The Last Guy She Should Call

by Joss Wood

  It was too good an offer to pass up. It wasn’t ideal but it was a solid plan of action. If she got some money together before that she’d go sooner... No, she couldn’t do that. She was here. She had to see them. To leave without saying hello would be cruel, and she wasn’t by nature cruel. Three weeks. What was twenty-one days in the scheme of things?

  Twenty days too long in this city, her sarcastic twin said from her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  Seb grinned. ‘Yeah, you will. Yasmeen is on holiday and we’re short of a housekeeper. You can start tomorrow: shopping, cleaning, laundry, cooking. You know what Yas does.’

  ‘Are you mad? I’m not going to housekeep for you!’ Rowan protested.

  It wasn’t that she couldn’t—she’d worked as a maid before—but she wasn’t going to pick up after Seb and his ‘we’.

  ‘We’re? You said we’re short of a housekeeper? Who else lives here?’ Rowan demanded. If he had a live in lover/partner/girlfriend then she’d just go and sleep on the beach.

  Seb steered the car up to his elegant house. ‘Patch has hit a hiccup with his current girlfriend and has moved back into the second floor of the cottage.’

  Oh, thank goodness. She didn’t know if she could cope with Seb and any ‘significant other’.

  ‘So, housekeeping in exchange for your bed and food?’

  ‘S’pose,’ Rowan reluctantly agreed, thinking that she was jumping from the frying pan into... Well, the third level of the hot place.

  * * *

  After lugging Rowan’s luggage up to Callie’s old bedroom Seb finally made it to his office—the bottom floor of the two-bedroomed cottage Patch had moved into—temporarily he hoped! His workaholic staff worked flexible hours, so he was accustomed to seeing them at work at odd times, and Carl, his assistant/admin manager, like his hackers, was still around.

  Seb listened to Carl’s update and accompanied him into what they called the ‘War Room’. The huge room was windowless, and a massive plasma TV attached to the far wall was tuned to MTV at a volume level that made his ears bleed. He picked up the TV remote that stood in its cradle on the wall and muted the volume. Two male heads and one female head shot up and looked in his direction.

  His hackers needed junk food, tons of coffee and music. Deprive them of one of the three and he had their immediate attention. Seb walked into the centre of the room and rapidly scanned the long row of screens where computer code rolled in an unending stream. He read it as easily as he did English, and nodded when he didn’t immediately pick up any problems.

  ‘Anything I should know about?’ he asked, folding his arms.

  He listened while they updated him on their individual projects—testing the security of a government agency, a bank and a massive online bookseller—adding his input when he felt he needed to but mostly just listening while they ran their ideas past him. There was a reason why he’d hired all three and paid them a king’s ransom: they were ethical, super-smart and the best in the field.

  Nearly, but not quite, as good as him.

  Seb wrapped up the meeting, left the room and headed for his office, which was diametrically opposite to the War Room. There were computers—five of them—with a processing power that could run most Developing World countries—but his office had lots of natural light, a TV tuned to ESPN, an en-suite bathroom and a door directly linked to the gym. Although he nagged and threatened, his staff members rarely used the up-to-date equipment.

  Seb tossed his car keys and mobile onto his desk, hooked his chair with his foot and pulled it over to his favourite computer. Having Rowan return with her battered backpack and her world-weary attitude made him think of his mother and had him wondering where she was laying her head these days. He checked on her once or twice a year—with his skills he could find out exactly where she was, how much money she had and pretty much what she was up to. He’d first tracked her down when he was sixteen and he’d found her passport and identity number on a supposedly coded list—ha-ha!—on his father’s computer.

  His fingers flew across the screen as he pulled up the program he’d written specifically to let him track her. Within minutes he found out that she’d drifted from Peru to Brazil and then moved around a bit within that country. She was currently in Salvador and running seriously low on funds.

