Disgrace (54 page)

I have an email from Mr. Wilson waiting when I arrived home. It was an urgent message to come to his office after class tomorrow. Crap.

My first week at University, I could pinch myself about actually being here, given my recent meeting with Mr. Wilson, and I’m on cloud nine. I had initially thought Mr. Sinfully Sexy might have disclosed my lie, not that he was specific as to what he thought I was lying about, and I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the information. This line of thinking, however, would at best make me paranoid, and at worst mean I am suffering from an over inflated sense of self-importance, so I was relieved it was neither. Mr. Wilson informed me that the IT bursary I had applied for had been successful. Colour me shocked! I didn’t really think I was eligible for any type of assistance as a part-time student, but I had applied all the same, because I also didn’t have the luxury of not at least trying for some assistance, and an upgrade on my ancient laptop was decades overdue. That said I wasn’t sure if what I felt was joy or just a huge sense of surprise, but I found myself inappropriately hugging Mr. Wilson at the news. Like I said, I was on cloud nine!

I am a little intimidated, sitting high in the Gods of this ultra-modern lecture theatre, and the blank page of my notepad isn’t helping. I smile to myself, because now when I get the IT grant money, I can buy a decent laptop, like all the students around me are sporting. Mine takes around two days to warm up and weighs the same as a small car. In other respects, though, I look like a typical student. At twenty, I am perhaps two years older than most of the students and five years younger than is permitted on the part-time program, but most people wouldn’t notice, and that might be why I was so taken back when Mr. Stone called it at our first meeting.

The theatre is starting to fill, and I am lucky that my choice in footwear resembles a mountain boot with crampons, as the angle of climb to my seat is perilously steep, and I am hugely respectful of the girls who attempt the climb in heels. Glancing around there does seem to be a disproportionate number of females and not dressed in what seems to be the standard asexual garb, but more like that of a catwalk or night out clubbing. Strange.

This series of lectures was a real coup for the University, leading high profile business people giving an ‘up close and personal’ guide to Entrepreneurship. The Lectures are mandatory for mature students in the Business faculty, but you would have to be an idiot not to take this opportunity. Each student had to give a biography and an outline detailing what they expected to gain from the program. I had never heard of that before, but perhaps it’s not so strange, important people wanting to make sure they were not wasting their time. Still, given that this was all extra work for each student here, and it is an evening lecture, I am surprised to see the theatre almost full. An email reminder was sent earlier in the day to emphasize a seven p.m. start – PROMPT.

Although no one person is shouting, the general level of noise has risen to something akin to an airplane take-off. My course has a weighted nine to one ratio of males to females, and I find I am surrounded on all sides by the men from my course. I have introduced myself as the part-time mature student, which in itself seems to make me non-threatening and extremely approachable. As such I have easily made friends with anyone kind enough to sit next to me, and many have. I can’t make out any specific conversation, and I don’t want to add to the noise, so I continue to gaze at my page. It is no longer blank as my habit, which I find both relaxing and distracting, covers the edges of the page, from top right to bottom left. A large intricate doodle of interweaving petals, teardrops and crested waves flow together. My pencil hovers mid pattern as a loud click cuts through the noise, and I quickly look up to see… Oh God, my stomach clenches, and I feel an instant heat between my legs, crap and crap again. Daniel Stone slowly walks from the now locked theatre door to take center stage. It’s seven p.m. on the dot.

All right, that would explain the full house. God, that man is stunning, even from up here. His presence commands the silence of the room. Why didn’t this information click with me earlier? I even saw his name on the screen. Nothing. Oh, I know why, because I have been on cloud nine since my windfall. I feel the plummet from said cloud as my mouth drops open, and I gasp. That’s embarrassing, no wait, it’s not. I’m up in the Gods, hidden in a crowd of eager faces, too high to be heard. Mike, on my left and Pete, in front, however, both turn with questioning looks. I quickly smile, shake my head, and tap my throat, frowning a little to indicate I am experiencing a tracheal problem. Sam, on my left, is unaffected by my dramatics, as he has yet to remove his earphones. I nod my head to indicate all eyes to the front and hope it will help the gentle rise of heat in my cheeks.

