Hired By The Mysterious Millionaire. Ally Blake
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felt like a question. In fact, it felt as if he’d stumbled into the middle of someone else’s conversation.
And suddenly the singing, the constant smile, the talking to herself, the novelty backpack, his persistent urge to keep an eye on her—it all made sense.
She was a Van Gogh short of a gallery.
He felt his shoulders relax just a little.
“Are you asking if I like poetry?”
She nodded.
“The greats can make you laugh, cry, think, ache, but it depends on the poet. You?”
“I’ve never really thought about it. I appreciate the skill it must take. Finding words that rhyme. Creating patterns in sound and cadence.”
“Look closer. You’ll find it’s never about a cat who sat on a mat,” he said as he pulled himself to his feet.
The woman gripped harder to her backpack strap as she looked up, up, up into his eyes. Her pupils all but disappearing into the edges of her dark irises.
“What is it about?” she asked.
He leaned in a fraction and said, “Wooing.”
“Wooing?” she said, her voice a little rough. Her fingers gripping the strap of her bag. “Right. But the thing is, I’m in a transitional period. My life is kind of in upheaval right now. No room for wooing.”
“Then my advice would be to stay away from poetry.”
The train bumped to a halt, putting an end to the exchange either way. He slid his book into his briefcase.
But she didn’t budge an inch.
He angled his chin towards the door. “This is my stop.”
“I know.” Blink. “I mean, right, okay.”
She looked as if she had more to say, but the words were locked behind whatever traps and mazes had befallen her afflicted mind.
“Excusez-moi.”
A frown flickered over her forehead as the occupants of the carriage swarmed towards the door. Gripping tightly onto the loop hanging from the bar above kept her from smacking bodily against him, but not from stamping down on his foot with the heel of her boot.
He winced, sucking in a sharp breath as pain lanced his toes.
She spun, grabbed him by the arm and said, “Oh, no! Oh, sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
Then he remembered.
They had spoken once before. His first day on the train she’d elbowed him right in the solar plexus.
If he’d been a man who looked for signs he’d have taken it to mean he’d made a grave error in travelling halfway across the earth in the hopes of being led out of his fugue.
“The Girl with the Perfect Aim,” Armand muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
The doors opened, bringing with them a burst of light and chill, rain-scented air. Armand put a hand on the girl’s elbow as he squeezed around her, joining the river of people heading out the train doors.
Strange young woman, he thought. Yet, he conceded, compelling enough to distract him with alacrity no book or challenge or mystery had yet managed.
He felt those burnished eyes on him long after he’d left the darkness of the station and headed into the grey light of the chilly Melbourne winter’s day.
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