by Sara Forbes
9
JESS
WE HEAD UPSTAIRS TO THE BATHROOM. This time his pace is more leisurely. We linger in the dark stairwell, our breaths the only sound before he unlocks and shoves the third-floor door open.
I'm so aware of him. We're alone here, and it's quiet, and dark, and there's always that potential for danger. It's the kind of thing my mother used to warn me about.
I'm coming to the conclusion that Egan Harwood is somewhat weird. The guy is loaded, and he's gorgeous, and yet he's spending his night here in an uncomfortable office building in a horrible part of town. Something tells me those hyperactive computers don't need him to be here. He could just as well be working from home, which I assume is the height of luxury in some leafy suburb of London. And yet, here he is.
Something else is weird—the way my body is reacting to him. Whenever I stop moving, I realize I'm buzzing, nerves tingling, heart thumping, which makes me want to get busy again. When we occupy the same room, it's like a dance. We weave in and out of each other's physical spaces even though we're strangers. Our conversations are the same, pushing gently at each other, leaving room for the other to say what they want to. He has a fun side that comes out if you know how to talk to him.
The third-floor open plan office goes full circle around the elevator shaft. There are small offices at the south wall and two small storage rooms facing the elevator shaft. Memories of this floor space being packed with cubicles and awash with conversations come flooding back.
"What's with these chalk lines on the floor?" I ask him as I scuff at the purple line with my toe. My inner clean freak wants to wash it away.
"Oh, just some floor space planning," he says. "I might redesign some, uh, walls."
I definitely don't recommend that, but I don't say it.
I go into the bathroom which smells like public restrooms off a motorway—a stench of stale urine, rust, and bleach. It's just the result of water resting too long and the ventilation shaft issue. And yet, something lingers on the air besides the stench—a sweetness like perfume. Weird how certain expensive perfumes can linger on after the employees have left.
Well, I know exactly what to do. I pull on my rubber gloves and remove the lid of the first cistern.
He's still there, leaning against the doorway, watching. I'm not sure I can work like this. I mean it's flattering to have a hunk taking such keen notice in me but while I'm sticking my hand into a cistern? Come on.
I shoot him a glance over my shoulder. He shifts position and pulls out a phone from his pocket and starts perusing it.
"The water pressure's low," I tell him. "That's what's causing the problems. Also, the fact that the toilets are being used infrequently. You need employees."
He looks up from his phone. "How do you mean?
"To keep these things running, they need constant use."
"Why? Does infrequent use offend them?"
I groan. "Actually, yes. It helps to treat the building as if it has a personality. And this building needs life within it in order to function reasonably."
"Do you anthropomorphize all your places of work, Ms. Wilkes?"
"No, but you do have to admit this place has personality."
He laughs, looks up at the cracks on the ceiling and then back at me. "You can say that again."
He's attractive when he's laughing. But the switch back to sternness is rapid, and absolute, as if he feels he's not allowed to be happy. Worry lines creep back onto his forehead and he seems to be perpetually looking into the near distance, figuring something out that's far removed from the things happening right in front of him. Whatever. Rich men's first world problems.
I re-enter the bathroom and continue flushing each toilet and refilling all cisterns with water. If I come and do this twice a week it'll be enough to keep it running smoothly and smelling acceptable.
"I'm done," I call out from within the bathroom. He's still there in the empty open plan office, skulking by the corner window on his phone, probably counting his millions.
He looks up, rouses himself off the wall, stretches out his arms, his shirt straining. Yep, the guy is ripped. His clothes are so conservative you wouldn't really expect it. But he is.
Whatever expression I have on my face, he catches it as he turns around. His gaze flickers away immediately.
It's suddenly very still. Very quiet. Very awkward. Our shadows lengthen as we stand there avoiding looking at each other.
"Well..." I say. "I guess I'm kind of done here. And it's, uh, late." I swallow. My heart is beating too fast. My back is against the bathroom doorway and I seem stuck here. I can't walk nearer to him. I can't go back into the bathroom.
"Good," he says, making eye-contact again. "I'll show you out."
"Seriously," I laugh. "I know the way out."
"I know." He comes closer. He reaches beyond me and opens the door to the elevator hall. As I walk past him, I feel his hand splayed oh so gently on my upper back and my whole body fills with a warmth that pulsates to the same rhythm as the drums beating in my ears.
"Oh," he says as we're at the exit. "Take tomorrow off—I mean in compensation for today. Full pay of course. Come on Friday as planned."
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Yes. I mean, if you feel this place will survive that long."
"It should," I say. "Thank you."
"No." He gives me a warm smile. "Thank you."
I feel strangely deflated on the way home in the car which is weird because normally I'd be jumping for joy at a fully paid day off. For a split second, I almost thought he was going to ask me out. You know, to make up for the date he interrupted? But I guess that was stupid of me. A millionaire business man and a cleaning lady? Yeah, right.
I'm better off anyway as he's my boss and I can't afford to mess up this important source of income. I'll stick to my job and he'll stick to his—whatever it is that he actually does.
10
EGAN
JESS WILKES HAS LEFT THE BUILDING. Thank God for that.
