Protege by Lydia Michaels
Chapter One
“Welcome to Fernweh Industries. Do you prefer water or champagne?”
Breath whooshed into Collette’s hollow lungs as she stared, wide-eyed, at the man standing behind the enormous desk. This moment, her being here in this office, was perhaps the most surreal experience of her life. But wasn’t the definition of surrealism complete individualism, the unlocking of the unconscious mind necessary to reach one’s creative potential?
Her darkest desires had been locked away in those corners of her mind far too long. Believing in this surreal place, was the only chance left at feeling alive again. And it was this man who could help her unlock her potential.
Having forgotten his question, she looked at him blankly, her eyes widening once more. Dear God, she totally forgot his question. She was having some sort of acute amnesia. Her lips parted as the tiniest squawk escaped her throat—a mediocre apology, if that—and he raised a perfectly arched brow.
Say something!
She couldn’t think, couldn’t form a single excuse for sitting there like a mute idiot incapable of simple chatter. Sensing he already found her tedious—which her unnecessary silence absolutely was—she lowered her gaze and muttered, “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
He silently sighed and ignored the iced champagne bottle in the stainless bucket and poured a tall glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. “Have a seat, Ms. Banks.”
Her chest filled with cool air and the masculine scent of the finely appointed office. Hoping not to make an even bigger ass of herself, she quickly took a seat and frowned. He’d used her real last name, not the fake name she’d concocted to register for the interview.
Passing her the glass, he chuckled. “I know everyone’s name, Ms. Banks. As the founder of Fernweh, it’s my responsibility to be thoroughly familiar with the people I’m endorsing, but have no fear. I also believe in total confidentiality outside these doors. Tell me about yourself.”
Her fingers slid along the heavy crystal she had yet to bring to her lips. Using both hands, she supported the weighted tumbler from slipping through her numb fingers.
Robotically, she chanted facts into the quiet room as if dictating to a machine. Apparently lying was useless.
“My name is Collette Banks. I’m thirty years old. I was born in Savannah, Georgia, where I lived most of my life. I’m currently unemployed, but I have a degree in secondary education . . .”
Her words tapered off as he moved with the patient grace of a jaguar, sliding into the thickly upholstered chair behind the ornate desk. His motions distracted her train of thought; his acute focus appeared undeterred as he observed her without interruption. His stare was so intense; it intersected her speech, as if that single-minded look were somehow louder than her own voice. Yet he was silent. His fingers drummed on the arm of the chair as the knuckles of his right hand curled over his mouth, disguising his expression.
Every word that came to mind seemed clumsy and unsophisticated, a blunt insult to the well-polished man before her. She lowered her gaze to the glass she held—not a single fleck or particle polluting the crystalline liquid.
What am I doing here?
“You’ve stopped talking, Ms. Banks.”
She nodded but didn’t look up. If he asked her to leave, she would. As a matter of fact, she was waiting for his direction to do just that. This was a mistake.
“Tell me about your last job.”
Her shoulders felt bare, naked and exposed, but her sweater safely covered them. Before one entered this office, the establishment looked just like any other upper-class commercial space. No one would assume this was where men and women came to sign their futures away. Perhaps she hadn’t given this decision the consideration it deserved.
“Ms. Banks, I’m waiting.”
“I taught French.”
“Yet you’re a southerner from Georgia. How . . . charming. Say something in French.”
“Qu’est-ce que vous me tiens à dire?” What would you like me to say? She never knew what to say when people asked that.
“Dites-moi quelque chose que je ne vais pas trouver dans votre paperasse.”
Her head lifted and her breath caught in her throat. He was smirking, not with his mouth, but with a slight crease around his green eyes, as if he found her bilingual abilities amusing. His unexpected French response took her so off-guard that she had to switch gears to decipher his words. Tell me something that isn’t on your résumé.
A grin trembled to her lips. She’d only regurgitated facts up until that moment—but now that she learned she wouldn’t get away with fibs, she quietly confessed what brought her to the area. “Je suis venu ici pour cette.” I came here for this.
“Fernweh?”
“Oui.”
His head tilted, throwing his dark brown hair into the light. It wasn’t as dark as her first impression had led her believe. In the natural light it was almost auburn. “Pourquoi?”
Why had she come all this way to be a part of Fernweh? Even she didn’t have the answer to that. “Je ne sais pas.”
He continued to speak to her in French, her mind now naturally translating. “There must be a reason.”
Speaking to someone, other than students, in French was a rare pleasure. She seldom got to stretch her linguistic muscles in companionable dialogue. His grasp of the language was refreshing, a strange comfort in an awkward situation. “I wanted a change.”