Between Here and the Horizon(5)
I had no idea why she felt the need to reassure me, but her words actually slowed my pulse from racing quite as fast, and that was something.
“You’d better head on up to the penthouse office now, though, Miss Lang.” She pointed at a bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby. “While he may be a good boss, he also really does hate when people are late.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Offer
A stern looking security guard escorted me up in the elevator to Fletcher’s office.
I hadn’t travelled much. A weekend in Arizona here. A trip to Vegas there. I’d only been out of the States once, when Dad stumped up for a ten-day trip to Canada for the family—a graduation present, back when the restaurant was doing much better and money was nowhere near as tight. As I stepped into Ronan Fletcher’s private offices on the thirty-first floor, which also just so happened to be the very highest floor of the Fletcher Corporation building, I was accosted by the strangest, most wonderful sights, from countries I doubted I’d ever get to visit: African tribal face masks made out of intricately carved wood. Japanese silk fans, beautifully painted, perched on the walls like rare butterflies. Russian Faberge eggs the size of my fist, seated in gilded golden stands on walnut sideboards. A glass case ran along the entire length of the right-hand wall, where an array of golden necklaces and hammered copper earrings were arranged with delicate precision on top of rich, ruby red velvets. It looked more like a museum exhibition than an office. If it weren’t for the huge, imposing desk, complete with a ginormous iMac that sat directly in front of the wall of floor to ceiling glass windows, overlooking the city, then I’d have thought I’d stepped into the Natural History Museum and not someone’s place of work.
“Mr. Fletcher will be with you in a moment,” the guard told me. “Have a seat. And don’t touch anything.”
I wouldn’t have touched anything anyway—everything looked like it cost more than my life was worth. I sat myself down on the other side of the desk and tried not to fidget. I checked my watch: Three fifty-nine. Four o’clock. Four oh-one. Four oh-two. Ronan Fletcher was officially late. Unbelievable, really, given what the receptionist had just told me. Two further minutes passed, and I began to think that maybe Fletcher had already left to attend to his children, but then a door to the right opened and in walked the man himself, pulling on the white cuffs of his sleeves as he hurried into the room.
I watched him, dumbstruck, as he seated himself opposite me. Not what I had been expecting at all. Ronan Fletcher wasn’t some stuffy, overweight trader with an extended gut from too many late night, fat-loaded meals and beers at his desk. He was tall, over six feet; he would have dwarfed my five-foot-eight frame if we were to stand side-by-side. Dark hair, and dark eyes; he could easily have been of Italian descent by his coloring, but his skin was pale. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular, straining at the expensive looking material of his button-down shirt. He didn’t look up at me until he had himself settled into his chair.
When he lifted his head and finally pinned me in his gaze, I was stunned by the harsh angles and lines of his face. They were magnificent—a rough sketch in charcoal, torn out of Michelangelo’s notebook, all sweeping, bold strokes. Strong jawline. High cheek bones. Perfectly straight nose. His bottom lip was fuller than the top, formed into a perfect Cupid’s bow. There was no denying it: the man was a work of art, as rare and exquisite as any of the artifacts mounted on his walls.
“Hello, Miss Lang,” he said coolly. “Thank you for taking the time to come out to New York. I know what an inconvenience it must have been.” His voice was lilting, a subtle melody teasing at the cadence of his words. Such a strange accent. One I couldn’t place.
“Not at all.” From my breezy tone, it sounded like I really meant it, that the journey really wasn’t a huge thing for me and I hadn’t minded it at all. Fletcher’s dark eyebrows dipped ever so slightly as he frowned.
“Some people don’t enjoy flying,” he said. “I’m glad to hear everything went smoothly for you, though, Miss Lang. Apologies that we couldn’t meet in Los Angeles, however my schedule has been rather punishing recently. There have been a lot of loose ends that needed tying up.”
I nod. “Of course. It’s wasn’t a problem.”
“Well, thank you regardless. Your punctuality and professional appearance in the face of such a long journey is very impressive. Professionalism is paramount to me, Ophelia. May I call you Ophelia?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. You’ll call me Ronan, too. Especially if we’re in front of the children.” I didn’t expect him to say that. I’d thought I would need to call him Mr. Fletcher or Sir or something. Addressing him by his first name seemed like an alien concept. Far too personal. Ronan must have seen the surprise flicker across my face. “The children don’t need another strict, formal nanny, Ophelia. They don’t need another of my ass-kissing employees hovering around them twenty-four seven. They need a friend. That’s what I’m looking for in the successful candidate for this role.”
“I see. I can do that,” I said.
“Good. Now. Why don’t we begin by you telling me about yourself and your experience as a teacher?”