Chapter Two
Luke
When the elevator doors slide open just before six a.m., I look up from my phone, then do a double-take as I watch the woman exit the carriage.
At first, I’m not sure if it’s Aurelia. She looks nothing like she did on the night of the ball. I’ve seen photographs of her, of course, because she’s splashed across the internet, but this is the first time I’ve seen her au naturel, without her designer clothing, styled hair, and makeup.
At the ball, she wore a sumptuous emerald-green ballgown. Her loose red hair tumbled over her shoulders in a riot of curls, and behind her mask, her eyes were heavily made up with black eyeliner and false eyelashes.
This morning, she’s wearing activewear—black leggings with a white stripe down the side, a gray cropped top, and white trainers. Her hair is still curly but swept back into a high ponytail, and her face is free of makeup. She looks about five years younger, and ten times more beautiful.
She also looks disappointed when she sees me waiting for her. As I get to my feet, she approaches me and says, “Dammit. Thought you might have forgotten.”
“No, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, then. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
She marches off, and I follow her across the lobby, trying not to stare at her tight backside in the black leggings.
I’ve spent the past week since the ball reading everything I can lay my hands on about Aurelia Ashford to prepare myself for the new job.
I’ve watched all the footage the security team possesses, read all the online articles, studied all her photographs and interviews in detail, and pored over the various reports that have been compiled over the past few months.
As a result, I’ve formed a picture in my head of the billionaire heiress that, well, isn’t exactly complimentary. Basically, she comes across as a spoiled brat who’s making the most of her position as Director of Public Relations at the company to take every chance she can to steal the limelight.
Maybe that’s a bit mean. She does a good job of promoting Ashford AgriTech, as she’s skilled at turning interviews and conversations around to business, and constantly pushes her father’s pasture management technology.
I also acknowledge that nobody I’ve spoken to has a bad thing to say about her.
“Warm and witty,” and “beautiful spirit,” have been common descriptions of her.
But it’s easy to get to the top when you’re privileged, when you have money and opportunities. It’s much harder for the rest of us who have to claw our way there by working every hour God sends.
I admit, though, I’d half-expected her to come down to the gym in designer gear, with her hair and makeup done, and do yoga with a pink water bottle while she checked her phone between asanas.
Instead, when we go into the gym, a personal trainer is waiting for her, who then puts her through a grueling forty-five-minute weights-and-cardio routine.
I watch as I do my own circuit of the machines, feeling a grudging admiration for her. Clearly, this isn’t a one-off. She obviously works out regularly.
While I run on the treadmill, I scan the room, checking out the other users.
There aren’t many. One woman in her thirties, one in her fifties, both with earbuds, absorbed in their own worlds.
A guy in his twenties stands in front of the mirror, lifting weights, focused on his reflection.
One guy in his early thirties checks Aurelia out as he passes, but then gets on the rowing machine facing in the opposite direction, and doesn’t look around again.
Another, older guy with silver hair also checks her out as he runs.
Look away, old man… He glances up, catches me watching him in the mirror, and averts his gaze.
A few minutes later, he stops his machine, grabs his towel, and heads for the shower, not looking her way again.
Aurelia finishes with the machines, thanks her PT, comes over to the treadmills, and steps up on the one next to mine.
She starts it going, then begins to run.
Her face is flushed bright pink, and her forehead bears a sheen of sweat.
Her cropped top has darkened with sweat where it clings to her body beneath her breasts.
Nope. Not going to think about that.
“Nice workout,” I say, raising my voice above the sound of the machine. “What were you lifting? Five kilos?” I’m teasing—I could see her deadlifting sixty, and her leg press was set to a hundred kilos, which impressed me considering how small she is.
She gives me a wry look. “Not all of us want to powerlift an elephant. I just want to stay fit.”
“Fair enough.” I wait a few minutes, then ask, “Do you do any self-defense classes?”
She’s breathing heavily now, and she doesn’t reply for a moment. She steps off the treadmill to either side and presses the button to stop it, and I do the same, and we both have a few mouthfuls from our water bottles.
“I haven’t yet,” she answers finally.
“I can show you some moves, if you like?”
Her eyes are a startling green. I would have said she wore lenses, but I met her mother at the ball, and hers were the same shade. Now, they fill with amusement. “Some moves?”
“Self-defense moves,” I correct, trying not to think about what other moves I could show her.
