New boss...

Same heart-stopping crush!

Every day IT expert Evie rides the commuter train and fantasizes about the handsome guy sitting opposite. But her daydreams clash with reality when she gets a new job—and finds he’s her boss! Guarded Frenchman Armand Debussey couldn’t be more different to openhearted Evie. His daredevil past has left him in anguish, and even if it puts her own heart in jeopardy, Evie’s determined to help him change that...

Australian author ALLY BLAKE loves reading and strong coffee, porch swings and dappled sunshine, beautiful notebooks and soft, dark pencils. Her inquisitive, rumbunctious, spectacular children are her exquisite delight. And she adores writing love stories so much she’d write them even if nobody read them. No wonder, then, having sold over four million copies of her romance novels worldwide, Ally is living her bliss. Find out more about Ally’s books at allyblake.com.

Also by Ally Blake

Millionaire to the Rescue

Falling for the Rebel Heir

Hired: The Boss’s Bride

Dating the Rebel Tycoon

Millionaire Dad’s SOS

The Royals of Vallemont miniseries

Rescuing the Royal Runaway Bride

Amber and the Rogue Prince

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Hired by the Mysterious Millionaire

Ally Blake

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09067-4

HIRED BY THE MYSTERIOUS MILLIONAIRE

© 2019 Ally Blake

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version date: 2018-12-14

Version: 2020-03-02

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The seed of this story came to me fifteen years ago

and would not have survived had I not written it down.

Therefore I dedicate this book to the scraps of paper,

backs of receipts and many beautiful notebooks

that have given themselves over to my career.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

“IT’S HIM. It has to be.”

Ignoring her friend’s imploring voice, Evie Croft let her body rock with the soothing motion of the morning train as it rumbled along the Frankston Line. Swiping through the ads in the Room Rent app, she tried really hard to feel enthused about exorbitant rent, alarming-sounding housemates, or both.

“Evie!” Zoe whispered, loudly enough that the schoolboys sitting across from them actually looked up from their phones. “You know who I mean. He’s nose-deep in a book the size of a house brick, so you can look. Look. Look now.”

Evie knew Zoe was talking about her “train boyfriend” and she had no intention of looking. She’d already accidentally made eye contact with Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit today, and many more times since he’d started taking her train.

It was hard not to. With his overlong hair and rugged stubble, the man was a study in the kind of dark, broody countenance you just couldn’t fake.

“Stop looking at that stupid app,” said Zoe. “You are not moving out of my apartment just because Lance is moving in and that’s final.”

Evie gave her oldest friend a squeezy one-armed hug. “I love you because you truly believe it. You and Lance have been waiting for this moment since you were sixteen years old. He’s home from deployment next week and it’s finally happening.”

Zoe sat back, closed her eyes and sighed. “It really is, isn’t it?”

Either way, Evie gave up on looking for a new place to stay. Only half an hour out from the biggest job interview of her life—with Game Plan, no less, a coder’s Holy Grail—she instead practised answering interview questions in her head.

At least, she tried. Until Zoe leaned over, reaching for her phone. “Click back to that other app. No, the other one. Go back.”

“Gah!” Evie held her phone up high, out in front, then opened the neck of her top and slipped her phone between sternum and bra.

Zoe cocked an eyebrow. “You really think that’s going to stop me?”

Evie did not. With only a super-quick glance in the direction of Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit to make sure he wasn’t watching, she dug beneath her vintage pea coat and warm winter top to fish out her phone, shivering as her chilly fingers grazed her skin. And rocking into the older man sardined in beside her. She sent him an apologetic smile. The barest flicker of his cheek was a tale of eternal sufferance.

The train commute took all sorts. The bored schoolkids, the frazzled mums with toddlers and prams in tow, women in piercings leaning on men with tattoos, creative office types with their smooth hair and manicured nails. It was a delicious microcosm of the city at large.

