Listen to yourself! You sound like Ella!
‘Come,’ he ordered. Only it wasn’t the kind of order he usually gave. Not a ‘Bring my file XYZ!’ shouted in a voice like a sergeant major on mission in Antarctica. No, this time his voice was full of a darker, deeper meaning I couldn’t hope to fathom.
My feet started to move without consulting my brain.
Oh well, if this was a dream, I might as well enjoy it while it lasted. A chance to sit down in the presence of His Mightiness Mr Ambrose the Cold and Terrible might not come so quickly again, even in a dream world. I let myself be led over to one of the empty chairs in an outrageously unfeminist manner, unable to take my incredulous eyes off his smiling face. When I sat, he didn’t immediately take a seat himself, but instead just stood there, holding my hand, gazing into my eyes.
‘Are… are you quite well?’ I asked carefully. Maybe this was real after all, and he just had a touch of brain fever.
‘Yes, I’m very well, Mr Linton. Thank you very much for your concern.’
The fourth ‘thank you’ in one morning! Something was clearly wrong with him!
‘Are there no more files to go through?’ Looking around, I saw that there was nothing on his desk. The door to my office, which yesterday had been open practically all day, was firmly closed.
‘No, Mr Linton, no files today.’
He still hadn’t let go of my hand. It felt as if it were smouldering. With his thumb, he started rubbing circles on my palm, heating the delicious burn to even higher temperatures.
‘And…’ My voice sounded a little off for some reason. ‘And letters to write? Is there correspondence?’
‘No, Mr Linton. No letters, either.’
Now his other fingers had joined the fun, caressing the back of my hand in a complex pattern that played havoc with the rhythm of my heart. This sort of thing surely wasn’t part of my contract! What the hell was going on? I should wrench my hand out of his grasp and demand an apology! Yes! I definitely should!
Only… I didn’t.
‘I…’
That was all I managed. One syllable. That’s how dry my mouth was.
I cleared my throat. ‘I… I don’t…’
Yay! Two syllables!
Again I cleared my throat. ‘I don’t understand.’
An entire sentence! Yes! I did it! Thank you, God!
Still smiling, he trailed his thumb up and down between my fingers, leaving flames in its wake. How could a man as cold as he set me on fire like this? It was unfair! And certainly unfeminist! I had to get my act together!
‘Not understand, Mr Linton?’
‘No, Sir.’
That was putting it mildly. My world was doing a handstand, everything was upside down. And Mr Ambrose was still smiling at me. His teeth were brilliantly white and even, flawless like the rest of his face that seemed to be hewn out of white stone by a master artist.
‘What don't you understand?’
Letting go of my hand, he settled down comfortably in the chair beside me. Gasping with relief, I snatched my hand back and sat on it. Then, realizing that this might be construed as showing that he affected me in some way - which of course he did not! - I quickly pulled it out again and folded both hands in my lap.
‘What don’t you understand?’
A very good question. I could start with the furniture. The chairs we were sitting in hadn’t been in this office the last time, and neither had the small table around which they were arranged adjacent to one another. Whenever I had spoken to Mr Ambrose before, whether sitting or standing, I had been facing him head-on. Now I was sitting beside him.
And more importantly: we weren’t having an argument. It felt weird. Extremely weird.
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Well…’ I hesitated. ‘Why haven’t we started to work yet? Why are we sitting here?’
And why the heck are you being so darn nice?
He shrugged. ‘Well, I thought we should talk instead of work today.’
‘Talk?’ I echoed.
‘Yes, talk.’ He sounded as if it were his favourite hobby and there was nothing strange about us sitting down for a nice chat. ‘In any working relationship, it is important to establish a friendly, comfortable atmosphere. To work efficiently together, it is indispensable to get to know and trust one another.’
I wanted to say ‘So when did you reach that epiphany? Was it before or after you hounded me like a slave runner yesterday?'
But before I could get the words out, he leant forward and stroked one long, smooth finger down my cheek. Just one finger. ‘I want to get to know you, Miss Linton. I want to get to know you much better.’
My heart stopped. I’m not joking. It literally stopped right then and there. What was I going to say again? Something snarky and not very nice. The words were suddenly gone from my mind.