by Ally Blake
“If you’d prefer to sit over there in the darkness, glowering at nothing, keeping whatever has Jonathon so concerned all bottled up inside, you’re going to have a stroke. I fear for you, Armand. I really do.”
She glared at him and he glared back. When her eyes began to water at the stalemate she blinked, rolled her eyes and got back to work.
Her fingers slammed down on the keyboard, till she remembered it was her beloved prototype and took more care. Mind spinning in a dozen different directions, she forced herself to concentrate. To curb her anger. To do her job.
But, as the code finally drew her in, one niggling little thought kept flashing at the corner of her mind.
Evie might not know much about why people acted the way they did, but she did know family. She knew community. She knew fellowship.
She hadn’t felt much of that in her last job. They had valued her but only for the skills she offered. They’d rated her so highly they’d stuck her in a secure office where no one bar top management—and Eric—could visit. Rather than feel appreciated, she’d felt isolated. Like a tool rather than a human being.
Armand said he feared for her, which meant she wasn’t merely a cog in the corporate machine to him. To him, at least, she mattered.
She settled in with a small smile on her face, feeling as if they might not turn out to be the worst partnership ever assembled after all.
* * *
Evie’s stomach rumbled.
After their earlier standoff, the office was deathly quiet. Armand must have heard. But when she looked up it was to find him in his regularly programmed position—frowning over his reports, the pool of golden light cast by the banker’s lamp throwing craggy shadows over his deep, soulful eyes.
This man worries about me. He’d care if something terrible happened to me.
Armand looked up and Evie started at having been caught staring.
“Did you bring lunch?” she blurted.
“Lunch?” he asked, as if he’d never heard of such a concept that might take time away from glaring at paperwork. “Non.”
Even while she wasn’t playing his game, Jonathon had hit on something when asking if Armand had made friends. She knew how it felt being the odd one out at work. Just because she’d decided not to report back, it didn’t mean she couldn’t help.
“I’m heading down to the Yum Lounge to find something decadent and delicious to eat.” A pause, a deep breath, then, “Care to join me?”
Armand looked up, those dark eyes bringing on tingles and skitters and rising heat. Then he surprised the heck out of her by shutting his notebook and saying, “Oui, I will. Merci.”
“Really? Great. Okay. Let’s go.”
Evie held out a hand, motioning to the door. But Armand refused to go before her, waiting with barely reined patience for her to trot through.
Once out of the office, Armand locked the door, even though the security key pad meant that only select people had access anyway. No trust, that man. Since reading people wasn’t her forte, she gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Probably best he was in charge.
As they reached the Bullpen the energy, the laughter, the sense of chaos couldn’t have been more different from the intense quiet of upstairs. She glanced towards Armand to find him tense, bristling, on high alert. For a moment it was easy to picture him as he might have once been, not hunting a problem, but the kind of man who’d take care of a scared little girl.
She shot him a smile. Turned it into a grin. Gave him a nudge with her elbow.
While his face said he was still considering her sanity, his shoulders relaxed and the tendons in his neck no longer looked like they might burst from his skin.
When he took a turn towards the Yum Lounge, Evie grabbed his wrist. He froze, as if shocked by human touch. Making a split-second decision, she slid her fingers into his and dragged him towards the Game Rooms, stopping when she found Jamie and a couple of colleagues battling it out to get past what looked like the penultimate level of Insurgent: Jungle Fever III.
She called out, “Hey, guys.”
Several heads turned. Some waved, others raised cans of energy drink. When some looked warily over her shoulder she glanced back at Armand, realising she was still holding his hand.
She let go. His hand immediately sank into the pocket of his suit pants. Then she tipped her head in the direction of the room, prompting him to acknowledge the crowd.
“These guys are on our team too,” she murmured.
He muttered something in French. She did not believe it was complimentary.
“You guys game?” someone called.
“Totally,” Armand responded.
Laughter bursting from her mouth, she turned to find Armand had moved in closer. She rolled her shoulders, subtly, in an attempt to stave off the warmth washing over her at his nearness.
Jamie, who was sitting in a straight-backed chair, fingers flying over a controller, sweat beading on his forehead, didn’t move as he said, “Miss Evie, nice to see you down here.” Then, “Armand. Welcome to hell.”
“Looks fairly close,” Armand said, his hard gaze now locked on the huge screen where soldiers in camouflage gear, loaded up to the eyeballs in weapons, tried to shoot their way out of an ambush.
“How long have you been stuck there?” Evie asked.
“This session? Two hours and sixteen minutes.”
Another guy added, “That’s not including the several days before that.”
“Jonathon pays you to do this?” Armand asked.
“We’re about to launch Jungle Fever IV and need to make sure we haven’t doubled up on any scenes.”
“Do you use military consultants?”
One guy looked up. “My uncle was a lieutenant in Vietnam. We brought in a few of his mates to fill in the blanks.”
Armand shot him a look. Gave him a single nod, appeased, before standing up straight.