Evie had grown up in a small dairy community, just north of Echuca, and her favourite memory of her mother was listening to her wax lyrical about the short time she’d lived in Melbourne—the electric hum of creativity, the eclectic fashion, the epicurean delights. She remembered tracing the delicate “Adventure” tattoo etched into her mother’s fine wrist.

After her mum died Evie had promised herself she’d end up there one day too and have the life her mother had never had.

Though the past couple of weeks the city had been making her work for it.

“Seriously?” Evie cried when Zoe whipped her phone away with a delighted, “Aha! Now, let’s see what Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit has to say.”

Zoe didn’t mean “in person”. For she and Hot Stuff had never had an actual conversation.

Well, unless you counted that first day. She’d made it to the train doors right as they’d pulled up to their city stop when the train had lurched to a halt. Shoved from behind, Evie had tripped and elbowed Hot Stuff in the gut.

Mortified, she’d crouched to pick up the book he’d dropped. The autobiography of Jonathon Montrose, the man behind Game Plan, no less. Cowboy tech investor, IT savant, Evie’s actual hero.

Funny. She’d forgotten that detail. Had that given her the seed of the idea to dare apply for a job with the great man himself? Huh.

Anyway, handing over the book to Hot Stuff, she’d apologised like crazy, while trying not to swoon in his glorious presence, until he’d taken her by both shoulders, strong hands holding her still. He was even bigger up close. And he’d smelled so good. When he’d looked down into her eyes, the stormy blue depths of his own holding her in their thrall, she’d forgotten how to breathe until he’d let her go and disappeared into the station with the bustling morning crowd.

Evie let out a soft sigh and glanced his way just as he ran a hand through his overlong dark hair, leaving finger tracks in its wake. All that indolent grace, the sexy stubble and those deeply intelligent-looking eyes—he really added an extra something to the daily commute.

Other commuters came and went, took different trains, adopted random seats, but Hot Stuff always chose the same spot: across the aisle and down three rows from hers. Evie had always been a fan of patterns. It was comforting to know she wasn’t the only creature of habit in their little train universe.

“How many apps do you have open at one time?” Zoe fussed, and she swiped them into oblivion. “How does your brain not scramble?”

“It’s called multitasking.”

Zoe snorted. Then found the Urban Rambler app. Developed by Game Plan, of course. His apps were seriously the best. Evie would be first in line to sign up to Game On—the revolutionary new mobile communication app everyone in the biz was excited about.

Zoe clicked on the Let’s Get Personal column, flipped the phone so the words were nice and readable and read out loud.

“‘Frankston Line.’ That’s us. ‘Carriage Three.’ Ditto us. ‘To the Bewitching Brunette in the Beauteous Beanies.’”

Zoe paused a moment for drama before lifting her gaze to Evie’s knitted beanie. One of the billion she’d knitted herself. For she really was a fan of patterns.

Today’s was silver, with a rainbow pom-pom on top. It didn’t exactly go with her interview outfit—pea coat over black top and slouchy black pants with fake zips and pockets—all belonging to fashion-plate Zoe, as even computer-nerd Evie wasn’t about to turn up to an interview in a Han Solo “I Know” T-shirt, boyfriend jeans and Converse boots—but it did the job.

Zoe said, “Now, hold on to your hat, my friend, because this is going to blow your mind. It says:

New to your orbit, I find myself struck

By your raven locks, your starlit eyes. What luck

That I find myself able to see you twice a day.

A beacon in a sea of strangers. I must say

Your sunshine smiles are my good morning.

Your evening sighs my goodnight.

If I had the courage I’d say hello.

Till then I remain alone in my delight.

From Your Appreciative Admirer.

“Wow,” Evie mouthed.

“It’s you!” Zoe cried. “You are the Bewitching Brunette!”

The schoolboys looked up again, their eyes unglazing this time, enough to give Evie a second glance.

“Well, isn’t she?” Zoe asked the boys, waving her hands up and down as if Evie were the prize in a game show. “If this poem wasn’t written for you I’ll eat your beanie.”

Evie tugged off her beanie and shoved it under her butt cheek. Only to have to deal with long strands of dark hair now crackling with static as they stuck to her face.

