Of all life’s moments, this was the one where I would have liked to keep my stupid to a minimum, so I wasted hours working on putting some favorable spins on my idiocy. Yeah, I couldn’t come up with a single believable spin. I had to find a way to fix things; I could not afford to blow this meeting. Every single move I made was for my parents; they didn’t deserve what was done to them, and I was the only one left who could deliver payback. The Manx was my only way in.
I wondered if my winning personality and inherent charm would sway him to overlook my failure. Highly unlikely.
For the remainder of the day—which constituted a very small block of time in comparison to the hours spent self-bashing and conjuring pointless ways to save my ass with the Manx—I was a typical girl, rummaging through my tiny closet, trying to find something appropriate to wear to meet the man. The butterflies fluttering around my stomach were clearly psychotic, and it wasn’t like I was meeting the president or the pope. I was crazy-nervous about meeting a criminal! That cannot be good.
Sometimes, I do worry about the direction of my afterlife. If my life had been normal, I doubt I would have gotten into this trade. Maybe I would have an art gallery or been a curator for a museum. Maybe I was just using my life as an excuse because I secretly loved the danger of the Manx. Maybe I would pay for it one day. I seriously doubted God looked favorably upon people working for criminal organizations, and I imagine there was an extra dollop of condemnation for someone who harbored fascination-bordering-infatuation for a man who had built nearly his entire empire on breaking the law.
“Oh, I’m going to hell.” I’d already punched my ticket. Done deal. Huh…well…back to the problem of what to wear—in other words, to maintain perspective, I must take my mind off of my hell-bound soul.
I didn’t exactly have an extensive wardrobe. My closet consisted mostly of jeans, t-shirts, a few cute blouses, a handful of cheap mix-and-match work suits, two pairs of crappy heels, some worn sneakers, and my trusty boots. If the Manx hadn’t supplied us with money to buy party clothes for the charity auction, I would’ve been the cheap chick in jeans and probably kicked out as a result. After thirty minutes of staring at my closet and finally giving up on suddenly discovering a fancy jumpsuit or daring cocktail dress, I resigned myself to a lavender peasant blouse and my best jeans. So much for positive first impressions.
Eleven O’clock. Time to meet the Manx. Taking one last look in the cracked mirror, I gave a quick, silent thanks to my hair for behaving; otherwise, the overall appearance was pretty ‘eh.’ Grabbing my favorite army-green leather bag and shoving the faux-egg inside, a tiny disgusted groan escaping my throat as I did, I headed downstairs. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I immediately saw a black town car and driver waiting for me outside the front doors. I took a deep breath before opening the doors and approaching the sleek car.
“Good evening, Miss,” said the older gentleman, opening the car door for me. Before sliding into the car, the driver handed me a silky black blindfold. “I’m afraid I must insist you wear this, dear. If you refuse, I cannot take you any farther, and that would make me really sad.”
I grinned in spite of my nerves; he was the cutest little old man! Taking the blindfold, I simply said, “Well, I wouldn’t want you to be sad.” Once in the car, I tied the blindfold over my eyes.
“Do you have the egg?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Excellent,” he replied, closing my door.
Soon, we were on our way. I tried to track the car’s movements, just to see if I could figure out where we were going. After at least a dozen turns, I lost count and all direction.
“You doing okay back there, dear?” asked the driver.
“I’m fine,” I responded. Oh, but I wasn’t fine, not at all. Leaning my head against the seat, I sighed loudly.
“Don’t be nervous, Miss. You did your job and got the egg, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, well, sort of.”
“What do you mean by ‘sort of?’”
“I got an egg, but not the egg. It’s not the real one. I got hoodwinked by one of the other competitors. I failed. So, I get to meet the Manx and make a fool out of myself. Actually, you might as well turn around and take me home. I don’t want to waste his time.”
“I’m afraid my instructions are concrete. I am to take you to him.”
“Great.”
“Don’t worry, dear one. I’m sure he won’t be too hard on you.”
