Trust Me to Know You Page 2

  “You can go straight in, Miss Marshall,” Carla Duke stared up from her desk looking me up and down and not hiding her leering gaze. She was attractive with long dark hair tied back and braided. Her extravagantly long fingernails must hinder her typing abilities. However, after a cursory glance at me she returned to her keyboard and preceded to type at a galloping pace.

  Mr Lucas’s office was vast, as you would have expected from the owner and managing director of a significantly sized company. There was a large, unadorned oak desk with monitor and keyboard set to one side, documents organised neatly across the other side. There was the necessary conference style table with six modern, unfussy straight-backed chairs set around it. Elegant abstract pictures lined one wall to the left of his desk and behind the desk a wall of glass with the blinds drawn to hide the bright sunshine. The other wall had a door and two rows of shelves. No books on them only a series of small African styled figurines in naked poses.

  Mr Lucas rose from his desk as I entered. He looked almost welcoming and indicated we were to sit at the meeting table. I had decided to keep my eyes off him as much as possible.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Marshall,” his voice had changed from yesterday, gone was the harsh edge and instead more softy toned. It had not lost any authority though and I responded positively to its timbre.

  “Please it’s Gemma.”

  I smiled my radiant curly lipped version as I aimed for the personal touch – did he expect me to call him Jason? I laughed inwardly, no chance of such informality. I placed my laptop on the table and opened up the lid. Before I left my desk, I had checked and rechecked the battery level, not wanting to face the embarrassment of a power failure.

  He sat next to me as I fired up the software. He edged his seat closer so he could see the screen and I felt like the lid of a seductive chemistry set had been lifted up. He was perfumed and it was the pervasive odour of manly cleanliness: shower gel, after-shave and minty breath. I desperately tried to remember what I had sprayed on my body earlier in the morning. Had my own perfumed aromas survived a day of crowded buses, office air conditioning and the smoked salmon sandwiches I had made for lunch. I was tempted to whiff my armpits and again I reminded myself the exercise was pointless - what did he care?

  “Talk me through what you did,” he leant forward on his elbows, chin resting on his hands.

  My attempt at dismissing my meandering thoughts were useless as I could hear his breath and sensed his body warmth.

  My skin tingled – breathe and focus – I repeated.

  Stow it Gemma, I yelled to my wayward psyche as she nudged from her hiding place and then I put my work brain into gear.

  I explained my methodology and was pleased my hands did not tremble on the keyboard. He asked really incisive and good questions, far more insightful than my boss did at the meeting. A couple of times I squirmed trying to come up with the best answer. Then he sat back and arched his back, hands behind his head.

  “I’m sorry, Gemma, I forgot to ask if you wanted a drink,” he turned to face me and not the laptop.

  “That’s fine, I’m not thirsty.”

  I kept my eyes on screen, as I did not want to look at him even if it seemed rude. Definitely too handsome to observe him closely and I knew I had the potential to unravelled right before those incredible eyes.

  “So you couldn’t get tickets to the charity concert then?” he remarked.

  I blanched. He had heard my conversation with Penny. Now he was going to lambast me for time wasting. Had I unearthed the real purpose for my visit?

  “Uh no, didn’t expect to get any...” I trailed off nervously.

  “You like choral works then?”

  How did he know about obscure classical musical works? I was quite aware my tastes were eclectic and disparate in nature. Very few people I encountered would be interested in my musical palate. I was rather dumbstruck. I had not expected to converse on personal matters.

  “I prefer the Gloria,” he lowered his hands. “This is good stuff, Gemma, I’m impressed.”

  He was back to talking about work again. I was disorientated, what did he actually want from me? I was a mere intern working on a low-level project.

  “I don’t take many interns on but your CV was intriguing,” he said as if reading my thoughts.

  Jason Lucas saw my resume? Is this what the MD normally does with interns?

  “I’m glad you did, sir,” was all I could say in reply.

