The Fidelity World: Invictus (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 3

  A wide smile is his first reaction, followed by a rueful glance behind him in the direction of his two associates. When his attention returns to me, he lifts my hand and kisses the back of it. “You can call me Felix King.”

  He stands and moves as if to leave. I watch him look at the back of his hand before he starts to walk away. I pray that he’ll turn back to me. Just as my hopes begin to drop, I sense his hesitation, and the stutter in his step gives him away a moment before he turns back to me.

  “And it’s not a matter of if that phone call comes, but when. You have my word, Ida Montoya.”

  FOUR

  Felix

  Walking away from Ida is much harder than it should be. I like the way I feel when I’m with her. She doesn’t have any expectations for me, she was simply happy to have someone help her when she was knocked down. It made me feel useful because I was able and willing to do something for her when everyone else on that sidewalk, including the man who was responsible for her injuries in the first place, just kept on walking like she didn’t even exist.

  “Seriously man, what were you thinking?” Mario ducks close to me when he asks the question.

  I ignore him, instead letting the sudden blast of cold wind that swirls around us when we exit the building steal his words. Hunching down in my coat, I wait for Serge, my bodyguard, to step in front of me and lead the way. I haven’t a clue where I am, but I know it’s the closest to content that I’ve been in a long time.

  Whether that was from the unprecedented freedom, being with Ida, or a combination of both—I guess time, and a phone call later today, will tell?

  “I didn’t mean to piss you off,” Mario says. I keep my head straight, my gaze zeroed in on the back of Serge’s head and pretend like I’m not listening. Not that my lack of participation deters my best friend from continuing. He’s always been a little enamoured with the sound of his own voice. “And, I still think I’m right. That job is perfect for you. It’s short term, which means that you won’t grow attached. You’re discreet by nature and because your circumstances have always necessitated that you be so, and while I agree that you are experienced in some aspects of life, there isn’t exactly a huge demand for Crown Princes around here.”

  He elbows me lightly in the side. I stop walking and turn to face him. My hands are bunched into fists, my eyes narrowing when I see that he’s laughing at me. Just before I open my mouth to tell him where to go, he shoves a torn piece of paper at me.

  “Take it, ring this Harry and see what he has to offer. If you’d bothered to stop trying to find an insult in everything that’s said to you, you’d have realised that I was trying to help you achieve your objective for this year. See if you can get this job as Felix King, not Felix Von Sonderberg.” I snort when he mentions the name my father used on the documents for my new identity. Making my last name King was a typical passive aggressive manoeuvre from the master of manipulation runs my life. “You might surprise yourself, man. Not everyone is like your father, some of us are actually rooting for you.”

  As much as his words sting, he’s right. By the time he’s finished, I’m feeling like a complete asshole. Most of my reaction to what he said in the penthouse was from my own self-doubts. Mario didn’t set out to insult me, I was ready to admit defeat prior to him showing me the job advert.

  “I’ll think about it,” I reply evenly, taking the piece of paper from him. It feels heavier than it should when I shove it in my pocket—almost like it’s weighed down by the apology that I should be giving. Acknowledging my bad behaviour would be the grown-up thing to do, but my pride tells me that taking a leaf out of my father’s book would be easier. I can pretend like it never happened while I continue on my merry way, seemingly impervious to the whispered disapproval that trails behind me.

  One of the perks of being royalty, I guess.

  No sooner has the thought hit that I’m shrugging it off. Doing the exact opposite of my father is the path to growth. And, at the end of the day—God, I hate that saying—personal development is what I’m in this city to find.

  Mario lifts a shoulder half-heartedly in response to my attempt to blow him off, then walks away ahead of me. I scramble to catch up. I didn’t like what I saw just before he turned away and the hurt I caught in his expression makes my decision for me. Ego, be damned. Best mates don’t grow on trees. Especially ones willing to put up with the stringent rules that govern my life.

  “Mario,” I splutter, breaking into a jog. Serge must see that I’m on the move again because he falls into place behind me within two steps. “Dude. Stop. I’m sorry for being an asshole. It’s just… everything sucks.”

  Stopping, I wind my fingers through my hair and tug. The long sigh that empties my lungs, also sends a cloud of condensation in front of my face, when my warm breath hits the cold air. I close my eyes and grind my teeth.

  “I get it,” Mario says. He pats my shoulder in a show of brotherly solidarity. “You couldn’t pay me to be you. That’s why I think you need to think outside the box. Don’t come to New York and live a watered-down version of your normal life. Drop every perk that comes with being you and find out what life would be like if you were really Felix King.”

  Lowering my arms, I hold my hand out to Mario. “Consider it a done deal.”

  “Deal,” he agrees, shaking my hand. As I pull my hand away, Ida’s name and number catches my attention.

  Holding it up for Mario to see, I make my first decision. “I should ask her to lunch.”

  My best friend grins. “Dinner would be better.”

  Serge grunts. It’s a relatively positive sound so I take it as agreement.

  “Okay. Dinner it is. Beforehand, I want to—”

  My request is cut off when Serge waves a silencing paw-seized hand at me. He presses his ear piece, pauses to listen, then replies. “No can do. The falcon has other plans.”