  He experienced the usual wave of resentment and anger, wondered if he was a hundred types of a fool—after all, what had she ever done for him?—and then transferred a thousand untraceable dollars into her account. It was less than petty cash to him, and if he didn’t do it he’d lie awake at night, wondering what she’d have to do to dig herself out of that hole. She was, after all, his mother.

  Rowan was in pretty much the same position, he thought, and he wondered how she’d come to the same point. He looked at his screen speculatively and thought that with a couple of clicks he could find out exactly what had happened to bring her home. He had everything he needed: her passport number, her bank details. He could, by inputting a line of code into that program, see her travel movements and everything she’d ever purchased with a credit or debit card.

  It was that easy.

  He’d done it before—not for five years at least, but once or twice a year before that, when her parents hadn’t heard from her for a while and her father had asked him to take a peek. He’d skim over the information, not particularly interested, and report back that she was in London or Perth and reassure them that she seemed to have enough money to cover her costs. There were big deposits and big withdrawals, but there was always a savings account with excess funds. He wondered why she hadn’t had one this time...

  Seb dropped his hands to his lap and fought temptation. He could, but he didn’t—as curious as he was, he didn’t have the right to invade her privacy. She wasn’t the child they had all worried about anymore, she’d grown up.

  She was now the knockout she’d promised to be. Eyes the colour of night, wild hair, creamy, creamy skin and a body that was all woman. He felt his zipper straining and leaned back in his chair, spun around and stared out of the window to the pool area beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows. He wanted her. And, equally and as intensely, he didn’t want to want her. She was everything he avoided in the opposite sex: complicated, gregarious, communicative...free-spirited and forthright.

  Why hadn’t he just loaned her the money and sent her on her way? Then he wouldn’t be sitting here—being totally unproductive—with an urge to see if she slept naked.

  He was such a moron.

  * * *

  ‘Gray, I’m really sorry...’

  Seb propped his shoulder against the doorframe to his newly refurbished kitchen, with its sleek cupboards, black granite and black and white checked floor. Yasmeen had designed the kitchen and, since this was where she ruled from, he’d been happy to write out the rather hefty cheque. It was filled with light, modern appliances and Yasmeen’s precious ferns and African Violets. If he let those die his life would be over.

  He grinned. It was just another job he could add to Rowan’s growing list of housekeeping duties.

  ‘Grayson...take a breath. There’s a monkey, a tiger with cubs, a squid, a seal and a horse. Those are the highlights. And a Hotei.’

  What on earth was she up to? Seb wondered as he stepped into the kitchen and headed for the coffee machine.

  ‘I’m pretty sure the Hotei is rare. It has that...class, a mastery that just can’t be ignored.’

  Rowan nodded when he lifted a cup towards her, asking whether she wanted coffee.

  ‘Now that my mobile is charged again I’m about to e-mail you some photographs. Take a look and see what you think... Yes, I know that you won’t buy anything without looking at it...’

  Rowan murmured a couple of soothing phrases into the mobile before disconnecting the call. She quickly e-mailed G
rayson the photographs she’d promised and placed her mobile onto the kitchen table.

  ‘I know that you can’t buy them without seeing them. I’ve only been dealing with you for ten years. Jerk.’

  Seb handed her a cup of coffee which Rowan reached for with the enthusiasm of a true coffee addict.

  ‘Thanks. You need a master’s degree to operate your machine.’

  Seb leaned against his counter and thought that Rowan looked a great deal better than she had when he’d picked her up. That was what a solid night’s sleep did for you, Seb thought. She still had faint blue shadows under her eyes, but there was at least some colour in her cheeks. He’d checked on her a couple of times and discovered that she didn’t—unfortunately—sleep naked, that she had a slight piggy snore and that she slept on her stomach.

  ‘Are you trying to sell a zoo?’ Seb said, his eyes on her long legs. She wore a simple pair of denim shorts and another button-down cotton shirt and had pulled her clean hair into a fat plait. She wore no make-up except for a slick of gloss on her lips.

  She took his breath right away.

