Unbound (7 page)

What a view, I think. I don’t know what I find more impressive: the city or the man who is now getting up and coming toward me.

“Miss Lawson.” His voice is smooth and deep. I like it so much it sends a small shiver down my spine. I walk toward him, across the thick carpet, with my heart beating wildly. I don’t have the faintest idea what he wants from me, and I feel terribly uneasy.

The nearer we get, the better I can recognize his features: his angular chin, high cheekbones, and full lips. I again notice his blue eyes, which look particularly striking against his tanned skin, and the slight smile that made me so nervous yesterday.

He’s dressed in black again and his hair is falling onto his forehead—but today, he’s clean-shaven.

Then we’re standing in front of each other and I can smell his cologne, which still makes my knees go weak. He stretches out his hand and I take it. His handshake is warm and firm but it only lasts a second before he lets go again and indicates the visitors’ chair in front of his desk. Upholstered in leather, it matches his desk chair

“Have a seat.”

Gingerly, I let myself sink into the broad chair, while he returns to the desk and sits down again.

“No black today?” he asks, indicating my clothes.

“Er …no,” I answer, feeling annoyed with myself for having listened to Hope. The man liked my black clothes. But how was I to know that I was going to meet him again today?

He leans back. “How was your first day with us, Miss Lawson? Are you content?”

I stare at him in surprise. He wants to know how I am? Is this some kind of a test?

“I …thank you, I like it here. My colleagues are nice, especially Annie …Annie French. She’s helped me a lot.”

“Yes, I heard. There was a problem with your apartment?”

Now I’m really confused. He knows about that? Who told him? I didn’t tell Clive Renshaw. But Veronica found out, when we were leaving yesterday. Did Jonathan Huntington ask her about it? Why would he be interested anyway?

“Unfortunately, I was the victim of a con artist,” I explain, when I realize that he is expecting an answer. “The so-called landlord charged me a deposit on an apartment that doesn’t exist. But Miss French let me stay over at her place, so I wasn’t homeless.”

He leans forward. “We certainly wouldn’t want one of our interns to have to sleep on the street,” he says, and his voice almost feels like a caress. I’m having trouble concentrating on what he’s saying. Pull yourself together, Grace!

He’s talking again. “Our legal department will take care of it. We’ll file a thorough report and hopefully the police will be able to catch the man, so you can get your money back. I assume you have documentation of the bank transfer you made?”

“No …I mean, yes, I have documentation. But you really don’t need to deal with it. I can go to the police myself.” Just the thought that he might be about to ask me the name of my fake landlord is making me break out in a sweat. I would die of shame if I had to admit to Jonathan Huntington that I didn’t know much about one of England’s most-famous folk tales. It’s embarrassing enough already.

“You should take advantage of our services. I insist,” he repeats. “And I’ve already found a solution to the problem of your apartment. You can stay at an apartment belonging to the company, very close to here, for the remainder of your internship. My chauffeur, Steven—whom you have already met—will take you there and show you round.”

I feel rather offended. I stare at him, trying to work out what I think of his offer. He’s found an apartment for me. That’s nice of him. Wow. Very nice, actually. But he could have asked me what I wanted. Or needed. It makes me mad, somehow, that he’s deciding everything again. Because people basically always do what he tells them. Well, they probably do, I remind myself. That’s why he’s so successful. However, he might have been able to persuade me to take him up on his offer last time, but this time I’m determined.

I smile at him. “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Huntington but I’ve already sorted out the problem myself. Miss French has a spare room in her apartment and this morning she told me that I could move in for the duration of the internship.”

He frowns. “A room in a shared apartment is hardly comparable to the apartment in question. It’s a penthouse suite which is usually available for our business partners when they’re in town.” He obviously has no doubt which I’m going to choose. But however good-looking he may be, and however interesting I might find him, he can’t make me do anything. And I wouldn’t give up my room in Islington for the world.

“Maybe it is. And I’m very grateful for the offer,” I tell him. “But I feel very comfortable at Miss French’s apartment and I’d prefer to stay there.”

