Hired By The Mysterious Millionaire. Ally Blake

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