The Australian

by Lesley Young

  Finally, if all was lost anyway, because I could not go on being his employee and be attracted to him and betray him—and that really was the bottom line—what did I have to lose? A job? I would find another, surely. At this point, sacrificing a career with Knight Enterprises was worth the cost of protecting him, extricating myself from being a human asset for ASIS and satisfying my deeper urges without any ethical hindrances. I sighed deeply, finalizing all of this in my mind—

  I jolted at the voices of Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle, who had entered the kitchen. I had arranged for food preparation services and housekeeping; however, the staff, Peter and Julie, had departed for a break before the Italians arrived.

  “Crikey, look at all the grub,” said Mr. Bennett. I worried that he would eat all the food before the guests arrived. “Pass me a bottle of the amber fluid, mate,” said Mr. Carlisle. I heard the fridge door slam, the opening of two beer bottles and the removal of cellophane on the appetizer platter.

  “Here ya go, mate.”

  Silence ensued and I wondered if I should make my presence known.

  “You need to fuckin’ chill out, mate.”

  “Ya but you heard the bludger. He says he’s done. That’s why he set this up with the wops. To deal himself out. We shouldn’t have invited Dmitry, Bennie. Jace is right pissed off we did that.”

  “Quit your fuckin’ grizzling. We need Jace’s backing, and this way, we’ll know where he really stands.”

  Perhaps I should not make my presence known. They had lowered their voices for this exchange. How would they feel knowing someone had overheard? I was frozen with indecision (and I am never indecisive).

  “What do you make of the yank? Bringing her and all?” asked Mr. Bennett. My stomach dropped. They were discussing me. I listened on, unblinking.

  “Aw, Bennie, you heard him, right, stay the fuck away from her. He’s funny ’bout this one. Said we’re not to talk shop around her either.”

  “Yeah, but did you see the bazoomas on her? They’re real, too.”

  My eyes flashed wide from embarrassment, and I swore never to wear that blouse again.

  “I’d like to fuck those and then that mouth of hers.”

  Blood drained from my face. I shuddered in revulsion at the prospect and struggled to breathe properly.

  “Those stress heads, when they break, they beg for it. You wouldn’t believe it, remember the time down in . . .”

  He proceeded to tell the story of how he had had sexual intercourse with an uptight schoolteacher whom he had met at a gas station coffee bar someplace called Winkie. I was horrified in the way one might be upon accidentally channel-surfing onto porn or a violent scene in a horror movie.

  An article I read in Cosmopolitan said that men like to brag about their exploits, but in fact, women tend to share more explicit details about their sexual dalliances. True to point, Mr. Bennett’s story lacked details that B shared—for example, if his testicles were shorn and how unsymmetrical they were—and focused instead on how he had made the schoolteacher crawl across the motel room floor to him.

  I wondered, indeed, if it was a true story. A motel room floor would be so unsanitary that surely any women in her right mind would never do such a thing. Then I wondered if I would ever want a man’s penis so badly that I would snap, like the schoolteacher had. I pictured myself crawling on The Bangalow bedroom floor toward Mr. Knight—after all, it had seemed spotless—and shifted in the patio chair, longing to apply pressure on my aching vagina.

  Perhaps I should have had sex long before now. Something was happening to me. I wanted to believe it was because I was attracted to one man in particular but momentarily fretted that I was so aroused I would lose control and end up pleading with any eligible passerby, before overruling such ridiculousness. Arousal was not a mental disorder. I unclasped my fingers from the lawn chair and massaged my chest where there was a mild ache from pent-up . . . who knows what emotion was burning there.

  I would have to apply great resolve to manage my base urges and tried to do so by thinking of origami folds and the bills I needed to pay when I got home.

  Feeling somewhat reassured, I waited until they moved into the living room and I heard Mr. Knight join them before I rose up and entered the kitchen.

  Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle both stopped talking when they saw me emerge through the patio door, and glanced at one another. I deflected Mr. Bennett’s penetrating stare. Mr. Knight walked over to the kitchen, told me the room was all mine until dinner, and that he would come and get me when it was time to leave. I understood that to mean he wanted me to remain inside. I asked to be sure, and he said, “Would you mind?” and I said “Certainly not,” and followed his instructions to a tee, not glancing at his colleagues as I passed by them in the living room.

  Safely ensconced behind closed doors, I headed to the en-suite, undressed, stepped into the shower, and promptly masturbated to the image of Mr. Knight watching me crawl across the floor. He stood there, all bronzed skin and undulating muscle, holding his penis in his hand—try as I may, I could not imagine what it looked like—watching me as I watched him watching me—

  I came in a short, sudden burst of electric shock, nearly slipping on the mosaic marble tile.

  Horrified, I punished myself with a blast of cold water before stepping out. Then I reassured myself that I should have no problem executing my get-fired plan as apparently I was beyond all self-control.

  I dried my dark hair bone straight, angrily, and applied nighttime makeup as the girl at the makeup counter in the Buffalo Macy’s had showed me. She assured me I did not need false lashes because mine were already too long. So I did as she said and kept the mascara light. She knew her stuff. My light gray eyes were even more prominent than usual. I finished with shiny lip gloss and applied dabs of perfume behind my ears, the way my mother used to put it on when she would go out to rave (when she was much younger and long before she lost her positive physical attributes due to weight loss and other drug-related side effects).

  I had packed two dresses for the trip, anticipating that I might be expected to attend two dinners. I picked the white tiered-fabric dress with black straps that outlined the front of the bodice and waist. It was a B castoff. I put on my light pink bra and thong. B had forced me to buy new underwear—all thongs—three years ago, unable, as she said, to endure my hideous panty-lines another day. I had held out for months, arguing that underwear should be, at the very least, sensible. Now, however, I had a greater appreciation for her argument that it should have sex appeal. I applied lotion on my bare legs before strapping on my black high-heeled sandals.

  Realizing I was ready well before the nine o’clock reservation, I took the heels off and lay down on the side of the bed that was clearly mine. Mr. Knight had put a notebook and a giant wad of cash on the opposite nightstand. I could hear men’s voices outside the door. There were lots of them, and I tried not to anticipate the social interaction soon required of me, or to think of who they were, though, in truth, my stomach was sloshing lunch about aggressively.

  I carefully arranged my hair on the pillow so I would not ruin it, and closed my eyes. Deciding preparation was required, I thought about polite things I could say to the strangers I would be dining with, and—bored silly with the mind-numbing inanity of small talk—fell asleep.

  Chapter 9

  I woke up abruptly. As my eyes opened, they did so wide. Mr. Knight was standing on my side of the bed staring down at me. At first, I assumed he had said something, and that that was what had woken me up, but . . . perhaps not. His eyes were fixed to me like Velcro—unblinking.

  “Mr. Knight,” I murmured, rising up on my elbows. “Is it time to go?” I tugged down my dress, realizing I had rolled over onto my side and likely exposed butt cheek.

  “Do you know how innocent you are . . . when you sleep?”

  His question startled me. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I sat fully upright.

  “I wouldn’t like to see that
change, Charlie, ever.”

  Anxiety exploded inside. Did he suspect I was trapped in a wretched plot to spy on him? I struggled to find the right response. “I cannot think why it would, Mr. Knight,” I murmured, hoping to steer him back to professional ground.

  I swung my legs around and glanced up into his eyes. Night was just beginning to fall. I had left the window open and a lovely breeze swept across our veranda, lifting the curtain behind him. He had added a dress jacket to his dark blue jeans and mauve dress shirt. I picked up the familiar scent of his cologne, sandalwood and lime. His giant gold Rolex glowed in the light. His eyes held nothing but darkness.

  I smoothed my hair, and spotting my heels, leaned over to strap them on.

  “Do you know why I hired you, Charlie?”

