Catching the Shark

1

The elevator opened at the thirty-seventh floor, and Riley Mattson stepped onto a carpet so deep it squished. Noticing the herd of butterflies in her stomach, she wondered why the sudden nerves. She’d wormed her way into offices even higher up than this. How was this time any different? Don’t answer that, she decided, and approached the receptionist.

Her nameplate said Alice Gibbons, and the lady was a model of corporate propriety. With silver hair braided and pinned at the back of her head, a tailored white blouse and gray skirt, she looked so efficient that the Riley’s butterflies multiplied. If this was the receptionist, what were they looking for in an Executive Admin? Someone with White House experience?

Alice Gibbons smiled. Ms. Mattson?

Surprise must have shown on her face, because Alice continued, Security called up from the lobby and told me you had arrived. She lifted her phone and tapped a single button. Riley Mattson is here. Yes. She hung up. Mr. Townsend’s office is down that hall on the right, three doors from the end. He’ll meet you.

Riley thanked her and started down a hallway the length of a landing strip. She recalled Mr. Townsend’s college basketball career, and doubted he had to play much basketball these days to keep in shape. He probably walked a good five miles before lunch just going back and forth to his office. She hadn’t gone far when a man emerged at the other end and started toward her. He had some papers in his hand and didn’t look up. She studied him as they approached each other, noticing first that he wore a white shirt and gray pants that were an exact match for the receptionist’s outfit. She hoped it wasn’t a uniform of some sort.

He was a little over six feet tall, with light brown hair cut almost short enough to hide the wave across the top. His walk was confident, and she could tell by the ease of it that he didn’t know he was being watched. The sobriety of his wardrobe was offset somewhat by a lavender tie. A brave choice, but it looked good with the gray. When he was perhaps eight feet away he finally glanced up, hitting her with a gaze so blue it was probably radioactive. Cheekbones by Michelangelo, and a slight cleft in his chin. Her butterflies suddenly felt more like a nest of ferrets.

A hint of something, curiosity maybe, crossed his face, then he smiled at her. She smiled back, slowing a bit in case this was Jack Townsend, but he kept walking so she did too. Again she wished she’d been able to find a picture of her potential boss, but in a that question would be answered as soon as she got to the end of this hallway. If she got to the end of this hallway.

Where was everybody? All the doors were closed; silence reigned. Had there been a nuclear explosion and they were the only ones left? She smiled, forgetting her nerves for a moment. There were worse-looking men to face the end of the world with, and she couldn’t resist a peek behind her to see if Mr. Lavender Tie’s backside was as good as his front.

It was. Great shoulders. Slender hips, long legs. Your basic go-home-and-eat-chocolate-every-night kind of co-worker. She sighed. How often would this vision be roaming the halls, and would she have a desk in a position to appreciate it? Hold your horses, she said aloud. You don’t have the job yet.

She reached the proper door at last. It stood slightly open, J. Townsend tastefully engraved in gold on a black plate just above eye level. She rapped on the wood below the nameplate. No response.

Mr. Townsend? she said, setting one foot inside the door and pushing it open a little wider.

Then she saw the office, and gasped in surprise. It wasn’t terribly large, containing only a mahogany desk and credenza, and a conference table surrounded by chairs that looked so comfortable she hoped she’d never have to sit in one. It was hard enough to remain conscious during most meetings, without having to sit on an ergonomically correct marshmallow that begged you to relax.

No, the gasp was directed at the wall she now faced. A wall of glass, looking out over Lake Michigan as glass can only look when it’s thirty-seven stories in the air. Fat white clouds hung above the water, which was dotted with the sailboats of a July afternoon. A bit to the north she could see Navy Pier and its magnificent Ferris wheel. With a view like that, how did this guy get any work done? Who are you kidding? she muttered. He probably never looks up from the desk.

He certainly wasn’t looking up from it now, because he wasn’t there. She took a step backwards, preparing to turn and start back down the hall, and bumped sharply into something that said, Oof.

