Hello everyone! Okay so the magnificent E.L James owns Fifty shades of grey, I have simply used her brilliant idea to create a Loki fanfiction. That being said this will be m from the beginning containing strong language and of course a lot of sex. The only thing I own are my OCs and of course marvel owns the marvel characters which have been used in this fanfiction. I hope you enjoy xx
Chapter 1
I angrily chuck my hairbrush into the bath as I glare at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair - it has decided to take a mind of its own, and damn Becky Smith for being ill and therefore causing me to be part of this... Thing. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into some sort of order. Why the hell had I slept with it wet? I must not sleep with my hair wet ever again. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with my fingers. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with green eyes too wide for her face (which have been toned down with heavy eye makeup,) and give up. My only option is to restrain my crazy hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable. If that were even possible. Why did I not have time to use my GHDs?
Becky is my roommate, and the horrible, microscopic pathogens have decided, of all weeks, to invade her now.
Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, with some billionaire master mind I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. Something about the Avengers, which I have heard of, and Tony Stark trying to set Mr. Laufeyson on the straight and narrow. So I have been volunteered. Where's my Katniss Everdeen when I need her? I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no - today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to London in order to meet the mysterious CEO of Laufeyson Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious - much more precious than mine - but he has granted Becky an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities. Damn me for agreeing to do this. I'm interviewing someone who tried to destroy Manhattan! Perhaps Becky is faking it so I die instead?
Becky is huddled on the couch in the living room. "Hannah, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Becky begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks cute and gorgeous, blonde hair in place and blue eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy, I'm just jealous the bitch that I am.
"Of course I'll go Becky. You should get back to bed. Would you like some paracetamol or Beechams?"
"Beechams, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all," Becky explained whilst my back was turned. What great help that was going to be.
"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic as I pour out the medicine for her to take. "Well, barely anything."
"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late," Becky smiled up at me. The things best friends make you do. She handed me the recorder.
"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed," I motioned to the bed. "I made you some soup to heat up later." I look at her fondly: only for you, Becky would I do this. I shoved the recorder in my satchel.
"I will. Good luck, and thanks Hannah - as usual, you're my lifesaver," Becky beamed up at me.
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Becky talk me into this. But then Becky can talk anyone into anything. She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful - and she's my best friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Reigate toward London, on the M25. It's early, and I don't have to be in London until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate's lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Sherlock, my old Mini Cooper, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal, the engine growling as passengers turn to stare. I let a grin spread across my face, the Merc was very fun.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Laufeyson's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Laufeyson House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous - and frankly intimidating - glass, steel, and black marble lobby.
Behind the solid marble desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest white suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate. Much more than could be said for me.
"I'm here to see Mr. Laufeyson. Hannah Emerald for Becky Smith."
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Emerald." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than wear my black leather jacket. I look like some rock emo hobo, I mean I have made an effort and worn my one and only knee-length skirt, my sensible black knee-length boots (which may or may not have giant buckles on) and a red sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me. In fact she doesn't, I straighten my back and square my shoulders, I should be intimidating in what I'm wearing, not her. Especially with my ear spikes, I grin, I'm such a rebel.
"Miss Smith is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Emerald. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. I don't fit in anywhere.
Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits. One of them appears to be looking me up, disgusting.
The elevator whisks me up to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby - again all glass, steel, and black marble. I'm confronted by another desk of marble and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in white who rises to greet me.
"Miss Emerald, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the London skyline that looks out through the city toward Canary wharf. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralysed by the view. Wow, I shake my head heading over to the seats.
Sitting down, I fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Becky for not providing me with a brief biography. I barely know anything about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. Hell, I'm an unsociable bitch who doesn't socialise much at all. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic novel, curled up in a chair in my room. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone dungeon.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Emerald. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Laufeyson is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes, it's like Essex here, well minus the immaculate. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Emerald?" the latest blonde asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.
"Mr. Laufeyson will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Please." I struggle out of the jacket. She better not lose it, that thing cost me far too much money.
"Have you been offered any refreshments?" She asked neatly folding my jacket over her arm.
"Um - no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble? I hope so.
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk. If looks could kill.
"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.
"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.
"Olivia, please fetch Miss Emerald a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
"My apologies, Miss Emerald, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Laufeyson will be another five minutes," the blonde struggles to not look up at me as she tells me what to do. I wasn't even wearing heels.
I sit waiting.
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water. "Here you go, Miss Emerald."