So, she did have a thing for beanies. She ran naturally cold. Her mum had been the same, needing blankets all through summer. Calling Evie Froglet because of her constantly chilly feet. But it was her granddad who’d taught her how to knit. He’d also taught her how to tie her laces, fix a tractor, cook a perfect steak. To follow her curiosity wherever it might lead her.

Zoe went on. “Lance, for all his good points, is not a romantic man. Telling me my backside looks hot in certain dresses is about as schmaltzy as he gets, bless him. Keeping in mind Lance is a pretty good marker for the average guy, can you see any man on this train who does look capable of writing poetry?”

Together they looked. At the scruffy schoolboys now poking wet fingers into one another’s ears. The dour gang of goths hanging morosely near the door. The harried working dads with their crooked ties and tired eyes.

As one they turned to the dashing, Byronesque gentleman in the impeccable suit lounging in his seat, reading a book.

Evie swept a hand self-consciously over her hair. It crackled so loudly she quickly put her beanie back on. “Poetry or not, it doesn’t matter.”

“Why on earth not?”

Evie took her wallet out of her backpack, found a small, crinkled bit of paper and handed it over to Zoe.

“A fortune cookie fortune?” Zoe deadpanned. “From your birthday dinner last week?”

Evie nodded.

“And what does this have to do with Hot Stuff and his undying love for you?”

“Read it.”

Zoe did. “‘Bad luck comes in threes. Monkeys, though, they come in trees.”’ After which she burst out laughing. “I...can’t...even...”

Evie plucked the piece of paper out of Zoe’s shaking fingers and shoved it into the coin compartment of her wallet. “Ever since I read that stupid fortune things have been weird.”

“Weird how?” Zoe asked, wiping her eyes.

“Think.”

“Your job!”

“And the sudden losing thereof. The very next day.”

“The day after your birthday? You didn’t tell me for a week!”

“Because as I stood in the office watching the police take away the computers, you rang to tell me Lance was coming home. You were happy. And rightly so.”

Evie knew it was nonsensical, but it felt good to finally be talking about it. Hopefully it would relieve the persistent pressure that had been sitting on her chest since the night of her birthday.

“‘Bad luck comes in threes,”’ Zoe said, scratching her chin. “Losing your job was number one.”

“Having to move out is number two.”

“I told you, you don’t have to—”

Evie flapped a shut up hand at her friend.

Zoe buttoned her lips. Then promptly unbuttoned them. “There are rules to fortunes, you know. You have to have eaten the entire cookie, I think. You can’t tear the paper. And once you tell someone it no longer comes true!”

“Zoe, it can’t ‘come true’ because it’s a computer-generated missive stuck in a random dry cookie.” Evie slowly shook her head. “And yet, I feel like it would be remiss of me not to keep an eye out for falling pianos.”

Zoe nodded sagely.

Not that Evie was taking it lying down. No, sir. There was the Game Plan interview. One she would never have had the nerve to go for if she hadn’t been desperate for work. She was too young, too inexperienced, her only long-term tech job having been for a company who were under investigation for embezzlement and fraud.

Or more specifically Eric—the son of the managing director and her ex-boyfriend—who had pilfered her every last dollar before attempting to flee the country.

Zoe coughed. Then burst into laughter again.

The schoolboys squirmed and sank deeper into their seats, no doubt embarrassed by the loud twenty-somethings in their midst. One perked up enough to realise they were at their stop, and in a rush and flurry they gathered their huge, dirty, dishevelled bags and snaked their way to the doors right as the train lumbered to a halt.

While the carriage emptied and filled, the crowd a seething mass of elbows and wet shoes, of jostling and repositioning, a microcosm of Darwin’s survival of the fittest, Evie snuck a glance at Hot Stuff.

He’d glanced up, not at her but at the crowd. He did this every time there was a big shift in people, offering up his seat if he had the chance. Because he was beautiful, well-read and a gentleman.

Was it possible—even remotely—he had written her a lonely-hearts poem on an app?

