by JR King
*
Take any big, busy city: pernicious air pollutants overshadowed it, and the traffic noises and the shrill cries of sirens colonized its tenor. I paused on the sidewalk, gulping in a breath of early summer air redolent with wholesome and toxic things. The straws in the wind suggested that a rainstorm was on its way. A sleek black limousine stopped in the curbside lane beside me. I saw my reflection in its spotless tinted windows. My cheeks were flushed, my lips a little swollen, and the blue of my eyes was overtly dark. I’d seen that look in the mirror many times before, every time I was about to do something uncouth and ballsy.
To my extreme embarrassment, the passenger zipped the window down. “Do I get to see more?” the man asked in a nudge nudge, wink wink manner, raking me with a head-to-toe glance.
I shrugged and nearly smiled at Christopher.
“Is that a no, pretty girl?” he blandished.
“That’s a definite no, Mister,” I clarified with a nod.
“Talk about empathic and sweet young girls.” For a short, pregnant moment, he was wrapped in perspicuity. He looked harmless, lips curled in a fond smile.
I cut the palpable tension. “Calculated move or coincidence?”
“Do you believe in coincidences?”
“I must, I’m with Alexander.”
“A coincidence is another one of life’s little annoyances.”
“Depends on your perspective. The way you look at things.”
“Who is this Jenkins guy you were going to have lunch with?” he asked, eyebrows vee-ed.
“I was going to pull a Leeroy Jenkins. It’s a battle strategy,” I explained proudly, as though it were one invented by General Charles de Gaulle himself.
“Computer games. I gather you’re something of an expert.”
“And you have a reputation as something of a ladies’ man.”
His laugh was low. “Touché. Hop in.”
“Where are we going?”
“To do something fun and constructive instead of mean and destructive.” The lilt in his voice had changed, as though he needed something, the slight cadence asking for consideration. “Get in, you lil’ twit. Sophia and Alexander have lunch once a week, don’t ruin their special time. I never did, and that’s why I’m still standing.”
Let go of the petty meanness, I instructed myself. I had the afternoon to myself, might as well reap the benefits of temporary unemployment.
No mention was made of what Christopher was planning to do. I suspected he didn’t want to ruin the magic of the suspense, and for my part, I was glad I hadn’t gone Virginia Woolf on Sophia and Alexander.
Then I was at his front door. A Beacon Hill brownstone. My nerves were tingling. I lifted my right foot to step inside, but reconsidered. All I wanted to do was figure out his game—which was nefarious, no doubt—and the little I knew about Christopher told me he wouldn’t roll over that easily.
Just as I made up my mind to enter, Christopher popped his head out. “How long have you been standing there?” Smirking, he pulled the door open wider, keeping himself behind it. “Is my little red riding hood scared?”
I didn’t answer. The secret smile that curved his lips was too mischievous. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Will I have to drag you in here?” he insisted with the gentlest of threats. “I’m going to cook lunch for you. For us.”
“You?” I snorted, looking at the empty foyer. “Don’t you have a Time magazine cover shoot?”
He clicked his heels and snapped his fingers over his head. “Gurl, we just wrapped that biatch up,” he replied in a squeaky, effeminate way.
For a man of his age, it was ridiculous, yet I was laughing. I could feel that familiar Turner-charm tug at my heart.
He clasped my elbow and subtly dragged me inside. He kept guiding me, and I didn’t resist. The kitchen smelled fabulous and Tracy Chapman crooned soulfully through hidden speakers. Fast Car. Christopher stood before a showstopping La Cornue range with his back to me, stirring whatever it is he’d decided to cook for us in a Cuisinart saucepan. Very do-it-yourself.
“Pour us some wine, Elena.”
There was a closed bottle of wine and two goblets on the kitchen island.
“Over there.” His arm reached out to point toward a drawer, and stroked the length of my arm. The touch made my eyelids flutter.
Opening the drawer, I took out the Le Creuset Screwpull and uncorked the bottle. A Zinfandel millésime.
