The Revelation of Light and Dark (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 1)

Opening the burgundy leather portfolio Fallon loaned me—you’ll look so professional, she’d said—I glance over the sheet of paper on top. It’s the bio of the man I’m going to be making my pitch for a business grant to which I’d printed off last night.

Mr. Marcus Valentine, Chief Executive Officer of Olympic Dreams, and the man who will make or break my ability to buy One Bean. It’s made me infinitely more nervous that I’m meeting with the head honcho. The only thing giving me some small measure of comfort is that he at least appears to be a friendly type in the headshot accompanying his bio.

The outer door to Olympic Dreams opens, and someone enters. I don’t lift my head because it’s not the door I care about, nor am I curious if this is perhaps another grant applicant. I don’t want to compare myself to any possible competition. Instead, I concentrate on re-reading Mr. Valentine’s bio to perhaps find an interesting tidbit to bring up, but I barely make it across the first line before my entire body jerks when I hear the receptionist say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Byrne.”

I snap my head up to see a man standing before the receptionist’s desk. “Good afternoon, Olivia.”

Shit. It’s freaking Carrick Byrne. His back is to me, but I recognize his bearing, that dark wavy hair, and that voice, which sounds cultured in an almost European way, but without any true ring as to what country it would be. His name sounds Irish, but it’s not a brogue I’m detecting. Just smooth, articulate tones that indicate wealth, good breeding, and most likely an expensive education.

The receptionist hands him a manila envelope. He opens it, glances inside, then closes the flap again. I hold my breath, not moving a muscle, hoping beyond all hope he doesn’t turn to see me sitting here. I’m even afraid to bow my head over the portfolio, worried any movement at all will catch his notice. While I’m fairly sure he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head, I have the impression he’s a man who is intensely alert and sensitive to everything around him.

I have no clue why he’s here or what he is to Olympic Dreams, but I absolutely do not want to risk catching his attention.

Mr. Byrne nods to the receptionist. I assume a smile is attached to it because she smiles at him, and miraculously turns not toward me, but to the door that leads into the interior of the company.

I start to exhale ever so quietly in relief when Mr. Byrne pauses mid-stride, spine stiffening just a bit before turning all the way around. His gaze lands on me, and there’s a burst of shock within his golden orbs before they become cold and remote. It’s mystifying how such warm-colored eyes can emote such a chill.

“You,” he says accusingly, taking three long strides to bring his large frame before me. In those scant seconds when he comes my way, I can’t help but notice the expensive tailored suit in a navy so dark it seems almost black, a light blue dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, no tie, and expensive-looking brown wingtips.

Mentally, I chastise myself for even wasting time or effort on noticing his clothing. It’s never been important to me.

With Mr. Byrne no more than two feet from me, I have to tip my head way back to take in the glare he’s leveling on me. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

I’ve never been a shrinking violet. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m often easy to anger, and I don’t take it lightly when someone offends me. Like right now, my blood is boiling and I have to bite down on my tongue for some control. What I’d like to do is jump up, get all up in his business despite me being a good foot shorter than him, which means the effect would not be all that monumental, and ask him the same thing.

But I’m here to make a good impression and secure my future. Given the receptionist’s familiarity with Carrick Byrne, I can’t afford to offend him in case he has the power to ruin this for me.

So I merely give him a polite smile as I stand. Holding my hand out for him to shake, I say, “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Byrne. I have an appointment with Mr. Valentine at three to talk about a Dream Starter grant.”

The man’s lip curls up at one corner—an obvious sneer—as he stares down at my hand before bringing his eyes back to mine. Ignoring my polite greeting, he merely pivots hard on the heel of his designer shoe and leaves me standing there like an idiot with my hand out. He disappears through the door, and it takes me a few moments to gather the strength to attempt to sit back down as I’m afraid my legs might give way entirely. That was singularly one of the most intimidating experiences I’ve ever had, and I can feel sweat trickling between my breasts.