Françoise Bonnefoy is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu.
Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, but no today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the CEO of Jones 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 Françoise an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her.
Franny is huddled on the couch in the living room.
"Alice, 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," Françoise begs me in her rasping throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gorgeous, blonde hair in place and blue eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny.
Of course I'll go Franny. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"
"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all."
"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.
"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."
"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Franny, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks Alice you're my lifesaver."
Gathering my satchel, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Franny talk me into this. But then Franny can talk anyone into anything.
She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful and she's my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland.It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Franny lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, 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.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Jones's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Jones 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 sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen.
"I'm here to see Mr.Jones. Alice Kirkland for Françoise Bonnefoy."
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Kirkland." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Kate's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue 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.
"Miss Bonnefoy is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Kirkland. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all.
Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby - again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman who rises to greet me.
"Miss Kirkland, 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 Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly curs-ing Franny for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. 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. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Kirkland. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegantly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Kirkland?" the latest blonde asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.
"Mr. Jones will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket.
"Have you been offered any refreshment?"
"Um - no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns
"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks me.
"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.
"Olivia, please fetch Miss Kirkland 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 Kirkland, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes."
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
"Here you go, Miss Kirkland."
"Thank you."
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
Perhaps Mr. Jones 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 African-American man exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Jones."
I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!
"Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door.
"Mr. Jones will see you now, Miss Kirkland. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says.
I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel,I 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. Grey's office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow - he's so young.
"Miss Bonnefoy" He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Alfred F. Jones. Are you alright Would you like to sit?"
So young - and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with blond hair and with a single cowlick, bright blue eyes that hide behind glasses 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 Bonnefoy is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Jones."
"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.
"Alice Kirkland. I'm studying English Literature with Franny, um...Françoise...um... Miss Bonnefoy at Washington State.
"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?" 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 dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white 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 mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
"A local artist. Trouton," says Jones when he catches my gaze.
"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted by the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
"I couldn't agree more, Miss Kirkland," he replies, his voice soft and for some reason I find myself blushing.
I shake my head, and retrieve Kate's questions from my satchel. 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. Grey 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.
"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take all the time you need, Miss Kirkland he says.
"Do you mind if I record your answers?"
"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder - you ask me now?"
I flush. He's teasing me I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."
"Did Franny, I mean, Miss Bonnefoy, 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."
Oh! This is news to me, and I'm pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me - okay, maybe six years or so, and mega successful, is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging attention back to the task at hand.
"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Jones." 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 realization, 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.
"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
"Business is all about people, and I'm very good at judging people. I know what inspires them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his 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."
"Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Franny's list - but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
"I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Kirkland. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. 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 Kirkland," he says without a trace of humor in his smile,he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me His overwhelming good-looks maybe The way his eyes blaze at me The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip I 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.
"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak.
"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications 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.
"I own my company. I don't 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 tack.
"And do you have any interests outside your work?"
"I have varied interests, Miss Kirkland." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason, I'm heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.
"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.
"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 Kirkland.
I glance quickly at Franny's questions, wanting to get off this subject.
"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask.
"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. 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?"
"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.
"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Franny's list.
"I'm a very private person, Miss Kirkland. 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 intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Bonnefoy off my back and I admire that kind of tenacity."
I know how tenacious Franny 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?"
"We can't eat money, Miss Kirkland, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat."
"Is it something you feel passionately about Feeding the world's poor?"
He shrugs
"It's shrewd business," he murmurs, 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. I'm very singular, driven. I like control - of myself and those around me."
"So you want to possess things?" You are a control freak.
"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do."
"You sound like the ultimate consumer."
"I am." He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over.
"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.
"I have no way of knowing."
"How old were you when you were adopted?"
"That's a matter of public record, Miss Kirkland." His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap.
I move on quickly.
"You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."
"That's not a question." He's terse.
"Sorry." I squirm, I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"
"I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that."
"Are you gay, Mr. Jones?"
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, Crap. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this question
Damn Franny and her curiosity!
"No Alice, I'm not." a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.
"I apologize. 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.
He cocks his head to one side.
"These aren't your own questions?"
"Err... no. Franny - Miss Bonnefoy - she compiled the questions."
"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. My face is aflame.
"No. She's my roommate."
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me.
"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth.
"I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic.
"That explains a great deal."
There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.
"Mr. Jones, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."
"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."
Andrea hesitates. 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. Grey," she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.
"Where were we, Miss Kirkland?"
"Please don't let me keep you from anything."
"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His blue eyes are alight with curiosity. 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?"
I shrug. Come to Seattle with Franny, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals.
"I haven't made any plans I just need to get through my final exams."
"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." I'm musing out loud again.
"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde.
"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone. I tear my eyes away from him and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. I have to go now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks.
"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Jones, and I do have a long drive."
"You're driving back to WSU in Vancouver?" He sounds surprised. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern."Did you get everything you need?" he adds.
"Yes sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow.
"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Jones."
"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
"Until we meet again, Miss Kirkland." I frown. When will we ever meet again I shake his hand once more, surprised that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.
"Mr. Jones." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.
"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Kirkland." He gives me a small smile.
He's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.
"That's very considerate, Mr. Jones," I snap, and his smile widens. I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.
"Did you have a coat?" Jones asks.
"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Jones takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and I shrug it on.
Jones 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.
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 gaze at me.
"Alice" he says as a farewell.
"Alfred" I reply. And the doors close.