In an instant, he’s claimed the seat across from me, and the entire room along with it, and I am staring into those silvery grey eyes and I do not dare look away. I tell myself it’s my show of strength, but deep down, I know I am captivated, commanded, to hold his stare.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up today,” he finally says.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Several seconds tick by before his lips quirk slightly and he reaches into the folder and passes me a piece of paper and a pencil. “I hired you without so much as a reference check, on pure instinct. My instincts, Ms. McMillan, are very good. I’d like you to prove that an accurate statement.” He reaches for the powdered creamer.
I glance down at the paper and see ten questions, and quickly determine they are all related to medieval art.
“Begin,” he orders softly.
I glance up at him to find him settling back into his seat, clearly intending to watch me write the test. He wants to intimidate me and I do not want to let him. My jaw sets and I reach for the pencil. I can feel him watching me and I am flustered to realize my hand shakes ever-so-slightly. Men like him do not miss such details. He knows it’s shaking. He knows he’s affecting me.
I forcefully clear the haze from my mind and focus on the questions which are quite advanced, but well within my expertise. I finish them quickly and flip the paper around for his review.
He’s still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual, watching me, his gaze hooded, his expression once again impassive. He doesn’t reach for the test, but instead, his attention flicks to my cup.
“You aren’t drinking your coffee, Ms. McMillan.”
“I’m over my limit for the day.”
“Limits are meant to be pushed.”
“Too much caffeine makes me shaky.” The words, the lie, is out before I can stop it. Where are all these lies coming from?
He leans forward and I can smell his clean, spicy male scent. “Sharing a cup of coffee,” he says, “is a bit like celebrating a new partnership, don’t you think?”
The challenge he has just issued crackles in the air, along with some other, unnamed electricity, that had my throat thick, and my heart racing. It’s just a cup of coffee but yet I sense that this is about so much more, that this is another test that has nothing to do with skill, but rather, him. Me. And I don’t know why I want to comply, to please him. Of course I do, I tell myself. He’s the kind of man who expects those around him to follow his lead. I cannot fight his will and be here. I tell myself that is why I comply, why I do as I wish. I tell myself I am not weak, and he is in control of the job, not me. I reach for the coffee.
Chapter Seven
I sip from the nearly cold beverage, peeking at my new boss from under my lashes as he reviews my test. He is powerful, this man, controlling, arrogant, everything I swear each day I do not want in my life, and yet I am drinking the coffee to please him. This would be acceptable if it were simply because he is my new boss. But it's not. Deep in my core, I know I am seduced by this place, and by him. He is interesting to me in ways I don't want him to be, in ways I know spell trouble.
I tip the cup back again and try to savor the bitterness as a reminder of what this kind of man does to me. It strokes my tongue with acid and it’s too much to take. I down the rest of the cup.
Immediately, his gaze lifts to mine, and I barely contain a grimace. His strong mouth hints at a curve, his eyes glint with something I can't quite identify, and I wish I don’t want to as badly as I do. “Congratulations, Ms. McMillan. You passed your first test.”
I have the distinct impression that he isn’t talking about the one on paper, but rather, something completely different. My compliance with his 'request' I drink my coffee despite my discomfort, I am almost certain.
“You doubted that I would?” I challenge, telling myself that I am talking about the questionnaire, not the coffee.
“I hired you without an interview.”
“Yes,” I say and my fear he'd done so because I'd been asking about Rebecca, that he sees me as the next her--and I'm not sure that is a good thing, in fact that I’m fairly certain that it is not--twists me in knots. I press forward with a facade of courage. “Why exactly is that? You don’t seem like a man who makes rash decisions.”
"Why did you take the job without asking how much you will be paid or even what time to arrive, Ms. McMillan?"
My heart skips a beat but I refuse to cower to this man, or any other, again. I've lived that experience too many times in my life. "Because I love art and I have the summer off. And since I know far more about the gallery than you do about me, it wasn't an uneducated decision. That puts the ball back in your court, Mr. Compton. Why hire me without an interview?"
He does not appear amused by my counter. In fact, I'm not sure he isn't a bit irritated. He studies me for an eternal moment, those silvery eyes so intense they are like ice that turns me to ice and fire at the same time. He is unnerving. I do not want this man to have the ability to rattle me.
"You want to know why I hired you?"
"It wasn't what I expected."
"Why offer your services if you don't expect them to be accepted?"
"A moment of passion," I admit. "And a summer of freedom."
He gives me a tiny incline of his chin, as if accepting of that answer. “I could feel your passion. It spoke to me."
My throat goes instantly dry as the words drop between us, heavy with implication, the air thick with a rich, creamy awareness that I tell myself I am imagining, that I reject. He is not for me. This place is not even for me. It's Rebecca's.
“You impressed me, Ms. Macmillan," he adds softly, "and that doesn’t happen easily.”
My breath nearly hitches at his words and I am shocked to realize, despite my thoughts moments before, just how much I want this man's approval, how much I need confirmation it's real. I don't want to want it. I don't want to need it. Yet…I do. I wait three beats to calm my racing heart and then ask what I must know. "How exactly did I do that in such a short time?" My voice is not as steady as it was before and he must notice. He is too keen not to.
