The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (5 page)

“You easy now?”

“No. I would like you to leave.”

He snorted again. “Would you, then. Tell me something: You know who you’re working for?”

I stood up.

“Sit down,” he growled from above me. “You and I, we’re going to have a chinwag.”

Huh? Oh. A chat.

Agree to listen, then he will leave. This is what I told myself. I sat back down stiffly on the edge of the bed.

He pulled over the chair so he was sitting close.

“Good on ya. Now here’s the truth. We need your help.”

He was waiting for something.

I glanced into his eyes.

“See. I’m a good bloke.” He smiled a little, and I released the breath I had been holding. I inhaled, and exhaled. Twice more, glancing into his eyes. “There you go,” he said, quietly.

My breathing was almost normal. I had not realized how shallow it had grown.

“What kind of help?” I managed to get out.

“We’ll give it a go this way, howsabout you tell me what you know about Jace Knight?”

I pursed my lips. I loathe people who answer a question with a question.

“I have read things online,” I finally conceded through tight lips. The chemical elixir that had been released in my body was now working to drain me of all energy. I felt my shoulders slump.

Sullivan waited.

“He left New Zealand on his own, at a young age, and got a job as a ranch hand in the outback.” I had to concentrate. “The Wikipedia article mentioned he had built up a rather vast hotel franchise,” I added.

“Right. Well that article left out heaps, namely the fact your Mr. Knight’s a fuckin’ gangster. Ask everyone who works for him. It’s well known.”

My heart vaulted, but my brain was still incapacitated.

I stared at Sullivan Blaise, wishing him, rather irrationally, to be nothing more than a wild creation of my own imagination.

“He started out in the youth street gangs in Melbourne. Cut through the ranks speedy, right, and created his own gang called the Waratahs. At one point, at the height of his power, he controlled all the gangs, including the bikies.”

“Bikies?” I heard myself ask.

“Biker gangs.”

Bikers? I thought of the elegant way Mr. Knight dressed, his donations to charities, the government official he was meeting with for lunch with tomorrow to talk with about buying a new piece of property.

Sullivan Blaise was waiting for something from me, but I was fighting a foreign urge: to giggle.

“This is . . . ridiculous.”

“You think so?” His lips pursed. “Here. Let me help you along. I’m breaking from protocol here.” He pulled out his electronic pad, which I assumed he had brought in with him to avoid theft from his vehicle, and opened up a file. “Read,” he ordered, passing it to me.

I found the ASIS insignia impressive. Biting my bottom lip, dread warred with curiosity with an intense need to . . . I did not know what. The file was a dossier with twelve files inside, each numbered strangely.

“Read 02.11.10005 and 04.14.100010,” he ordered.

I did as he asked, applying my speed-reading capability.

When I was done, I stared straight ahead, processing the details. It contained extensive intelligence (far too extensive to be a ruse, I decided)—though code names had been applied to the dozens of contributors, perhaps to hide their identities. It summarized how Mr. Knight had indeed worked his way up youth gang ranks to kingpin status in his teens and early twenties, at which point he championed a quiet campaign of espionage and ruthless extortion to assure total control of Melbourne’s various Asian, Italian and biker mafias. He then branched out to Sydney, where, in his late twenties, he used his earnings from criminal activities to establish Knight Enterprises, a legitimate hotel development company. The first project he launched was the Sydney Plaza, where he currently resided in the penthouse suite. He now owned eight additional hotels in Australia and other far-reaching places, including St. Lucia and Dubai.

“His business now appears to be completely legal,” I said quietly. I chanced a glance.

Sullivan Blaise stared at me, his brow casting a shadow over those blue skies.

Yes, I had arrived at the most important conclusion: I was not working for a criminal. The relief I experienced was beyond description, which led me to another important conclusion: I really wanted this job.

“If he is legitimate now, why are you watching him?” I asked.

“That’s a proper question, Charlie.” He eyed me. “Now, I’ll be honest with you in hopes you’ll be honest with me in the future. Fair enough?”

I pursed my lips. I was not agreeing to anything; however, I nodded. (Anything to get this over with.)

