His Sword

by Holly Hart

  He sees me.

  His piercing gray eyes search me out from across the room. Crap, I didn’t expect him to be quite so handsome. In the pictures I’ve seen he looks colder, somehow. In all the research I did, I’ve never seen him do a spread in BusinessWeek or Time Magazine. He’s not in the society pages, either. He’s not that kind of billionaire. He’s elusive, hard to pin down. He flies under the radar.

  He beckons me over.

  A prim lady is seated in front of Mr. Thorne’s desk. Her legs are crossed, and her hands rest neatly on a yellow legal notepad on her lap. She’s sitting on a wing-backed, aged maroon leather armchair. She twists to look at me, but dismisses me instantly. Strangely, my new boss’s gaze never wavers. His eyes follow me all the way in.

  “The fact is, Mr. Thorne, we’ve had a number of complaints. I really don’t see how you can run a corporation of this size and still have enough time to devote to a healthy home life –”

  Mr. Thorne bites his lip. I can tell he wants to say something, but is only holding back through a monumental force of will. I close the distance to his desk.

  “More to the point, my records state that you are a single father. You are unmarried. This is simply not acceptable. How can you possibly hope to provide a stable environment for your daughter? The simple fact of the matter is that my department is of the mind to remove her from your care until –”

  “Miss –” he says, his face flinching with the effort of not biting back at the woman. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what is going on. The woman in front of him is from Child Protective Services. If I heard her correctly, she wants to take away Charlie Thorne’s child.

  I didn’t even know he had a daughter. How the hell did I miss that?

  “Ms. Winters,” she says. I reach her, and I see a sickening, saccharine smile sweep across the face. It’s such an obviously fake smile, it hurts. I can’t believe that she believes the words coming out of her own mouth. I feel like I’m watching a game of chess play out in front of me.

  Charlie smiles at me. I mean – Mr. Thorne. I can’t let myself think of him as a real person, though this situation is quickly making it difficult not to.

  “Ms. Winters,” he says. “What complaints are you talking about? My daughter has everything she could ask for. I’m there when she wakes up; I’m there when she gets home from school. She has the best tutors; the best of everything. Hell, she’s on a hockey tour of England at the moment –”

  The woman from CPS raises her hand. “You’ll understand, of course, I simply cannot reveal my sources.”

  An idea strikes me with the force of a lightning bolt: a way to solve Charlie’s problem – and my own – in one fell swoop. It’s neat: it’s tidy; it’s damn near genius. If I manage to pull it off. And that’s a big if.

  “But you’re happy to sit here,” Charlie spits, “and threaten to take my daughter away because I –”

  Oh God, I can’t believe I’m going to do this. Someone stop me. This is quite simply the most foolhardy, craziest thing I’ve ever done. How can it possibly end well?

  I bring the tray to rest on the green leather that tops Charlie Thorne’s mahogany desk. My heart is thundering inside my chest. My throat is clenched.

  I walk towards him, breaking his train of thought. He looks up at me questioningly. His eyes would steal the breath out of me, if I had any to give. I don’t. I need it all.

  I loop my arm around Charlie Thorne’s waist. I reach up onto my tiptoes – I need to – and plant a little kiss on his cheek. “Charlie,” I say in a stage whisper, in an accent that makes me sound like I grew up on the Upper East Side, not half-homeless in Brooklyn.

  “I’m so, so sorry I’m late. It was the traffic. I had to get out of the car on 5th and run the rest of the way. Did I miss anything?”

  You could hear a pin drop. Charlie Thorne – billionaire Charlie Thorne – a man who has never met me in my entire life, looks me in the eye. He has no idea who I am. I can tell he doesn’t know what to do.

  “And you are?” Ms. Winters says from her armchair. She ruffles through the papers on her lap. “I don’t have any records of you having a girlfriend, Mister Thorne. And might I say that I find it somewhat improper –”

  “Girlfriend,” I say. I let out a tinkling little laugh that seals my fate. “Charlie, please. Didn’t you tell the poor lady?”

  Cruella de CPS’s forehead wrinkles suspiciously. “Tell me what, precisely?”