“As I'm sure you know, there are cameras in most galleries, including this one. I was watching when you bewitched the couple that was shopping the Merit display with an absolute passion for art. If not for your guidance, they may have gone home to think about the purchase.”
Even the idea of him watching me on camera, as disconcerting as it is, doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads through me at his compliment. He is everything Amanda said he was but he is even more. He is successful and he belongs in a world I have only borrowed, but long to own. Oh yes. I so want his approval and I hate myself for needing it. Hate. It's a strong word, but I have a history that makes it so damn right for this occasion.
“Knowledge and competence are far easier to find than true passion," he adds, each word drawing me further into his spell. "I believe you have it, which is why I can't quite figure you out."
“Figure me out?” I ask, straightening a bit, uneasy that this might be headed toward my claim of knowing Rebecca. Towards the sister I don't have and haven't thought of a way around.
He sinks back into his chair, studying me intently, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Why is someone so clearly enthralled with this world teaching school?”
“What’s wrong with teaching school?” I ask, just as I had when Chris Merit had thrown the same ball at me.
“Absolutely nothing."
I wait for him to continue and he doesn’t. He just stares at me with keen observation that makes me want to shift in my chair.
“I love teaching," I state.
He arches a skeptical brow at me in reply.
“I do,” I insist, but quickly, reluctantly add, “But no, it’s not my true passion.”
His reply isn't instant. He lets me squirm a bit under his scrutiny. “So I ask you again,” he finally repeats. “Why are you teaching sc
hool?”
For a moment, I consider some fluffy answer designed for avoidance and decide he won't let that slide. My chest tightens as I admit something that I keep bottled up where I don't have to deal with it. Something I have told no one but I am telling him. Maybe it's liberating. Maybe I need to say it out loud once and for all. I feel so damn guilty that teaching isn't fulfilling. It should be fulfilling. “Because," I say in a voice that to my dismay cracks slightly, "a love of art doesn’t pay the bills.”
If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't show it. His expression is impassive, unreadable. “Which brings my curiosity back to what we've already covered. Why not ask what wage you will be paid?"
“I have enough of an idea of the going rate to know why this has to be a summer job that I don’t do this full time.” A pinch of irritation and defensiveness sneaks up on me. "And you walked away before I could get the opportunity."
He laughs and it surprises me more than anything else he has done thus far. "I suppose I did." He turns somber quickly and considers me for so long and so intently that I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. What is he thinking? What is he about to say? I am being judged and I know it. I tell myself that I don't know him well enough for his opinion to matter, but like his approval, it does. He is of the world where I so yearn to belong.
"Perhaps," he says, "I didn't want to give you the chance to decline."
"I can certainly see you as a man who prefers to do the declining yourself," I say before I can stifle my reply.
He laughs again and sits up, scrubbing his clean-shaven jaw. "You don't pull any punches, do you?"
I shake my head. "Not today."
His smile widens and it is a gorgeous, handsome smile that could melt chocolate. "Let's see how true that is. Your top three Italian artists are whom?"
I sit up straighter, my blood pumping, immediately alert. My answer is immediate. “Present day — artist and sculptor Marco Perego. Pino Daeni for his soft romantic characters. Contemporary Italian Master artist, Francesco Clemente who is one of the most illustrious European trans-avantgarde artists today.”
He arches a brow. “No Da Vinci?”
“He’s in a class by himself and is the expected answer that tells you nothing about my personal tastes."
His eyes light and I think he might be pleased with my answer.
“Damien Hirst," he says, throwing out the name of a famous painter.
I am in my element, and I reply easily. “He’s in his forties and already one of the most acclaimed contemporary artists alive. He’s worth an estimated one billion dollars. In 2008 he sold, through Riptide which your family owns, the full exhibition Beautiful Inside My Head Forever, with 223 works for $198 million, breaking the record of the most expensive auction by a single artist.”
A smile lingers on his mouth, the same mouth that I keep looking at with ridiculous obsession, and this time, I know I see the glow of approval in his eyes. I am warm again, energized anew. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t been before this moment with this man.
“Impressive, Ms. McMillan."
I smile, not even trying to suppress my pride at his words. “I aim to please.”
"I must say, I'm getting that idea, and I like it." His voice is low, laden with silk. "I like it immensely."
Without warning, the air crackles with a charge that steals my breath. His eyes have darkened with something akin to a predatory gleam. My body responds without my permission, tingling with awareness that I don't want to feel, but yet I do. I am frustrated with myself for being affected by a man I will not dare cross a line with. A man who is dangerous to me, who might well have been dangerous to Rebecca.
“Excuse me, Mr. Compton,” Amanda says from the doorway. “But you have a call.”
“Take a message,” he replies, never taking his eyes off of me. And despite my vow, I am transfixed by their color, by the intensity of his stare.
