by Lesley Young
Google photos had done him a disservice. His physical appearance was younger than his thirty-four years, though his eyes were wiser, perhaps a result of building up an empire from nothing. (He had started out as an orphan ranch hand on a cattle station in the Australian outback.) And while I had noted he was photogenic, in person he made a much more impressive . . . impression.
I found myself acknowledging how striking his bronzed skin, black close-cropped hair, and opulent, dark-brown eyes were, which was odd because I do not typically admire physical features. All of his features were large, but of perfect symmetry and proportion—ruggedly so, I should add—and he had a strong jaw. A prominent scar across his forehead and a smaller one under his left eye brought an unexpected air of masculinity to his already domineering presence. He rose up, all six foot one or so (only working out daily gets a man that fit, I noted) and leaned across the desk, reaching out his hand, which I took.
My hand looked tiny and pale in his rough clasp.
“Hello. I am Charlie Sykes.”
“Are you, then,” he answered, in one of the lowest registers I have ever heard a man’s voice—quiet and steady. I held his gaze for a moment, unblinking, as that was what I felt he wanted since he held my hand for a moment longer than was the accepted norm. I wondered then, rather ridiculously, if he was trying to see inside of me, and that contemplation was accompanied by goosebumps, which started at my wrist and spread up my arm, across my shoulders and onto my chest, causing my nipples to harden. I did not blush, as these were all perfectly normal bodily functions.
“Pull up a chair,” he said, finally releasing my hand.
The Wikipedia article stated that Mr. Knight was born in New Zealand but ran away to Australia at the age of seven; however, I noted only a soft Australian accent. Also, I had identified no discernible emotion on his face upon our initial greeting, but I knew from past experience that I could not conclude he had not had one.
I slid into a soft leather chair and put my satchel on the floor beside me. Mr. Knight said nothing.
I waited, calmly, expecting him to peruse my prominent breasts, especially since my nipples were no doubt peaked and visible through my thin blouse and bra. But he did not, which indicated he had a good handle on his biological urges to mate. Instead, he openly appraised my face, and, finally, smiled.
“So Miss Sykes, what brings such a beautiful yank to Sydney, then?”
“My looks are not at all pertinent, Mr. Knight.” His smile dropped. “I chose Australia spontaneously,” I offered, having enough sense not to share the Muriel’s Wedding detail. “I simply moved here to start fresh.”
He leaned forward in his chair, examining me much closer, eyes narrowed. “There are only a few reasons why a woman such as yourself leaves America for Down Under . . . Miss Sykes.”
I waited for his assumption.
“You’re running from someone. An ex? Husband? Boyfriend?”
I did not like the way he eyed me just then.
“Incorrect on all counts,” I informed him. “I have never had any of those. But I do not believe my sexual history, or lack of it, is pertinent to the job interview.” As I spoke, his full lips popped open and his eyebrows hiked farther up, creating strong lines on his forehead.
Here we go, I thought, frowning. Something I was doing was confusing him. Of course, I had no idea what it was. My tone of voice? Something I had said? It was like trying to figure out a foreign alphabet. I cleared my throat. “However, you can rest assured I am in Australia for no reason other than a desire to live life, finally, and that I have no intentions of leaving.” I did not want him to think I was not capable of a long-term commitment to the company should things work out.
He closed his mouth, but had not blinked once. What was troubling him? I frowned.
When he did not say anything, I added, “Perhaps we could discuss what you are looking for in a personal assistant, Mr. Knight. It is not clear to me whether my temp agency has sent you quite the right fit.”
His face grew yet more serious, and an electric air filled up the gap between us. I had asked a perfectly appropriate question, raising a reasonable concern for both of us. Had I not?
Those jet-black eyes seemed to glitter. Was it annoyance?
“Why don’t you—” he searched for my resume, pulling the file from under a pile of papers, which clearly indicated he had not read it “—tell me why you think you’re not a match?” I watched his eyes quickly scan my resume. I now knew the reason for his ineffective interviewing skills: he was unprepared.
