by Dee Palmer
“I’ve met him before.” A slew of tingles ignite at the memory, tearing through my body like a wildfire.
“Really? When?” Morris smoothly glides around in his seat to fully face me, his expression one of amused interest.
“Well, not met met, but I’ve seen him before. We had a moment.”
“A moment?”
“Yes, a moment. You know when you catch someone’s glance, and it’s so on?”
“So you’ve glanced at him. Stop the press, I hear wedding bells.” His dramatic gasp and fluttering hand to his chest are savage.
“You’re funny, Morris. I’m just saying…” You weren’t there.
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing.” My tone is a little harsh, and I hate that the memory suddenly has me all riled up. I never let any man effect me like this, no matter how smoking hot they are.
“So what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That might be a first.” He hums low after speaking, and a sly, knowing expression makes him look extremely smug.
“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t fuck everyone I have a ‘moment’ with, Morris.”
“I’m sure you don’t. I was, in this instance, however, referring to the look of regret on your face.”
“Pff! That’s not…oh, shut up.” He falls into a deep chuckle, happy that his irritatingly astute teasing pushed the right ‘piss Hope off’ button.
“Hope, I think even you can keep it in your pants for a forty minute presentation.” Morris mocks, keeping his tone deadpan.
“Again with the funny. You’re on fire this morning, Mr. Fisher,” I bite out with a tight smile, tension still gripping my guts and messing with my mind. I have a lot going on in there. “It’s not just forty minutes though, is it? If I’m successful, it will be a business partnership, and I’ve probably got a wet patch the size of Lake Windermere on my backside as we speak.” I roll onto one butt cheek for emphasis, relieved and only partially surprised when my assessment isn’t true.
“He is a little easy on the eye, but you really don’t need to worry. He’s not very hands-on.”
“Oh, now, that is a shame.” My U-turn gives me whiplash; however, my playful pout is only for show. Despite the ‘moment’, I have rules—not many—in fact, just one I can think of right now, and that one definitely begins and ends with not shitting where I eat.
“I mean he is more the money and mind.”
“And body,” The thought escapes as real words. The inappropriate image I have of that body thankfully stays in my head.
“Quite.”
“So he leaves the actual day-to-day to the rest of us grunts?”
“Quite.”
“Oh,” I look over to the closed door, unaware that my soft exhale sounded so forlorn. What am I? A teenage schoolgirl who actually believes in fairy tales, happily ever after, or love at first sight? Get a fucking grip, Hope. You’re a twenty-six-year-old party girl who doesn’t believe in love, period. This isn’t rocket science; it’s a simple case of wanting what you can’t have.
“And now she’s sad,”
“No, not sad, relieved. Can’t be screwing the boss, now, can I?” My inner pep talk has me back on track, even if my delivery is a little shaky.
“In my experience, it’s never a good idea. Besides, despite your ‘moment’, you’re not his”—Morris air quotes—“type.” The thick sarcastic tone renders the air quotes unnecessary. I know he’s only teasing, but I already regret telling him.
“Please, I have a vagina, I’m most men’s type.”
“I meant he doesn’t strike me as the type you hump and dump, my dear.”
“And I only ever hump and dump, right?” My statement sounds less certain than I intended, and Morris is quick to challenge my lifelong mantra.
“Thinking of changing those spots all of a sudden, my little leopardess?”
“Never.” I shudder visibly at the thought to add weight to my declaration.
The receptionist interrupts our banter after ending a brief call. “If you’d like to follow me, Mr. Jensen is ready for you now.”
“I doubt that,” I whisper conspiratorially under my breath, and it’s my turn to wink at Morris.
“Never was a truer word spoken, my dear. Now, let’s go get us some royal millions.” Morris stands and straightens his jacket. I do the same, pick up my laptop case, and we both follow the receptionist down the corridor. The only good thing about my lapse into schoolgirl crush territory, it seems, was the momentary reprieve I enjoyed from the nerves knotting up my stomach, which, as the door to the boardroom opens, hit me like a punch from a heavyweight champ.
The final screen from my presentation illuminates part of the long side of the boardroom wall. The rest of the room is in muted darkness with the blinds closed over the external glass wall and only soft spotlights around the edge of the large room providing any light. Most of the faces around the table are in shadow, and even throughout the relentless questioning, I haven’t really been able to pick out any distinguishing features of those present, except Morris, and that’s more from memory. I’m feeling a buzz when I finish. I don’t think I fucked anything up, and I answered every question fired at me. Morris helped with some of the financials, and I’m a hairsbreadth from packing up and patting myself on the back for a job well done when the figure in complete shadow at the end of the table speaks. His accent is faint and clips his English with a crisp curt intonation and immaculate pronunciation of the Queen’s English. I’d almost forgotten about him.
“This is all very interesting, but property development and catering to the super rich really isn’t the remit of BlueSky.” His dismissive tone renders the soft, deep, husky timbre of his voice more obnoxious than sexy, especially since his declaration effectively pisses on my bonfire.
“Um, excuse me?”