Amanda delicately clears her throat. “It’s Mrs. Compton about the auction that begins in an hour at Riptide.”
Mrs. Compton? The spell is broken and I gape. I know I do. I can’t stop myself.
He sighs and flicks Amanda a look. ”I’ll call her back in five minutes.”
“She’s pretty clear she wants to talk now.”
His tone grows sharper. “I’ll call her back.”
“Yes,” Amanda says, looking flustered. “I’ll tell her.”
My new boss returns his attention to me as Amanda disappears. “Mrs. Compton would be my mother,” he explains, definite amusement in his eyes now. “And just to be clear, the only woman I let boss me around. Unfortunately, as the manager of Riptide, she excels at it."
“Oh,” I say, surprised, and suddenly he is not nearly as intimidating as before. “Your mother.” I smile yet again. He’s a control freak. I know this already, but I think he might not be as bad as I'd feared. I didn't miss the hint of affection to his tone that tells me he loves his mother. I’ve always thought that says something about a man. "Her skill at bossing you around has nothing to do with that maternal bond, then?" I am teasing him, and it just happens. I can't stop myself.
"Perhaps it just might," he admits, and I am pleasantly surprised at the very human admission, the tiny bit of vulnerability he allows me to see with it.
He taps the folder. “There's plenty of reading for you to do in the folder. Amanda will get you set up on the computer and then there will be online testing. Pass them and we’ll talk about just what your role will be here. If you can play with the big dogs, and interact with Riptide quality transactions, I can assure you that money won’t be an issue.”
My heart races with this news. Could this really be happening? Could I really have the chance to make art my life? “I’ll get right on the tests.”
He leans in closer. “I see something special in you, Ms. McMillan. I’m hoping you’re going to prove me right.” Without another word, he pushes to his feet and leaves the room. I stare after him, my teeth worrying my bottom lip, my heart in my throat. I didn’t manage to get an answer about my salary, but I tell myself he’s alluded to a sizable package. Most importantly though, I am frustrated at myself because I haven’t asked about Rebecca. You will, I promise myself. When the time is right, you will.
Chapter Eight
Thirty minutes later, I have managed to claim my new office, on loan from Rebecca of course, which I refuse to let myself forget. Amanda has already logged me into the computer and headed back to her desk. I am now alone, with the door shut, ready to start to work.
I pull up my new email and I have a message waiting from Mark, or rather, Mr. Compton. I wonder if he intends to stay that formal with me, but then, it appears he has with Amanda, so I would assume that to be the case. I click on the email.
Welcome Ms. McMillan:
You will find a link to a number of tests below. Each is a timed evaluation to ensure you cannot use the internet for help, though I'm sure you would never consider doing such a thing.
May the odds be ever in your favor, and mine as well.
Mark Compton
I laugh at the reference to Hunger Games, and I am shocked but pleased that my new boss has a sense of humor. I feel silly now to have been so intimidated and affected as I was by him during our meeting. Logically, I know I was responding to this fascination I have with this world, this deep desire to belong here, that wasn’t about him at all. It was, and is, about me, about my past, about ghosts and skeletons I'm being forced to face just by sitting at this desk. And the journals, I remind myself as the soft scent of roses I now associate with Rebecca teases my nostrils.
I pull open the drawer to my right and find a lighter and set the flame burning on the candle. The flame flickers with life and my gaze falls on the brilliant rose colors on the wall. I picture Rebecca sitting here and somehow I feel as if she is over my shoulder, but it is not frightening. In fact, I feel almost comforted, as if the dancing fire from the wick is a sign she is alive and well. I feel hope that she will
return, and perhaps I will have a place in this world as well. Do I dare believe I can chase this dream and really make a living at it? Excitement and hope expands within me. I want this so badly it hurts and it frightens me. I know why I have never tried and one of those reasons, money, seems to be resolved with the inference I will be paid commission on my sales. The other reason though, is dauntingly big. If I fail, if I must go back to my old life, it will destroy me.
“You have to try,” I whisper to the empty room. “You have to.”
New resolve forms and I shake off my fears. If I am to stay here, if I can prove I’m worth keeping around, then I need to get busy. I quickly dig into my testing and though the questions are challenging, I am pleased at the ease at which I complete the first few exams. I’m just finishing up a fourth, and stretching, considering seeking out a caffeine escape--this time one that is supposed to be cold--when I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call, not sure why my stomach flutters in anticipation of my visitor, but the feeling isn’t completely unwelcome. It’s been a long time since every piece of my day has felt like an adventure.
An Asian man in his late twenties appears in my entryway. "I'm Ralph, the accounting dude.”
"Ralph," I say, with a nod, and I barely contain a smile at both his ‘dude’ reference and his red bow tie and crisp white shirt. There is something friendly about this man that I like instantly.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he says, clearly reading the meaning in my smile. "I don't look like a Ralph. My folks wanted me to fit into the American mold but they weren’t American enough to know ‘Ralph’ isn’t exactly a cool name. But I like that it’s unexpected. It disarms people right off the bat, and like you, it makes them smile."
If I Were You Page 6