I sighed. “I do not have any personal assistance experience in the hospitality, entertainment, or tourism business. That said, I should point out, I have a higher than average IQ, which means I certainly learn fast, faster than most. Also, you appear to be seeking a permanent, full-time assistant. I am looking for a part-time or casual position so I can decide whether the employer is a good match for me. I find not everyone appreciates how highly I value efficiency. Finally, with all due respect, I am not certain what this job entails, and I greatly desire employment that provides me with new challenges and a good deal of daily satisfaction.”
An unusual breathy noise came out of his mouth, as he stared at me over the top of my resume with a degree of intensity, I admit, I had never experienced before.
“I can absolutely assure you of the latter, Miss Sykes,” he said, his gaze bearing down on me like the high-noon sun. It took concentration to not glance away.
I was confused. Did he mean daily satisfaction? What about the former; plenty of challenges? “Perhaps you can outline what the job consists of, Mr. Knight, before we agree to anything.”
He coughed, and said, “Certainly, Miss Sykes,” covering his mouth momentarily. He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk.
Finally, he was taking this seriously.
Or . . . was he? I watched his mouth, the corners twitching, and wondered momentarily if he was fighting a smile. Why?
“I need an offsider of . . . utmost diligence to manage my daily schedule, which is very busy. And I’ll expect you to anticipate conflicts, book travel, and”— he glanced away and back, eyeing me again—“travel with me. Now, supposing you don’t find that challenging, given your research experience I see here, I could test you out with some management consulting project work.”
I stared at him, working through what he had said. I would never grow accustomed to hearing the peculiar local term for personal assistant (offsider). He shifted and frowned.
“You could also . . .” He looked up in the air, pausing a moment before looking back at me. “. . . take on any office management task you think’s fitting.”
I was quiet because I was distracted by a growing sense of excitement. Perhaps this was the meaningful job I wanted. Just a few more concerns I needed to address. “What sort of travel would be involved?”
“Hotel inspections, new site possibilities and such. It’s paid for.”
“How often?”
“Once a month, maybe twice. Why the worry, Miss Sykes?” He had read my facial expression and tone correctly. “Most young women would be chuffed over open slather trips to the world’s greatest resorts and cities.”
“You’ll find, Mr. Knight, I am not most women.”
After a moment, he murmured, “No, I see that.”
I frowned deeper, unable to discern the tone in his voice or to hold his intense eye contact, but carried on (focusing on his nose). “I think I could manage the frequent disruption travel might involve, but I would appreciate as much notice as possible to prepare for trips. Perhaps it would be best if we approach this position with a three-month probation period. That way we can both assess fit with no hard feelings should either of us discover one is not suitable for the other. A permanent position is a major commitment, which I take quite seriously, Mr. Knight.”
He leaned back, staring at me somberly.
“I haven’t offered you the position.”
“Y
es, you did, when you said you would assure a great deal of daily satisfaction.”
He raised his left brow.
Yes, he was definitely fighting a smile. “You always so literal, Miss Sykes?”
I frowned. I was frustrated by the fact he was being obtuse, and I suspected, deliberately obtuse. “I simply take people at face value. I believe the world would be a much easier place to live in if everyone would just say what they mean.” I flushed this time, worried I had strayed out of professional territory.
He eyed me with something much more familiar than I would have liked, and nodded slightly.
“You’re likely right, Miss Sykes. I’ll have to keep that in mind, moving forward.”
Our eyes locked. This time he blinked first. He’d said “moving forward.” Did that mean he was offering me the job? Why are people not more direct?
“Salary is fifty thousand dollars. Three weeks’ vacation. If and when I require overtime, I pay double. I’ll have a probationary contract drawn up. You’ll start on Monday, when human resources’ll outline the benefits.”
Yes, he was offering me the job. It was a high salary, too. Still, I did not know how I felt about it. Overtime? What could possibly entail overtime? I remained seated as he rose up and walked around the edge of the desk. His dress pants appeared to have been tailored for his long legs, as was his light blue dress shirt for his narrow waist and broad shoulders.
