Awakening, 2nd edition (32 page)

“What are you reading?” she enquir ed, looking at an open book in a dark -green hard cover.

“Whatever our hosts gave me.”

Michael plunged to the sofa and clapped it invitingly. “Have a seat.”

Joan smiled with understanding and sunk into the armchair facing him. She instantly regretted her choice—the armchair turned to be much softer and deeper than its exterior had suggested. It was definitely not intended for any woman wearing a miniskirt and trying to appear proper. But it was too late to change anything without losing momentum, so she slowly stretched her legs as though nothing was wrong and smiled at him.

“So what did they give you?”

Michael silently handed her the book.

“Machiavelli.
The Prince ,”
Joan read aloud, studying the gloomy profile embossed on the cover. “Quite the bedside read. Is this the best you could find in the library?”

“It’s the best I could find on my nightstand. Other options were a brief history of the world, Caesar ’s biography, Art of War , The 48 Laws of Power and a book full of case studies on corporations that got sued for their business practices.”

“Your predecessor had an odd taste in books.”

“I doubt it has anything to do with my predecessor, whoever this person was. This is for us. There ’s nothing accidental in this place.”

Listening to him, Joan recalled a stack of books by her bed, which she ’d had neither the time nor the desire to open. After a few hours at the bar , her reading needs were more than satisfied by the stack of magazines on her coffee table.

“It is any good?”

“It’s rather curious. Have you read it?”

“Nope. I think books that are older than a couple of hundred years are just impossible to read. For pleasure at least. Too boring.”

“Not sure I’d agree with that.”

“Why?”

“Because nothing has changed. It ’s junk that doesn ’t last that long.”

“Yeah, I already heard that yesterday.”

“And they were right. Had this Nick, ” Michael lifted the book, “somehow gotten into your company , he would ’ve became your CEO in the blink of an eye. Or even better, a trusted advisor to your CEO. Same for my company.”

Michael opened the book on a random page and read in a singsong voice: “ . . . And the first opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is by observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and faithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how to recognize the capable and to keep them faithful . . .”

He put the book down and smiled at Joan.

“Now try and recall what you thought of your management last time they promoted yet another moron. Or when they didn ’t promote you.”

Joan chuckled.

“Thanks, but no thanks. There ’s nothing pleasant to recall.”

Too much talk, she thought bitterly. And the wrong subject. It ’s about time . . . She put her arms behind her head and stretched lazily, knowing how effective this simple action was.

“I wonder, are we supposed to do something in particular after reading these books?”

“I can think of a few things. But here ’s another question : is there something in particular we ’re supposed not to do?”

“Oh, I like that one. So what do you think, ” she slowly crossed her legs, “is there anything we should not be doing?”

Michael’s eyes slid downward.

“Perhaps there is, ” he replied after a brief pause. “For example, we should not waste time.”

Finally, she thought. Couldn’t you just begin with that? Machiavelli, shmachiavelli . . . But now, my darling, it ’s my turn to keep you waiting . . .

Joan nodded gravely.

“You’re right, we ’ve got no time to lose. Not with just two days left.”

She chuckled.

“Can you imagine all the scheming that ’s been happening here? Someone could be conspiring right behind this wall.”

“There’s no one behind that wall. Same for that one.”

“How do you know?”

“Same way you knew where to find me , ” Michael pointed at the door adorned with a roster of names. “Plus, looking for a conspiracy here is a waste of time.”

Now Joan was honestly baffled.

“Are you saying you trust everyone?”

She didn’t have to mock the amusement.

“I don’t. But this isn ’t about trust. Simple logic would suffice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s everyone for himself here.”

“You too?”

“Of course I am, ” Michael nodded. “And so are you.”

Joan flashed a pearly smile.

“Men always want to oversimplify things. You just have to deal with black and white, nothing in the middle. Friend or foe. With me or against me.”

She re-crossed her legs and pulled her miniskirt down slightly , as if trying to appear more proper. The old but reliable trick worked as usual.

“Are we back to the stereotypes discussion?” Michael asked, his eyes returning to her face. “Isn ’t that how you think?”

“Not really, ” Joan stood up. “I can be against you. But at the same time with you.”

She rounded the sofa, looking around the room, and bent, setting her elbows against the sofa ’s back. Now the dark attentive eyes were very close. Too close, maybe. For a moment, she felt the same uneasy icy feeling she had felt at the door. Then it was gone.

“You have to learn how to combine business with some pleasure, ” she said, making her voice sound irresistible. “Otherwise it gets too boring. See what I mean?”

“Certainly,” Michael agreed. “So what is it going to be now: business or pleasure?”

“You tell me.”

And she rocked towards these intent eyes.

“I’d say this was pleasure, ” Michael reflected thoughtfully a minute later. “Though I ’m not entirely positive. A second try would help.”

They gave it a second try.

“You were brilliant yesterday, ” Joan said , rocking back. “The rules were nothing short of ingenious.”

“Sit down,” Michael said in response. “Here . . . No, move closer . . . Closer still . . .”

A few minutes passed.

“You’re crazy, ” Joan said with laugh. “Let me catch my breath . . .”

She fixed her hair. Michael was looking at her with an odd expression in his eyes. Joan almost physically felt his gaze sliding along her reddened face, descending to her shoulders, moving to the flowing silk of the unbuttoned blouse. As usual it was absolutely impossible to tell what he was thinking, but for a split moment she sensed—or at least thought she did—a shadow of sympathy in the depth of his eyes.

