Chapter 9
NINE
NINE YEARS AGO
The reception area smelled faintly of lemon polish and expensive perfume. Somewhere behind the frosted glass doors, a phone rang twice, then stopped.
Lucía smoothed her skirt as she sat, crossing one leg over the other. A handful of other applicants sat in stiff silence in the waiting area, each lost in their own thoughts.
The man two seats away caught her eye. Mid-twenties, dark curls, relaxed posture. His dress shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair and a faint ink mark along his wrist, like he’d been jotting notes before he came in.
He caught her staring, and offered a quick, conspiratorial smile. Leaning toward her, he asked, “Long morning?” in quiet Spanish.
She glanced at the wall clock. “Feels longer when you can hear your own heartbeat.”
That earned her a soft chuckle. He tilted his head, dark eyes glinting. “First time interviewing here?”
“Isn’t it everyone’s?”
“Not me,” he said, lowering his voice like he was letting her in on a secret. “Second try. Last time I made it to round two before Esquivel decided I wasn’t…whatever it is he’s looking for.”
Before she could respond, the inner door opened. A sharply dressed assistant appeared. The scent of Chanel No. 5 grew stronger.
“Senorita Duarte?”
Lucía rose.
“Good luck,” he murmured.
She gave a small nod, then smoothed her skirt and followed the assistant through the door.
The office was colder than she’d expected.
Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere.
It was all steel and glass and blond wood, as tasteful as it was sterile and devoid of personality.
Her last job had been in a government building, which had all the charm of a used Styrofoam cup, and yet compared to this place, it had been bustling with life.
Lucía perched on the edge of the hard leather chair, her portfolio clasped in her lap.
She’d spent hours choosing her outfit for this interview, finally settling on the cream satin shirt and snug pencil skirt with tan heels.
But she’d not counted on how chilly the room was going to be and now—instead of focusing on rehearsing her elevator pitch—she was suddenly, and ridiculously, more worried about whether her nipples were poking through the fabric of her shirt.
It wasn’t exactly the first impression she was aiming to make.
Across the vast expanse of the desk, Javier Esquivel continued to tap away at his laptop, his gaze never leaving the screen. He wore a charcoal suit with sharp lapels. No tie. His white shirt was open at the throat and glowed against his tan. His cufflinks were tiny gold skulls.
Still, he didn’t look up. Lucía began to wonder if this was some kind of tactic, a test of her assertiveness, or maybe her patience.
Or maybe he was just busy. Her résumé sat on top of a pile of others near his right elbow.
She wondered where the curly-haired man in the waiting room was in the stack.
Finally, he cleared his throat and closed his laptop and looked up.
He was in his late-forties, his thick hair just starting to turn silver at his temples.
Very good-looking, with a strong jaw and black eyes that seemed to take up more of the white around his pupils than the average person.
His skin was smooth and tan, barely showing his age, and his beard was black and perfectly trimmed.
He looked like he had just stepped off the set of an old Hollywood movie, playing a rogue or a pirate. Blackbeard, maybe, or Rhett Butler.
Even so, he was old enough to be her father, and she’d never had a particular thing for older men. So why did the sensation of his eyes on her suddenly make her feel like she’d stumbled over her own feet?
“I see here,” he said slowly, tapping his finger on her résumé, “that you graduated top of your class. Impeccable marks.” He smiled, and his face softened, though his eyes didn’t. “Top percentile in economics. You also interned at the Ministry of Finance?”
Lucía nodded, pulse skimming faster now. “Yes, senor. For six months. Under Director Gómez’s team.”
“And you worked on asset mapping?”
“Yes. Primarily digital currency trails and sanctions compliance audits.”
Javier tilted his head, clearly pleased. Lucía allowed a tiny bit of hope to bloom.
“So,” he went on, “you understand shell structures. Beneficial ownership laws. Cross-border laundering vulnerabilities.” His voice was so deep it seemed to emanate from somewhere in his chest rather than in his throat.