Evie took a couple of steps into the room. Eyeballed the screen, catalogued the tools lists of each player. “You want help?”
Yet another guy hunched over a controller muttered, “We are beyond help. And I’m out.”
He put down the controller and slumped over in the chair.
Evie held out a hand and someone passed the controller to her.
After a beat she offered it to Armand. “Care to show them how it’s done?”
A flash passed over his eyes, a moment of connection, like lightning within a storm. A thrill shot down her spine, making her toes curl.
Then he slowly shook his head. “All yours.”
“All righty, then,” she said, taking a moment to shake off the pins and needles. She ran her fingers over the buttons, familiarising herself with the remote. Cricked her neck one way, then the other.
“Follow me,” she commanded Jamie, then set to unlocking the level in a minute and a half.
The room erupted in a cheer befitting a gold medal performance.
Grinning, Evie bowed to the room, bowed to Jamie, then turned to bow to Armand. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, ankles too. Cool as you please.
He shook his head once, his eyes glinting. And then his face lit up with a smile. Teeth and all. A zing shot through her, head to toe, as if she’d been struck by lightning.
Grouchy, he was magnetic.
Smiling, the man was devastating.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie throw down his controller and pull off his baseball cap to run a hand over his damp hair. “How?” he asked.
Evie broke eye contact to give Jamie a shrug. “I’m just that good.”
“Everyone,” Jamie said as he pulled himself to standing, “this is Evie Croft. And she is just that good.”
Each of the guys stood to introduce themselves, a flurry of names she’d struggle to remember. Evie laughed, feeling light, ha
ppy. Included. It was the best she’d felt since the Day of the Fortune Cookie.
Then her gaze slid back to the doorway to find Armand’s smile now gone. He glanced behind him, as if looking for a way to escape.
With an, “Excuse me,” Evie ducked through the crowd. She muttered, “Uh-uh, don’t even think about it.” Then, tucking her hand into his elbow, she dragged Armand bodily into the room.
Evie shook any hand that came her way and said, “And this is Armand Debussey.”
Armand did surprisingly well in the end—he smiled politely, was charming despite his best efforts and was an adept conversationalist. After a few minutes, it felt as if they were all firm friends.
Fun now over, the crowd dissipated, small groups heading off in different directions, already talking about optic cables and firewalls.
“Well, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” Evie asked, turning to Armand. “Even I started to believe you were an actual human person.”
Armand smiled, just a little, and Evie found herself lost in a whirl of stormy blue. She’d never stood so close to him before, apart from elbowing him on the train. Toe to toe. Close enough to count his tangled lashes. The lines on his face that spoke of hardship, worry. Of care.
Her next breath in felt sharp and keen and far too shallow.
Her tongue slipped over her dry bottom lip and Armand’s gaze dropped to her mouth. And stayed. The banked heat in his eyes had her knees giving way.
Then from one moment to the next the shutters closed over his eyes with a snap and he took an instant step back.
“Lunch?” she said, glad to remember what it was called.
He looked at her for a beat. Inscrutable once more. “No lunch. I have something urgent that needs attending to.”
“Oh,” she said, hearing the tinge of disappointment clear as day. “Okay. See you in the office afterwards, then.”
With a nod, and a slight bow, he left the room.
Jamie sidled up to her to give her a bump with his shoulder. “Seems you’re after a lunch companion.”
She had to drag her eyes away from the doorway to give Jamie a chummy smile. The smile she got back was more than chummy.
While Armand was a study in elusiveness and restraint, Jamie was not. There was a strong chance she was reading the signs wrong, but she didn’t think so. The smoulder he was sending her was as subtle as a billboard.
She was hit with a revelation.
What if Jamie was the fortune cookie mistake? Was he the romantic entanglement she had to nip in the bud?
She felt a sudden lightness come over her. If it was true, it would be the easiest fix in the world!
He was nice-looking, smart and clearly keen, but she felt nothing for him beyond friendship. Nothing close to the way she felt when Armand even looked her way.
Suddenly her revelation didn’t feel helpful after all.
“Thanks,” she said to Jamie. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His face dropped till he looked like a sad little boy and she knew she’d made the right decision.
“Look, I know I’m a novelty around here but, like you, I’m here to do my job. Just think of me as one of the guys.”
Jamie perked up. “You sure played like one.”
Evie bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from calling him out as a sexist pig. Hopefully she’d have the chance to show them all how wrong they were.
Jamie ran a hand up the back of his neck. “You and Mr Mysterious—you’re not...?”
“God, no! No way! Nuh-uh.” Stop protesting. One “no”is plenty. Okay, one more for good measure. “Nope. We are a project team. And that is all.”
Jamie watched her a moment, then nodded. Backing away, he said, “Rematch?”
“Deal.”
He shot her a salute and headed off.
Left alone in the Bullpen, Evie lifted her gaze up the stairs.