“Ah.” He can’t hide his surprise—and annoyance. “Well, it’s your decision.” His tone of voice makes it pretty clear what he thinks of this personally and, for a moment, I have a guilty conscience. By now, he probably thinks I’m extremely stubborn, because continuously protest allowing him help me out. But I really don’t want to sit in some penthouse apartment on my own, when I could be having fun with Annie and her friends.

He frowns, clearly still annoyed by my answer and I avoid his critical eyes by looking down at his chest. His rather broad chest. He’s not wearing a tie today, either, and his close-fitting shirt is slightly open at the neck. I am mesmerized by the glimpse of tanned skin it reveals and my mouth suddenly goes dry. I hurriedly lift my gaze again and meet his eyes.

“Is that everything?” I ask, sliding back and forth uneasily in my chair. That must be everything. What else could he want from me?

“No, that’s not everything,” he tells me decisively and I immediately sit stock still again, waiting.

I have no idea what’s coming but this visit is agonizing. Why can’t he take pity on me and finally let me go? I mean, nothing’s changed. He’s the boss and I’m a nobody, just someone who’s getting a bit of experience at his company. Perhaps I managed to attract his attention—thanks to an embarrassing coincidence—but it won’t stay that way for long. The gulf between us is simply too wide. This will be over soon and, if I’m really lucky, I won’t make too much of a fool of myself in the process.

He leans back again in that extremely relaxed way of his, which exudes so much self-assurance. His hair is falling onto his forehead and he carelessly smoothes it back with a hand. It’s not a vain gesture. It’s something he doesn’t even seem aware of, which makes him seem very laid back. Once again, I find myself musing about how much I like his hair that length. It wouldn’t suit everyone but it suits him. For a moment, I ask myself what his hair must feel like, whether it’s as soft as it looks. And then I notice that he’s saying something and I try to concentrate on his words again.

“Clive told me that you made a good impression at your first meeting yesterday. It appears that you are highly dedicated and have a feeling for the kinds of projects that department of Huntington Ventures specialises in, which, incidentally, is one of our company’s key departments and especially important to my partner and me.”

“I know …I mean, not that I made a good impression, I didn’t know that but I know that supporting innovations is very important to you. That’s …well, it’s part of your company philosophy.”

What am I saying? I’ve got to get out of here, I think. Urgently.

He smiles and I am completely captivated again. Jonathan Huntington would still be extremely attractive if he had a row of perfect teeth. But that small missing bit gives his smile a certain uniqueness that I can’t take my eyes off of. It makes him more authentic somehow—and more vulnerable. How did that happen, I wonder.

“You’re well-informed,” he says, in his deep, caressing voice. “And you should be very pleased with yourself, Miss Lawson. Because from now on you’ll be working for me.”

“Ah …I thought I already was,” I reply, confused.

His smile widens. “Perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly. Of course you’re already working for me but from now on you’ll be working
with me
.”

What? My heart is racing. “With you? I don’t understand …”

“I’m going to give you a glimpse of the way this company is run. You can shadow me as a kind of—assistant. There will be a few exceptions but you’ll be present at most of the talks I give and can ask questions about whatever you find interesting. You won’t be involved in the decision-making process itself, of course, but I am most certainly willing to hear your opinions, whenever you have something to say.”

It’s clear from his tone that this isn’t a question, he’s not making me an offer, and I don’t have a choice—it’s an order. But I’m still hesitant.

Part of me—the ambitious part—is overjoyed. You hit the jackpot, Grace. You can shadow Jonathan Huntington and look over his shoulder as he runs the company. You’ll get insights you couldn’t have dreamed of. It’s an incredible opportunity.

But there’s another quieter voice warning me. Warning me about the man whose nearness makes it hard for me to think straight. And whom I should be wary of, according to Annie. Does he really want to give me an opportunity—or does he have other reasons for making me this incredible offer?

“Why are you offering me this?” I ask the question without thinking it through properly. It just slips out.

He raises his eyebrows and then he snorts quietly and shakes his head, smiling. He obviously finds this pretty amusing.

