Unbound (3 page)

“I can’t go with you,” I tell him, and stop dead. It’s only logical; he must realize that. He has something unbelievably important to talk to that Japanese man about, at least I assume so, because otherwise he wouldn’t have met this man who came all the way from Japan at the airport, and I’m just in the way. Besides—I don’t like the way he makes it sound like an order. And I also don’t want anyone to take my suitcase away. “Please, can you tell that man—can you tell your assistant to give me my suitcase back? I really have to get to the subway, or I’m going to be late.”

His lips curl upward, in obvious amusement, and I spot the little missing tip of tooth again. If it were anyone else it would be a blemish but on him, I found it incredibly attractive. I’m suddenly breathless again.

“Late for an appointment with me?” he asks and he sounds unmistakeably mocking. Now I can breathe again. I stick out my chin.

“No. Late for an appointment with your company.” His laughter is suddenly making me angry. Now I’m really not having any trouble breathing at all. “I don’t think it makes any sense for me to take up any more of your time. You have an important appointment and I would feel very uncomfortable being a further burden to you, after our misunderstanding.” It occurs to me once again that it was actually pretty nice of him not to have let me become a laughing stock. “Thank you, by the way.”

“What for?”

Oh no. Grace, for heaven’s sake, think things through before you open your mouth, for once. “You know what for. You could have—been less kind just now.”

“And why are you turning me down now, when I’m kindly offering to take you with me?”

Is …is he trying to confuse me? If he is, then it’s a resounding success. “I just don’t want to be late,” I say, almost in despair now.

“Then come with me. You’ll get there quicker by car than by tube.”

I’m still reluctant, even though I’m not really putting up much resistance to his big, warm hand on my back. I keep on walking. “But your friend, I mean, your business associate. Surely you have things to discuss.”

“He won’t mind if you come with us, believe me.” The way he says this irritates me. He sounds sarcastic and there is a tone in his voice that sends a shiver down my spine. But I’m too flustered to give it much more thought because, at that moment, we’ve gotten back to where the other men are standing.

“Miss Lawson will accompany us,” Jonathan Huntington explains, as if this isn’t obvious from the way he dragged me back, with his giant assistant pulling my suitcase. He sounds satisfied. No wonder. He probably always gets what he wants.

The Japanese men nod in that typically Asian way, a little brusquely, while Steven and the dark-haired man watch with an impersonal kind of interest, the way you might look at a traffic accident as you drive past. Well, I suppose that’s what I am—an unexpected accident.

We all set off in silence.

Jonathan Huntington and the tall Japanese man are walking behind me, and I can feel their eyes on my back. The two of them are talking quietly—in Japanese. Perhaps that’s why bringing me with them wasn’t a problem—I can’t understand anything anyway.

For a moment, I feel uneasy. Am I completely insane for having even considered turning down this offer? I mean, Jonathan Huntington is going to be my boss for the next three months—and I’ve got nothing better to do than to first force myself on him and then to make a big deal about nothing, as if he wanted something from me? Get real, Grace, I admonish myself. You had more luck than sense just now. It’s time to make the best of it.

But, in the car—a rather long limousine with two rows of upholstered leather seats facing each other in the back—my doubts return and I’m certain that it was a mistake not to take the subway after all.

I’m sitting facing forward, on a seat next to Jonathan Huntington and the dark-haired man, with the head Japanese man sharing the opposite seat with one of his assistants. The other Japanese man is sitting next to Steven the giant, who is driving the car. The Japanese assistant, who’s sitting in the back with us, is balancing his briefcase on his lap, and the dark-haired man is making calls and sending text messages on his cell, while clearly keeping one ear open to listen in to the two bosses’ conversation. Jonathan Huntington and Yuuto Nagako—I’ve just remembered his name—are both leaning back, relaxed and chatting, still in Japanese. I have no idea how old the Japanese man might be, because his face looks so smooth and Asian, but since his temples are already gray, I estimate that he must be at least ten years older than Jonathan.

