Hired By The Mysterious Millionaire

When the words on the page blurred back at him he gave up. Rubbed his eyes. Looked up.

People watching, he had told Jonathon when his oldest friend had asked, expression pained, why he insisted on taking public transport instead of the car and driver he could well afford. A childhood hobby, it had been a useful survival skill once he was an adult.

Armand glanced around the cabin as it rocked gently along the tracks.

There was the Schoolgirl Who Sniffs. Behind her the Man Who Has Not Heard of Deodorant. The Women Who Talked About Everyone They’d Ever Met. The Man Who Carried an Umbrella Even When It Had Not Been Raining.

Now he could add the Boy Who Could Not Sit Still.

A glance out the window showed Armand he was nearing town. Frustrated with his lack of progress, he picked up the book again, opening it just as a shadow poured over the pages.

Armand glanced up, past black jeans tucked into knee-high black boots. Black-painted fingernails on a hand gripping the handle of the backpack slung over a shoulder. Long dark hair pouring over the shoulders of a jacket. Wind-pinked cheeks. And a heavy silver knitted cap with a huge rainbow pom-pom atop, bobbing in time with the swaying of the train.

Fingers lifted off the strap of the bag in a quick wave as the owner of the hat said, “Hi.”

“Bonjour.”

“You’re French?” She glanced sideways, and out of the side of her mouth said, “Of course he’s French.”

Armand looked past her, but no. She was talking to herself.

When he looked back, she tugged the knitted hat further back on her head and he recognised her as the Girl Who Sang to Herself.

A regular, she often sat deeper back in the carriage with her loud, fair-haired friend. On the days she rode alone she wore big white headphones, mouth moving as she hummed, even giving in to the occasional shoulder wiggle or hand movement.

With her wide, dark eyes and uptilted mouth, she had one of those faces that always smiled, even in repose. Add the headphones and she was practically asking to have her bag stolen. No wonder he’d felt the need to keep an eye on her. He’d seen all too often misfortune descending on those who deserved it least.

When his gaze once more connected with hers it was to find she was watching him still.

“You like to read?” she asked.

Armand blinked. He’d been riding the train for a little over two weeks and it was the first time anyone had tried to strike up a conversation with him. Another reason he’d enjoyed the ride.

“I do.”

Her dark gaze slid over his hair, down the arm of his jacket, towards the cover of his book. He turned it over and covered the spine. One didn’t become head of an international security firm for nothing.

Armand checked the sign above. With relief he saw his stop was next. She followed his gaze, her mouth twitching before her eyes darted back to his. “How about writing?” she asked, the pace of her words speeding up. “Do you like to write?”

When he didn’t leap in with an instant answer, she nibbled on her lip a moment before saying, “I guess there is writing and then there is writing. Texting is wildly different from a thousand-page novel. Or to-do lists compared with...”

As she continued to list the multiple kinds of writing the train slowed and the screech of metal on metal filled his ears, cutting out every other word. The sound dissipating into a hiss as she said, “Or, of course, poetry.”

“Poetry?”

She swallowed. Nodded. Her eyes wide. Expectant.

Was he meant to respond in some way? It hadn’t felt like a question. In fact, it felt as if he’d stumbled into the middle of someone else’s conversation.

And suddenly the singing, the constant smile, the talking to herself, the novelty backpack, his persistent urge to keep an eye on her—it all made sense.

She was a Van Gogh short of a gallery.

He felt his shoulders relax just a little.

“Are you asking if I like poetry?”

She nodded.

“The greats can make you laugh, cry, think, ache, but it depends on the poet. You?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. I appreciate the skill it must take. Finding words that rhyme. Creating patterns in sound and cadence.”

“Look closer. You’ll find it’s never about a cat who sat on a mat,” he said as he pulled himself to his feet.

The woman gripped harder to her backpack strap as she looked up, up, up into his eyes. Her pupils all but disappearing into the edges of her dark irises.

“What is it about?” she asked.

He leaned in a fraction and said, “Wooing.”

“Wooing?” she said, her voice a little rough. Her fingers gripping the strap of her bag. “Right. But the thing is, I’m in a transitional period. My life is kind of in upheaval right now. No room for wooing.”