“Oh good, I get to repeat myself,” he snarks. “I said, Ms Williams…” He leans forward, and light from the presentation screen reveals penetrating eyes too dark to distinguish the colour and an expression where I can’t quite tell if he’s angry or bored. He continues to speak, and his tone quite rudely confirms the latter. “Property development—”
“I heard what you said, Mr. Jensen. I’m just a little confused.” Since my face is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree from my own screen, I keep my expression a tight-lipped accommodating smile as I try and temper the irritation bubbling in my veins. I wouldn’t mind if, at any point, I had been ambiguous about exactly what the investment is for. It’s frickin’ crystal clear from the opening Mission Statement on page one of the proposal. Forty minutes of presentation and a further full hour of grilling, and now…now he raises this!
“Then I’ll paraphrase and use small words so you can understand. What else have you got, Ms Williams?” Snapping shut my dropped jaw, I mentally count to ten and more. His contempt, not to mention his patronising manner, makes forcing even a semi-civil response a much greater challenge than raising the damn money in the first place. Still, right now, I don’t need the aggravation of an assault charge or more likely, a murder charge to add to this rapidly downward spiralling day. I start to gather the few documents in front of me and decide to cut my losses. I see where this is going, and as much as I need the money, I don’t need this.
“You have the proposal in front of you, Mr. Jensen, and I’ve been talking for over an hour. If there is nothing of interest here, I believe we are done.”
“Hope.” Morris’s tone urges caution, but it’s too late for that. Even with little light in the room, all I see is red.
“No, Morris. He’s barely said one effing word.” Morris cringes, but he should be thankful I’m censoring at all. I lean close to his ear in an attempt to retain a modicum of professional courtesy. Not that I feel Mr. Jensen deserves any, but I do respect Morris enough not to completely embarrass him. “Morris, I’m sorry but no-one patronises me like that and in front of everyone. Be lucky I’m just packing up my thin
gs and not ripping his bollocks off, arrogant fucking arsehole.” Okay, I hissed that last part a little too loud, but it’s out there now, and it’s the truth.
“The supplements,” Mr. Jensen says, and I snap my response.
“What about them?”
“You hold the patent?”
“Yes.” Schooling my temper, the replies are more clipped than barked.
“You produce them in this country?”
“They are licensed to a small independent pharmaceutical company on the coast. It is all in the appendix of the proposal, Mr. Jensen.”
“Why is distribution limited to the salons?”
“Because that’s our only point of sale.” I’m more confused than ever with the direction of the questions, and I can’t help feeling this is just another fatuous hoop to jump through and a big fat waste of my time.
“Why?”
“Because the broom up my arse chafes.” My irritation and waning patience collide. In my periphery, I see Morris drop his head in his hands.
“I don’t really see the relevance.” Mr. Jensen brushes off my analogy, and although it was crude, it’s still an accurate description of what my life has looked like getting this idea off the ground.
“One mountain at a time, Mr. Jensen, and Greycoat Manor is my Kilimanjaro.”
“Why settle for a foothill when you can scale Everest, even with the broom up your—”
I cut in. “I don’t understand.” Either his cute repeat of my metaphor or what he’s getting at.
“The products you created work, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell are they only being sold in London, why not the world? This is your problem; you have no scale.” He slams his hand on the desk, making everyone jump. Everyone except me. I’m more curious what’s got him all riled up when, only two minutes ago, this felt like a dead deal. He’s got passion; I give him that.
“I will get there, Mr. Jensen. These things take time.” His eyes fix on mine, and he rises slowly from his chair. My breath freezes in my lungs as he slowly walks around the end of the table and right up to me. He stops, standing a not so respectable distance away, so I have to tilt my head back.
“Time is the luxury of fools, Ms Williams, and that means you are clearly wasting mine.” There’s an explosive charge of something firing between us, and if the blood pumping in my ears wasn’t so loud, I might be able to identify what that is exactly. One thing is clear, though, there is absolutely no recognition on his part and certainly no ‘moment’.
He’s looking at me like he hates me, and I’m already way ahead of him in that race. Still, he’s casting doubts on my business acumen, and that’s a challenge I will relish proving wrong.
“If I have international licensing agreements in place by the end of the week, will we have a deal?” He steps back and raises a curious brow, surprise lifting the pitch in his voice.
“You think you can do that?”
“That broom isn’t just for sweeping. Do we have a deal?” I jut my chin high, holding his curious and mesmerising gaze and hoping my confidence is justified. Because I’m beginning to wish I was a witch, since I’m going to need more than a little magic to pull this off.
“Yes,” He offers his hand, we shake, and sparks fly.
“HVAD FANDEN LAVER DU?” I raise my head, muttering the words under my breath and repeating them in English, “What the hell are you doing?” The reflection staring back at me is not my own. The deep icy blue of my mother’s eyes and the definition of my father’s jawline are eclipsed by raw fucking desire and explosive passion, barely tempered as it lurks behind an ever-present dark scowl. It’s been so long since I felt anything other than numb, I literally can’t process what’s happening.
The reaction I had when I first saw Hope Williams rocked me to the core, and I’m still reeling. I’ve never experienced anything like meeting her, and we didn’t formally meet. Still, I can’t deny that, even across a crowded room, the connection was palpable. Meeting Hope up close and personal like today was akin to finding dynamite in a dead end cave, incendiary, dangerous, and vital, if you ever want to see the light of day again.