“I don’t think so.” She clips the lid back on her bottle. “If I want to learn self-defense, I’ll ask one of the female members of the team.”
“Fair enough.” Maybe I’ll get Stacy to suggest it and see if she can encourage Aurelia to take her up on the offer. It would be good if she could learn a few moves to defend herself.
She walks off, toward the exit.
I follow her at a distance and watch her walk across the lobby and get in the elevator. She glances at me briefly, and our eyes meet. Just before the carriage doors close, she shows me her middle finger.
I run my tongue across my top teeth and press the button in the pocket of my shorts. “Principal’s en route.”
“Copy that,” Rick says in my earpiece. He’ll keep an eye on the elevator camera and the one we have trained on the corridor leading to the door of her apartment until she comes back out again.
Blowing out a breath, I go and take a quick shower in the gym and dress in the working suit and tie I brought with me.
By the time Rick announces in my earpiece that Aurelia is on her way down to the car park level, I’m sitting in the reception area.
I take the stairs, running down to make sure I’m waiting when she comes out.
I glance around the car park, scanning the cars.
A black sedan is parked near the exit, its engine running, and I ask Rick to keep an eye on it.
The doors open, and she comes out, sees me, and sighs.
She looks completely different. This time, she’s wearing a fawn pantsuit, a white blouse, and fawn high-heeled sandals.
Her hair tumbles around her shoulders in tight red curls.
Her makeup is immaculate. She’s outlined her eyes with winged eyeliner, and her lips are scarlet.
She looks at her phone as she walks over to me, tapping with her thumbs on the screen.
“She’s all yours,” Rick says in my ear.
I press the button in my trouser pocket and murmur, “Lucky me.”
Aurelia looks up at me. “What?”
I don’t reply, and instead say, “Off to the Kōrero offices, ma’am?” Her schedule has an interview marked for nine-thirty a.m with the news site.
She nods. “I’ll pick up a coffee first at the Bean.” It’s a café en route. She glances at her phone. “Have a great day.” Turning, she walks away, toward her dark-green Range Rover Sport.
I jog past her, and I’m standing by the driver’s door when she finally looks up from her phone. She stares at me. “What are you doing?”
I hold out my hand. “Keys, please, ma’am.”
“Oh no. This is my car.”
“Correct.”
“I paid for it.”
“Also correct.” I flick my fingers.
“I’m a great driver,” she insists, her face flushing.
“I’m sure you are, ma’am.” In my ear, Rick says, “Exit clear.” The sedan’s moved on. I press the button and reply, “Copy that.”
“Copy what?” Now she’s annoyed. “Who are you talking to? I’m not the fucking president.”
“Eagle’s on the move,” I say to the inside of my wrist, and she glares at me. I smirk. “Come on, ma’am, give me the keys. I’ll be driving you for the foreseeable future. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with Marcus.”
She unlocks the car, then dumps the keys in my hand. “Oh, believe me, I will be. I intend to make everyone’s life a misery until I’m free again.” She stomps around to the passenger side and gets in.
I open the driver door and bend to look in. “Don’t you want to sit in the back?”
“Nope.” She clips in her seat belt, then studies her phone.
Gritting my teeth, I get in, buckle my own belt, and clip my security button to it. The car is neat and tidy. It smells of her perfume, something sensual and exotic. A nodding model of a daisy is stuck to the dashboard. I stare at it, then look at her.
“I like daisies,” she says defensively.
“It’s smiling.”
“It’s cheerful.”
I scowl and start the engine.
“I see,” she says. “You’re going to be Mr. Grumpy Trousers, aren’t you? Well, that won’t last around me. I’m the sunniest person in the whole of New Zealand.”
I put the car in reverse and back out of the space. “We’ll see.” When I’m safely out, I slot it into Drive and head out of the car park.
“All clear,” Rick says.
I press the button on the belt. “Copy that.”
“Jesus,” Aurelia says. “Are you constantly going to be talking to yourself?”
“I’m afraid so. You’ll have to get used to it.”
“My other security officers never talked to themselves. They always followed at a respectful distance. And they let me drive.”
“Which is why you were able to give them the slip, and I’m now the lucky one to be stuck with you.”
“Are you always this cheeky to the people in your care?”
I head out onto the main road, then blow out a long breath and glance at her. She’s right; there’s no need to be rude. “I apologize.”