“I need to address something else with you, Mr. Knight.”
He sighed and leaned against the desk in front of me. “Certainly, Miss Sykes. Maybe you’re after a company car or bonuses?”
I found the altered circumstance awkward (his crotch was eye-level), while my brain summarily ruled out his last remarks since they were sarcastic—why? I had not asked for anything unreasonable, had I?
I was forced to stare up at him, rather than at his genital area, feeling rather prevailed over as a result.
“I do not believe it is appropriate or professional to engage in coitus with one’s employer.” A noise came out of his nose, his eyebrows shot up, and his mouth popped open slightly before closing quickly. “While you have given me no indication of inappropriate behavior today, a few things that were said by my temp director and the tweet posted by your former assistant have led me to believe you may have expectations from your staff that are not strictly professional.” His eyes narrowed—with what emotion, I could not say. A splash of red hit both his cheeks. I continued since he had not denied the accusation or interrupted me. “So there is absolutely no confusion, it behooves me to make it clear upfront that I am not at all interested in embarking on an intimate relationship with you.”
“Let’s clear the air, then, Miss Sykes,” he said, with an edge in his voice. “I haven’t, nor would I ever, have a fling with an offsider, though the last one tried like ’ell. So I can assure you that”—his eyes flickered ever so quickly over my body—“you’ll have no worries there.”
I cleared my throat. It was very dry. I actually wasn’t mulling over whether I could believe him. I was wondering what was wrong with me. I rarely experienced emotional responses that weren’t readily tempered with rationality or, in some cases, a hard-strapping logic.
Mr. Knight’s brow knitted tightly together.
“If my word’s not good enough for you, perhaps you’d like the preservation of your chastity included in the contract? I’ll have to check with my solicitors as I’m not sure such a clause would fall under Australian employment law . . .”
The strangest thing occurred as he spoke: I felt blood rush to my cheeks. I never blush. It makes me uncomfortable and shaky.
Why was it happening? He was addressing my concern with professional courtesy. I withdrew into myself to assess what was wrong. Nothing, that I could tell. I felt my cheeks with the back of my hand. A moment of empty time passed. And another. Panic seized me. I did want this job. I should take it. Like Muriel would have.
I had not heard the rest of what he said. But I did acknowledge how unconventional it was to be discussing sexual intercourse in a job interview. He finished speaking, and the way he was watching me, clenching his jaw, standing so close—
I popped up quickly and extended my hand. “No. No need to formalize that in the contract. This has been a very successful first meeting. I will see you on Monday. Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Knight. I will strive not to disappoint you.”
He took my hand gently, and held it an extra second longer than necessary. Try as I may, I could not meet his eyes, which I knew would send some kind of negative message. Instead I stared at our hands, ever so slightly tugged mine free, and left the room without a second glance.
I needed fresh air.
Yes, that was it.
Chapter 3
“How’s it goin’, Miss Sykes?” asked Mr. Knight, passing by my desk at 10:08 a.m. on Monday morning, appearing youthful, too youthful, perhaps, for his elegant suit. He had two gentlemen with him who actually looked their age, late thirties, both in pants and dress shirts, no suit jackets.
“Good morning, Mr. Knight. I am well, thank you.” I stood up from my desk located just outside his office, curious at the pressure I felt in my chest.
Anxiety? No. Anticipation. I had been looking forward to embarking on my new role. The weekend had been . . . quiet. Also, perhaps, yes, I had been looking forward to seeing Mr. Knight. I would have to analyze that later.
Mr. Knight smelled of mint and spice and something else I could only label as strictly masculine.
“Can I get you a coffee, sir?”
He stopped in his tracks, as did the two gentlemen behind him, eyebrows raised, faces animated. They were examining me like one might examine a two-headed zebra on an African safari.
“Or perhaps some other refreshment?”