  “Tell me about your last job. What did you do?”

  I described my basic job description and it mirrored the one I was doing in his own company. Having graduated with a first class degree, I had spent a few months in a menial job before landing a good graduate training post in a respected company. It had be going well for me, not that I told him that, as it would open me up for probing questions. I had been earmarked for promotion and I had been given additional responsibilities right up to when I quit.

  I had made acquaintances at my last job though not friendships. By the end of the working day, most people had to face long commutes out of the City to the suburbs. Nobody really wanted to stay after hours for drinks in a pub. Most of my office colleagues had families, children or spouses to spend time with or other interests to occupy their leisure time. I had trudged back to my flat on the bus and did what I did in my spare time - my secret life, which I had avoided talking about to my colleagues.

  I never mentioned to my former co-workers anything that gave away my lifestyle choices. I invented an active life based around visiting my family or attending evening classes. Not lies, just embellishments since I had minimised contact with my family and could not afford the cost of a good quality academic course.

  My old company had sent me on relevant courses by the bucket load, mainly in the City or somewhere outside the metropolis requiring a train journey in a crowded carriage. From those courses, I gained sufficient grounding in the analytical skills and financial software packages I was using in my demonstration. I did not doubt the quality of my resume, I had worked hard to build my career up and make something of my university education. Whether I wanted it or not, I had to work and bring in the money. Quitting my job had been the right decision at the time and moving on was the next good decision. I did not want him questioning my background in detail. Fortunately, after glancing at his watch, he did not ask why I left my previous job. I would have been flummoxed trying to come up with a realistic answer, after all I had just told him how appreciated I had been by my old colleagues.

  He listened to the tailored synopsis of my past life without comment and the attention he gave me was unnerving as he was clearly listening to what I was saying. He was not just being polite, he was absorbing me as if he was a sponge and I was laid out on a petri dish waiting to be sucked dry.

  Then the strange encounter was over and with little ceremony, I was dismissed.

  “You should get back to you work now, Gemma, I will follow this up with your manager, Andy.”

  He rose and I scrambled to my feet too, collecting my laptop. Standing by the door, he opened it and held me in his intense gaze once again. I looked at him. Straight into his bright blue eyes and for a few seconds we paused there. A weird feeling passed over, as if we were in a mutual trance and then I was out of the door. I practically ran to the lift doors to escape from those eyes as they continued to burn into me.

  That night I went for a drink and dance with friends. My companions were not from my new job as it was still too early on in my internship for creating personal relationships. I was determined to make friendships based on my day-to-day life and not return to my old haunts. Even so, I tried very hard not to think of Jason Lucas and his blue eyes. I had not felt so entranced since my last long relationship - the one that ended in a nightmare scene.

  Back in the office next day, there was an envelope on my desk with my name hand written on it. The small white offering was propped against my monitor. It
had to be personally delivered as the internal mail tray was in a cupboard.

  I looked around the room at the others but they were all busy. I tore open the envelope and out dropped two pieces of paper. The first was a ticket to the charity concert on Sunday evening - a box seat near the front of the auditorium. I gazed in marvellous delight. The second was handwritten on a blank piece of company stationery and was succinct.

  ***

  To Gemma,

  I still prefer the Gloria.

  Enjoy the occasion and relax.

  Jason Lucas

  ***

  I was completely gobsmacked. Jason Lucas got me this ticket and left a personal message – relax? What did he mean? What was the CEO doing giving me an expensive ticket? Too many questions buzzed around my head like unwanted flies.

  I sat down with my heart in my mouth and fingers trembling. I dragged off my jacket as if I was in a hot flush. Why was I feeling overwhelmed by emotions? I had not felt energised for some time, certainly not since I cruised the clubs or flaunted my body at a party looking for my next encounter, the perfect one - an approach that cost me dearly. After three years of my chosen lifestyle I had given it up and decided on a different job, a different approach and now it looked like it had paid off big time.