She jumped, then got herself turned around enough to see a white shirt and lavender tie about six inches from her nose. I’m sorry! she exclaimed, feeling her face catch fire.

He stepped back, and she could see the rest of him at last. I’m sorry, too. He grinned as she looked up at him. I walked past you just now because I thought I was expecting a man. Alice sent me back. Forgive me. He held out his hand. Jack Townsend.

His long fingers wrapped easily around her palm as she squeaked out, It’s a common mistake. She focused on the bridge of his nose so he would think she was making eye contact when in truth she didn’t dare. Not while she was standing, at any rate.

Come in. Can I get you some coffee? A soda?

Bank presidents personally offering drinks to prospective employees? Apparently the tie wasn’t the only unconventional thing about him. No, thank you.

He walked to the conference table and pulled out a chair for her. She let her enfeebled knees collapse and it wrapped around her like a hug. Nope. A person definitely didn’t want to spend too much time in one of these. He seated himself beside her, far enough away to be professional, but not so far they couldn’t speak comfortably. A faint scent of something woodsy clung to him, as well as an aura of controlled energy and confidence guaranteed to drive all coherent thought into the next county. The ferrets started making themselves comfortable again.

He laid the papers on the table. The top one was her résumé. How did you come by such an unusual name? At first she thought he was making chitchat, but when she finally managed to look him in the eye, all she saw was genuine curiosity. And long eyelashes.

Umm...it was my mother’s maiden name. Focus, Riley. He may be beautiful, but that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. You came here looking for the truth about Chicago Bank & Trust, and you won’t find it in his smile; you’ll find it in his filing cabinets. You need this job.

That did it. Need wasn’t a strong enough verb. Whether her snooping paid off or not, this job might be the only thing between her and the soup kitchen. She sucked in a deep but unobtrusive breath, sat up straighter in her chair, set one elbow on the arm of it, and waited politely for the next question. He was scrutinizing the bottom of her résumé and apparently found what he was looking for, because he smiled and glanced back up at her. You graduated from high school in Lexington, Virginia. I couldn’t quite place the accent.

She’d worked hard to tame that childhood leftover. It made her distinctive, and in her line of work that wasn’t a good idea. It was best to be able to blend in, and most of the time she succeeded. It was a rare person who noticed, and she’d only spoken about ten words.

He leaned back, resting his arm on the table. But we didn’t call you in for an interview because you might sound like Scarlett O’Hara. It’s your minor in French that caught my eye. Are you fluent?

Definitely not one for chitchat. Yet another plus. She nodded. I’ve continued studying it since school: books, movies, forums. Whatever channels I can find.

He nodded. We are in negotiations on a project with the City of Geneva, and none of us speak French or German. If I’d been thinking ahead, I would have studied a foreign language in college myself, but a minor in Computer Science made more sense at the time.

From what I’ve heard, you haven’t wasted it.

He raised his eyebrows, looking pleased. You’ve read up on us?

As best I could. For such a large outfit, you keep a low profile.

He waved a hand. We’re a bank, not a movie studio. You majored in journalism. What made you choose this line of work?

She shifted in her seat, rattling off a well-rehearsed line. It wasn’t quite what I had imagined. Even before the internet sent everything to he—turned everything upside-down, when I divided my salary by the number of hours I was expected to work, I discovered I was making two-fifty an hour.

I know what you mean. The way things are around here, I figure I’m pulling down about eighty-nine cents.

You sound like a man in need of a good assistant.

That I am, he said, easing his gaze up to meet hers. Something crackled so sharply in the air she almost jumped. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, but she could have sworn he’d touched her.

For the first time, his friendly professionalism faltered. He glanced down at the table, pushed back his chair and stood up, then walked over to the desk and began sifting through some paperwork on its top. You—um—have never worked for a financial institution before?

She cleared her throat. No. But the basics of my job are consistent, regardless of the business. I realize there will be a fair amount of jargon and probably legalese that I’ll need to learn, but I’m willing to do that on my own time if necessary. She decided to try a little humor. Unless, of course, you expect me to understand the stock market. That, and graphing calculators. I never could get the hang of those things.