“Don’t worry, I will unlock the door so you can leave, but I am just not going to pretend to tolerate lateness.” His voice is quiet, but holds the room’s attention. I give a light laugh and quickly slap my hand to my mouth. I thought it was a joke. I mean, why did I think it would be a joke? He’s just locked the door, for Christ sake! He is obviously serious, and, yes, I was the only one to laugh. His fierce glare fixes on mine, and I shrink in my seat, which has certainly helped the blushing. My throat feels dry, and I swear the whole room can hear me struggle to swallow. I can’t look away. His eyes look black from here, dark and deadly, but I know they are intense pools of crystal blue. A flush prickles my skin, and the heat building at my core is fighting to match that on my face. I try not to squirm in my seat, only giving the slightest unavoidable movement and curling my toes tightly. I know he can’t see those from there. His face certainly shows no signs of recognition from our previous awkward encounter, which is definitely a good thing.

The door rattles, and Mr. Stone breaks his gaze to turn toward the noise. The two small square windows in the double doors frame the faces of a couple of striking girls, their bright blonde hair pulled back to expose severe make-up and huge smiles.

Mr. Stone smiles, but even from here I can see it doesn’t reach his eyes. He strides toward the door and reaches up to unlock it, pausing, he then pulls the blind down over the windows and returns to the stage. If he didn’t have the complete attention of the room before, he does now. Beside me, Sam very carefully removes his earphones and glances at me with wide eyes. I am sure my eyes are just as wide, and I give him a very quick and nervous smile as a response.

The harsh lighting on the stage does nothing to diminish the impact of this man. He is tall, probably around six two, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. He is immaculately dressed in a fitted dark navy suit, pale blue shirt and no tie. His inky black, glossy hair is rough styled; it spikes and flops, slightly long, brushing the collar of his shirt. He rakes his hand through it and gathers his notes. His face is striking, but up close it’s breath-stealing, sharp angles and shadows emanating intensity and power. I imagine fixing on his eyes as I explore the tight feel of his abdomen, flat and hard; the muscles on his back flexing as my hands crawl their way up his body to his thick shaggy hair, only to grip and pull. Christ, get a grip, Bets! I shift in my seat, the warmth in my face moving decidedly southwards. Thinking about my conversation with Mags, if I decide to do Late Night Calls, maybe I wouldn’t need imagination if I had a muse. My lips curl at the thought as I ponder the prospect of Mr. Stone as my private muse; either way having a sneaky personal picture of the delicious Mr. Stone is a must. I just have to get close, again.

His introduction is pretty standard information that anyone could and probably did Google. Something, I am thinking, I should most definitely have done, but in my defense, I didn’t expect to see him again. Daniel Edward Stone is the CEO of Stone, International; a group of companies, which started as an IT intranet software provider and expanded into other IT specialties, then rapidly into other areas: Telecommunication, Specialist Security Providers, Media, Entertainment, property, even a chain of hotels and nightclubs. In the past, he has provided funding for research and start-up companies identified through this University, and more specifically the Entrepreneurial program. The parent company is global, and he is the sole shareholder; his not so many fingers are in a lot of pies. I understand it’s highly unusual for a company that size not to have shareholders or a board of directors. Maybe he just doesn’t like sharing or is just a massive control freak, but, on second thought, there is no reason why he can’t be both.

His ‘brief’ description does go into a bit more detail than a Wiki page, and he is not afraid to sing his own praises. It’s lucky he did lock the door. I don’t think there is any more room now that his ego has landed. I can’t help but roll my eyes, which wouldn’t have been so bad had I not made a kind of involuntary humph noise just to highlight my action. I close my eyes momentarily, only to open them to the seriously hot scowl of Mr. Stone. To my credit, I hold his gaze, careful not to give in to my increasing urge to squirm. I don’t even acknowledge the subtle shifting of my neighbours as they try and distance themselves from the troublemaker. My cheeks do flame though, and just when I am about to cave and drop my gaze, he turns away, the corners of his mouth giving way to a wolfish grin.