  ‘Of sorts. I picked up some stuff in Bali which I hoped to flog when I got to Oz.’

  And he’d thought that he was tight-lipped and uncommunicative. It made him want to shake her...or kiss her. ‘You know I could just avoid pulling your teeth for information and find out for myself.’

  ‘How?’

  He wiggled his hands. ‘Magic computer fingers.’

  ‘Corny. And, like most men, I think you exaggerate your computer skills.’ Her expression was a mixture of pity and disbelief, as if he was a child telling tall stories.

  ‘Sweetheart, I hacked into the FBI’s website and left them an Easter egg when I was sixteen—’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An Easter egg. It’s a surprise in a program that a hacker leaves...a signature or a message or a picture. It’s non-malicious. Anyway, if I wanted to I could tell you what you had for breakfast six years ago, so finding out what you bought in Bali would be child’s play.’

  Rowan’s look threatened to cut him off at the knees. ‘If I find out that you’ve done that—ever—I will make it my personal mission to make your life on earth resemble the hottest part of hell.’

  Seb knew that that she’d certainly try. And he’d watch her try for a while and then he’d get bored and haul her off to bed... Actually, that didn’t sound like a bad plan at all. Entertainment in and out of the bedroom. Win-win.

  ‘Have you ever done that?’

  ‘Cyber checked up on you?’ Seb slid his innocent expression into place—the one he’d been practising since he was fourteen and had discovered code and that he could speak it. And have some fun with it. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust you further than I can throw you. Have you?’

  Of course he had. She’d been nineteen, on her own in countries where she couldn’t speak or read the language. Her parents had been beside themselves with worry—actually, her father had. Her brother Peter had been concerned. Callie a little less so. Himself? Not so much... He’d always known that Rowan was stronger, smarter than they gave her credit for. He’d known that she’d be fine but he’d used his skills to check up on her so that the family and friends she’d left behind could sleep at night.

  ‘Have you?’

  He was saved from answering that question by her chirping mobile, which rattled and vibrated on the dining room table as if it was possessed. Rowan narrowed her eyes at him—a non-verbal threat that he wasn’t off the hook—and frowned when she looked down at the tiny screen.

  ‘Grayson...again?’

  Rowan yanked the mobile up to her ear as her heart bounded up her throat. There was no reason for Grayson to be returning her call so soon unless she’d found the netsuke of the century or there was a huge problem.

  It turned out to be both. Rowan listened to his garbled words and tried to make sense of what he was saying. ‘Are you saying that my netsukes might have been stolen? From a West End art gallery a year ago?’

  Rowan rested her forehead on her hand and tried to force the panic far away enough so that she could listen to Grayson.

  ‘A seal, a stag antler, a tiger with cubs and a squid were stolen from the King and Cross Gallery. There’s been a lot of interest in netsuke lately, and consequently a lot of theft. They are also easy to transport, being not much bigger than the size of a golfball.’

  ‘If they were stolen, how did they end up in a hole-in-the-wall shop in Bali? They were covered in dust, forgotten. Nobody had looked at them for years.’

  ‘I can’t take a chance that these might be stolen. Didn’t you get any provenance?’

  ‘Gray, the guy said they were pawned. The owner never came back to pick them up and that was six years ago.’ Rowan rubbed her neck. ‘They are not stolen.’

  Grayson was silent for a minute. ‘Well, if these are genuine eighteenth-century netsuke and aren’t the same objects that were stolen then I think you’ve got a heck of a find on your hands.’

  ‘So, it’s either really good or really bad news?’

  ‘Essentially. Can you prove how you paid for them?’ Grayson demanded.

  Rowan’s eyes flicked to Seb’s face. He was listening to her side of the conversation with avid interest.

  ‘Yeah. Every cent. I drained my bank accounts to pay for them.’

  ‘That’s good. Of course you might take a financial hit if they are stolen, but if you can prove you paid for them then it shows you didn’t have criminal intent.’