"Thank you," I smile, taking the ice cold glass in my hand.
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the marble floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
Perhaps Mr. Laufeyson insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive American man with blonde hair exits. Captain America! I have definitely worn the wrong clothes, shit.
He turns and says through the door. "Paintball, this week, Laufeyson."
I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me, or eager to impress. Probably wants to get in the Captain's pants. I quietly giggle.
"Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door. He has a nice arse.
"Mr. Laufeyson will see you now, Miss Emerald. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says stopping my gaze.
I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
"You don't need to knock - just go in." She smiles kindly.
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.
Double crap - me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Laufeyson's office, lean hands are picking up my stuff as I hastily stand up. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow - he's so young.
"Miss Smith." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Loki Laufeyson. Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?" Pretty polite for someone who tried to destroy Manhattan and kill the human race, but you know...
So young - and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine charcoal suit, white shirt, and green tie with black, straight hair and intense, bright blue eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
"Um. Actually - " I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. "Miss Smith is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Laufeyson."
"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite. Again weird.
"Hannah Emerald. I'm studying English Literature with Becky, um... Rebecca...um... Miss Smith at Cambridge." What the hell was happening to me?
"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit down?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern white desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is black - ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite - a series of paintings portraying a stunning city, almost like photographs like something out of a movie.
"A local artist," says Laufeyson when he catches my gaze. "They are of a place called Asgard."
"They're lovely. Asgard looks amazing," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings.
He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently. "I could not agree more, Miss Emerald," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Becky's questions from my satchel. Not before noticing a golden sceptre in the corner of the room, interesting.
Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Laufeyson says nothing, waiting patiently - I hope - as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile. In fact, I know he is.
"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this." Why the hell didn't I pay attention to Becky's instructions?
"Take all the time you need, Miss Emerald," he says, lips straining to stop a smile.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?" I ask, pushing an escaped strand of hair behind my ear.
"After you have taken so much trouble to set up the recorder - you ask me now?" His lips aren't smiling but his eyes definitely are. Great, I am now being laughed at.
I flush. He's teasing me hopefully. I blink at him, unsure of what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I do not mind."
"Did Becky, I mean, Miss Smith, explain what the interview was for?"
"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony," he waves his hand. They'd trust this psychopath to do that? At least graduation would be interesting...
Oh! This is news though. I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me - okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, crazy, but still - is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Laufeyson." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realisation, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional. If you call trying not to burst out giggling by biting your lip professional.
"You're not the type of person people would have thought would amass such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
"I quite agree. However business is all about people, Miss Emerald, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to manipulate them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his cold blue stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people."
"You haven't been a good person." This isn't on Becky's list - but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise at my comment. Shit, what had I just said?
"I don't suppose I have, Miss Emerald. However I have worked hard to become a better person. It really is all about having the right people on your team to direct you in the right direction. I am now in control of myself and therefore my business. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"
"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
"Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Emerald," he says without a trace of humour in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again. Oh dear god.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? Maybe his overwhelming good-looks? The way his eyes drill into my soul? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip, I really wish he'd stop doing that.
"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft. "As I once said: an ant has no quarrel with a boot."
"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak. Psychopathic control freak.
"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Emerald . That gives me a certain sense of responsibility - power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the weapons business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility. "Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted.
"Apart from Mr. Stark, no. I own my company. I do not have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me.
I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he's so arrogant. I change tactics. "And do you have any interests outside your work?"
"I have varied interests, Miss Emerald." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied."
And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought. Okay...
"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"
"Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth.
I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking, especially a psychopath.
"Well, to 'chill out' as you put it - I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits." He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Emerald, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies."
I glance quickly at Becky's questions, wanting to get off this subject. "You invest in the manufacturing of weapons. Why that specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable? Maybes because he could kill you in less than a minute?
"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of weapons. What can I say?"
"That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts."
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me. "Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."
"Why would they say that?" Why did I ask that? Even I knew the answer!
"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.
"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Becky's list, and besides does he even have friends?
"I'm a very private person, Miss Emerald. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews," he trails off.
"Why did you agree to do this one?"
"Because I'm a benefactor of the University, and for all intentional purposes, I couldn't get Miss Smith off of my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity."
I know how tenacious Becky can be. That's why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams. "You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?" Yes why is a psychopath interested in this?
"We can't eat money, Miss Emerald, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat." His idea gaze flickers to the window then back to me.
