"You don't want to keep Christopher waiting."
Christopher.
Not my father.
That was an interesting choice, I decided as we moved down the hallway, letting me catch the very corner of a kitchen before I was pulled into a room at the right of the hall.
This man, Michael, he had plans.
Plans to usurp his father.
I wondered if his father was aware.
Or if he naively just thought he was grooming the most loyal of employees, one who could run things when he decided to retire.
But Michael Eames did not seem the patient kind.
Or the kind I would want to work with for any length of time.
So much for my idea of stability, job security.
Christopher Eames's office was much like you'd expect from rich and powerful men with too much money to spare, and far too much interest in dark woods.
Deep, almost black wainscoting lined the walls halfway up, met by a dark shade of chocolate brown on three walls except for the one behind the dark, gleaming executive desk made unnecessarily large just as some show of intimidation. That wall was lined with built-in bookshelves, the sturdy shelves unbending under the oppressive weight of leather and material bound hardcovers.
My shoes clicked on hardwood for a few feet more before they met the edge of an oriental rug in browns, reds, and golds, gaudy to my eyes, likely just expensive to his.
Money over actual discerning taste, that was how this man operated.
He wanted people to know how successful he was. Which was important for me to know.
"Christopher, this is Charlie Mallick. Charlie, Christopher Eames," Michael introduced us as my gaze finally went to the man behind the desk as he moved to stand, buttoning his jacket with one hand while extending the other toward me.
"Charlie, I've heard good things."
"Mr. Eames, thank you for seeing me."
"I always have the time for capable men. Do you like coffee?" he asked, waving a hand outward, making me half-turn toward the doorway where a woman was coming through with a tray in her hands.
And the fucking world stopped.
I wasn't a romantic.
I didn't buy into shit like butterflies and soulmates and all that cheesy crap.
Women were a pastime, casual and temporary.
But this woman made the hands on the clock stop ticking just by entering the room.
It was easy to say she was gorgeous, so easy that the words suddenly lost their meaning, not nearly strong enough a way to describe her.
Around my age, if maybe slightly younger, she was tall and fit, five-nine if she was an inch, bare-footed, her toes painted a light pink color that I found myself too fixated on, forcing my eyes up her long, shapely legs clad in simple jeans that neither clung nor hung, but grazed her curves perfectly. A plain white tee skirted the waistband, worn tight enough that I could see the outline of her bra through the material, the way the cups hugged her breasts, the straps climbing over her shoulders to disappear down her back.
Her black hair was long, silkily hanging over her shoulders and arms, catching what little light there was in the room, framing her face.
And that face.
Fuck.
That face.
A gently pointed chin and a sharp, but delicate jaw leading up to high cheekbones that framed an understated nose that tipped up ever-so-slightly at the tip.
And those eyes?
Yeah, those eyes could do a man in.
Almond-shaped and thickly lashed.
And a light, striking shade of hazel.
Her gaze didn't so much as drift my way as she moved in. And never before had I wanted to catch a woman's attention as I did right that moment.
But she refused it as she moved to the desk, placing the tray down on it just a foot to my side.
I smelled strawberries as her head jerked, swishing her hair over her shoulder as she stood straight.
It was then I saw them.
Up close, where the lack of light didn't place shadows there.
Her neck.
She had bruises on her neck.
Across her neck.
In bands of blue that tapered off on the ends in round spots.
Fingers.
Those were bruises from strangulation.
I would know.
I'd left them on a few men over the years.
Someone had taken their hands, put them around her small throat, and squeezed.
See, I did a lot of shitty things. Things I should have gone to jail for, might go to hell for.
But I had lines, and I didn't cross them.
Didn't fucking matter what the paycheck was.
No children.
And no fucking women.
Case closed.
In my mind, there was wrong, and there was fucked up.
Putting your hands on a woman, that was fucked up. There was no way around that. No excuse you could come up with that was good enough.
Maybe I was going to hell.
But I prayed that there was a special place for assholes who victimized women. Preferably a place where I could partake in their never-ending torture.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Christopher's gaze move to her neck.