CHAPTERTEN
CRIMSON
I’m not sure what’s expected of me when I wake. For a few minutes, I lay still, listening out for any sounds from the rest of the household. When none occur, I get out of bed and walk through to the ensuite to have a shower, then dress in the outfit Micah selected for me last night.
He’d bypassed the fancier garments, picking a t-shirt and jeans. Even though I have to roll up the cuffs, when I check in the mirror, the outfit looks comfortable and cute.
Following that, I make the bed, then sit on the end. Should I go outside? Should I stay where I am?
The clock says it’s after nine already and Micah didn’t seem like the type of man who’d allow himself to sleep-in. In all probability, that means no one’s coming to fetch me. I need to go out and let him know I’m awake.
When I tap on his bedroom door, there’s no answer. I swallow down a gulp of disappointment and continue downstairs, then along the corridor to stare out at the expansive view. The floor to ceiling glass showcases a panoramic scene of the Auckland waterfront. Good enough to stick on the front of any tourist brochure. Even the smudges of dark grey cloud over the waterline aren’t enough to spoil the effect.
The living room might be spectacular but it’s also empty. I turn in a circle, my head cocked for any sound. There’s a small crash behind one door—the kitchen if memory serves—and I head for it first, pausing just before I push it open to paste a smile on my face.
A woman stands at the counter, happily bobbing her grey-haired head along to a poppy beat. Obviously not Micah, I wonder if it’s his mother. “Hello?”
The woman spins on her heel, raising the wooden spoon in her hand as a defensive weapon. When she sees my tiny frame in the doorway, she tentatively drops it back to her side. “Good morning. Are you a guest of Mr Webb?”
“I—” My words dry up. Am I? “Is he here?”
She places her spoon carefully on the bench, so the head dangles over the sink, then wipes her hands on her apron. “Were you expecting him to be?”
“Yes.” When her expression doesn’t change, I grow impatient. “Does that mean he isn’t?”
“It means I’m not revealing details of my employer’s whereabouts until I know precisely who you are.”
From the look she gives me now, scraping her eyes from my bare feet to the top of my hasty ponytail, the only thing she feels for me is disdain. “I’m Crimson Petrovic. His fiancée.”
Something changes in her face. A quick smile, there and gone, replaced with the same disapproving expression as before. “That’s a new word for it,” she mutters after another second passes.
“A new word for what?” The t-shirt feels too tight, and I pluck at the collar, wondering how it’s possible for me to feel far too hot while still being cold.
“For being Micah’s new lady.” She frowns then turns back to what she was doing. “He’s flown down to Christchurch. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I step back through the door, not sure where that leaves me. Micah might have told me yesterday he didn’t plan anything but knowing I’m so far from his thoughts that he didn’t even think to leave a message makes me feel about an inch tall.
Without another plan, I retreat to my room. At least that space actually feels like mine.
The bedroom is white; pretty much a given considering the colour scheme of the apartment, but at least this one has eggshell drapes breaking up the harsh lines of the windows. Underfoot, there’s an enormous sheepskin run that feels glorious under my bare feet. Sixteen pelts stitched together. Again, white.
I creep across to the chaise lounge near the window and stare outside. This view isn’t as spectacular as the main living area, facing another building just as high, the panorama is cut in two.
Am I supposed to know what to do? There isn’t a list of instructions anywhere that I can see, and the one staff member I’ve met doesn’t seem at all welcoming.
Maybe I should go for a walk. Clear my head and get my bearings and whatever else a half hour of crowded pedestrians streets is good for.
A large man stands in front of the lift.
“Hey,” I greet him, striding confidently over as though I have every right to be in this apartment and every expectation that he’ll let me leave. “Micah said he’d organise a lift code for me. Do I get that from you?”
The man shifts from one foot to the other. “Not from me. Sebastian issues the codes.”
“And how do I reach Sebastian?”
“You don’t. Micah will call him if he needs to.”