I watched him cut hamburger buns and toast them, his movements practiced and elegant. An outsider looking at him wouldn’t realize he was a businessman, not a chef. He loaded the buns with sizzling cheeseburgers, bacon, mushrooms, caramelized onions, and homemade tomato sauce. He licked some sauce off the ladle before dropping it in the sink. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
He set a full plate in front of me.
“Where’s the kitchen staff?” I asked with an impish face, my head tilted to the side.
“Gave them a day off.” I hated the cocky grin that curved his lips because it looked like Alexander’s.
“Hey.” He clapped his hands on my shoulders, meeting my gaze with warm eyes and lips just north of a smug smile. “Are you a mite deaf? Food is getting cold.”
I pulled out one of the leather and stainless steel Livorno barstools and sat.
Christopher preferred to stand and eat.
Using my hands, I just went for it. He and I watched each other make quick work of his expert cooking. His stare was fierce and concentrated.
“Enough with this cat-and-mouse game, Chris. What do you want from me?” I picked at the congealed cheese on my plate.
“Alexander won’t referee, this is between you and me. Open the box and let me invest your money. You don’t have to see it, touch it, deal with it. Sponsor research facilities. Build a better future.”
I swept the unruly strands of hair off my front, tucking them neatly behind my shoulder. A wild idea flared in me. When I responded, it was with far more assuredness than I possessed. “Do you mean something like cancer research? Invest and grow capital to do something useful? Leave an inerasable imprint?”
“Go to Zürich.” My heart sank. Maybe it was the sight of my crestfallen face, but he cocked his head to the side and raised a speculative eyebrow. “Alexander doesn’t want to be involved?”
“He says he has enough money for us both. He doesn’t want me—,”
Christopher pecked my forehead, cutting me off. “I’ll come with you.”
“Can you talk to him?”
“Talk? My wife talks to him, sweetheart. I just tell him what to do, and he obeys.”
Elena Anderson
The Surprise
Came mid-July, Frederic followed Marla to London. Before his replacement arrived, I’d moved on to Richmond Capital. I mentioned by accident that my new boss was kind of handsome and intriguing, his new leadership policies solid, which didn’t sit well with Alexander. He didn’t stay grumpy for too long; the fact that Richmond was located in The Hancock cheered him up every time.
Apart from my own security clearance, I was also integrated at Turner Holdings. Entrance doors unlocked with fingerprint scans, the hallways forever embedded in my memory.
On a Friday morning, I was on my way to meet the person who controlled the Turner Holdings hivemind. The corridor to this particular corner office seemed to stretch out forever. My heart was pounding against my ribs; I could even hear it roar in my ears. Meredith’s email was too cryptic, and I wondered if I was in bad odor with Alexander for one reason or another. I cringed seeing his name on the door. I loved every letter engraved into the gold plaque. Light gleamed off the writing, and I steeled my resolve and rapped my knuckles twice on the wood.
“Come in.”
I walked briskly into the room. Alexander was on the phone, but watched me come in with a hint of a playful smile. He was wearing two pieces of a three-piece suit, the jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows. “What
’s the ballpark budget to implement this?” He gave the room a leveled gaze then pushed one of his rolled-up sleeves past his elbow. “Feasible. Feasible. Where’s the…whatchamacallit?” Trying to remember, he snapped his fingers. “Right, right, the probability study. I need it yesterday.” Listening to his incisive words, I divined the spontaneous oomph in his voice was as much a matter of practiced skill as it was a matter of devotion. “Deadline?” He stomped his foot. “Those dirtbag motherfuckers must beat the calcified date. This is nonnegligible. Meredith, crosscheck and make a switch with whichever consulting company floats your boat.” He winked at me, a full smile bending the edge of his mouth. “Why not BCG? I have it on good authority that they’re adroit and scrupulously goal-oriented. Signing out.”
“Good morning, Alex.”
“C’mere. Have a seat. How’s your day, Elena?”