“Indeed,” he said finally. “Time ’s up. It ’s getting late and you still have quite a few people to visit.”

Joan thought she’d misheard him.

“To visit?” she repeated after him, still smiling.

“To engage with?” Michael clarified . “There ’re nine of us and only three nights left. I don ’t suppose I ’m the last one.”

Joan didn’t remember exactly when she had slapped his face—before she had sprung to her feet or after. As she was convulsively buttoning a stubborn button, which kept resisting the process with plausible determination, she kept repeating over and over : “What a pig. What a pig . . .”

Michael stood up as well. Something in his face suddenly reminded Joan of the story she had heard from Stella. A beaten wife, a court hearing, “Teach that bitch a lesson .” For a moment a strange vision came over her. She thought she heard Michael muttering in a low , husky voice , “Never —I mean it—never even think of hitting me again. You got that?”

But Michael did not say anything to that effect. Instead , he touched the crimson spot that was emerging slowly on his left cheek and said , “You ’re wasting time doing this. You should be going after people in charge , not us. Just look at Ed —the guy ’s been staring at you for three days already.”

Joan bathed him in the cold contempt of her blue eyes and turned around wordlessly.

“When you’re done with business , stop by for some more pleasure, ” the calm, but somehow cheerful, voice behind her called .

She had to muster all her strength to close the door without slamming it.

She spent a moment or two standing idly by the hateful door, breathing slowly (which required serious effort) and regaining her composure . Then she walked away, biting her lip , her calm only partially restored. She wanted to yell and kick. Kick anything —although she would really enjoy kicking him .

Never in her life had she felt so deeply offended. Not by anything, not by anyone. “There ’re nine of us and only three nights . . .” The cold voice kept echoing painfully in her memory . Had he called her a slut it would ’ve been less insulting. In fact, that was exactly what he ’d done, only the way he ’d done it was more insulting than a dozen dirty words. And it was her who ’d come to him! This was her idea! Even if there were some truth to his words—all right there was some truth to his words—he had no right to talk to her like this! Who is this guy? Who does he think he is? And for the record, she was not going to jump into bed with him. Not tonight , anyway. But he ’d treated her like a cheap street whore. No, even they don ’t get such treatment. They get paid. She had to s truggle with an overwhelming urge to return and slap him again. And again.

But the worst, the most painful insult had been hidden somewhere else, beyond these calmly delivered , deadly words. It was in their timing. Had he done thi s after sex or after an unambiguous decline , everything would ’ve been fine. Okay, not completely fine, and he still would ’ve gotten that red spot on his cheek and she would still hate him for saying it . . . But there would ’ve been none of that bubbling inside, the lump in the throat feeling of hu rt. He . . . he simply decided to pass. A little like someone would taste a canned ham that ’s been sitting on a shelf in the dark corner of a pantry forever. They ’d open the can carefully, smell it, taste it, perhaps chew and swallow some—and with a loathing grimace toss into the garbage can. And this is how he treated her?
Her ! Perhaps he ’
s just not into women? Bu t what about his wife? No, it can ’t be that . That could ’ve been a nice—okay, an acceptable—explanation, but for a few minutes he ’d been very much engaged. He was very much into women . . . There ’re things you just can ’t fake.

And yet, he ’d decided to pass on everything this night was promising to him. He ’d declined this very generous offer knowing full well what her reaction would be. He knew that , after he’d spoken these words , she would not stay in his room a minute longer . He knew she would blast out. And yet he simply showed her the door. This man must be sick . . . He ’s simply sick!

Joan didn’t realize where she was going until she faced bottles and tables. Going back to her empty room after that scene was apparently more than she could handle.

The half-lit bar was deserted. Save for a lonely figure seated at the far end , bent over a bottle of beer. The figure turned its curly head at the sound of her steps. “The guy has been staring at you for three days already , ” a cold voice said somewhere in her head. Joan felt a wave of exciting anger taking her over .

“Feeling lonely?” she asked, making a step towards this awkward, but so amiable , smile.

After all,
this was something that pig couldn ’
t have predicted . . .

“You’re leaving?” Clark unsuccessfully tried fighting off yawning. “Now?”

“Yes. I have to leave now, ” repeated Chris.

Clark yawned again.

“What time is it?”

“Around eleven.”

“What’s the rush? Come in, please.”

“It’s all right, ” Chris stayed at the door. “I ’d like to leave as promptly as possible.”

“I see. Well, it ’s your call. Does this have anything to do with the workshop?”

“Not at all, ” Chris heaved a sigh. “My wife ’s in ER. They think it ’s her appendix. Haven ’t decided yet, but most likely they will operate on her tonight.”

Clark stopped yawning at once and nodded with sympathy.

“I’m really sorry to hear that. Do you want to leave immediately or wait till the morning?”

“I’d better go right now. I should be there b y morning. Do I need to sign anything?”

“Of course not, ” Clark waved his hands in protest . “What are you talking about? We ’re not monsters. I ’ll put a note in your file, explaining that on the third night you had to leave urgently due to a family emergency. I know that your thoughts are someplace else now, but for what it ’s worth, you did great and our evaluation will be utterly positive. It ’s a real pity you have to leave now.”