“I do.” She straightened her spine, the hope blossoming into confidence. “And I’ve also studied red flag markers in corporate acquisitions, particularly in sectors that tend to invite scrutiny. Real estate, mining, logistics.”
A pause. Then he hummed. “Impressive.” He let the word sit between them, then looked down, flipping a page with slow fingers. “You’ve read the Syzmanski paper on fraud layering?”
“Of course.”
“Your opinion of it?”
She blinked. No one had asked that in other interviews. “I think the conclusion undervalued the role of human behavior. Algorithms can only follow patterns. But people…people invent new ways to lie all the time.”
He looked up. “And how would you rate yourself at spotting a lie?”
She paused before she answered. Was this another test? “I’m learning,” she said carefully. She offered a cautious smile. “But I’m very good at patterns.”
“Mmm.” He leaned back in his chair now, just a little. The movement exposed more of his throat, that open collar like an invitation. His arms stretched wide across the leather chair’s armrests. Relaxed. Commanding.
His gaze swept over her, not lasciviously, but intimately. As though he were dissecting her, one element at a time. Her hair. Her skirt. Her nails. Her posture.
Her nipples.
Her confidence suddenly withered and died.
“I must say,” he said softly, “you present yourself well, too.”
Lucía tightened her hold on the portfolio, aware of how damp her hands had become.
“Did you choose this outfit?”
“I…did.”
“It’s flattering,” he said, his tone unreadable. “You understand appearances are a form of language, don’t you?”
“Yes, senor.”
“And you know how to speak it.” He let that hang, then smiled. “That’s rare. And valuable.”
Lucía felt herself start to breathe again, a little warmth creeping back in. Her heart still fluttered, but maybe from something closer to anticipation than fear. She could handle this. She was handling it. She’d impressed him.
“Now,” he said, voice dropping another octave, “why don’t you do one more thing for me?”
The question was benign, but something about the way he said it made her response come out in a croak. “Um. Sure.”
His smile widened, lazy and predatory all at once. “Stand up.”
She blinked at him. When he continued to watch her calmly, with no hint of anything amiss in his expression, she got to her feet, trying not to lose her balance in her high heels on the thick rug. Did he…want to shake her hand or something?
Javier watched her calmly, arms still spread across his chair. He tilted his head slightly, then murmured, “Now, get on your hands and knees for me.”
The words hung there, impossible.
“Then crawl. Around the desk. To me.”
Lucía felt heat flood her cheeks, confusion and indignation surging.
He waited. Calm. Relaxed. Black eyes steady and utterly unreadable.
Her lips parted, ready to speak, but she couldn’t even form the words. Beneath the mortification flooding her bloodstream was something else: an electric hum of danger and desire she didn’t understand.
What she did understand, was that this was most definitely not the time and place for it.
Then, after what felt like a full minute, he laughed softly.
“Ah,” he said, waving a hand as if brushing smoke from the air, “forgive me. That was…a joke. A poor one, I admit.”
He sat forward, reaching for a pen, all business now.
“Young talent is so serious these days,” he added smoothly. “I sometimes forget how intimidating I must seem.”
Lucía’s heart was still pounding. She gave a tight smile. Laughed a breathy, uncomfortable thing. Of course it was a joke.
Of course.
Javier signed something at the bottom of her file and closed it with a satisfying snap. “You’re hired,” he said simply.
He stood and extended his hand, his smile now cool and professional, as if nothing had just passed between them.
Lucía hesitated for a split second before taking it. His palm was warm, his fingers long, his grip firm.
Perfectly measured.
As she gathered her things and stepped towards the door, she felt his gaze on her back. When she glanced over her shoulder, just once, he was already reviewing the next file. All cool, polished composure.
But something about the look in his eyes when he first made that outrageous demand stayed with her. A line had been drawn between them, invisible but real.
Part of her told herself it had been fine. It had been a joke.
But another part, deep down, already knew: This was not a man who ever joked.