.

“Give her a shot,” Armand said. Hearing the rawness of his voice, he took a moment to swallow. “But she is on trial.”

“Why do you think I put her on contract? Now go forth. Find out why my perfect program is glitching so that I can launch the damn thing. Knowing nothing that happens between you and Ms Croft will concern HR.”

Armand opened his mouth to vehemently deny the accusation.

“Read my lips,” said Jonathon. “I Do Not Care. Now that’s settled, why did you come storming in? You wanted me to look at something.”

Armand searched back through the quagmire of the past ten minutes for the answer then remembered the piece of paper. He found it scrunched up on the floor near his feet. He pressed it open, saw the lines of code he’d hoped Jonathon could explain to him, before folding it neatly and putting it back in his pocket.

Jonathon laughed. “Something for your new workmate to sort out tomorrow, then?”

“So it would seem.” Armand pulled himself out of the chair and ambled to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “You know what made that whole debacle worth it?”

“I can’t wait to hear.”

“‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’”

Jonathon’s face fell to his desk, landing with a thud. “I felt like a dinosaur.”

“Serves you right. Sir.”

Armand shut the door behind him with a soft click and moved to the railing to look out over that which the staff called the Bullpen.

He took a step back when he saw a rainbow-coloured pom-pom bobbing through the space.

Used as he was to working with serious men—men who in another era would be warriors and guerrillas and pirates and Vikings, men with scars covering every inch of their bodies, inside and out—working around the kids down below in their running shoes and cheap deodorant had been a stretch.

And now he’d been lumbered with the Girl Who Sang to Herself.

He told himself he did not find her whimsy charming. That it was to her detriment. But the truth was he hadn’t only kept an eye on her to make sure no one robbed her blind while she listened to music with her eyes closed.

The moment he first set eyes on her he’d not been able to look away. The way she smiled, the way she laughed—she had surely been lit from within. Making the train trips home in the chill Melbourne evenings feel not so dark at a time when he’d thought he’d never feel warm again.

When a man had lived with ice in his veins as long as Armand had, warmth was not a relief. As his sluggish blood heated, straining to pulse faster through his stiff, cold arteries, every part of him ached.

Now she’d be here, every day, till he got the job done.

He wasn’t sure how to bear it.

Worse, he wasn’t sure he had it in him any more to try.