  “That we’re married, of course,” I say. “We kept it quiet, but only because that’s what Charlie’s like. You hate being in the society pages, don’t you, darling?”

  I hear an intake of breath. I can’t tell whether it’s from Ms. Winters, or from Charlie himself. Since the lady from CPS opens her mouth a second later, I realize that it’s Charlie: definitely Charlie.

  “So you mean to tell me that you are –”

  “Penny Thorne, of course,” I say. I lean against Charlie’s perfect, muscular frame. He’s wearing a light gray suit that matches his eyes, and hugs his billion-dollar body. He feels stiff. I wonder if he’s about to throw me out; to apologize for the crazy lady that burst into his office. But he doesn’t.

  I realize that he can’t. I’ve put him in a no-win situation. If he denies he’s ever met me, then that’s just more evidence in the take-his-kid-away camp. But even if he embraces my lie, it still might not be enough.

  But right now, it’s the only shot he’s got.

  Ms. Winters turns to Charlie: my new husband; kinda. “Mr. Thorne, would you please explain exactly why you failed to inform my office that you were married.”

  I freeze.

  This is the moment of truth. A year’s work might – in just seconds – be thrown onto the scrap heap. Maybe I moved too fast. Maybe I ruined everything. I hold my breath.

  “That,” he breathes, “is a very good question.” He pauses. The silence in the room lingers. My eyes track a seagull holding position on a thermal wind , forty stories up in the New York skyline. I certainly wish I was out there, carefree on the breeze, not here.

  Winters’s eyebrow kinks. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to enlighten me as to whether it’s a question with an answer?”

  Charlie heaves a sigh. My lungs are still frozen, that same breath straining to get out. But I hold it still, waiting for the answer. I’m about to find out if my new surname is Thorne.

  His arm falls to my waist. He hugs me tight and brushes his lips against my forehead. Where his skin touches me, I feel an electric tingle I never expected.

  “It’s just been so frantic,” he says. His reply is halting at first, but quickly strengthens. This man is a born actor. I guess you have to be, when you’re dealing with this much money. After a while, you’re just playing a part. “It all happened so quickly. What’s it been, months?” He says.

  My eyes narrow as I try to head him off. I know exactly what Ms. Winters is going to say about that. I can’t let her think that we had a shotgun wedding, especially when the reality is so much worse.

  “Mr. Thorne –” she says. Her voice is hard, lips pressed tight against each other. I cut her off.

  “Yes,” I say. I stroke an imaginary piece of fluff from his suit pants. “Months – since the wedding, that is. But we’ve been dating for years.”

  “And just how old are you, Miss –?”

  “Mrs. Thorne,” Charlie growls. The sound of his voice thrills me. I shiver. It was protective and caring. God, this man can act. If only it was real.

  “Mrs. Thorne, then,” Ms. Winters says with a sour look on her face. “You don’t look much past your eighteenth birthday.”

  “Nineteen,” I say. It’s just about the first thing I’ve said since I entered this room that hasn’t been a lie. And a quarter, I don’t bother adding. I have a funny feeling it wouldn’t go down well.

  The woman’s eyes dance between me and my fake husband. A look of barely-concealed disdain dances on her cheeks. “Don’t you think that�
��s a little young to be getting married?” She asks.

  I’m of half a mind to slap her. What business is it of hers if I get married at this age? Even if it isn’t real, I mean. Does that matter?

  “No, not really,” I reply. “We’ve been in love for long enough. Why wait, I say?”

  “What about your daughter, Mr. Thorne. How does –”

  Crap. Given that ten minutes ago I didn’t realize my new boss had a daughter, I sure as hell don’t know her name. Can I go to jail for lying to CPS? I don’t know, and the last thing I want is to have to find out.

  “Tilly loves Penny,” my new husband says. “I haven’t seen her as happy since her mother died.”

  Double crap: he’s really doubled down. I mean, I guess I didn’t leave him any other choice, but still. I should not have done this. Screwed doesn’t even cover it. I mean, where do we go from here? Do I move in with him? Meet his daughter? Sleep with him?