“Then my advice would be to stay away from poetry.”

The train bumped to a halt, putting an end to the exchange either way. He slid his book into his briefcase.

But she didn’t budge an inch.

He angled his chin towards the door. “This is my stop.”

“I know.” Blink. “I mean, right, okay.”

She looked as if she had more to say, but the words were locked behind whatever traps and mazes had befallen her afflicted mind.

“Excusez-moi.”

A frown flickered over her forehead as the occupants of the carriage swarmed towards the door. Gripping tightly onto the loop hanging from the bar above kept her from smacking bodily against him, but not from stamping down on his foot with the heel of her boot.

He winced, sucking in a sharp breath as pain lanced his toes.

She spun, grabbed him by the arm and said, “Oh, no! Oh, sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

Then he remembered.

They had spoken once before. His first day on the train she’d elbowed him right in the solar plexus.

If he’d been a man who looked for signs he’d have taken it to mean he’d made a grave error in travelling halfway across the earth in the hopes of being led out of his fugue.

“The Girl with the Perfect Aim,” Armand muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

The doors opened, bringing with them a burst of light and chill, rain-scented air. Armand put a hand on the girl’s elbow as he squeezed around her, joining the river of people heading out the train doors.

Strange young woman, he thought. Yet, he conceded, compelling enough to distract him with alacrity no book or challenge or mystery had yet managed.

He felt those burnished eyes on him long after he’d left the darkness of the station and headed into the grey light of the chilly Melbourne winter’s day.

CHAPTER TWO

EVIE GOT LOST—twice—while trying to find the front door to the Game Plan offices.

For starters, she’d stayed on the train till the next station. No way was she about to follow Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit. If he’d seen her and was smart—and he certainly appeared to be—he’d have called the police. For oh, how she’d bungled that conversation royally.

Once she’d found the funky, arty little alleyway listed on the Game Plan website, she walked to the end and back without finding the door.

Not her fault. She blamed those stormy blue eyes. That accent. The scent—mysterious, masculine, drinkable. The serious don’t-poke-the-bear vibes rippling off the man like a mirage. Wondered if the ten-day stubble sweeping over his hard jaw was rough or soft. How could she make thoughts when he’d held her by the elbow and her nerves had been replaced by fireworks?

Every second of the encounter had been cringeworthy and it had all been for naught.

Born with a talent for seeing patterns in numbers, in lines of text, in architecture and nature, Evie did not have the same gift for reading people—a theory backed up by her choice of boyfriends in the past. But she had no doubt Hot Stuff believed her a chip short of a motherboard.

As to whether—or not—he’d written the poem... Who knew?

Stupid fortune cookie. Whether its powers were mystical or merely persuasive, she hadn’t been the same since she’d set eyes on it. The sooner she put the whole thing behind her and got on with her life the better.

She stopped in the middle of the alley, looked up into the overcast sky and breathed. “Get it together, kid. And fast.”

When she looked back down she found herself in front of a white door tucked into the white brick wall. It had to be the place.

“Okay. You can do this. You want this. You need this.”

She’d only just started making a name for herself, working on government contracts, really intricate work. She was most proud of finding and fixing a fissure in the Federal Reserve’s security system. One they hadn’t even known was there.

But after the way things went downhill in her last job she was tainted by association. Most of her contacts wouldn’t take her calls. Those who did wished her luck and got off the phone. Fast.

She had to convince Game Plan to give her a chance by sheer force of personality alone.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted a finger to press the buzzer when the door opened. Of course, they had video surveillance. This was Game Plan. Meaning somewhere some security dude had seen her talking to herself.

Super.

Her heart played a staccato against her ribs as she stepped into a waiting area with white walls, bright fluorescent lighting, potted plants. Needless to say, her jaw dropped an inch when instead of an HR clone an invisible door finally opened to reveal Jonathon Montrose, Mr Game Plan himself.

He looked exactly like he did on the jacket of his autobiography. Rugged. Imposing. Tall. Not as tall as Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit, mind you.