“Interpol’s throwing salt on my game. They believe your Mr. Knight’s fronting an international network of organized crime through his legit biz. Interpol’s the International Criminal Police Organization—”

“I know what Interpol is,” I interjected. If ever there was a moment for an expletive it was now. In fact, I wanted to use one of my mother’s: “No fucking way!”

“But why do they think this?” I heard myself whine. “I don’t see any evidence of that in this dossier. Is it in another one of these files?”

He grabbed the pad from me. “No. But it’s true. You’ll have to trust me.”

B, who often takes moments out of songs and movies when we are together to provide helpful, practical advice about lyrics and dialogue, once told me that when people say “trust me” they are lying.

“I’m afraid you will have to explain these leads if you expect me to buy this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not just another grouse bird.”

“I assume you are referring to me.”

He did not answer, just snorted lightly as a side of his mouth hitched up.

Dread clutched at my mind, pinching it hard. I glanced away and clasped my hands together in my lap.

I wish he would leave. Instead, he sat firm in the chair.

“Here’s the thing, Charlie. I don’t need your buy-in. And I don’t give a shit about Interpol. You just need to do what I ask, when I ask. This is my show. No matter what’s afoot. I want to nail him and his boys here. Fair enough?”

“No. It’s not
fair enough
. What sort of things do you want me to do . . . when you want?”

I searched in his eyes for what one normally sees in people with a low IQ, a kind of blank canvas. However, his were neither empty nor vacant, rather the opposite.

“Keep your eyes and ears open, that’s what,” he finally said.

Spy on him. He wanted me to spy on Mr. Knight.

“But I can’t!” I said this sharp and quick. “First of all, you have given me absolutely no legitimate reason to believe Mr. Knight is involved in this . . . collusion among vast far-reaching criminal organizations.” I paused, thinking on the two gentlemen he had introduced me to earlier that morning. Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle. Could one identify moral character based on looks alone? No. “Second, even if you had, I would be breaking my contract with Mr. Knight, which included a two-page non-disclosure agreement with rather foreboding legal penalties. Third, even if I somehow found my way to breaking this contract, and supposing the Interpol allegations regarding Mr. Knight are true, spying on him would place me in an exceedingly dangerous position, and therefore would be wholly illogical of me,” I added, since by his angry expression I could assume he was not following my argument. “You and your organization’s expectations are completely unreasonable, Sullivan. I am sorry to disappoint you and your . . . superiors, but I do not want anything to do with this.”

Sullivan stared at me for a good long while. I had absolutely no idea what to expect from him. Depending on how badly he wanted this scheme, I reasoned that he may try another argument. I glanced over his shoulder, at the room’s only window.

“You make fair points, Charlie. But you’re having trouble following. We aren’t asking.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

My eyes were burning, and I knew what that meant—I was going to cry.

“You don’t help us, we throw you out. Deport you.”

My mouth popped open. I closed it. He was extorting me. “That is illegal,” I whispered.

Sullivan laughed and leaned back in the chair, finally. “Nope. You’re the one out of bounds. Happened the minute you took a job without a visa to work. Regardless, there’s the pesky fact you aren’t an Aussie. I can deport you for looking at me wrong. Don’t give me a reason to.”

“But I do have a visa to work. The government has not mailed it yet, but they approved me!”

“Did they, then.”

“Yes, they did! I put the number down on the Knight Enterprises contract I signed.”

“What number’s that?”

I paused before I spoke.

Aha. He was playing dumb. He had either revoked my visa, or erased it altogether.

I pursed my lips so tight they hurt.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he said after a moment, a tone dripping with sincerity. Likely false. “But here’s how it goes. You can get a call from the staffing department tomorrow morning sacking you, and we ship you back. And there isn’t anything your Mr. Knight can do about it. Or you can do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it.”

I stared straight ahead at the pine beadboard wall. Perhaps this was the moment that in the back of my mind I had fretted over before making the journey: the improbable made probable. The kidnapping you believe will not happen to you. The plane that disappears from the skies, never to be found again, that you happen to be on. The shark attack. As my mother would say, “Life’s a bitch and then you die.”