“Riveting.” My stomach was in knots. “Meredith told me it was important. What’s going on?” My throat was dry as I swallowed. I heard the effort of it above the ambient noise of the room.
“Can you clock out earlier today?” The urgency in his voice shrunk my sudden burst of bravado, courageousness disappearing like the foam of sparkling wine.
“Doable. Doable,” I tried with a mock baritone voice. Because I’d refused his proposal, any time now I could expect him to break up with me.
“Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
I gave him a sly grin. “Duly noted. No hula hooping. Far be it from me to disappoint you.”
“Long may that continue.” He gave me a devilish grin before looking back at the papers before him, scratching a note here, crossing off a word there. I wondered how he managed to be so dexterous while he was obviously laser-focused on me.
“Where are we going?”
He inclined his head and shrugged. “Someplace benign.”
A few moments later, I found the strength to stand. He called me back before I got to the door. I inhaled and turned around, trying to hold myself up to my best height. “Yes?”
“Inform your boss about a month-long…trip. Either take it out of your annual leave, or go with unpaid holidays.” He said this mildly, as if the whole concept was unimportant.
My mouth gaped. I couldn’t find words to articulate. I should have been angry to the bone, but I wasn’t. I knew this was a big deal, because the entire country knew that Alexander Turner never took vacations.
“I’ll lunch with my grandparents,” I stated in an offhand way, hoping it sounded like I was unimpressed.
“You do that, kitten. I already called Julie.”
*
Hours more, feeling too jittery, I didn’t work a wink. The day dragged on, I hardly felt like myself after visiting Alexander’s office. I was giddy with excitement, so thrilled that my boyfriend, arguably one of the busiest men in the world, had decided to drop everything and spend R&R time with me.
I reasoned with myself not to be late for fear of getting skewered. Predictably, he was prompt in picking me up. Waiting at the back of the limo, hands in his pockets as he slouched against the closed door. When he saw me, he straightened up, a bright smile spreading over his face. He opened the door for me and, self-consciously tugging at the short hem of my dress, I climbed inside. Hamilton was sitting in the driver’s seat, impassive as ever.
“Good evening, Hamilton,” I greeted him with a smile as Alexander closed the door behind us.
“Good evening, Elena,” he answered and looked at me in the rear-view mirror, favoring me with a warm smile. Other than that, he was the model of professionalism, his voice cool and calm. Ray rode shotgun with him some days, and other days a security detail tailed us.
Hamilton closed the sun visor and activated the privacy partition.
“Nice to see you,” Alexander spoke to my cleavage. “I’ve had a day. Can I bury my face in you?”
“Made any back-up arrangements?”
“I’ll have to work every now and then.” His voice wasn’t edgy. It was calm, and it had a low purr that seemed to carry an indefinable kind of mischief in it. And when his hand clasped mine, it felt as though the mischief in his voice traveled through that link, settling warm and tingly in the pit of my stomach. “How was work?”
“Too long and uneventful. I could write a dull book about it.”
“Quit the investment business and come work for me. Same salary, better benefits, more spunkiness.”
I gulped, taking a moment to gather my thoughts before saying, “Same salary? Truthfully, I expected a raise. I’ll stay put.”
“Brawls will ensue.” The quick flash of his smile stopped me cold.
“Don’t harsh my mellow, Alex. Be nice. I’m looking forward to this trip.”
“Ariel takes a t-r-i-p.” The way he drawled each letter made it sound like a rom-com worth flummoxing over.
“You are such a tease,” I let my tone drop, “terrible.”
He cocked an eyebrow, smugly. “You ought to know.”
With the vagaries of local traffic, gridlock was predictable. The tunnel was wall-to-wall with cars and trucks, a steel and concrete passage above water. Although we were safe, soon the chest-tightening feeling of claustrophobia took hold of me. The walls seemed to gradually move closer, closing in on the car. Panic lashed at my subconscious. I started to sweat and impatiently whipped my head from left to right, scrutinizing the cars that patiently queued. No one fretted and honked a horn; Bostonians were raised with the notion not to rail against traffic impediments that they can’t change.