Terrific.
When the car finally came to a stop, I heard the driver shut off the engine. My door opened after a brief moment and the driver took my hand. “I’ll lead you.”
I heard the swipe of a card and a door unlock. Once inside, a blast of cold air chilled my skin. Our footsteps echoed in an otherwise quiet room. Perhaps we were in a lobby of some kind? We walked a bit farther until he stopped me and turned my body to the left. I heard him press a button and figured it might be an elevator, only this wasn’t your typical elevator. An automated woman’s voice filled the space around us.
“Palm and retinal scan,” said the voice.
Okay, this was happening.
“Welcome, Finn. Please enter your guest’s security code.”
“I don’t have a security code,” I said worriedly.
The driver I now know as Finn chuckled. “Not to worry, dear. I have it. Only temporary, of course. Getting a permanent code depends on your meeting with Manx.” I literally felt my face turn a sickening green as he punched a code on a keypad of some kind.
“Guest code accepted.” The elevator doors opened and Finn guided me inside. “Floor?”
“Penthouse,” replied Finn.
“Ooh, penthouse, huh? And you didn’t even have to buy me dinner first,” I teased.
Finn giggled a bit. “Manx will like you.”
“Here’s hoping.”
The building must be absolutely massive because this was the never-ending elevator ride. Finally, the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. The smell of jasmine and magnolia greeted me.
“You can take that blindfold right off now, little lady,” said Finn.
I removed the blindfold and handed it to Finn. “I would never have expected someone like you in a place like this.”
Finn smiled. “Well, there are reasons for everything. Sometimes what appears unscrupulous actually has moral value…on occasion, anyway…not always…but sometimes.” I laughed. “Just follow the rightmost hallway straight down. I do hope to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
Finn bowed his head and disappeared behind the elevator doors.
“Okay, here we go,” I muttered.
The black and white marble entrance to the penthouse resembled the entry of some swanky office building. For as far as the eye could see, the entire penthouse level was entirely windowless. I wouldn’t call this an inviting atmosphere; there wasn’t even a receptionist. There were, however, five armed guards you would not want to meet in a well-lit alley, much less a dark one; the largest guard even had two samurai swords attached to his back. For a moment, I had to wonder if this was some elaborate scene directly out of a superhero movie.
“Guest,” said the automated woman’s voice again. “Please proceed to the end of the hall.”
“Yep, this is real,” I mumbled. Making my way down the hall, I couldn’t help but notice how the sound of my boots on the marble floor acted like a pinch to my arm, reminding me that this moment was a bona fide truth. For an instant, I started second-guessing everything I had done up to this point. “Shut up, Mags. Keep the goal in mind.” Upon reaching the end of the hallway, I faced a solid wall. “Computer person, uh, can you tell me what to do with the wall?” No answer. “I want the Manx,” I said strongly, touching the wall. “Whoa!” The wall slid sideways to reveal a hidden door. “Well, that’s creepy.”
Opening the door, I found myself in what could only be described as a standard, somewhat outdated study, which completely contradic
ted the fancy marble entrance. There were chairs of mahogany and red leather, a stately cherry wood desk, and bookcases circling the room. The tall wingback chair behind the desk had its back facing me. My heart fluttered at the thought that the Manx might be sitting right there, just inches away.
Slowly, I saw his hands gently grip the armrests. He raised himself up, his back to me. As he turned to face me, he simply said, “Welcome…feisty one.”
The Manx was Blake Traverz.
“You? You’re the Manx?”
“Well, to be fair, my father was the original Manx.”
Shaking my head, completely flustered, I said, “You knew…the whole night you knew I was there to steal from you.”
“Well, I was hoping you would,” he replied cockily. “I do love a good steal.” Words escaped me. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward one of the chairs as he retook his seat behind the desk.
I quickly sat down, trying to conceal my nerves.
“There’s something you need to know.” Yeah, let’s just blurt it. Way to lead into things, Maggie.