  ‘Yay me. And they aren’t stolen.’ Rowan closed her eyes at the thought of waving goodbye to twelve thousand pounds. She rested her forehead on the dining room table and tried not to hyperventilate.

  ‘Of course if they are not stolen, then I think you’ve hit a massive pay-day,’ Grayson added.

  Rowan heard Seb move from his chair and thought that he was finally giving her some privacy. Instead she felt his hand warm and big on her neck, gently stroking the tense cords.

  She wished she could just lean back and soak up his strength, ask him to help her sort this out. But she couldn’t. She never asked for help...mostly because there had never been anyone around she could ask.

  Besides, he’d just think that she was stupid and irresponsible... And because she liked his hands on her skin a little too much she swatted them away.

  ‘Do you have any documentation or photographs of what was stolen from that gallery so that I can compare them myself?’ Rowan asked Grayson.

  ‘No, that’s not my problem—it’s yours. I just know that it was those four subjects.’

  And Japanese artists never did the same subjects. Damn Grayson! He was getting all paranoid and crazy without even knowing if the netsukes looked the same. Stupid man. Grayson was rich, but he wasn’t bright.

  ‘You need to do some research. Try to identify the pieces. Then we’ll talk again,’ Grayson said as Seb dropped his hand and walked away to refill his coffee cup.

  ‘You know you want them.’

  ‘And I’ll buy them—after you tell me that they are definitely not stolen.’

  ‘They are definitely not stolen.’

  ‘Smarty pants,’ Grayson said, before disconnecting.

  Aarrrrgh. It wasn’t as if she was a total amateur, Rowan thought on an internal eye-roll. She stared out of the window and tried to push her way through her panic to think the problem through.

  ‘I can smell your brains burning,’ Seb said, taking his seat again and pushing another cup of coffee in her direction. ‘Sip and spill.’

  Rowan instinctively shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure something out.’ She pushed against the table to haul herself to her feet. This wasn’t Seb’s problem, she thought. It was hers, solely.

/>   Rowan looked down in surprise when Seb’s hand snagged her wrist and tugged her back to her seat. ‘Sit down, drink your coffee and tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Seb...I can deal with it. It’s fine.’

  Seb shoved a frustrated hand through his hair. ‘That’s the problem, Rowan. You don’t need to deal with it on your own. Why won’t you let me help you?’

  ‘I don’t need your help! This is minor, Seb. I needed your help nine years ago. I needed lots of help then! Since then I’ve learnt to rely on myself.’

  Seb flicked his thumbnail against his bottom lip. ‘Something happened that night—something more than any of us realised.’

  Rowan shook her head. ‘What is your obsession with that damned party? It was at a club, I got caught with a baggie, I did community service for it... End of story.’

  ‘Really? I suspect you took the rap for that slick character you were so in love with. Jason... Jack...’ Seb clicked his fingers in frustration.

  ‘Joe Clark.’

  He frowned. ‘The same Joe Clark who runs that sports betting company? The one that’s just been listed on the Stock Exchange?’

  ‘I presume so. His father owned a couple of betting shops, so it must be the same family.’

  ‘You haven’t kept in touch with him?’

  Revulsion passed across Rowan’s face, accompanied by a visible shudder. Oh, yeah, there was a story here.

  Rowan cocked her head. ‘What’s with the twenty questions? I feel like I’m back in the interrogation room at Sydney.’

  ‘You’re tough. You can handle it.’ Seb looked over the rim of his coffee cup. Her remote, distant façade was back in place and it annoyed him. She wasn’t cool and remote. She never had been. Loud, vivacious, spontaneous... He’d used to be able to read every emotion on her face.

  ‘Are you in trouble—again?’ If she was there was no way that he’d just sit back and watch her go through hell a second time. ‘Tell me.’

  Rowan recognised that determined look on his face and realised that he wasn’t going to be shrugged off. And she felt...relieved. Glad to have an excuse to tell him, to tell somebody.