He smiled, picked up a folder and came back to the table. He set it down in front of her and she saw it was one of those portfolios that companies often hand out to prospective clients. Here’s a bit of literature about what we do. You can take it home with you. Your position would be calculator-free, and as for the stock market, it isn’t that difficult if you have the right teacher. She fought the urge to close her eyes as he continued, I’m actually looking for someone with little prior experience in banking; that way I can raise ‘em to suit me.

She didn’t know quite how to take that remark, but knew how she wanted to. They needed to turn down the thermostat. About forty degrees ought to do it. He must have seen something in her face because he blushed a little and leaned against the table instead of sitting back down, folding his arms and clearly intending to keep his distance. Do you have any questions about us, or what your job duties would be?

Oh, did she have questions, but, Have you ever bribed a legislator? didn’t sound appropriate at this stage. Is it always this quiet up here? Is this whole floor just yours?

He laughed outright, but she could tell it wasn’t directed at her. Normally, this place is about as quiet as a ‘Hawks game. Everyone is downstairs at a meeting; that’s why I scheduled the interview for now. His eyes twinkled. I wanted to make a good first impression and not scare off a potential employee with people running around as if the building were on fire.

Are you big on meetings?

You mean, do I like them, or do I attend a lot of them?

Both, I suppose.

I don’t like them. Don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who does, but they’re unavoidable. Do I have a lot of them? I’m already averaging two to three a day, and that’s what it was for Dad. He dropped his arms, his fingers curling around the edge of the table. There is one meeting that I’ve always enjoyed, though. I meet my assistant at Louie’s, next door, first thing on Monday mornings, so we can go over the week and what we need to accomplish.

That sounded interesting. Why can’t you do that here? From this angle, she could see how his shoulders pulled at the fabric of his shirt. An air of coiled grace hung about him and she had no trouble imagining them wrapped around a basketball. Or whatever else he might want to wrap them around.

Because even if you hang up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and put your phone on automatic ignore, you still can’t get a half-dozen sentences out without someone poking their head in and saying, ‘This will only take a minute.’ Then, it’s ten thirty and the two of you have only ironed out your schedule as far as Monday afternoon.

Riley felt a cozy glow as she pondered the novelty of looking forward to Monday mornings. She shoved it away. Why are you hiring a new admin? Surely you had one at your previous position.

Yes, I did. And I begged her to come with me, but she decided this change was all the reason she needed to retire. She’d been threatening to for about three years, whenever I’d get out of hand. But I was surprised when she finally did.

Do you get out of hand often? She cringed. Quit flirting.

She thought I worked too hard.

Imagine that.

One side of his mouth quirked up in a guilty smile, and this time she saw the glimmer of a real friend. Someone to watch bad television with and call at two a.m. when you had a horrible cold and craved something from the drugstore to knock you out. She nearly stood up to leave. This would never work.

"Are you the threatening type?" he asked.

Only if provoked. Was she right?

Excuse me?

About you working too hard.

He ran a finger across his lower lip, staring at the wall behind her head. I work hard. And I work a lot. But I think I know how to stop working. It helps that the folks we have here get along so well together. Most of the time it feels more like a family reunion than an office. A faint smile crossed his face as he said that, and she could see it wasn’t a line. He enjoyed his job and the people he did it with.

Do you travel a lot?

I’ll probably have to travel more, with this position, but we try to keep it to a minimum. With this Swiss thing... He tapped a finger against her résumé. Ever been to Geneva?

She caught her breath as one of the ferrets gave a sharp kick. Images of snow-covered Alps, quaint lodges and hot chocolate sipped beside a roaring fire—with someone’s brown hair glinting gold in the flickering light—flitted across her mind. No, never, she said, horrified to hear herself whispering.

He gave a brisk nod and pointed to a door behind the desk. "Your office is in there; that way you can keep an eye on me and let me know if I’m running late. I’m really bad about clocks. When I’m talking to someone, I have