  Ms. Winters stands up. The movement breaks me out of my shocked daze. She shuffles her papers and settles them in her handbag.

  “I suppose everything is in order,” she says, “for now.”

  “I’m glad,” Charlie says. He turns a hundred-watt smile on her. It does nothing to melt the woman’s icy exterior. “And about those complaints: you couldn’t –?”

  “I couldn’t,” she confirms. “And Mr. Thorne: it’s not best practice to ask those questions.” That’s the last thing she says before she takes her leave. Both Charlie and I hold our breath until the frosted doors close behind her. The second they do, he recoils from me as though I’m coated in poison.

  I don’t know why, but his reaction hurts.

  My boss stalks behind his desk, and then sags back into a brown leather executive chair. He reaches forward and stabs a button on the intercom. He doesn’t wait for the person on the other end.

  “Ella, organize a meeting with Harper: now.”

  Click.

  He doesn’t wait for a response. I guess that’s one of the perks of being worth more than most small countries. I feel his gaze on my skin, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. A phrase keeps repeating in my mind.

  Charles Thorne. Boss. Husband.

  Lover?

  Chapter Two

  Penny

  Walking in Charlie Thorne’s wake is like following the path of a hurricane: a hurricane with a perfectly toned, beautifully sculpted ass. His gray suit hugs it. Every time he takes a step forward, the soft, thin wool clings to his buttocks.

  I need to get my dirty mind off it. I’ve got bigger problems than my libido right now.

  He doesn’t say a word. After he spoke to his secretary over the intercom, Charlie closed his eyes, laid back in his seat, and sat like that for a couple of seconds. I opened my mouth, and then I closed it again.

  After all, what the heck do you say to your boss when you’ve just married him?

  Yeah – I didn’t know either.

  We breeze past the lobby.

  Miss Casey gives me the stink eye. She knows I’m in trouble; and I can tell she’s desperate to find out why. But in truth, the stern secretary is the least of my problems right now. Mr. Thorne’s pumping out a cold, calm fury. He hasn’t turned it on me yet, but I know he will.

  And I’m worried.

  “Good Morning, Mr. Thorne; are you heading out?” A man says as we near the elevator. He’s mid-30s, with a pistol on his hip and short-cropped military hair. Ex-special forces; I’d put money on it.

  Mr. Thorne just grunts.

  “Mind if I come along?”

  Out comes another grunt.

  We all know that it’s not really a question. Men with Mr. Thorne’s resources don’t just walk around town without protection.

  The strange, tense anger radiating from my boss’s body almost crackles in the elevator. The last thing I want is for those doors to ping closed, but they do. So now there are three of us, in a box that sinks forty stories toward the ground in just a few seconds. My stomach falls out from underneath me.

  My hand flails out and –

  And Charlie Thorne catches it. He holds me tight. Our eyes meet, but neither of us says a word. What can we say? Still, I know what I feel. A tingle runs through me, sparking and crackling. Then he lets go.

  It’s gone.

  The elevator hits the bottom floor. The doors slide open. The bodyguard steps out and whistles. Another man – same haircut – catches his eye, grabs a set of car keys and spins away.

  “Where are we going, boss?” The bodyguard asks. He keeps his voice low and respectful. I can tell that he doesn’t want to poke the bear any more than I do.

  Charlie looks up for the first time. His eyebrow dances. “Sorry?”

  “Just wondering where we’re headed,” the bodyguard says. “So the chase cars can keep up.”

  He meets his boss’s gaze, but I notice that his eyes don’t linger there. They are always moving, always dancing. Looking up, checking sniper spots and suddenly interrogating everyone who walks. There’s no doubting how professional this guy is. If I was worth nine billion dollars, he’s the kind of guy I would want on my side.

  Charlie runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Tony. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Let’s head to Yautcha, okay?”

  Yautcha: New York’s hottest Japanese restaurant. I’ve heard of it because everyone’s heard of it. Every day of the week they’ve got celebrities there: Matthew McConaughey; Emma Stone; Meryl Streep; you name it, they’ve been there.