  Chapter 3

  Perhaps I should not have accepted the tickets. They were not an innocent gift by a furtive admirer. The presumption on my part that they came without any strings attached was due to my relative inexperience of the art of seduction. To see them as a lure or payment for services rendered would have not entered my thoughts. I simply saw Mr Lucas as being generous and kind. I knew he had a reputation for aloofness and distance from his employees, sat in his ivory tower penthouse floor and ruling from on high. To be summoned to his office appeared to be a rare event for most of his employees in his headquarters. I struggled to find anyone below senior management who had made it up there without being part of a larger group of attendees. Even with the knowledge of his reputation, I painted him as a munificent boss.

  The more I tried to justify my strange meeting with Jason Lucas, the more I buried my head in my emotional sandpit. He had given me a ticket for an expensive box seat, not one in the balcony or the gods up high. I was going to mingle with society’s wealthy benefactors. Sitting on my worn out sofa in my tiny flat, I held the ticket in my hand and considered returning it to his Personal Assistant with a ‘thanks but no thanks’ note. His generosity was unnerving and I could not refuse it. A little part of me had seen an extravagant surreal future and wondered if it was feasible. The attentions of a rich handsome man who would have me on his arm as he took me to concerts, the best plays in the West End and the Michelin starred restaurants.

  Could such a future be possible? I laughed and fanned my face with the ticket. A preposterous idea! Mr Lucas seeking me, wanting me as his companion or date! I was a nobody who had led a life of wantonness and steered clear of serious relationships. My history of liaisons could easily be portrayed as ignoble, debauched and lackadaisical. Only I knew the carefully considered limits by which I had led my life. Those same baser instincts tempered my silly fantasies and I decided I would take his ticket, doll myself up and go to the concert with my chin held up high. I was not going to be ashamed at the lack of a date or companionship. He gave me the ticket so I could enjoy my passion for music and I was going to do just that.

  I had to buy a new posh frock to sit in the auditorium, as I could not go in my old tat. The elegant dress cost most of a month’s wages and shoes were extortionate too. I was glad I did because I did not consider myself too out of place when I took my seat on the red cushioned velvet that Sunday evening. Without sex, music had filled my life and had kept me from going crazy. The occasional trip to a concert, blasting songs out of my iPod at all hours and dancing in nightclubs had all helped me in my quest to be complete again. The downside to my frantic efforts to occupy my waking hours was I was practically broke by the time payday arrived.

  I waited for the lights to dim and the orchestra to finish their tune-up. The ambience was so amazing and I was wrapped up in my own little world of personal delight. I did not hear him approach or take his seat on the other chair in the box. I had convinced myself I had the box to myself the whole evening, who would have had the other seat anyway? I almost fell off my seat with shock when I turned and found I was sitting next to Jason Lucas.

  “Miss Marshall, I won’t say this was a pleasant surprise as I knew you would be here” He looked charming in black dress suit complete with black bowtie.

  I looked around expecting other people to join us.

  “You came alone?” I found myself blurting out with temerity.

  “I’m not attached to anyone at the moment.” He looked nonplussed by his comment and then to injure my boldness further he crossed his legs and started to look amused by my discomfort.

  “Enjoy yourself, Gemma. It’s going to be a good evening.”

  Look away from him, I told myself, and focus on the music.

  He was right. The music to start with was blissful and serene. I closed my eyes and swam in it. When I opened them for the interval, he was looking straight at me as if he had been throughout the performance with me thoroughly unaware.

  “Let's get a drink,” he requested simply. Reaching forward he offered me his hand.

  I took it and stood up. His grip was firm with strong slender fingers. His thumb caressed my knuckles gently, rubbing back and forth. I was strangely comforted by his digital embrace as I was not in my usual environment and surrounded by the well-to-do concert goers had upset my confidence.

  “Did you want to hear the Handel or would you like to go for a proper drink?” he turned to face me.