The timing fit—morning and evening. The train line too. And there were other hints, clues she couldn’t ignore.

“New to your orbit.” They’d been catching the same train a couple of weeks at most.

“I find myself struck.” Was that a nod towards the time she’d winded him?

“Starlit eyes.” She did have an impressive collection of Star Wars, Star Trek, even Starman T-shirts.

She usually went for nice-looking men, with easy smiles and busy mid-level jobs. Men who had no hope of spinning her off course as her mother had been spun. She was only just finding her feet in this town after all. Quietly following her curiosity as her granddad had encouraged her to do.

Hot Stuff was fun to moon over because he was out of her league. The thought of him reciprocating—heck, the thought of him even knowing who she was—made her belly turn warm and wobbly.

“Now, hang on a second,” said Zoe. “What does this have to do with Hot Stuff and the poem? Ah, I get it. After home and work going up the spout, you don’t really think a falling piano is in your future. You believe the logical third spate of bad luck involves your love life. But that’s a good thing!”

“In what universe?”

“You can cross messed-up love life off the list. You’ve already had the worst luck there. Eric was a douche. Dumping you. Using you. Framing you—”

“Yep, okay. I hereby concede that point to the prosecution.” Evie shook her head. “It doesn’t count. He doesn’t count. We’ve been kaput for months. ‘Bad luck comes in threes’ means it has to happen after I opened the cookie.”

“You’ve arbitrarily decided a man who looks like Byron’s hotter descendant is off-limits because a fortune cookie says it will turn to crap.”

Evie looked over at Bryon’s hotter descendant. She couldn’t help it. Heck, at that very moment the train rounded a bend and a slash of sunlight lit him up like something out of an old film.

“He’s dreamy, Evie,” said Zoe, though Evie hadn’t said a word. “And he wrote you a lonely heart.”

Evie blinked, only to find she’d been staring too long as a pair of stormy blue eyes caught on hers. Her breath lodged in her throat. Her cheeks burned as her very blood went haywire.

Look away, her subconscious begged. Look. Away. Now!

Instead habit overcame instinct, and she smiled.

Growing up in a country town, she’d been smiling at strangers since she’d learned how. Saying hello to anyone who made eye contact. Waving in thanks to cars that stopped to let her cross the street. It was simple good manners.

Now, on a packed train hurtling towards the big city, she felt like an utter fool, her smile frozen into place as those fiercely blue eyes stuck on hers and didn’t let up.

Then a small miracle happened. The man blinked, as if coming to from a faraway place. The corner of his mouth kicking north into what could only be a return smile. And then he nodded. Nodded! Sending her a private hello from across the way.

She felt the train concertina as everything beyond the tunnel between their gazes turned fuzzy and out of focus. And then those eyes slid north, pausing at the top of her head. Catching on her beanie, the wool suddenly itching like crazy against her scalp, the bob of the pom-pom like a pulse at the top of her head.

He blinked again, then those stormy eyes slid away.

“Oh, my ever-loving gods,” Zoe said. “Did you see that?”

Hell, yeah, she had.

“He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Proof he’s your Appreciative Admirer!”

Heart kicking against her ribs, Evie let herself follow the possibility of Hot Stuff in the Swanky Suit having a secret crush on her to its logical conclusion.

By the look of him he’d eat in fine restaurants, read and understand prize-winning literature, know the actual difference between bottles of wine. From the feel of him when she’d elbowed him then checked him for injury he also wrestled crocodiles, chopped wood for fun and rescued newborn puppies from warehouse fires.

While she lived on cheap cold pizza, spending all weekend in the same holey PJs obliterating strangers gaming online, and she currently slept on an ancient lumpy futon in her best friend’s lounge room.

She didn’t need a fortune cookie to tell her it would all end in tears.

She looked down at the phone she was spinning over and over in her cold hands.

Her granddad had always insisted her flair for coding was a result of her mum’s creative mind. But she’d inherited his practicality too.