  The use of my official tells me that they’re talking about me, and that the person Serge is listening to is from the office of the King. My family codename is “Joy”. Personally chosen by my father, it’s another backhanded compliment playing on the origins of my first name and the curious fact that he still considers me to be his pride and joy.

  Serge shakes his head. He growls at the person on the other end, “Not my place. I’d advise you send a formal request to his personal secretary.”

  His advice falls on deaf ears. Serge glowers into the distance for an instant, then composes himself. When he looks at me, his normal mask of pure professionalism is present.

  “Your meeting this afternoon has been rescheduled to this evening. A dinner date, as such.”

  I was supposed to have a meeting this afternoon with a firm that my father uses when he’s in the country. My attendance was mandatory, although my wholehearted participation was to be decided at my own leisure.

  “Tell them I have other plans,” I decline immediately.

  I haven’t phoned Ida yet, but I’m certain that she will accommodate me. My instant attraction was definitely reciprocated. Her delightful response to pressing my face into her cleavage was proof of that. A woman doesn’t wriggle in a mans arms like that unless she’s already having less than innocent thoughts.

  “As I mentioned, he has other plans,” Serge states without emotion. Me and Mario can see his annoyance, however his training is such that no one else would be able to tell. The answer he receives to his objection ratchets his frustration up a notch. A bulging vein in his forehead—the one that Mario and I have nicknamed Popeye because it reacts to his anger in the same way that Popeye’s arms responded to spinach—gives him away. It pulses and strains, like an angry barometer for his current level of rage.

  “Felix.” The stress in his voice pulls my attention from his forehead. I meet his stern gaze with my own and know straightaway that I won’t be taking Ida out for dinner tonight. “The King sends his regrets for intruding upon your vacation, however he feels confident that you will understand the need to m
ake this meeting a priority above your other more-provincial pursuits.”

  My father is right. I do understand why he’s asking me to make this meeting a priority. The knowledge that my parents’ marriage is one in name only, nowadays, has never sat well with me. My gut tells me that this has more to do with my dad’s needs and less to do with my mother’s want since she still worships the ground he walks on. Cause of the delicate situation aside, their détente means that my dad has been forced to find companionship elsewhere—as in, not in our home country.

  Luckily, he found an appropriate solution quickly.

  Suitable candidates with the necessary breeding, education, and connections plus the requisite discretion would be hard to come by without the assistance of a company called Infidelity. Their entire existence is predicated on providing exactly what rich, powerful, time-poor people require—a no strings attached companion for a specifically contracted period. Since, my deal with my father included attending half a dozen official engagements during my year away, all of which requires appropriate arm candy to accompany me, I’d been recommended as a potential client by a member of their exclusive clientele. It was my family’s PR team’s way of hedging their bets, as they doubted that my day-to-day life as Felix King would put me in contact with anyone worthy of being seen on my arm.

  “Okay,” I concede with ease. “I can ask Ida to have dinner with me tomorrow night. Would’ve looked pretty desperate calling her today, anyhow.”

  Serge’s expression is blank. Mario gives me a tight grin. They know I’m disappointed, but they also know, like I do, that capitulating on this point is smart. Picking your battles isn’t only wise when you’re dealing with my father, it’s vital for self-preservation.

  Mario slings an arm across my shoulders and we follow Serge down the sidewalk. As we go, I hear him humming a familiar tune. “The King is Dead” by Elton John has provided us many a moment of levity during my life. I join in until we hit the third chorus. That one we sing at the top of our lungs, laughing like a pair of lunatics while we dance around and make our best jazz hands.

  Impromptu performance over, we’re taking the steps at the front of my building two at a time, when it dawns why I’m not as upset as I’d usually be about my father’s manipulative manoeuvres or the fact that he preferred to speak to the head of my security team instead of directly to me.

  He doesn’t know what I have planned with Ida… because Ida doesn’t even know yet. And, not even my father can wreck something that hasn’t happened yet.

  FIVE

  Ida

  White dots of spittle have gathered at the corner of my boss’ mouth while he’s been tearing strips off me for being late. His vitriol would have pierced my soul any other day. Today, I’m strangely Zen. The comments about my lack of intelligence, my lack of gratitude for the chance that he took on someone like me, and the aspersions he cast about the potentially incestuous circumstances of my birth should have triggered tears at least. Any other time, grovelling would have commenced the moment I hobbled through the main door into our suite of offices. As much as I hate this job, I need it more than it needs me.

  Not today, though.

  Today I don’t care what Bruce has to say.

  Today I don’t care that I’m probably out of a job when he runs out of cliched insults to hurl my way.

  Nope, today I care about missing a phone call from a handsome stranger. My saviour. The man who I’d spent a whole twenty minutes with this morning before deciding that it was the best twenty minutes I’d had in the last decade. Felix, the apparent visitor to this city, who’d said it was not a question of if but when he’d call me on the number I’d written on his hand. A number that connects to a phone that I broke this morning in my rush to get to this office to be yelled at by a man who’s terrorised me with his random mood swings, inability to set an editorial deadline and stick to it, and constant “accidental” brushing of his dick against my ass whenever I had my back to him.