Really? You want to go there now?

No, I don’t!

Then focus.

Evie whipped her beanie off her head, and once more felt the static turn her into a human generator. Madly patting her hair back down, she walked to the man and held out a hand.

“Mr Montrose, I’m Evie Croft. It’s an honour. Your Code of Ethics textbook is my bible.” Evie imagined Zoe holding out both hands, urging her to pace herself.

“From what I hear you can also tear apart code like a demon.”

Evie’s heart whumped, wondering who he’d heard it from. Her ex-boss? Her ex? The federal police? No way was she getting the job. Nevertheless, she said, “You hear right.”

“Shall we?” Montrose held out a hand, ushering her through another door. “Welcome to the Bullpen.”

And, while she would have liked to appear even slightly cool, her feet ground to a halt a metre inside the room and she gawped at the sight before her.

Despite the modest entry, the place was gargantuan. Two storeys of glass-walled offices circled the outer rim of the floors above, while the ground floor looked as if it had been hit with a paintball explosion. White walls and floors were splattered with brightly coloured beanbags, cubicles, desks, couches, exercise balls, computers, TVs and in between slouched dozens of guys in jeans, T-shirts and baseball caps, laughing, arguing, creating.

When she found her feet again, Evie followed Montrose along a wall of nooks filled with gaming rooms, VR rigs, darts, pinball machines. One room had rows of bunk beds like a camp dorm.

“When can I move in?”

Montrose laughed. While Evie took it all in—every rivet, every light fitting, every gumball machine, in case she never saw its like again.

Right when Evie felt as if she’d hit sensory overload, Montrose led her up a set of stairs to a huge but relatively subdued office on the second floor, tinted windows looking over the Bullpen below. When he shut the door, everything went quiet.

Evie breathed out in relief when the first woman she’d seen in the place popped her head into Montrose’s office and said, “I’m grabbing a coffee. Can I get you guys anything?”

Evie shook her head, frantically gentling her mind. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”

“Nothing for me. Thanks, Imogen,” said Montrose, and the woman walked back out the door, leaving them alone.

Montrose motioned to a leather tub chair. Evie slid her backpack to the floor and sat.

Montrose sat on the edge of his desk—very much in the power position—crossed his feet at the ankles and began. “Tell me, Evie, why did you leave your last job?”

Evie opened her mouth to give the sensible answer Zoe had forced her to rehearse. Something along the lines of, After several years of loyal service, I felt I’d achieved all I could and needed a new challenge.

But she’d always been sensible. Taken small, considered steps. Choosing work she could do with her eyes closed, saving her pennies by sleeping on Zoe’s futon. And it had all come crashing down around her ears anyway.

Because luck was out of her hands. Just ask the fortune cookie.

Hang on a second. If losing her last job ticked off the career part of her fortune’s portent of “bad luck”, this opportunity was uncontaminated. Clean. A fresh start.

And if she truly wanted to make an impression on the likes of Jonathon Montrose, playing it safe wasn’t going to work this time.

Forgoing baby steps for a blind leap off a tall cliff, she looked her idol in the eye and jumped.

“You already know why I left, Mr Montrose.”

The edge of his mouth twerked. She hoped it was a good sign.

He said, “Indulge me.”

Okay then. “I worked for Binary Logistics until my ex-boss’s son, Eric—who also happens to be my ex-boyfriend—embezzled from the company. That company is now under investigation by every federal agency there is and, considering my position, my access level, my connection to the guilty party, I was a suspect for co-conspiracy. Thankfully they caught Eric at the airport and he confessed to everything, their forensic decoders followed his trail with ease and I was cleared. But mud like that sticks. Which means you are the only person who has taken my call, much less asked me in for an interview.”

She would love to have made it to the end without swallowing but if she didn’t wet her dry throat she’d probably pass out.

“And why do you think I would do that?” he asked.

“You’re a risk-taker, Mr Montrose. You actually like that I am marginalised. Perhaps I wouldn’t have piqued your interest otherwise. You like that it has made me hungry and desperate, because I’ll push to prove myself. Qualities you value within yourself.”