While he’s talking, Yuuto Nagako keeps looking at me in that unsettling way which I don’t like and I even almost get the impression that they are talking about me. But that’s just as ridiculous as this entire situation.

I don’t know when I last felt so uncomfortable. So completely out of place. I’ve never in my life been in such a swanky car, and that alone would have been enough—that and the completely unfamiliar sensation of driving on the left—to overwhelm me. But I’m so busy feeling small and unimportant among these strange, tall men that I don’t even get around to giving my surroundings the attention they deserve. Jonathan Huntington is the only one who seems familiar to me. That doesn’t make me feel much more relaxed, though, since it’s only because Hope and I spent so much time sitting gazing at his photo. I’m simply completely out of my league.

The worst thing is that I’m sitting so close to him, I can smell him. And, unlike the man on the plane, he doesn’t repel me. No, he smells good, of very pleasant aftershave. So pleasant that I catch myself inhaling deeply—in order to fill my nostrils with more of it. Perhaps that isn’t aftershave at all. Maybe that’s just how he smells. Whatever it is, it’s definitely going to my head. And that really isn’t good because that means that I am becoming even more focused on him, and having even more trouble getting my nerves under control.

Feeling uncomfortable, I clamp myself into my seat and pray that we get there soon. Because every time the big car goes around a curve, I’m pressed up against Jonathan Huntington. At least I would be, if I didn’t resist it with all my strength. The bucket seats are upholstered in a very soft material and would actually provide plenty of room for two people. But there are three of us sitting on the seat and the hollow in the seat, together with the laws of gravity, keeps making me slide dangerously close to him. There’s nothing I can do about it. I sit there completely rigid, staring out of the window, hoping no one will notice I’m there.

Until Jonathan Huntington suddenly puts his arm on the seat back behind me. It means that his broad shoulder is now no longer in the way, and I have more room. But his shoulder was a kind of buffer zone. It was the place where our bodies had the most contact, when I couldn’t hold on tightly enough. Now there’s nothing there and when the car takes the next right-hand bend a second later, I slide up against him. For real. With full body contact. Suddenly, we’re sitting there side by side and, since I instinctively tried to break my fall, I still have my hand on his chest and I feel him put an arm around me and hold my upper arm. Perhaps it was a reflex. He wanted to catch me.

For a second, the world stops. I can feel the warmth of his body but also, the way he is stiffening under my hand. His gaze slips from my face to my breasts, and back. I look down and find that my blouse has shifted and is now displaying a considerable view of my cleavage. When I look back up at him, he’s not smiling and his eyes have gone dark. I can’t breathe; I can only stare at him. My skin suddenly feels prickly at every point we’re touching, and I can feel the blood rushing into my cheeks.

I hurriedly push myself away—pushing off his chest, there’s no other option—and scoot along, back into the corner. His arm releases me.

“Sorry,” I mumble and I can hardly conceal my dismay. I’ve really got to get out of here—urgently.

He takes his arm off the backrest and we’re back to sitting as we were before. Luckily, the Japanese assistant is talking to the dark-haired man about some appointments. Yuuto Nagako is the only one not taking part in the conversation, but staring at me just as he’s been doing the whole time. He says something to Jonathan Huntington in Japanese, something, which makes him turn to me.

“How long will you be with us, Miss Lawson?”

The fact that he is suddenly speaking to me directly makes me even more nervous than I already was. And he doesn’t ask as though he were just making harmless small talk, but in a kind of formal, detached way. As if it’s important information that he needs to know for some reason.

“Three months,” I answer, wetting my lips. My whole mouth is terribly dry.

“And where are you from again …?”

“Chicago.”

“Right. Yes, you told me.”

He’s turned his head to one side and he’s giving me a look that I can’t evade. We are definitely sitting too close to each other, even if now if our shoulders are the only parts of our bodies touching. I can feel how hard his arm is under his jacket, and I pull away a little. I can still feel his warmth, which is radiating through to me, too.

“So, you are studying with Professor White?”