Working for Game Plan would be a dream job. Even getting an interview was akin to finding a unicorn in your cornflakes. Especially when no one else would even take her call. She might have been cleared by the feds, but her connection to the embarrassment at her last job made her untouchable.

She couldn’t go into that room with thoughts of Hot Stuff filling her head with cotton wool.

Evie glanced up at the electronic readout denoting which stop was next. Real or imagined, the fortune was messing with her head and she had two more stops to put an end to it once and for all.

“You know what I think?” said Evie.

“Rarely.”

“If there is even the slightest chance the fortune is real, and I am to be hit with a third blast of bad luck, and it is linked to my love life, wouldn’t the smart thing be to get it over and done with?”

Zoe grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

Which was why, before she had even hatched any kind of plan, Evie pressed herself to her feet and excused herself as she squeezed past the others in her row. Buoyed by Zoe’s, “Atta girl!” as she made her way down the carriage.

* * *

Armand breathed in deep.

He’d been trying to read a tome on Australian patent law all morning, knowing there was something—some key, some clue—that would unlock the problem he’d been hired to unearth, but the tattooed youth to his left bumped him yet again. He couldn’t care less about the piercings and symbols carved into the kid’s hair, if only he’d damn well sit still.

Armand willed himself to focus. It was why he’d agreed to uproot himself after all. A challenge, a mystery to sink his teeth into, to deflect his thoughts from hurtling down darker, more twisty paths until it became harder and harder to find his way back.

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.

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 bounds.

Jonathon squinted his way. “Is it hard for you to believe I hired her on her merits? Is it because she’s a woman?”

“Non,” Armand scoffed, wounded by the accusation. “Mon Dieu—”

“English, please.”

“No.”

“Is it because she’s young?” Jonathon asked.

“How old is she?”

“I didn’t ask. We’re not allowed to these days.”

Armand looked to the ceiling and muttered.

“En Anglais, s’il vous plaît,” said Jonathon.

“You understood every word.”

Jonathon grinned. “Mid-twenties, I’d say. The age of blissful ignorance and creative hubris. An advantage in her line of work. While you, five years older at most, bear the weight of the entire world on your well-bred shoulders.”

Not any more, Armand thought, tipping the last drop of Scotch onto his tongue before putting the glass on the desk.

“How did it come about on your daily train trips, morning and night, across the aisle and three rows down, you came to think her not clever?”

Armand merely slanted him a look.

“Save it for another time, then. Until then I assure you—Evie Croft is special.”

Armand railed against the thought as the embers inside him flared. But he listened, as the mountain of paperwork—legal documents, in-house communications, news articles, company reports—Jonathon had foisted on him had not yet yielded results.

Jonathon went on. “One of my guys picked up on her chatter online a couple of years back. Tough talk about cracking one of our most complicated games. Turned out it wasn’t just talk. The last company she worked for was a lumbering dinosaur, a house of cards waiting to tumble, but her work therein was inspired. I’d go so far as saying she’s a prodigy.”

Armand ran a hand down his face. He knew that look in Jonathon’s eye. The gleam. For Jonathon was no longer pulling his leg.

“If it’s not because she’s a woman,” said Jonathon, “and it’s not because she’s young, and now you know she can do the work, do we still have a problem here?”

Armand wanted to say no problem. To accept the inevitable. For all he wanted was to fix Jonathon’s problem and go home. Back to the familiar, the safe. But for some reason he couldn’t say the words.

“It’s the dewy-eyed naïf thing, isn’t it?”

Armand dropped his face into his palm and laughed, the sound hollow, humourless. “I knew that would come back to haunt me.”

“I’d go as far as to say that’s exactly why Ms Croft got under your skin just now. You are worried when you bump into her in the hall she might spark some proof of life within you. You didn’t die that day, my friend, no matter how it might sometimes feel you did...”

Armand shook his head. Just once. But it was enough. Enough for his old friend to know he’d hit the edge of that which Armand would accept.

“What are we to do?” Jonathon asked. “I will not launch my very expensive, very important program until you assure me it is safe. If you believe you don’t need Ms Croft and her special skills in order to make that happen then I’ll tell Imogen to send her home right now. It’s completely up to you.”

