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She knew it the moment he’d closed his eyes, let her call the shots and shouted his pleasure. She’d owned him this weekend just as much as he’d owned her.
This morning she felt sore and sleep deprived, but powerful too. He’d thought she wasn’t strong enough, but she proved she could match him.
The only thing that worried her was his lies. He simply had to know her name. Though he’d been collected enough not to use it. One stuttered ‘darling’ was the closest he’d come to betraying himself.
And she was damn sure he’d been deliberately vague about his business. Probably a lot more besides, but he’d been truthful as well. She’d wanted to cry when he told her about the big picture tattoo on his back. It was like an Albert Namatjira painting. All sweeping scope and earthy colours. It must have taken a talented tattooist months to complete. But when she’d looked through the artistry and understood he’d chosen to glamorise his home town, commemorating his survival and escape from it, she couldn’t help but be affected.
The tattoo showed a dusty landscape, towering gums and a house made to look like a square container. She’d traced it. It was curious. Until it struck her what it was. A shipping container. For a time, he’d lived in a shipping container dumped in the bush. Without running water or sewerage and only a generator for power.
It explained a lot about his ambition and his need for control. It was the type of beginning that would keep most people from getting up in the morning, forget having goals and achieving them on a world stage. Now she understood what he meant about being beaten.
Her wild weekend made the Parker interview feel oddly like an anticlimax. Even in her suit and heels, notepad and mini-recorder in hand, it was hard to get focused on the real world again.
On the walk down Zhongshan Road towards Parker’s office she tried to keep Will Parker’s image firmly fixed in her mind. He was dark-haired, not a dirty blond. He was slender, not muscled like a boxer. He’d wear expensive clothing, not jeans with the knees nearly out of them.
By the time she got to number twenty-seven, she was sweating into the collar of her jacket, uncomfortable in the heat, but ready. This was Shanghai not Shangri-La, and the real world was about to get mighty interesting.
Aileen McVale, a stunningly attractive Chinese woman, met her in Parker’s impressively appointed executive reception area. She was Parker’s PR handler and spoke with an American accent. She was a pro, and after a minute of small talk on the way to Parker’s office, Darcy knew she’d get no interesting insights from her. She did, however, learn Aileen was Shanghai-born, did her MBA at Harvard and was married to an American banker. Parker apparently didn’t stint on hiring top talent.
Her first look at Will Parker confirmed he was the man in the photos. He sat behind a massive desk in a huge room that was so elegantly furnished it looked like a magazine spread. It was hard not to be self-conscious that her one good work suit was two seasons old and a label Parker’s executive receptionist wouldn’t be seen dead in.
Parker was as stylish as the room itself. He wore a hand stitched cool wool suit and a crisp dress shirt that was blindingly white. No tie. But the occasional glint of a cufflink and a fancy watch. He was on the phone and motioned to her to take a seat in an adjacent lounge area. Aileen offered her coffee and small talk to make eavesdropping difficult. She accepted a glass of water, and while Parker was wrapping the call up, Aileen excused herself, leaving Darcy free to assess the illusive Will Parker for the first time.
Dark and handsome—tick. Long limbed so that fit with tall—tick. Sexy in those frameless glasses—tick. Not a hunchback or a physical affliction in sight. It was hard to see why this man had a problem being more widely photographed. And none of the photos had done justice to his personality. They didn’t show his ease, his languid grace or the knowing look in his eyes.
He hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.” He had a modified Australian accent, no ocker, no country. It spoke of private school and quality education. He stood, made eye contact. “Did Aileen offer you a coffee?” He came around the desk and he was indeed tall, maybe 6’4, 6’5. “I’m a mean barista.”
“Yes, thanks. I’ve had mine already this morning.” Darcy held her hand out to shake. “Darcy Campbell.”
“Pleased to meet you, Darcy. I’m Peter Parker.”
13. Spun
“Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses.” — Confucius
Spiderman.
It was the first word that surfaced in Darcy’s head. Peter Parker. Who the hell was Peter Parker, other than Spiderman?
“You’re Peter Parker?”
“That’s right.” Tall, dark, and not Will Parker, gestured to the sofa. “Please take a seat.”
“Will is your brother?” It was a reasonable guess. Younger, older, she had no idea.
“Yes, and unfortunately he can’t be here this morning. I’m terribly sorry about that.” Peter didn’t look in the least bit sorry. If anything he looked smug.
“Peter, I’ve flown from Sydney to interview Will. If it’s a matter of timing, I can wait.”
“I afraid it’s not a timing issue.”
“Are you cancelling the interview?”
“I’d be happy to talk to you instead.”
“You?” She didn’t mean to be insulting, but why would she want to interview Peter Parker in place of Parker Corporation’s founder and CEO? Peter Parker could be the snappily dressed company odd-jobs man for all she knew.
Peter laughed, so presumably guessed what she was thinking and found it amusing. “I’m general counsel.”