Closing my eyes, I relive every tiny aspect of our first ‘not’ meeting.
I wasn’t even supposed to be there. The event was more for publicity than for serious investment opportunities, a mock Dragon’s Den evening for local businesses, organised by my bank. It was all the things I hate about the corporate world and don’t have to do anymore; networking, schmoozing, and kissing ass. I initially sent my Chief Financial Officer to represent BlueSky, only I changed my mind when the thought of making small talk to strangers somehow sounded preferable to another long evening in the office alone. And I fucking hate small talk.
I held back when everyone filtered into the main boardroom, preferring the draw of an open bar and hoping to miss the presentations entirely. I had already scanned the agenda document for proposals before committing to sit for lord knows how long in a stuffy room full of self-important fund managers.
How do I know they are all self-important? Because I had to present my first ideas to the very same people when I started. The faces may have changed but the severe lack of personality and delusions that, just because they have the deep pockets, it somehow also makes them god, remains the same.
I doubt any one of them was seriously considering the proposals being presented. It’s not how they do business, not like some game show. These people pitching are unknown entities, and as with many things in life, it’s all about reputation, who you know, and how well you know them. I also have deep pockets; however, I’m not in the habit of toying with people. If it’s a good investment, I’ll invest, but I won’t waste anyone’s time.
I checked the list once more and concluded there was nothing outlined that would interest BlueSky, no reason to stay, and after necking the watered-down whiskey, I got up to leave. However, the hurricane that tore through the front door knocked me sideways and back into my seat.
I’ve never seen someone sprint in stilettos. The young woman ditched her long coat on an unsuspecting planter next to the boardroom door, then bent double and shook her head like she was overcome with the sudden need to rock some heavy metal. Standing bolt upright, her long red hair tumbled down her back, swishing like flames in an open fire and equally mesmerising.
“I know, Morris. It’s the bank’s fault, the sphincter police masquerading as security wouldn’t let me through. I’m surprised they didn’t ask for a damn urine sample. Anyway, I’m here now. You can make the introduction, I’m right outside the door.” She ended the call and slipped her phone in her pocket. With her laptop tucked under her arm and her back to me, she looked to be drawing in a slow breath. Her hand hovered on the door handle when she stopped, glanced over her shoulder and winked directly at me. Holding the connection for one heated second before swinging the boardroom door wide open.
Bam!
Most people arriving late would slip into a room and pray to go undetected. Not this woman. It’s not like anyone could miss her, but she was definitely making sure no one did. “Hello, my name is Hope, and I’d like to tell you about—” The fire door suctioned close and effectively silenced whatever else she continued to say. Who is she? My curiosity also became my reason to stay.
The presentations finished after about an hour and a half. The doors of the boardroom opened, washing a river of people out, along with the stale smell of missed opportunity and broken dreams. Her pitch could have been flawless for all I knew. Her expression was implacable, and her eyes still shone with traces of hope. The fact that she was still working the room made me think she hadn’t gotten exactly what she came for. Now, if she would just make her way over to me…
Where did that come from?
In a room full of suits, she was like a summer thunderstorm, violent, wild, and fun. I don’t remember the last time I had fun. She stood out. That was not surprising, with her riot of long dark red hair with st
reaks of pure gold, a slim figure, and sleek figure-hugging trousers, wedges, silk blouse, and tailored jacket nipped at the waist, sleeves rolled up, set for business. She owned the room. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle as she animatedly engaged with whomever was lucky enough to hold her attention. I watched for only a moment and was captivated. When the indescribable pull inside me became overwhelming, I made my move. She looked my way, and all I could hear was white fucking noise. I couldn’t look away and I didn’t want to. Ever.
I took one step in her direction, our eyes locked, pulling me to close the gap. The air sizzled with unseen energy sparking between us. Tension? Desire? I wasn’t sure, but it was fucking strong. I had to act, even if I couldn’t articulate what was happening. I felt it; I just couldn’t find the words. I needed more words.
My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I hated to have to break the contact with this woman, however seeing my father’s name flash across the screen made me look away. He rarely calls, and I thought it was an emergency. I left the room to return his call. I wasn’t gone a minute. When I returned she was gone.
The next day, I dismissed the unfathomable reaction I had experienced as an anomaly caused by utter exhaustion on account of working eighteen-hour days on little to no sleep. I work; it’s what I do. It’s how I cope, and it was a welcome distraction in the early days after my wife died. Work occupied my every thought, drowned out the pain, and very quickly became my routine. I think of little else.
That night, however, I thought of Hope Williams.
I didn’t know her full name then, and the next day, it took all of ten minutes for my PA, Thomas, to find that crucial piece of information. It took him the next few hours to find out everything else. It never ceases to amaze me how much private information people are happy to disclose to the world via social media. Her not-so-private life is of little interest, for now at least, but the information he uncovered about the reason she was at that investor event and who she was with, was just what I needed to secure a meeting. I had to see for myself if the sleepless night and wildly erotic daydreams I kept having were justified.