I closed my eyes. Certainly, I knew making such a drastic change as moving to a new country would entail a multitude of risks. However, I brooded, this was not one of the probabilities I had carefully worked through.

But, I could not fault myself. This was beyond even the hypotheses of a team of Mensa members.

“Charlie.” Sullivan said my name with impatience and shifted around in his seat.

I refused to respond. What could I say? My world was crashing down around me. (For the record, I am rarely prone to such dramatic expression.)

“Look, I know you’re shit-scared,” he said quietly, reaching out and touching my arm. “But what I’m asking is for the good of the country. Knight’s a nasty crim. And you’ll not be in any real danger. Just listen in, report to me, harmless, right, and I’ll leave you alone.”

That’s when I lost the ability to control my emotions.

“What on earth is it that you think I can do?” I asked exasperated, yanking my arm away. “I highly doubt that someone who built up Australia’s largest criminal organization—without once ever being arrested, I might add, at least according to your file—would be sloppy about being involved in an international crime syndicate. Furthermore, I simply cannot understand how your superiors would think a civilian bystander such as me would be of any use—

Oh.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

His lips curved up in a shaky half-smile.

“Your organization does not know you are asking for my help.”

He didn’t respond but the energy in his face, which pulled back his eyes and ears, released.

It was subtle but his face
had
shifted.

I laughed then, falsely, for deliberate effect, stood up and said, “You are beyond reckless. You must be pretty desperate. What makes you think I am capable of this? Did you really try the assistant before me?”

“The one before her, actually, and yeah, I did.” He stood up, looming over me.

I sat back down. He followed my lead. “Only this time, I’m confident. You’re different.”

His words held less logic than a barking dog.

“I don’t want to do it.” I said this quietly.

“Charlie, I’m not asking a lot. Ear hustle. Report back. You’ll manage it no worries. He’s too focused on his third leg and getting it in you.”

The unpleasantness of my stomach dropping, made me gasp. I shook my head. “No. You are mistaken in his intentions toward me. He is a very respectful and kind man.”

“Kind?! This bloke used to be the sheriff of some of the worst crooks in Aussie, and we come from a line of them!” Sullivan gave me that skeptical look I am familiar with. “Charlie. You think it was kindness behind the massive salary he’s giving you?”

“You know my salary?” I asked sincerely surprised. “That is private information.”

He stared at me leaning forward, forearm on one knee. Disbelieving.

“Christ, you’re candy-coated. Look”—he pursed his lips—“I’m going to help you. You help me, I’ll help you. That’s how it’ll go down.”

I felt a headache coming on.

Sullivan Blaise finally leaned back, giving me much-needed space, and pressed his hands on his knees.

“It would seem I don’t have a choice,” I offered quietly.

He smiled.

“I will have to leave the country.”

He scowled.

“Cooperating with you will put me in danger. No, no . . .” I said, shaking my head. “I will have to return home.” As I stated this, a picture of my financial accounts popped into my mind. I had spent a good portion of my paltry inheritance just getting here. I was not sure I could afford the plane ticket back to America.

No. I could not.

And if I let him deport me, he would apply some sort of false criminal charges against me, I assumed. I would have a record and certainly never be allowed to enter the country again.

Perhaps
this
was an appropriate time to cry. I could sense that terrible burn in my nose reaching a crescendo.

Sullivan leaned forward, invading my space again.

“I’m not heartless, Charlie, but your waterworks aren’t going to change the situation. Four years of this, and I’m sick of arsing around. So you listen to me, and listen good. You even
try
to leave, or quit your job, and there will be serious reprisals. Now I’ve been honest with you rather than playing you, right, because I could see you deserve that. Can you look at me, ay?”

I tried to steady myself by counting the silver veins in his blue irises. “No matter what happens, it’ll be alright. You got my word. I don’t give it that often.”

I wanted to believe him in that moment, because it was the only thing that removed the ugly emotion coursing through me. I wiped my eyes and sniffled.