  What a peculiar question. I was about to answer yes, when I realized, given my lack of hospitality and personal assistance experience, no, actually I could not be sure. I shook my head as I took his hand and rose to stand. His brow was stern and his mouth was flat.

  “Yours was the first pair of eyes I stared into in a long time, ever really, that I could see straight through to the bottom.”

  Oh. He must be speaking figuratively. Was that a compliment? His thumb rubbed my hand like it was a feather. Perhaps he was practicing pretending to be lovers?

  “Maybe that was wrong of me, to think how I wanted to keep you like that forever. Maybe hiring you, bringing you in close . . . maybe that’ll change you.”

  I stared up at him, hearing my heart pound. Wait. Maybe . . . he was suspicious.

  “Are you saying you regret hiring me, Mr. Knight?” I tugged my hand free.

  I could not meet his eyes.

  “No.” I did not dare look in his eyes. “But I’m worried I will,” he stated flatly. He stepped close after I stepped away. “Look me in the eye, Charlie, and tell me I won’t regret hiring you,” he demanded suddenly, his voice calm, deep and impending.

  I needed a glass of water to swallow my heart back down.

  What had happened? Why this sudden strangeness?

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Knight, I think your request is ludicrous.” I glanced at him, finally. After a moment’s pause, almost as if he were stunned, his brows bunched up. “Asking someone to state you can trust them is hardly proof. You will require me to show you can trust me over time. So . . . that is all I can offer you at present.”

  “If that is not good enough, I understand if you wish to terminate me,” I added quickly, breathless, realizing that this could be it. I could find myself staying at a budget hotel in under an hour, worrying about finding a new job tomorrow, never to see this man again.

  He grabbed my arm before I could move away. “Charlie, that’s not what I’m after. Why do you keep trying to get yourself sacked?”

  I didn’t answer, flabbergasted I had been so obvious.

  “I’m saying the opposite. I want to hold onto you just the way you are.”

  Oh. He had faith in me after all.

  That felt even worse.

  I needed to sit down . . . or to run. I tugged my hand free.

  “We have several months to go in our contract before any decision needs to be made, which is ample opportunity for you to decide on the state of my . . . suitability. We probably should not keep your guests waiting.” I headed toward the door in a rush, grabbing my evening bag from the console on the way. I nearly tripped in my panic to remove myself from his vortex, and by that I mean, no room was big enough to cope with his intense examination and whatever else it was he seemed to need from me in that moment.

  Okay, it was trust. He wanted to know if he could trust me.

  Now I know why people act obtusely.

  He stayed close to me and followed me out into the living room, which, as it turns out, provided even less respite.

  One man stood up from his chair right away upon my entrance. The others stayed seated. I tensed with anxiety as Mr. Knight introduced an older Italian gentleman as Giuseppe. He nodded from his chair. Poor Giuseppe was so overweight he appeared uncomfortable. It had had the most unfortunate effect on his face, stretching out his jowls and chin so much so that the Star Wars character Jabba the Hutt came to mind.

  His son, however, Joseph (but Joe would do, he said) could not have been more different. He was the gentleman who stood up. I breathed a sigh of relief that no last names had been given—I enjoyed the idea of Sullivan Blaise searching the ASIS criminal database for Italians called Joseph—and took Joe’s hand, giving him a warm smile.

  Joe was young, maybe not much older than me, lithe but in a strong way, with a head full of thick, dark curly hair. I was reminded of the actor Orlando Bloom, but more menacing. He said, with Italian-accented English, “It is a pleasure to meet you.” Then he did that thing a lot of men do, where they show little interest until they look at me up close, and then their stare gets snagged or they do a double take. He did the latter.

  Men are obsessed with physical features. It is very nearsighted as, of course, they are meaningless.

  I looked to Mr. Knight rather concerned about what to do next. There were other men in the room, wearing suit jackets, standing in corners; evidently, more bodyguards.