  And that’s just Monday.

  I’m no restaurant critic, but I know a thing or two. Like, I know you can’t just waltz into Yautcha without a reservation. It’s got a nine-month waiting list; and that’s just to book a table. Except, apparently, you can just waltz in once you’ve got several zeros and three commas behind your name.

  “You got it, boss.”

  The hurricane resumes walking.

  I’ve thought about this moment – well not this precise moment, but close – every day for months. I’ve been working up to getting a job like this all year. I thought about it more than you could possibly imagine. But even so, the reality takes me by surprise. When you’re worth what Charlie Thorne is worth, things just happen.

  You need a car? Sure thing – one will turn up outside your New York skyscraper office and take you wherever you want to go.

  You need a restaurant reservation? Don’t bother.

  You need a woman? Well – apparently you can get a wife just by showing up at work.

  We sit in the back seat of Charlie’s limousine. He leans forward, rolls the partition window up, and we’re left in silence. There’s a pause for a couple of seconds. I start to wonder if he’s ever going to mention what I did. Maybe I’ll get away with it.

  Yeah, right.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” He asks. He’s trembling, bristling with rage. “No – scratch that. Who the hell are you? Why don’t you start with that? What’s your name?”

  The limousine’s engine rumbles into life. I hear the signal indicator – click, click – and feel as the limo turns into New York’s lunchtime traffic. My mouth goes dry. I scrape my tongue across my lips. What the hell am I going to do?

  “Penny,” I croak. “Penny Walters.”

  Charlie Thorne’s gray eyes drill into my skin. It’s an icy heat – cold, crackling, but no less painful. He breaks me, as I frantically search for an explanation.

  His eyebrows kink due to my answer. “Not Penny Thorne? Because – funny story, really – if I’m remembering correctly, you just lied to Child Protective Services and told them you were my wife. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Thinking? That’s the problem; I wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought –”

  “That you were helping?” He says with scorn. “Well, that’s obvious. Couldn’t you come up with a believable story, at least?”

  Every time my boss speaks, my stupidity gets rammed home. It’s like I’m an anv
il, and his dismissive words are the hammer. He rains down blows upon blows.

  “I mean, look at you,” he says. “You’re what, eighteen?”

  “Nineteen,” I say. Angry heat surges onto my cheeks. I know I’ve screwed up, but he doesn’t need to treat me like this, does he?

  Charlie wakes his hand. “Nineteen, then: and you think this is believable? You think CPS is just going to swallow your story hook line and sinker, do you?”

  “Well,” I say softly. “You went with it, didn’t you?”

  Charlie sighs. He brings his hands to his throat, unlaces his tie and throws it on to the seats opposite. He loosens the top button of his shirt. “Penny, you really didn’t leave me with any other choice.”

  The limousine pulls up outside Yautcha after twenty long, agonizing minutes of silence. It quickly becomes apparent that Charlie Thorne doesn’t think of me as an equal. In fact, if he had it his way, I don’t think he would think of me at all.

  I don’t know who this guy Harper is, but I guess I’m about to find out.

  A white-jacketed maître d’ greets us at the floor to ceiling glass doors. I don’t know how he knew to be there. I guess this is just Charlie’s life.

  “Mr. Thorne,” he smiles. “It is such a pleasure to have you join us again. Would you like your usual table?”

  For the first time since all this started, I see Charlie crack a genuine smile. “Hey Jimmy,” he says. He brings the man in for a hug. “Good to see you again. Can you put me somewhere quiet instead?”

  I look out into the busy restaurant. It’s dark and intimate. Black-jacketed waiters float around – seen but not heard. It’s only just past noon on a Monday, and yet the place is packed. I don’t think Yautcha does quiet. I’m getting ready for the inevitable apology – because that’s what happens in my life – when the exact opposite happens.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Jimmy says. “Just give me twenty seconds. Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

  Charlie shakes his head.

  The wheels spin into motion. In a few seconds, well-heeled diners paying hundreds of bucks a head get asked to stand up, move the different tables, and are given free bottles of wine to calm their plaintive complaints.