A muscle flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. Or maybe I appreciated the gumption it took to even try to get an interview with me, knowing what I know.”

Evie’s laugh was a little shaky. “Every bit of gumption I have.”

From there the interview took a turn into the normal, with Montrose asking about her family—her beloved granddad who’d moved into a retirement village, leaving his farming days behind him—and hobbies—gaming, knitting, hanging with Zoe.

And suddenly it was all over.

Montrose stood and so did she. Grabbing her backpack. And popping her beanie back on her head.

He blinked at the rainbow pom-pom but to his credit said nothing about it. Though he did say, “You are clearly a very bright young woman, Evie. Someone whose name has appeared on my radar more than once. I’ve heard men with far greater experience gasp over the work you’ve done, without knowing whose it was.”

Evie held her breath.

“Unfortunately, though, I don’t have anything for you at this time. I’d suggest you see this career break as an opportunity to look up and out. Read a book, travel, get your hands dirty. In the meantime, we will certainly keep you in mind for future work.”

What? Wait. No. No!

Evie opened her mouth to state her case. To ask to be given a chance. To drop to her knees and beg if that was what it took. Because, having taken the leap, she could feel the wind in her hair and she wanted more.

But Jonathon was already distracted, and old habits were hard to break. Evie stood, put her beanie back on, grabbed her backpack and—

White noise from downstairs burst into the room as the office door was opened and a voice said, “Do you have a second? I need you to look at...”

The voice came to an abrupt halt.

But it was too late. The accent, the gravel in the tone, the huge amount of air that had been displaced—Evie knew who she’d find when she spun on her heel.

A small noise left her throat as she found herself staring down Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit. He filled the doorway, the light from below tracing his broad shoulders, his wide stance, his mussed hair.

But gone was the bare hint of that smile he’d given as she’d babbled on about poetry and wooing. The one that had scrambled her brain, making it impossible for her to work out what was real and what wasn’t.

Instead his entire body was taut as he glared as if he’d found her in his kitchen boiling his bunny.

“You,” Hot Stuff accused, his voice deep and rumbling.

Feeling like a squished bug under the microscope of a stranger’s unflattering glare, Evie was finally overcome by the dire reality of her situation and something snapped. “Oh, my God, did you follow me here?”

“I believe that is a question I should be asking.”

“Pfft. Why would I follow you?”

The self-assurance in his gaze made her knees go a little weak. And fine, he had a point. But still!

“Excuse me,” said Evie. “I made it perfectly clear I’m not interested in your...” She flapped a hand at him, taking in his tousled hair, his arresting face, his slick suit, before blurting, “Your poetry.”

Perhaps “perfectly clear” was pushing it, but it had been her intention, which had to count for something.

Yet the man glowered at her, Why me? written all over his face.

Seeing him with Montrose’s book might have given her the idea to apply for a job with Game Plan. And, come to think of it, had she seen him reading a file with the Game Plan logo on the front? Either way, it didn’t seem like admitting it would help her cause in that moment, so she kept her mouth shut.

She saw something move out of the corner of her eye, and was reminded that they weren’t alone. She slowly turned to find Jonathon leaning against his desk, looking as if he was enjoying himself immensely.

“I take it you two know one another?” Montrose asked.

Hot Stuff had gone all silent and broody once more, forcing Evie to answer. “We don’t know each other, exactly. We catch the same train. Every day. Morning and night. Across the aisle and three rows down.”

She took a deep breath in though her nose and caught a scent. Like sailing. And sunshine. Serious masculine heat. Evie knew Hot Stuff had moved to stand next to her. Trying to intimidate her with his presence, no doubt. Arrogant so-and-so.

She half-closed her right eye to block him out as she said, “Though I did elbow him in the gut once. Stood on his foot as well. And that about covers it.”

“Is that right?” Jonathon asked, eyes bright.

When Hot Stuff cleared his throat, Evie leapt into the silence with, “Maybe you could do me one favour, Mr Montrose, and say the bit again about how bright you think I am. For I believe your friend has other ideas.”

Montrose turned to the man at her side. “Do you?” he asked, laughter lighting his voice. “Do you have other ideas about Evie?”