Mr. Knight spun around quickly and moved into my space. I glanced up at him, noticing his smooth brown skin, smile lines just forming around large obsidian eyes currently looking down on me with a very negative emotion. I experienced fear, before I reminded myself I was perfectly safe.
“Miss Sykes, don’t ever call me sir. Got that?”
“Oh. Certainly. Sorry.”
I winced. Two seconds on the job and I had already made a mistake.
“A yank, ay, Jace?” said the short one with beady eyes. He whistled then, and added, “Trying out new flavors—”
“That’s enough,” barked Mr. Knight over his shoulder, then eyed me again and stepped back. “Miss Sykes comes to me highly recommended for her . . . efficiency. We’re testing each other on a probationary basis to see if we’re the right fit for a permanent position.”
He smiled slightly at me and relief coursed through me. A positive emotion, finally. “Miss Sykes, this is Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle.” I reached out and shook each of their hands. They both wore stunned expressions, along with, I noted, slightly crumpled clothes. Mr. Bennett was the one with small eyes. Mr. Carlisle had one extremely droopy eye (perhaps an injury?) and had gone salt and pepper early considering he barely had wrinkles. “They’re executives of holdings I consult on outside of Knight Enterprises and . . . good mates of mine.”
Their eyes kept shifting between Mr. Knight and myself.
“You’ll be seeing quite a bit of them.”
“Nice to meet you,” I murmured. In turn, they murmured vague responses. It was clear they greatly respected Mr. Knight, who had not taken his eyes off me. That would take some getting used to—his barely-blinking black eyes on me—though I had no idea why. I breathed in deeply and felt my trusty navy smock dress pull tight against my waist and breasts.
He asked me if was settling in, and I told him yes, I had met with HR at 8:30 a.m., and that I appreciated the benefits plan and had signed the contract. I also informed him I would like to reorganize his schedule into a handy phone app that would allow me to send alerts.
“Sounds fine, Miss Sykes. We can discuss the week’s schedule this arvo.” (Arvo, I had learned, is Austral
ian strine for afternoon.)
As Mr. Knight’s associates filed into his office, I was baffled by their reaction to me, and worried briefly that they may have some negative influence on my position there. I brushed the concern aside, as I have found speculation gives me nothing but a headache.
After that encounter, I settled into my day readily, making myself familiar with basic operations and sundries. I marveled at how smart Mr. Knight was to surround himself not just with a highly respected board of directors, but also with a bevy of additional experts to consult on all aspects of his business. It was a logical and prudent method for someone who had not attained a formal business education—even though I suspected his IQ was above average.
And there, I’d done it again. No matter how hard I focused on the job at hand, my thoughts circled back to Mr. Knight. I had never had trouble concentrating in my life before. I chalked it up to all of the newness in my life, and my desire to make this job work, and perhaps also recognizing the fact that, physically, Mr. Knight was a fine specimen. I could admire him, I reasoned, in a removed fashion, and not be distracted, if I simply set my mind to it.
At lunchtime, in the Plaza’s main washroom I applied SPF 50 to my exposed skin and wandered to the nearby tourist attraction, Darling Harbour. I ate my peanut butter sandwich seated on a pedestrian-friendly art installation of spiraling steps set up at one corner of the wharf. This enabled me to observe locals and tourists soaking up the sun at restaurant tables or ambling around the market shops while whiffing the unfamiliar scent of the sea, and admiring the downtown skyline.
As long as one minimized movement in the Australian heat, sweating was avoidable. I wondered if my mother would have liked the heat, and found no likely answer in my memory bank. I deliberated on how long it would take for my body to acclimatize to the temperature. And then I thought through the various activities I needed to conduct to gain a sense of Mr. Knight’s filing system. I was also responsible for fielding much of his email. The inbox folder was full, which indicated the former assistant had not been managing that task for quite some time. It was clear Mr. Knight was in need of basic office management. Also, I was looking forward to reading the company’s prospectus and digging deeper into his holdings for areas of research I might assist in.