With his high-level contacts, hands-on experience tracking the worst kinds of men, even his very name, Armand could chase down public information and private conversations, money and mayhem, promises made in huts and boardrooms. He had blown open drug deals, illegal gun sales, fraud rings and worse. He could speak five languages and understand many more.

But when it came to the inner workings of computer code, he was at a loss.

And yet Armand’s nostrils flared as he fought against the overwhelming need to make the call that meant not having to deal with the likes of Evie Croft. Those big dark eyes that hid nothing of what she felt. The tip-tilted mouth with the full bottom lip she nibbled on more than could possibly be necessary. That constant frisson of energy that crackled around her. Those odd knitted hats. The woman was a magnet for trouble.

Armand breathed deep, only to find himself enveloped in a lingering cloud of feminine perfume. Or perhaps it was shampoo. It smelled like cherries, of all things.

The women of his experience wore designer scents. They did not smell like fruit. Or wear pom-poms on their headwear. Or have cartoon characters printed on their backpacks. They did not have backpacks at all.

He pictured Evie Croft leaning towards him, hands on hips, lips pressed together, dark eyes flashing, making fun of his suits, his haircut. All while in the midst of a job interview.

She might be dangerously naïve, she might even be a bit of a head case, but she had fortitude. He had to give her that.

Then, before he saw it coming, her image was replaced with another—little black dresses, diamonds and pearls, pale blue eyes filled with judgement, the swing of a neat blonde ponytail heading out the door.

Armand wiped a hand down his face.

At least he could be sure Jonathon had it wrong on one score—Evie Croft was as far from his type as it was possible to be.

“Give her a shot,” Armand said. Hearing the rawness of his voice, he took a moment to swallow. “But she is on trial.”

“Why do you think I put her on contract? Now go forth. Find out why my perfect program is glitching so that I can launch the damn thing. Knowing nothing that happens between you and Ms Croft will concern HR.”

Armand opened his mouth to vehemently deny the accusation.

“Read my lips,” said Jonathon. “I Do Not Care. Now that’s settled, why did you come storming in? You wanted me to look at something.”

Armand searched back through the quagmire of the past ten minutes for the answer then remembered the piece of paper. He found it scrunched up on the floor near his feet. He pressed it open, saw the lines of code he’d hoped Jonathon could explain to him, before folding it neatly and putting it back in his pocket.

Jonathon laughed. “Something for your new workmate to sort out tomorrow, then?”

“So it would seem.” Armand pulled himself out of the chair and ambled to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “You know what made that whole debacle worth it?”

“I can’t wait to hear.”

“‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’”

Jonathon’s face fell to his desk, landing with a thud. “I felt like a dinosaur.”

“Serves you right. Sir.”

Armand shut the door behind him with a soft click and moved to the railing to look out over that which the staff called the Bullpen.

He took a step back when he saw a rainbow-coloured pom-pom bobbing through the space.

Used as he was to working with serious men—men who in another era would be warriors and guerrillas and pirates and Vikings, men with scars covering every inch of their bodies, inside and out—working around the kids down below in their running shoes and cheap deodorant had been a stretch.

And now he’d been lumbered with the Girl Who Sang to Herself.

He told himself he did not find her whimsy charming. That it was to her detriment. But the truth was he hadn’t only kept an eye on her to make sure no one robbed her blind while she listened to music with her eyes closed.

The moment he first set eyes on her he’d not been able to look away. The way she smiled, the way she laughed—she had surely been lit from within. Making the train trips home in the chill Melbourne evenings feel not so dark at a time when he’d thought he’d never feel warm again.

When a man had lived with ice in his veins as long as Armand had, warmth was not a relief. As his sluggish blood heated, straining to pulse faster through his stiff, cold arteries, every part of him ached.

Now she’d be here, every day, till he got the job done.

He wasn’t sure how to bear it.

Worse, he wasn’t sure he had it in him any more to try.

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