“Before you do, may I see the egg?” he asked, his hand outstretched.
I exhaled rather loudly and removed the egg from my bag. “Yeah, the thing about that…it’s a fake.”
“Is it really?” Why was he smiling?
“Yes.” And he was still smiling. Did he not realize I was currently admitting to being an idiotic failure? “One of my competitors—probably the annoying creep who outbid me on the jug—must have gotten to the real egg first and left me the fake. I picked it up without examining it. I guess he was cleverer than me.”
“Mmm.” Mmm? That was it? “You’re not quite as dressed up as you were last night.”
Okay, so we were going to talk about my attire now. Right, yeah, because that made total sense. I shrugged. “Well, you seemed to approve of the real me last night. Boots and jeans…this is the really real me. I don’t have anything fancier, so…”
His smile turned quite sly on his handsome face. “I like the really real you, in or out of the red dress.” His emphasis on ‘out’ made certain areas of my body tingle wildly. “You made a good choice, coming as yourself. The others came here all dressed up, noses in the air. Pretentious lot.”
“The others?”
“Yeah, all four of you received invitations.”
I shook my head, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. The other two couldn’t have gotten the egg. I’m really confused.”
“Yes, I know.”
Cocky ass. “Look, this makes zero sen—wait a minute…you set us up to succeed and fail, didn’t you?”
Leaning back in his chair, his sexy smirk firmly in place, he said, “Finally, that depressingly dark light bulb flicks on above her head.”
“Cute,” I quipped, tightening my lips.
“Yeah, I thought so.”
Thinking aloud, I said, “You must’ve had someone there replacing the egg with a fake one for each of us.”
“Well, you didn’t think I’d keep my real egg in there with such light security, did you?”
“Yeah, your lack of security really threw me. I just figured you were a stuck-up snob who thinks nothing bad will ever happen.”
Laughing, Blake shook his head. “Nah. I had it all planned out well in advance of the charity auction. I had people planted all over the estate, watching the four of you, making certain none of you ran into one another while attempting to steal the egg. Each of you had to think you had gotten the real egg.”
“You wanted to test us, see if we could recognize a fake from the real.”
“Smart girl. Now, your first two competitors went about the mission all wrong, but we permitted them to get an egg. You and the bloke who actually tried to buy something had the right plan.”
“Yeah, except he beat me in the auction.”
“Minor glitch. Those things can be fixed through training—there are ways to outwit your opponent, or if you’re matched in wits, ways to strengthen your odds. With that mouth of yours, I think I can exercise what rolls off your tongue in ways you can’t imagine.”
“I’m sure you could.” Tingles, tingles, tingles.
He nodded. “I can.” After an intense stare, he added, “You were the only one to recognize the egg as a fake.”
“The only one?”
“Indeed. The others were convinced the egg was the real deal.”
“What idiots!”
“That’s what I said. Granted, it was a great fake, but a good eye should be able to spot the inconsistencies.”
“Why did you meet with each one of us? I wouldn’t think you’d want anyone but the person you hire to know your identity.”
“Remember those questions my driver, Finn, asked you in the car?”
I closed my eyes. “Light bulb just flicked to the ‘on’ position…again. It’s a temperamental light bulb.”
Grinning, Blake simply shrugged. “Maybe it just needs a little rewiring.”
Why did my mind instantly make his words dirty? “Finn gauged which of us believed we succeeded or failed. That way he knew who spotted the fake and who didn’t.”
“You got it.”
“So they never made it up here.”
“Sure didn’t. Finn sent me texts with a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’, followed by detailed descriptions of their attire. The ‘nays’ were immediately taken back home and given a rejection note.”
“What happens to them now?”
“They go back into the research pool at Sakfalla, where you were. Of course, they’ll remember nothing of the last twenty-four hours or so.”
“Okay, so we’re talking some kind of super secret agent memory eraser tonic?”
“Something like that.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. “You own Sakfalla, don’t you?”