I struggled to breathe, the shallow and rapid noises echoing in the car.
“Elena?” I heard the clicking sound as Alexander closed the case of his iPad. “What’s wrong?”
I took my eyes off the view and turned to him. “It’s not moving! We’re not moving!”
“Get a grip, sweetheart. It’s just a tunnel.” He studied me with broad intensity, as though his eyes were scraping open every damaged membrane of my psyche.
Closing my eyes only made things worse; tears pricked at them. My heart kept beating erratically. I pushed back the panic rising in me, and then the tormenting death-claw of claustrophobia reached my body and coiled itself around my throat. Blood started singing in my ears.
I shivered when a covetous fingertip tripped down the clothed ridge of my collarbone. “Shh, Shh. Just a tunnel.” The voice was soft and close, warm breath spreading across my ear, over my jaw, and a hand gave mine a painful squeeze. “Focus on me and start counting.”
Not taking the motionlessness into account, I rubbed at my eyes and counted. Eventually, traffic started moving and when we emerged, the world came into focus again. I started looking for that rock to crawl under and die, which turned out to be the smooth webbing of Alexander’s herringbone balmacaan overcoat.
Reaching over, he unclicked my belt. My eyebrows rose slightly as he took me in his arms. “Elena, that one time, the thought of you leaving Boston to party in LA messed my head badly.” There was something in the way he said it; I believed him. He was breathing hard, his mouth almost touching mine as the warmth spread over my face. “I shouldn’t have locked the door.”
My mouth crooked, it was effortless. “It’s okay, Alex. It’s not like you beat me black and blue and left me to my own devices.”
“I’d rather debate the perfect angle for the bullet that will pierce my brain than do that, love.”
After a brief security check, the car moved, slowed down again. I saw private hangars before us, moving closer and closer. Hamilton pulled right onto the middle of the tarmac.
Alexander quickly eased himself out of the car and helped me out like a true gentleman. Outside, the wind was howling up to 15 mph. It tugged at my dress and tried to drag the hair tie off my ponytail. I became very aware that the skirt of my dress was too short. Short enough to reveal the lace tops of my satin stockings, on a tarmac, with the wind trying to drag me off my feet. When Alexander pulled me in, I was all too happy to press myself against him, takin
g shelter from it all against his strong chest as we walked to the airstairs.
The stairwell itself was skinny, and he fell in behind me. I had the distinct impression he was checking out my ass so I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes were on my behind as I climbed the stairs.
“You fucking tease. Satin and lace? This is how you dress for work?” I heard a distinct hissing as I mounted the last of the steps. “Satin and frigging lace.”
I poked my tongue out and grinned. “The devil is in the details.” At the top, a flight attendant pointed out to step inside with caution, and greeted me with a lopsided smile. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Anderson.” A hank of fair hair flopped over his eyes as he beckoned to follow him.
“Surreal. Really.” Another flight attendant was standing at the other end, and I courteously nodded toward her before heading where the first one was guiding me.
Inside the jet, it was warm and relatively still, there was sofa seating and also a table and lazy chairs. The aircraft had the same bleached look of a Wayne Enterprises jet. White panels, the leather furnishings a pale beige, the wood furnishings a lacquered brown, the only color was that of an enormous bouquet of red roses in a corner. If all that weren’t enough to send me in overdrive, the saccharine scent of lavender that floated in the air was conducive to an erotic atmosphere.
“This is nice. Thank you for doing this, Alex.”
“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine,” he murmured, a provocative smile spreading across his face.
“Mr. Turner,” the handsome young man continued. Like Alexander, he too wore a three-piece, but with a white button down. His gold colored nametag read Jackson. “Can I take your jacket?”
Dwarfed in an overly opulent chair, I watched Alexander shrug off his jacket and hand it over. Jackson waited patiently while he removed his vest and tie as well.