She glanced sideways to find Hot Stuff gritting his teeth so hard he could pull a muscle.

Deciding to give the guy a tiny break—he had to be as much in shock as she was, after all—she cleared her throat and held out a hand. “I’m Evie, by the way. Evie Croft.”

Hot Stuff blinked at her hand, then his gaze lifted to tangle with hers. For a beat. Another. Something dark swirled behind those stormy eyes before he took her hand in his. Of course, it was warm and smooth. The moment they touched a little shock ran up her arm and landed with a sizzle in her chest.

“Armand Debussey,” he said in his deep French drawl. Then he took his hand back and looked, deliberately, at Montrose. “What’s she doing here?”

Evie scoffed. So much for letting bygones be bygones. “She is in the middle of an interview for a coder’s dream job,” Evie said. Well, it had officially been the end of the interview. Semantics.

“What job might that be?” Hot Stuff asked.

Evie opened her mouth, only to discover she had no idea. She looked at Montrose. And smiled. Like me! Want me! In a purely professional sense. Okay, stop thinking before you accidentally say any of this out loud.

Montrose pushed away from his desk and ambled around the edge until he was behind it. Showing who was boss. Then he looked to Armand and said, “She’s a forensic code investigator.”

Evie bit her bottom lip so hard it hurt. For something in the way he said it made her wonder, made her hope—

“You cannot be serious,” said Armand, his voice taut. “She cannot do it. She can’t. She’s too...” Armand looked at her then, the fire in his eyes filled with danger. And warning.

Evie was a good girl, a smart girl. She kept her goals manageable and took her wins where she could. For her mother had been the exact opposite and it hadn’t worked out well for her at all.

But here, now, instead of taking a rational step back, she felt herself sway towards Armand. Her hands went to her hips, she looked him dead in the eye, and said, “I’m too what?”

The man didn’t flinch. If not for his radiating warmth he could have been a statue. The statue said, “You’re a dewy-eyed naïf, Ms Croft. This place will eat you alive.”

As she gawped at him his eyes went to her head. Or, more precisely, her beanie. Then, as if she were three years old, he reached out and tugged on the rainbow pom-pom, no doubt sending it wobbling like crazy.

She smacked his hand away but it was already gone. The man had lightning reflexes. “Well, you, Mr Debussey, are seriously hostile. And what do dewy eyes have to do with my ability to ferret out secret passages, hidden codes, keystones, Easter eggs, back doors in code? With cutting viruses from the flesh of a program without spilling a single drop of blood?”

Armand looked at her as if she was the one talking a foreign language.

“Just because I don’t wear fancy suits, or come from a big city, or get my hair to look all perfectly wind-mussed, and finger-fussed, at Ooh-La-La Salon, doesn’t mean I’m not killer at what I do. I am the best forensic code investigator you will ever meet, my friend. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Put that in your pipe and smoke it? Who said that? Dewy-eyed naïfs, that’s who. As Evie’s words swirled around the room like crazy little whirlwinds, she stopped to catch her breath. And wished with all her might she’d never leapt in in the first place. For ever since she’d struggled to regain solid ground.

Biting both lips together now, Evie slowly turned back to Montrose with the full intention of apologising. Only to find something had lit up behind Montrose’s eyes. Even with her poor ability to decipher such subtleties, deep inside her instincts shook.

“Right,” said Montrose. “Now you’ve both cleared the air of whatever that was, I’m sure it will make working together all the easier.”

“I’m sorry?” said Armand, his voice rich with warning.

“Working together?” Evie asked, her voice sounding as though she were on helium.

“I’m putting you on contract. One project. A trial run, if you will. Congratulations, Evie, the job is yours.”

Evie rushed over to the desk and shook Montrose’s hand. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Montrose nodded. “I know you won’t. Take a right outside my door and you’ll find Imogen’s office. She’ll get you set up with employee paperwork, security card, pay details etc. Be back here at eight tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Evie spun in a circle—beanie, check, backpack, check—before darting out the door and shutting it behind her. The murmur of rising male voices faded as she hotfooted it to the office next door.