Blake smiled slyly. “Finally puzzling those pieces together, are you? Speaking of you, it’s time to tell me about yourself.” Blake picked up a red file folder and began reading. “Maggie Harred…or is it Charlotte Canteberry?”
I blushed a bit. “You caught that did ya?”
“Nothing makes me happier than seeing a fake name. Your main competition gave his real name.”
“Oh, he didn’t,” I said, aghast.
“He did.”
“Well, I guess I outwitted him in the end. Looks like you don’t have to exercise my mouth after all.”
Smirking, he said, “If you had outwitted him before then, he never would’ve gotten that far. Exercising your mouth is still very much on my agenda.” And my mind continued with the dirty translations. Horny little SOB. “Maggie Harred…twenty-four-years old, acts far beyond her years in professional situations, requests that her salary be paid in cash, and has an affinity for beer.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Here’s the thing, Maggie—I have no records on you. No credit history, no bank accounts, no identifying numbers, nothing. Who are you?”
“I’m Maggie.”
“Who else?”
“You don’t need to know my past,” I snapped. “All you need to know is my present and that I’m committing my future to you and your organization.”
“Clever, but I like to know the ins and outs of everyone working for me.”
“Well, those are the only ins and outs you’re ever going to get from me.”
Blake stared at me thoughtfully for a few moments. “What are you hiding?”
If he knew, he’d never hire me…he’d never trust me. “I’m not hiding anything. I had a difficult childhood. I don’t care to relive it. I’ve talked about it once, with one person. He’s passed on now. I-I can’t talk about it again, and I try to never let the memories invade my mind, at least not completely. Either you can accept that or send me on my way. Of course, I don’t know how you’d send me on my way, since I know your identity.”
“Ah, well, we’d just inject you with something that would erase your memory. Super secret agent tonic, remember?
” I nodded blankly. “Handy little liquids.”
My jaw dropped. I really had been kidding. “That exists?”
“Yeah, of course it does.”
“Are you really a secret government agent? Maybe you’re who the movies are based on?”
Blake smiled warmly. “No, but I do have friends in all places—high and very low.” He stood up, rounded his desk, and sat in the chair next to me. “You don’t want to tell me about your past…”
“I don’t want to tell you and I’m not going to tell you. Simple as that.”
“Could always give you a truth serum.”
“Could always knee you in your family jewels. Not even a truth serum would prevent that.”
Amusement danced in his eyes before it transformed into intense concern. “Can you fathom the type of gamble I’m taking on you? What started with my father continues with me, and we have known everything about everyone we bring into our circle. We don’t take chances.”
“First, it’s impossible to know everything about everyone. Second, even if you do know everything, people can always change and shock the hell out of you. And third, you knew nothing about me when you had someone hire me at Sakfalla, yet that was enough to get a job, which, admittedly, surprised me. If you didn’t know anything about me back then, why’d you give me the job in the first place?”
“You came to us, remember?” I squirmed a bit in my seat, thinking back on the days when I scoured the city, asking various people about how I could find the Manx. “You asked all the right questions to all the right people, knowing you’d eventually gain the attention of one of our agents. You’re smart, methodical, and a complete mystery. And you don’t think I should be wary of you?”
“I knew someone. He told me about the Manx. He guided me, taught me how I could find you.”
“Is this the person you told your past to, the one who passed away?”
I nodded. “He just wanted me to be safe after his death. He was a good man…and he gave me the chance to actually have a life, okay? Just because somebody doesn’t want to divulge their life story doesn’t mean they’re hiding anything. And even if they were, maybe it’s for self-preservation, something they can’t talk about, something that hurts them deeply…maybe they have trust issues. We live in a climate of social media where you know when someone’s constipated. There are some souls in this world who just aren’t comfortable living with that kind of transparency. Bottom line is this: nobody is entitled to know everything about you except you. I don’t want talk about this anymore. Please don’t make me. Please.”
Watercolor Hearts Page 3