She's made it clear that I can't survive in this building without her. But I'm not too sure I'll survive in it with her either.
I couldn't relax for a minute while she was here. At first, I thought it was because of Natasha but that's not it. It's her.
I've never met a woman quite like Jess Wilkes. She's a whirlwind, with her energy, her perfectionism, her positive attitude, her sweet face, her ripe body. And I've only known her for two days. It's insane.
A scrape of a chair across a floor alerts me to Natasha. I race to her door and unlock it. "It's okay, she's gone. Are you okay?" I ask.
"Uh-huh," she says.
"Well done. You were very good at staying quiet. She fixed the thermostats. I hope it'll get more comfortable here for you now, temperature wise."
She nods. "I can feel it already."
"Good."
"Is she nice?" Natasha asks.
I shrug. "Yeah. Sure."
Natasha is eyeing me curiously.
"What?" I say.
"You were laughing."
"Is that a crime?"
"I hadn't heard you laughing before."
I sigh and look at her, something twisting my heart. "Oh, Natasha. I know there hasn't been much to laugh at recently."
She dips her gaze.
"All right. Let's just get our beds set up again and order some dinner. I'm starving."
"Will she come back?"
"Ms. Wilkes? Yes, Friday as it turns out—for the full day's shift. If you're still here by then, I'll have to think of a damn good excuse as to why your door is locked. Let me know if you can think of a good one."
"I will." She gives me a watery smile. It's the best I've got from her yet. I'll take it.
I get onto Skype and demand a call with all the Bitcoin Billionaires who can make it at extremely short notice. Gratifyingly, it turns out to be all of them once again. Six other windows open on my screen with curious faces, some of them yawning. I tell them about t
he continued delays with the safe house.
"Can't you make it happen faster? Push it, I mean?" Sean asks.
"This process can't be rushed. Not with all the money in Bitcoin, not for all the tea in China."
"Well, the world hasn't stopped being cruel and violent. What about my Syrian?"
I glare at his pixelated image. "He'll have to wait until successful completion of this project."
"But he could die! Didn't you read my mail about that hellhole they're keeping him in? We have to get him out of there now. How can you weigh one life over another?"
"Because I have to draw the line somewhere. While your project is vital too, we have to finish this pilot with Natasha before we take on a new mission. Otherwise we have no credibility."
"Who cares about credibility?" he asks. "You can't transfer the experience. Each case will be different. I say we work in parallel, me on my project, you on yours. You don't even have to be involved. I can help Farhid out of the country. Our man with the plane is still open for business, right?"
"I appreciate your initiative, but hold your horses, Sean. Remember, we're a group. If we splinter, we'll lose focus, we'll get sloppy, and we'll make fatal errors."
The others are squirming. They want this argument to be over so they can get back to whatever they were doing. It's not the first time Sean and I have argued, but this is the closest he's got to openly challenging my authority.
"Once we're done, we look at your case first thing," I add.
"You hired a cleaner and a janitor," he says, leaning closer to the camera.
I sigh. "What has that got to do with anything?"
"How do you know you can trust them?"
"I don't have to trust them. I haven't given them information. Don't question my every move, Sean."
"You would, if it were me."
"You'll get your chance," I say. "And when the times comes, I need you to be ready."
"Hmph," he says.
"How's Natasha holding up?" Felix cuts in.
"It's been tough on her, but just recently she seems to be cheering up. I keep telling her it's going to happen any day now. As you can imagine, she's sick of seeing only my face every day."
"And you?" Felix asks. "You're virtually under house arrest yourself. Have you gone out at all since you rescued her?"
"Not much. Just to get supplies really. But it hasn't been all bad. I do manage to get my work done here just fine. I'd just be sitting in front of a screen if I was at home anyway."
"Rather you than me," he says with his trademark chuckle.
As I sit there looking at their faces, it dawns on me. I know what is making my self-enforced house arrest bearable, or rather, who. Her visits bring a heartbeat back into the building and for those precious hours, there is energy, purpose and a thrill of anticipation in the air.
What is she doing now? Can I maintain her interest for as long as it takes to send Natasha on her way? Because after that, I might even be able to ask Jess Wilkes out for an après-work coffee.
11
JESS
WE'RE CATCHING UP WITH OFFICE ADMIN in our little office in Ironmonger Street. I feel buoyant today, suddenly not having to go to the Platinum Star. The smell of burning grease wafts up from the fish & chips shop below. Delivery cans bang constantly right outside our window. But none of these things bothers me today. I guess it's been a while since I found myself in such a good mood.
"So, how was it last night?" Martha asks first thing after we settle down with our morning coffees.
"Oh, fine. He's actually all right when you get used to him."
She laughs. "Well that sounds promising. Details! Did you you-know-what?"
"What?"
"What? I'm only asking."
"No, we didn't you-know-what," I say. "Holy crap, Martha. I went there to do a job."
"Wait, what?" she says. "It was a date, I thought!"
I groan. "Oh, you're talking about the date. With the teacher?"
"Uh, yeah." Martha's shaking her head. "What were you talking about?"