"That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about: feeding the world's poor?" Why would a psychopath care?
He shrugs, very non-committal. "It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous.
It doesn't make sense - feeding the world's poor? I can't see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude. "Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?"
"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle - Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control - of myself and those around me."
"So you want to possess things?" You are a psychopathic control freak.
"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do." He smirks again, canines sharp.
"You sound like the ultimate consumer." I roll my eyes, looking out of the window.
"I am."
I look back to see him smiling, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Becky has enough material now.
I glance at the next question. "You were adopted. How far do you think that's shaped the way you are?" Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he's not offended. His brow furrows. Of course he's offended. I've just signed my bloody death sentence! At least I'll die in the arms of an angel... Sort of.
"I have no way of knowing." His frown disappears. "However I suggest you look at my past to make your own judgement."
My interest is piqued. "How old were you when you were adopted?"
"That's a matter of public record, Miss Emerald," His tone is stern.
I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course - if I'd known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research.
I move on quickly. "You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."
"That's not a question." He's terse, hands gripping the chair arms, probably hoping it's my neck.
"Sorry." I squirm, and he's suddenly made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"
"I have a family. I have a brother and father. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that." His gaze goes back to the window.
"What happened to your mother?" I ask. That wasn't on the list either... Shit.
His whole body tensed. His eyes darkened and angry when they meet mine. At me, probably. "It is none of your business what happened to my mother, only that she is no longer here with us today."
"Oh." He wasn't angry at me, it was at what had happened to his mother. "I'm so sorry."
"Next question, Miss Emerald," his gaze has softened.
"Are you gay, Mr. Laufeyson?" Fuck.
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out. How can I tell him I'm just reading Becky's bloody questions? Damn Becky and her curiosity!
"No Hannah, I'm not." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.
"I apologise. It's um... written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear. How many times have I done that?
He cocks his head to one side, black hair falling out of place. "These aren't your own questions?"
The blood drains from my head. Oh no. "Err... no. Becky - Miss Smith - she compiled the questions."
"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" He asks, tucking his hair back into place.
Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. "No. She's my roommate."
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his blue eyes appraising me. "Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing who in this damn mess? His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth, which is quite unusual.
"I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic. What was this man doing to me?
"That explains a great deal." His eyes watch me. Now that was just damn right rude.
I glare at him.
There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters. "Mr. Laufeyson, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."
"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting," Mr. Laufeyson's gaze never left mine as he spoke.
Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She's appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It's not just me.
"Very well, Mr. Laufeyson," she mutters, then exits.
He frowns, and turns his attention back to me. "Where were we, Miss Emerald?"
Oh, we're back to 'Miss Emerald' now. "Please don't let me keep you from anything." I had to show I could be polite.
"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His blue eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very... distracting.
I swallow. "There's not much to know," I say, flushing again.
"What are your plans after you graduate?" His mouth, god dammit the way it moved.
I shrug, thrown by his interest, and his mouth. My plans so far: Come to London with Becky, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals. "I haven't made any plans, Mr. Laufeyson. I just need to get through my final exams."
Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating, psychopathic gaze.
"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?
"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no, I'm musing out loud again. But I'm right.
"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Why is he always cocking his head?
"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde, as well as not stupid enough to work for a psychopath.
"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humour gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on? I have to go - now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks, still watching me.
"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Laufeyson and I do have a long drive." I smiled, turning off the recorder.
"You're driving back to Cambridge in London?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. "It's not that far." He glances out of the window. It's started to rain, well that's England for you. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.
"Yes sir. And I'm driving back to Surrey," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively. "Becky, I mean Miss Smith is at home as whatever it is she has, is contagious. Besides we've left campus to study at home."
"I see," he nodded his head.
"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Laufeyson," I smile.
"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever. Maybes Stark or S.H.I.E.L.D brainwashed him.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
"Until we meet again, Miss Emerald." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves. Or him, rumour has it he's not from around here anyway.
"Mr. Laufeyson." I nod at him.
Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide. Bloody hell, he's tall. "Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Emerald." He gives me a small smile.
Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush. "That's very considerate, Mr. Laufeyson," I snap, and his smile widens. "You'd make a great comedian." I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised that he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.
"Did you have a coat?" Laufeyson asks.
"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Laufeyson takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on.
Laufeyson places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting - awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.
The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's distracting. His burning blue eyes on me.
"Hannah," he says as a farewell.
"Loki," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.
Please review and let me know what you think xx