That was what she wanted, right? To quietly go about her job without making waves? Making a splash had been her mum’s deal. Being lauded, applauded, recognised for her artistic talents. Her dreams had been so big that when she’d crashed she’d crashed hard.
Evie had never wanted standing ovations, she just wanted a seat at the table. And now she finally had one.
But, while half an hour before she’d been starving hungry, right then she felt strangely hollow.
CHAPTER SIX
ARMAND SAT AT his desk, the lamp light as low as it would go.
Discomfort sat on his shoulder like a cloak—his nerves twitching with over-stimulation, making him realise how long he’d cut himself off, kept himself numb by thinking over his past, his choices, to remind himself why apathy was imperative.
Life had started well for Armand—a golden childhood spent in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, summering on the waters of the Côte d’Azur. He’d been an active child—rugby at school, excelling in track and field at university. Backpacking through Turkey with friends—including a young Jonathon Montrose—after graduation had been an easy choice. And one that had changed the course of his life.
He still remembered that day his life had flipped on a hinge with wretched clarity: late spring, bright, sunny sky. A bunch of rich kids hopping loudly off the dilapidated bus, dragging their matching luggage. To the band of rebels waiting in the rocky outcrops—their clothes tattered, their bellies empty—Armand and his friends must have looked ripe for the picking.
Armand remembered sitting on a bag, watching Jonathon chat with the bus driver, when Katrina, an American girl in their group, was suddenly grabbed from behind. Basking in the sunshine, in his lazy contentment, he’d only noted she was missing when he heard her scream.
By the time he turned, she had blood running down her face from where she’d been hit with the butt of a gun. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, her legs limp as she was dragged away.
Arms raised in the international sign of surrender, Armand went after them, shouting, begging them to let her go. He threw down his wallet, his passport, a pack of gum from his pocket.
As they yelled back in a language he did not then understand, waving their guns at him, sweat prickled on his back, his neck, his scalp. He remembered the hollow feeling in his stomach. The fact he could no longer feel his feet.
But mostly he remembered the sense of utter helplessness. He’d have followed her to the ends of the earth, offered himself in her place if it had helped. But he’d had no clue if that was the right thing to do. If it would ensure her safety or get his friend killed.
Heir to the Debussey gallery and auction-house fortune, he’d known a life of obscene wealth. He knew nothing of hardship and starvation, of soul-deep pain and fear. How dared he think he could negotiate with these people? He didn’t even have the wherewithal to protect what was his.
Then Katrina was gone—tossed into the back of a truck, the vehicle bouncing over the dirt hills, heading who knew where, and Armand was left with his expensive luggage and no clue as to how to get her back.
Three days later—after a police hunt, intervention by the American Embassy and what he inferred was a monetary payment by her family—Katrina was returned; beaten, bruised, with several ribs broken and permanent hearing loss in her left ear.
She was an immigration lawyer now, in Washington. Fighting to provide food, shelter and hope to those who needed it most.
Jonathon had left Europe soon after, heading off into the wild blue yonder for a number of years, before coming home to Australia with a pile of money he’d earned doing goodness knew what, invested in start-ups and made a name for himself as a leading tech entrepreneur.
Armand had gone another way.
His family had not understood his decision to join the French Foreign Legion. They’d railed against it with all that they had. Threatening legal action, disinheritance, calling on every favour they
had to bring him home.
But the Legion did not bend.
He’d joined up looking for answers. And absolution. To have the wild fury that had sent him there honed by pushing his body, his mind, to their absolute limits and beyond. Stripped bare, right down to his skin, to his basic humanity, he’d rebuilt himself. It was the only way he could have overcome the events in Turkey. What he’d faced in his own mind. He might even have stayed beyond the requisite five-year term if not for the timing of the kidnapping of a little girl.
That had been years ago now. So much had happened since.
Armand tried to remember how that felt. To be so sure about his sense of duty to his friends, his corps, his family. To be so certain that he could put measures in place to make sure those he cared for could never be hurt again.
As the swamp of memory and regret threatened to suffocate, Armand dragged himself back to the here and now.
He picked up a random piece of paper from his desk, only to find the letters swimming before his eyes. He looked up at the shelves with the bobble-headed figurines lined up below the knitted hat hanging from a hook on the wall.
Evie’s trinkets. Evie’s hat.
After all he’d seen and done in his life, he found the woman’s lack of self-awareness exasperating. Her complete ingenuousness, her need to introduce herself to everyone she met, even the way she moved—floating across the floor as if in a permanent daydream...she may as well be walking through life with a target on her back.
Why it bothered him so much, he could not explain. For she was not his cross to bear. He barely knew her.
She was simply too young, too green, too obstreperous. She didn’t listen when she ought; her opinions were far too decided. How she’d managed to come out clean from under the rubble of her previous employment he had no idea.
The woman needed a full-time minder. Not him, though. Not his speciality.
He was a finder, not a keeper.
She required a bodyguard. Or a babysitter. Even a boyfriend would do. Again, not him. Though the thought of her with one of those fledglings downstairs made his kidneys ache.