I nod. I’m gradually recovering from the shock. It looks like he just wants to make a little small talk after all. A harmless conversation is exactly what I need right now. “Do you know him?”

“Not personally, no. But my partner, Alexander Norton, is a good friend of his. As far as I know, he’s the one who put us in touch.”

Professor White never mentioned anything about this, but it explains why a British company would offer a paid internship for American economics students. The salary is not enough to make me rich, but still, it’s enough to enable me to afford to rent an apartment in London during my stay.

“What attracted you to economics, Miss Lawson?”

The other men have finished talking and it’s silent in the car when Jonathan Huntington asks me that. Everyone looks at me and suddenly; I really would like to disappear into thin air. But then I frown, because my brain has just registered the undertone in his voice when he asked the question. He sounds mildly amused again. As if it were a subject that isn’t suitable for someone like me, as if economics and I were two incompatible opposites. OK, perhaps up to now I haven’t exactly proven myself to be the most intelligent representative of my gender, but there’s no reason to treat me so patronizingly. I’m good at what I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten the internship. I had to apply for it—and they chose me.

“I like working with numbers,” I say in an emphatically casual way and smile slightly, as confidently as I can, as if the real reason were far too complicated to explain right now. If you can do it, so can I, I think, and I’m pretty satisfied with my performance. Until he asks his next question.

“And what attracted you to Huntington Ventures?”

I swallow. I gave the university’s selection committee more than ten reasons. I spoke eloquently and persuasively on this topic. But now I am gazing into the company founder’s blue eyes and I can’t seem to get a single word out.

But luckily I don’t have to say anything else because we’ve arrived at our destination. The car stops at the entrance of a modern, glass office building. It has at least ten stories and a facade that curves gently outward. One side is straight but the other slopes slightly inward, giving it a very interesting, almost conical form.

I’m sitting on the driver’s side and cars are rushing by one after the other, so I wait for the men on the other side to get out and then follow them. As I’m climbing out of the car, Jonathan Huntington reaches out a hand to help me and, although I’m hesitant at first, I take it. It would have been childish to ignore his gesture, and I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for one day. But touching him definitely does my heart rate no good. As soon as I reach the sidewalk, I let go.

The blond giant gets my black case out of the trunk and wheels it through the glass door into the building.

“After you.” Jonathan Huntington indicates that I should go first, and the Japanese men also let me go into the lobby before them. It’s very big and elegant. The chauffeur has left my suitcase in front of the reception desk, which is made of beautifully crafted wood and glass. There are two young women standing there, one in front of the counter and one behind it, and they are both watching us with interest.

Jonathan Huntington greets them and speaks to them briefly. I snatch a glance at my watch. Half past ten. Damn.

The young woman in front of the counter comes up to me. She’s around my age and has short brown hair, which she’s wearing in a way that’s somehow both incredibly casual and yet very stylish. She’s wearing a light green, corduroy suit with a matching batik top and a simple but striking silver necklace. It’s an unusual outfit for the office, but not exaggeratedly so—and somehow it suits her.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Annie French. I’ve been waiting for you, Grace.”

Her informal tone surprises me a bit. But it’s also welcome after the horrible journey. At last, I’m dealing with someone who doesn’t make me feel completely inadequate.

“I’m late,” I say unhappily as I shake her hand.

“Not if you’ve come with the boss,” she answers, grinning at me. I like her.

Before we can keep on talking, Jonathan Huntington is suddenly standing beside me again. The other men are waiting by the elevator and looking over at us.

“Good luck with your internship, Miss Lawson,” he says. “I hope you like it here.”

I swallow. “Thank you.”

“Black suits you, by the way. It’s a beautiful color.” He looks down at himself for a moment. When he looks up again, there is a glint in his blue eyes and a slight smile on his lips, which makes my knees go weak again.

Before I can answer, he turns around and heads off in the direction of the elevator. I gaze after him, uneasy, wondering if I really ought to be wishing to see him again.

Once all six men are inside the elevator and the door has closed behind them, Annie French looks at me.

“How did you manage that?,” she asks, raising an eyebrow.