He stands at the lectern and picks up a folder filled with lose leaf sheets of paper, his fingers numbly pick through to pluck one from the rest.

“Miss Thorne…What are you doing here?” His deep voice is barely raised, but he could be using a bull horn for the shock I feel at the unexpected question. His tone is clipped, cold, almost angry. I don’t know how to answer, like I am suddenly mute. I simply shake my head embarrassed and mortified with the sudden shift of focus in the room.

“Would you like me to repeat the question?” He raises his brow and stares deeply into my eyes, which I manage to hold, but I can feel my face flame. Why is he picking on me? We’ve barely started, and he has singled me out with his accusatory tone. The tension is palpable as the whole room waits for my answer. Mr. Stone, however, merely taps his fingers lightly on the lectern and looks amused at my discomfort.

“No, I don’t want you to repeat the question. I just didn’t think stating the obvious was necessary, but I see that it is. I’ll speak slowly… I am here for the Entrepreneur Lectures, Mr. Stone.” I know my face is radiating enough to heat a small family home right now, but I am pleased I have progressed from mute to indignant.

“Hmm, thank you Miss Thorne but let me be more specific. Why are
you
here? I have your biography and I am asking why are you here…specifically?” He holds my biography in his hand like it’s contagious, and the distain on his face has made my brief but righteous indignation vanish. I hate him so much right now, but I can’t find any words to answer his question, let alone tell him he is currently starring in my recurring school days’ nightmare. I might as well be naked, too, just to complete my torture. “Allow me… Does this look like a reality show? Are there hidden cameras? No? Do you think a background story will endear you to me? Do you think writing a wish list is appropriate? Do I look like Santa?” He steps down from the stage and has started to walk up the aisle toward me. I hold my knees to stop them trembling, and my knuckles are white from the effort.

“No,” I manage to speak. It’s not loud, but it is audible, because the room is silent.

“No?” He repeats, but doesn’t stop his ascension.

“I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a referenced journal. It’s just a biography.” I tip my chin and hold his gaze. He has reached the end of my row and my heart is thumping so hard, I’m sure the whole room can feel it.

“It wasn’t, but I expected more…Where’s your drive, Miss Thorne? Your fire? Your passion?” He thumps his fist on the flimsy bench and makes the whole row of students jump from their seats. “Success in business isn’t about wishing and hoping, it’s about
doing…
until your fingers bleed, living and breathing every minute of every day, because if you don’t, someone else will. It’s not enough, this”—he waves my solitary sheet high for emphasis— “is not enough. To succeed, what you have here… is not enough. So don’t waste my time, Miss Thorne, with prose that is better suited to a Liberal Arts degree.” He holds my paper and tears the sheet in two, then four, and continues until the sheet falls to the floor in a sprinkle of tiny white flakes. His dark eyes seem to hold for endless seconds, waiting for my response. Fine, I can respond.

“It’s not fiction. It’s not a wish list. It’s just a list. It’s fact, not a sob story; just the truth and the fact that you would showcase it, and in front of everyone as a flaw, well, Mr. Stone… no offense, but that kind of makes you an arsehole, and if being successful means I have to be more like you, I’m happy to remain flawed, and I am happy to fail.” I swear the entire student population took a sharp intake of breath, but Mr. Stone simply holds my gaze as if we are the only two people in the room. His jaw is tight, but he doesn’t look angry, more like he is trying to suppress his amusement. There is something else in his eyes, an intensity I can’t fathom, but it’s only a flash, and it’s gone, and briefly replaced with the most breath-taking smile I have ever seen. I think my heart stopped.