"Sorry." I feel the heat rise in my neck and into my jaw. "I was talking about Harwood. I went there," I rush on before she can interrupt with more questions because she looks like she's ready to explode. "See, he called me in the middle of the date with Brett which by the way, was as boring as hell and I dropped everything and flew over there to rescue him from the house of horrors."
Martha sits back slowly. "Oh. I see." There's this knowing smile plastered on her face.
"No, it's not like that. I made a rule, no more suits."
"And he's definitely a suit to out-suit all suits."
"Yes, in fact, Brett was a step in the right direction. A nice teacher. No big ego. No demands. Not likely to boss me around."
"But so boring you had to run off on him?" Martha finishes.
"Yes, but."
She laughs. "Just because Harwood's a suit doesn't mean he'll use you and hang you out to dry."
"But it does make it far more likely," I say. "Besides, his money is the only thing keeping us afloat right now. I can't jeopardize that."
"No," she says heavily. "There you definitely have a point."
***
And so, three days later, Friday, I'm back in his building, ready for a proper day's work. I arrive at 7:15 and key in the entrance code he gave me for the door.
He intercepts me on the ground floor. "Good morning."
"Morning," I say, tossing him a careful smile.
He seems harried. Probably a morning thing. And his shirt, though pristine white and perfectly tailored to his frame, is creased. His eyes have purplish rings under them.
"I just need you to clean the second floor today."
"Normally I clean all floors, top to bottom. The time allocated more than allows for that."
"I appreciate your honesty, Ms. Wilkes—"
"Oh, just call me Jess," I say. "Everyone at Trent Security always did."
"OK, Jess," he says.
I love the sound of it from his lips so much that I have to smother a smile.
"And I'm Egan," he adds.
I let my smile show. "Egan, OK. So, look, Egan, I'll actually find it difficult to leave the job undone if you know what I mean."
"I know exactly what you mean but today, it's just the second floor." A note of steel has entered his voice.
"Fair enough," I say lightly. "I'll just have to rein in my compulsive desire to clean the first and third floors."
"I appreciate that." Now he looks like he's smothering a smile.
Once he gets used to my being here, and gets bored, I'll be free to dictate how I do my own work. And I'll get to do it in peace. He doesn't even understand half of what it actually entails. This thought consoles me as I take out the vacuum cleaner to attack the carpet.
Before long, I'm following my usual track, left front corner to back right corner in semi circles. There's a layer of dust on everything so it takes longer than usual to get the carpet looking truly fresh. But it's so satisfying to see the difference between before and after.
I'm tempted to start humming a catchy song that came on the radio on my way here. But I don't dare. He's just sitting there frowning at whatever is on his screen. I wonder why he doesn't choose to go to another floor while I'm working here as he has two whole other levels to choose from and I am making a lot of noise.
Surreptitiously, I watch him while I work. From time to time he puts on headphones but he's listening, never speaking. I'm not learning anything much about him or his business.
When I switch off the vacuum cleaner, the silence seems to crowd in around us. It's hard to believe this room used to be packed with seventy-something employees, stuffed into tiny cubicles adorned with photos, kids' artwork and trendy gadgets crowding around the power outlets. It always used to be filled with noise and bustling action.
"You missed a bit there." Egan points to the center where the photocopier and laser printers huddle together.
; "I didn't miss it, I deliberately leave that spot 'til I've emptied all the paper trash around it," I explain.
"Oh." He scans the floor critically and then returns his attention to his screen. "I noticed a cobweb on the ceiling." He's pointing up at the corner nearest the elevator shaft.
"I can remove that, sure. Knowing how much you like spiders."
He shoots me a warning look. "Be very careful Ms. Wilkes," he says in a voice that's stern but maybe with an edge of something lighter if I didn't imagine it.
I raise my eyebrows at him.
"When I find out your phobias," he says, "I'll get my revenge."
"I can save you the trouble, Mr. Harwood. It's suits. Men in suits are my phobia."
"You're afraid of them?"
"It's more of an aversion actually."
He cocks his head. "Isn't this the part where you say 'present company excepted'?"
I shrug. "I'd need more evidence."
His mouth stays rigid but his eyes are laughing. I call that a win. His gaze wanders over me, a slower appraisal than any to date and his eyes meet mine for several longer-than-necessary seconds that thrill me to my core. "Evidence that I flatter myself to think I could provide," he says finally, his voice deeper and softer.
Excitement courses through me, warm and prickly. He doesn't look away. The man is provocative, bold, and I'm in unfamiliar territory, semi-flirting with a boss. It's...intriguing. And really a bad idea. I break away from his gaze and walk over on the pretext of gathering up the waste paper box by his desk. "I just have a few minutes left," I say, addressing his side profile and ignoring his previous comment. "I've done the floor, cleaned up the kitchen areas and now I just have to do the rubbish disposal. I think you'll be in good shape for the weekend. Assuming you don't get a stampede of employees in in the meantime."
He acknowledges this with a cock of his head. "You've done a good job here today, Jess."
I nod. "Sure. It's what I do. And today I had more than enough time for the task so I did it extra thoroughly."
"You take great pride in your work."
"Of course."
"But... And yet..." He can't seem to get the words out.