“Would you rather stay in the investment department?” He says it in that tone again, which lets me know loud and clear that I’m obviously not right in the head. “If you don’t want to take advantage of this opportunity, then …”

“Yes, of course I do.” The ambitious side of me is quick to reassure him, before the other side has a chance to think it through. “I …I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“Why?”

This man is going to drive me crazy. I look at him almost despairingly because I don’t know if I trust myself to ask this question—but I can’t get it out of my head.

“Do you do this often?” This time, the warning voice gets the upper hand and asks the question. If he does this kind of thing often, then I’m nothing special. But if not—why me?

He looks at me in that half-amused, half-angry way again, and pushes his hair from his forehead.

“Do I often make kind offers? No, I don’t. And I might not bother in the future. Because you seem to have a real problem with it, Miss Lawson.”

“No, you misunderstand, I …” I inhale deeply. And even if it is the case, I think, recklessly disregarding both Annie’s warnings and my own misgivings. Even if he does have an ulterior motive, of whatever kind—do I really want to pass up the opportunity he’s giving me? I mean, hello? Jonathan Huntington wants to be nice to me. You can’t say no to that. “I’m thrilled. Really. I would like that very much.”

He’s silent for a moment, looking at me fixedly with those far-too-blue eyes of his. Testing me. As if waiting for me to change my mind again.

“Well,” he continues, standing up. “We should toast to that.”

He goes over to one of the cupboards near the leather sofa and, when he opens it, I see that it’s a bar. I look at the clock, surprised. It’s only half past eight. Does he really want to drink alcohol this early?

A moment later, he turns around. “Come here,” he prompts. He’s holding two tall glasses filled with a dark orange liquid. When I reach him, he hands me one. I examine it skeptically.

“What’s that?”

“A fruit juice cocktail.” He lifts one of the corners of his mouth, mockingly. He obviously read my mind. “I put in long days and a few vitamins in the morning can’t hurt. I don’t usually start drinking quite this early.”

“No, of course not,” I answer and I groan inwardly at the fact that I’m so transparent.

There is a brief knock at the door and a moment later the dark-haired secretary enters the room. “Mr. Huntington, I need to speak to you for a moment.”

“One moment,” he tells me, putting down his drink on the glass table in front of the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

I stand there indecisively, with my fruit juice cocktail in my hand, all alone in the big office. I’m still completely overwhelmed but then I suddenly feel a prickle of excitement. I’ve only just fully realized what this all means for me. What an opportunity!

For a minute or two, I’m rooted to the spot. But since it looks as though he won’t be back right away, I take a good look around the room for the first time—and spot a door in the wall that I hadn’t noticed at all before. It’s opened a crack.

Feeling curious, I walk around the couch and approach it. But the crack is so narrow that I can’t see through it. So I cautiously push the door a little wider and then, when I see what’s behind it, open it all the way. It’s—a bedroom. There’s a wide bed with a mesh headrest, covered by a light brown bedspread, and tall fitted closets on the walls. A further door leads to a washroom or small bathroom. The outer wall is made of glass here, too, but there are curtains in front, which could be closed when necessary.

I look at the room with astonishment. I would never have thought that he could spend the night at his office. But perhaps he often works long hours. Or perhaps …the thought of what else he might do sends blood rushing to my cheeks. Suddenly I feel a gust of air against my cheek and spin around quickly. Jonathan Huntington is standing right behind me, looking at me. He’s holding his glass again. I didn’t hear him coming.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to be nosy, but …”

“But you were,” he finishes my sentence for me.

For a moment I thought I’d ruined everything. I violated his personal space and now he’s mad at me and is going to take back his offer. With baited breath, I wait for the hard words, the scolding. But he gives me one of his disarmingly charming smiles. “When it gets very late, I often don’t feel like going all the way back to Knightsbridge. So I sleep here,” he explains. “But,” he lifts his hand and I think he’s going to touch me, but instead he rests it on the door frame behind me, “I never mix business and pleasure. So don’t worry.”

I simply stare at him because I can tell that my voice isn’t under my control, and ask myself what exactly he means. Why should I worry—or not worry? Surely not about the thing I was thinking about just now. Or should I? I simply can’t think straight with him standing right there.