  A sinking feeling drew my attention, but this time I could easily identify the source. These were clearly powerful men. I fretted over Sullivan’s words, about perspective, and mine being incorrect. It was now revised for accuracy: while I could not be sure these men were criminals, nor could I be sure they were not criminals.

  I knew with certainty, however, that I had no intentions of proving it either way. Since I was here now, I could only move forward. And stick with my plan, which was to avoid acquiring knowledge, any knowledge, and succeed in putting myself in a compromising, naked position with my employer so he had to fire me. Surely I could accomplish those two things. After all, Mr. Knight, in his clever, noble gesture, had even made the latter much easier for me.

  With controlled ease, my employer proceeded to usher us all out into waiting cars, chatting about the restaurant and Port Douglas along the way.

  Only, I believe it may have been an act. Mr. Knight’s voice was usually calm, smooth, indifferent. Tonight it was edgy, sharp, and affected.

  Once in our stretch limo, Mr. Carlisle and Mr. Bennett tried to add to the conversation, but I realized every time Mr. Knight directed Giuseppe and Joseph to one of his colleagues, they focused back on him. It was like a game of ping pong, only Mr. Knight kept getting lobbed the ball. I recalled the conversation I had overheard earlier, about how Mr. Knight did not want to do something, because he was “done.”

  My chest burst with sympathy for him in that moment, and then, with controlled focus, the feeling passed. I do not like to feel negative emotions, and certainly not in the midst of a demanding social situation.

  After the ten-minute drive (we would have been quicker walking), we were immediately seated by the restaurant hostess in the middle of the large veranda-style restaurant. Mr. Knight was on my left, and Joseph on my right.

  I felt the young Italian’s eyes on me throughout the meal, and wondered what he was trying to ascertain by staring at my candlelit profile. During my shrimp cocktail, he asked me where I was from in America.

  “Niagara Falls.”

  When he didn’t say anything further I asked, “Where are you from in Italy?” thinking that was a safe question. His father paused mid-conversation to glare at me. I stiffened. Apparently it was the worst possible question I could have asked.

  B was right. No questions of any kind.

  “South,” said Joe, quickly smiling. “From the south.”

  Mr. Knight squeezed my thigh, and I had no idea whether it was for reassurance or admonishment. He kept his hand there.

  “Are the falls as beautiful as you?” Joe smiled when he asked. I had heard Italian men could be quite complimentary, flirtatious even. However, he was not interested in my reaction. He was watching Mr. Knight. Was he trying to provok
e Mr. Knight? I could not be certain. Joe glanced back at me with what I believe are called “bedroom eyes.”

  I thought of a sufficient response. “Beauty is relative, Mr.—” I cleared my throat “—Joe. However, I can tell you no one has ever been disappointed by the falls.”

  “Ah, I could not imagine any man ever disappointed in you!” he exclaimed loudly. I frowned at him. That was not what I had meant. And for the record, men had been disappointed in me—a lot. Boys in school. The owner of the local gym in Niagara who I turned down repeatedly. And probably, eventually, Mr. Knight.

  Joe smiled then, laughed and winked at Jace, expressing the exact opposite of the mood he had left me in.

  Oh. Perhaps he was teasing him. I checked, and Mr. Knight half-smiled and glanced back down on me with a possessiveness I thought quite sincere for fakery.

  Remembering our game, I made to smile back only to realize I already wore one. He leaned over and kissed my lips so quickly I barely had to time acknowledge it. He lingered, thankfully, just long enough to allow me to recover so when he pulled away I could look sufficiently delighted rather than aghast.

  My first kiss!—a tender, brief moment of subterfuge and mockery. His mouth. Had just been on mine. My brain repeated this several times. On mine. On mine. I relished the taste of wine from his lips as I licked my own, my heart swollen to the size of a small pumpkin. It was an obscenely intimate, erotic gesture, tasting a man in public. I touched my lips briefly, glanced over at Joseph, recognizing I should feel self-conscious. His brow was furrowed, as if he was confused by me.