  I was absolutely befuddled by then. The request was not how I did things normally. I did not do dates, not like this. No, for me interviews, discussions, agreements, many conducted by email or in chat rooms, and then down to business. That was my starting point in any relationship, not charm, music, drinks and chats.

  The door of the box opened before me as if it was a sign. I did not like making decisions impulsively. Occasionally they went wrong and I regretted them. I could make decisive choices, as I was not inept or an airhead. Nevertheless, sometimes I wanted to be led. His hand dropped out of mine and he pressed it against my back, nudging me through the doorway. Some women might have found him presumptuous or insolent; however, I did not find his gentle guidance unwanted. The touch was the reassurance I sought and it came just at the right moment. Feeling the pressure of his hand on me, I caught my breath before speaking.

  “I don’t mind missing the Handel. I didn’t pay for the ticket,” I smirked gaining confidence.

  He grinned back, those eyes bright in the dim light of the corridor.

  “No you didn’t. I’m sure you can pay me back somehow.” He looked quite serious for a moment, unsettling me.

  He led me down to the lobby and out of the front entrance to where there was an executive styled black Jaguar parked outside the concert hall and a driver waiting by the car door. I was ushered into the back seat and sitting on the leather upholstery, I stared out of blackened windows. I was enclosed in a confined space with a man I barely knew and my heart was racing away. I was glad there was an impersonal driver present and I was not quite alone with Mr Lucas.

  “The usual bar, Martinson,” Jason Lucas instructed his driver with practised ease.

  “Where?” I asked curious.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “You like clubs?”

  “With my friends,” I said pointedly. I wanted him to understand the trust I was putting in him and he gave a small nod in reply. The rest of the short journey he asked me where I liked to hang out with my friends. I listed a few locations, those I felt comfortable mentioning, and I could tell he was not familiar with any of them. I was about to find out where Jason Lucas sought his relaxation.

  Arriving at the expensive West End n
ightclub, he sauntered past the door attendants and with ease, ensured we were seated in a secluded corner. Almost immediately we were served with his chosen drinks by the bar staff attending us at our table.

  “Two glasses of Spottswoode, sir,” said the bartender unburdening his tray.

  Whatever my companion had chosen was a mystery to me. I sniffed the contents and smelt blackberries, but the expensive Cabernet was not Ribena. Licking my lips, I quickly put the glass back on the coffee table. I needed a clear head not expensive red wine.

  I had never experienced privilege like this before. It was not a typical nightclub and definitely not one I had been to before. A different class of customers frequented the dimly lit lounge bar. It was almost like a members club with the admittance restricted by the door attendant. The dance floor was tucked away in a separate area and the noise of the music drifted in without hindering normal levels of speech. At least I would not have to shout to make myself heard.

  The clientele were smartly dressed and not slovenly in appearance. No ridiculously short skirts or trousers hanging off the hips of the younger men. The bar staff mingled amongst the customers and took orders from their tables like waiters. Consequently, the bar appeared unusually quiet and inactive. The furnishings were spaciously laid out with leather sofas, armchairs and low glass topped tables. In the clubs I would hang out in glass-topped tables would have been smashed by stumbling drunks. Everything about the place shouted money. Simple glass teardrops hung below the halogen lights making the room swim with moving shards of rainbow lights. The walls were decorated with abstracts splashes of daring colours without being garish and the flooring was made from smooth panels of wood.

  Jason Lucas sat opposite me in his fine suit and did not look the slightest bit out of place with his surroundings even in his black tie. With legs crossed and arms resting on the wings of the chair, he fingered a glass of wine and did not take his eyes off me once. I had not become accustomed to his good looks and it made it hard to gaze at him without feeling self-conscious. His features were chiselled on his face, not harshly like a stone statute, but elegantly as if to make him refined and ageless. I envisaged Jason was a masterpiece created over many years by a grand artist. Someone who took the time to perfect the striking face and then finally stepping back to acknowledge, with delight, his achievement.