Desire & Blood - The Thorne Siblings

15. The Coffee & The Muffin

I had been tempted to call in sick next day. But that would have been evasive, cowardly—too much like something my mother would do.

I'd face the consequences of my actions, whatever they'd be.

So I went through the motions, commuted to TCorp, swam the pool, and settled at my desk.

Sandra was back, too. For a moment, I considered asking her for advice. But I didn't want to drag her into this mess.

So there I was, working at my computer and editing account entries—as if nothing had happened. As if there wasn't a storm brewing on Top Floor.

The black telephone on my desk was a panther poised to ring at me. Each e-mail notification popping up made my heart miss a beat. I expected Thierry to barge in, eyes ablaze with blue fury, or Thomas Thorne's secretary to call me upstairs for a detailed report.

Yet the first of the morning's disruptions was the greasy-haired courier bringing the usual cardboard tube from the flower shop.

Camille yawned an actor's yawn. "Your admirer's attentions start to get boring."

I unstoppered the parcel and pulled out the rose. It was orange, like the one the day before. A sigh escaped my lips.

"Ah, she'll swoon on us," Camille said.

I rolled my eyes, not in the mood to explain that it had been a sigh of relief. Thierry seemed yet to be unaware of my talk with his father. And so were Camille and Sandra—I didn't want to involve them in this matter. When I'd go down, I'd do it alone. I didn't want to drag them with me.

"You're getting lots of flowers." Bob's voice behind me made me jump. "Who is he? He makes me feel jealous. I wanna smack the guy."

The man was clueless, no one had told him.

"You definitely don't want to smack him." Camille laughed.

The confused stare he gave her was priceless, making Camille laugh even harder.

No, Thierry was definitely not a man you should smack. But that was exactly what I had done.

Camille had recovered from her hooting. "It's Thierry Thorne. He's the one sending her all these flowers."

"Our Thierry Thorne?" Bob pointed at the ceiling, towards Top Floor.

"The one." Camille nodded.

"Oh my," Bob leaned against a desk and looked at me. "Be careful there, girl."

I shrugged. It was too late for that kind of advice. And I wouldn't have heeded it anyway. Not from him, not from anyone.

"How can we help you, Bob?" Sandra said into the embarrassed silence.

As usual, I blessed her for her changing the topic at the right moment.

"Ah, yes..." Bob nodded. "I wanted to ask you about the monthly report on—" He stalled, mouth hanging open, eyes on the door.

I turned, expecting to see a fuming Thierry ready to tear my heart out.

But it wasn't Thierry. As incongruous as a dark elf in a supermarket, Theresa Thorne stood in our office. She wore an indigo coat as if she'd just been outside.

"Miss Thorne?" Bob stood straight. "What a pleasure to see you here."

She glanced at him, nodded, and then her eyes settled on me. "Miss Anderson?"

"Um... yes?"

"Please, come with me."

Here it came. Whatever it was. I got up, slowly, a reluctant arrestee ordered to follow her to Top Floor, to the shooting squad waiting there for me, guns loaded and ready. My heart was hammering against my ribs, trying to get out and to be elsewhere.

As usual, her eyes wandered downwards to take in my wardrobe, and she found me lacking. "You may want to take your... coat with you."

This was unexpected. I looked at Sandra. She raised her eyebrows.

Grabbing my denim jacket from the back of my chair, I walked over to Theresa. Without a word, she turned and headed for the door.

As I left the office, I glanced back to see three incredulous stares trailing us.

We walked the corridor in silence. At the elevators, she pushed the call button with the down arrow.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Some place... where we can talk."

The elevator arrived. A man in a gray suit stood by the cabin's buttons. When he saw Theresa, he moved to the back wall and lowered his eyes. We descended in wordless silence. With the man listening, I refrained from asking what this was about. But my mind painted pictures of her taking me to a dark alley. A secluded, hidden place where Thierry was waiting for me.

~~~

She led me to a green microcar squatting on one of the VIP parking lots and asked me to get in.

For a moment, I hesitated. But then I shrugged, chasing the thoughts of the dark alley away—they were ridiculous and I really wanted to know what this woman wanted from me.

Once folded up inside, it was surprisingly comfortable, apart from the discomforting fact that the vehicle seemed to extend by no more than a few inches in front and behind me. And the way she pulled out, turned the car, and dashed for the north gate didn't help to assure me of my safety.

Her driving was as jerky and random as it was fast. She had her eyes on the road, and her face was taut—not a relaxed driver.

She didn't look talkative. I bit my tongue.

The whole scene reminded me of my drive with morose Thierry. Siblings!

When we were speeding along the highway, towards the mountains, she seemed to relax a bit, and I broke the silence. "What's all of this about?"

"My father..." she said, "he has told me about the talk you had with him, yesterday. He's asked me to get the details from you. He couldn't come to the office today, he's got a bad cough."

I remembered Thomas Thorne's coughing at our meeting. So it was no surprise that he had dispatched someone else for the details. But I wouldn't have expected him to send his daughter to drag me out of TCorp, though.

She nudged the wheel to change to the right lane, the sudden motion rocking the car.

We left the highway at the next exit, and she raced through a neighborhood I wasn't familiar with—well-tended, gardened homes surrounding a quaint central district of shops and restaurants. I was gripping the door's handhold, bracing myself for sudden changes of speed or direction—which was fortunate, as she suddenly hit the brakes and slowed down to turn into a parking lot.

I wondered if she knew that her car had turn signals.

"Here we are." She killed the engine and got out.

After unfolding myself from the microvehicle, I studied the place. We had parked in front of a quaint, wooden building surrounded by a generous garden with tall trees. A small, windowed veranda was crammed with a handful of tables and chairs. A polished board of dark wood with golden letters hung from the eave—The Coffee & The Muffin.

Theresa headed towards it. I shrugged and followed her.

What was this all about?