Page 25 of Unmasked

CHAPTER EIGHT

DAMIANSATBEHIND his desk, turning the compact mirror over in his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get that night out his head. It was odd, since he didn’t usually mull over a one-night stand. Especially when it was clear up front that it would be a onetime-only thing.

But something about the redhead had got him all tangled up. For the first time in four years, he was thinking about something other than work.

He frowned at the compact. It’d been sitting on the floor of the limo, and he’d almost missed it. Must have fallen out of her bag when they’d knocked it to the floor.

How on earth was he supposed to return the damn thing without a name or phone number? It looked old, possibly a family heirloom. An important item. But there were no distinguishing marks on it—no engravings or product details. Nothing that might help him identify the mysterious masked woman.

Placing it carefully on his desk, he turned to stare out of the huge window that framed the city view like a piece of art. From his level thirty-six office, he could see everything: the tracks running into the Flinders Street railway station, the ribbon of water cutting through the city, the spire at the Arts Centre, and the great stretch of green from the gardens. Ever since he’d walked into his first office job, he’d had his eye on a big corner office just like this one.

It’d taken a few years of slumming it, first working out of his apartment and then—when he’d hired a team—out of a crappy, falling-down building in the inner suburbs north of the city. But his collection of smaller clients had led to some medium-size fish. And those had led to bigger fish. Now he had two blue-chip clients and a healthy list of medium-size businesses that made him very good money.

But he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had McPartlin & Co.

“Damian?” His assistant, Leila, poked her head into his office. “I’ve got a call for you, but you’re supposed to be meeting with Corinna in five minutes.”

“Who is it?” He swung back around to his desk and raked a hand through his hair. “If it’s the tax office again, put them through to Greg. I don’t have time—”

“It’s Jerry McPartlin,” she said. Leila’s expression didn’t reveal a thing, but Damian had worked with her long enough to detect the hint of judgement in her voice. Since he’d poached her from his ex-boss’s company, she knew the history.

“Put him through.”

Leila frowned but didn’t argue, and a second later the red light on his desk phone flashed. “Hello?”

“Mr. McKnight, how are you?”

“Call me Damian.” He reached over to his laptop and pulled up the file he’d been working on before his first meeting with McPartlin. It had everything he knew about the guy and his company—from personal and professional achievements to the AFL team he supported. “I’m well. Did you enjoy the Carmina Ball?”

“I did. The TAFW charity thanks you for your generosity.”

The charity were the organisers behind the Carmina Ball. They had a lot of powerful people in their ranks and worked to raise money for various recipients, most notably the Royal Women’s Hospital.

“I wasn’t aware you were affiliated with them.” Damian scanned his file, but nothing about the charity appeared there.

“It hasn’t been announced yet, but I’ll be joining their board soon.” He cleared his throat.

Damian leaned back in his chair. This was going to go one of two ways: either McPartlin had decided to give him a shot at his business, or he was calling to ask for a donation. “So are you calling to tell me you’ve decided to come across to McKnight Management after all?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the man replied in what Damian could only imagine was his “stern father” voice. “But I thought we could have dinner.”

Damian had to force himself not to fist pump. This was the opening he’d wanted—a chance to show what he was made of. And really, that was all he needed. Because once Jerry saw Damian on his game, that asshole Ben wouldn’t stand a chance of hanging on to McPartlin & Co.

“And by we, I mean including my wife and your lovely fiancée,” Jerry added.

Shit.“You really want to put them through the tediousness of a business dinner? I’m not sure about your marriage, but Ariel and I have a no-shop-talk policy at the dinner table.”

“It’s not a business dinner. It’s a social dinner.” McPartlin paused. “For now.”

“Right.”

“And maybe your fiancée could let us know where she got that incredible mask. Sandra is dying to find out.” There was a hint of amusement in the older man’s voice.

“Of course,” Damian said smoothly. No way in hell was he going to pass this opportunity up, and if he couldn’t locate the redhead, he’d find a substitute. Because the one thing no one had seen was her face.

Not that anyone else would even come close to her. This woman was the first in years to leave him wanting—wishing. But he knew nothing about her. He had no leads...other than the compact.

“I’ll get my assistant to call your office tomorrow and set it up,” Jerry said. “I look forward to seeing you both.”

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