Hired By The Mysterious Millionaire. Ally BlakeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
So what if she’d be working in the same building as Armand Debussey? And hadn’t asked about pay, benefits, hours? She had a job! And not just any job! Forensic code investigation for Game Plan!
Her luck had surely turned.
She’d just have to steer clear of Armand Debussey as much as humanly possible, which shouldn’t be hard in a company this size. And over time, her discomfort around him would fade.
And she’d remember this day not as one of her most bumbling but as one of her best.
* * *
Frustration riding every inch of him, Armand stalked behind Jonathon’s desk, opened the mini-bar and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. He didn’t bother asking Jonathon if he wanted one. He could get his own damn drink.
Armand poured himself just enough to cover the bottom of the glass, needing the burn in his throat to take the edge off whatever had just yanked him so vehemently from the mouth of ennui. Had made him burn.
He glanced at the screen embedded in Jonathon’s desk to see the note Jonathon sent to Imogen about Evie Croft. A contract, as promised. One project. Armand translated Australian dollars to Euros and scowled at the pay offer. Why anyone chose to work for the man he had no idea.
“It’s not even ten in the morning,” Jonathon noted.
Armand tossed back the drink, wincing at the heat. “It’s midnight in Paris.”
“Then go for your life. And to answer your burning question,” said Jonathon, “she did not follow you here, she applied for the job a few days ago. Nice girl. Next-level intelligence. Yet I had decided not to hire her when you came storming in.”
“What the hell changed?”
“You tell me.”
Armand knew Jonathon was baiting him. And why. Armand took a long, deep breath and waited. He could wait for ever, if that was what it took. One good thing about not giving a damn—his indifference knew no