  “I quit,” I say the next time Bruce pauses to catch his breath. “I’ll clean my desk out right now and be on my way.”

  Hobbling in the direction of my desk before he can say another word, I ignore his spluttering and plonk my butt in my chair. The second my weight is off my ankle it stops throbbing. Without the pain clouding my judgement, I can think clearly.

  First things first, I need to get out of here, and that means organising a ride home.

  “Hey,” I say, perching the handset of my desk phone between my chin and shoulder. “Can you come and get me? I’ve busted my ankle and can’t walk home.”

  Marta doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I can come right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Does that mean you’ve been fired?” she asks. Breathless excitement colours her tone, sparking my own enthusiasm.

  “No, it means that I quit.” Bruce stalks into my line of vision. His scowl encourages me to continue in a louder voice. “You were right. I hate this job. Bruce takes advantage of my skills and I really think I should take them elsewhere. God knows, I could do with a pay rise that’s more in line with my experience.”

  My best friend giggles on the other end of the line. “He’s listening, isn’t he?”

  “Yep,” I chuckle, a huge grin curving my lips.

  “Well, regardless of the reasons behind your decision, I’m still proud of you,” she says. My smile grows bigger. Her approval means the world to me because, bitchy moments aside, we truly want the best for each other. “I know that my company would love to hire someone like you. I can give you a reference at any time. Just say the word and it’s yours.”

  “Err, thanks, but I’m sure I’ll find another job quickly.” My understanding of Marta’s job is next to nil, but I know it’s not something I’m interested in.

  From the outside, it looks like she attends exclusive parties on the arm of her friend, Gabriel. She flies all over the country at his whim and on his dime, then spends the rest of her time wallowing in our apartment with whatever piece of man meat has her attention that week. The random men are usually a discreet distraction that she drops like a hot potato the second Gabriel summons her again.

  To me—and everyone else who asks—she describes herself as Gabriel’s “Social Advisor.” Personally, I think he’s more of a very benevolent sugar daddy and she’s trying to save face by pretending that their relationship is more professional than it really is.

  “Print media is dying,” Marta replies. As usual, she’s oblivious to my feelings about the subject. “Plus, it’s a ridiculously competitive industry anyway. I can hook you up with flexible hours and a great income. That way you can concentrate on writing the next great American novel without selling your soul to someone like Bruce for eight-hundred words in his glorified newsletter or bartending at that seedy bar in the middle of nowhere…”

  I tune her out and concentrate of emptying my desk into the big bag that I keep in my bottom drawer. This day was always hovering on the horizon, so I’d made sure that I never kept more in the office than I could carry out in my arms. Bruce had fired enough people in front of me to warrant the preparation.

  Marta pauses, so I fill the silence with a vague, canned response. “Uh, huh. Sounds good.”

  This sales pitch is one she gives me at least once a month and it requires nothing more than the most absent-minded replies from me. Money, and the social standing it brings, doesn’t interest me. I’m a writer, not arm candy. If I wanted to spend my life draped over a powerful man while I nodded like a Stepford wife at every inane comment he made, I could go back home and marry the man my parents have had me informally betrothed to since birth.

  Which is a fate worse than death in my mind.

  “Awesome!” Marta’s eager exclamation drags me back to the here and now. “I’ll ring them to set up an interview. They’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

  “Marta. No.” I attempt to cut her off. “I’m not…”

  She either doesn’t hear me or
she chooses to ignore my protests. My money would be on the latter.

  “Once, I’ve made the call, I’ll get my driver to bring me downtown, so we can help you empty your office. Oh, Ida, I’m so happy you’re doing this. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  “Don’t,” I splutter. “I didn’t mean to agree to an interview.”

  It’s too late. The phone I hold in my hand is dead. Not that it would matter. Once Marta thinks she has the okay for one of her hair-brained schemes, nothing will get in her way.

  As I place the phone back in its cradle, another urgent problem hits me. I quickly search for the number I need on my computer. Picking the handset back up, I dial the number and wait for someone to answer.

  “Hi,” I say when the call connects. “I’ve broken my cell phone and need to organise a replacement as soon as possible. How quickly can you send me a new device?”

  The salespersons response brings a faint smile to my face.

  “Using your priority program will get me a new phone by this afternoon? Wonderful. How much will that cost?”

  This answer isn’t quite as pleasing, but it’s necessary so I agree.

  “Great. Can you please have it couriered to the address on my account. I’ll be there all afternoon, waiting for the delivery.”

  After I’ve ended the call, I sweep the rest of the items on my desk into my oversized bag. With my handbag on one side and my canvas bag on the other, I do my best to hobble to the exit. I might be down to one low-paying job and have accidentally agreed to an interview at Marta’s workplace, but the biggest worry clouding my mind right now is that Felix will ring before my new phone arrives.

  As worries go, it should be bottom of my list, but the knot in my stomach begs to differ and the squiggly feeling in my chest refuses to listen to me when I tell it to chill out.