Chapter One

Elena had always felt somewhat uncomfortable around people. She was an introvert, and had always been shy and quiet, and shrank away from the loud, screaming children she found herself around. She was a modest and polite child, and extremely bright, so her parents never worried she'd find her way in life.

As she hit her teenage years and turned to books rather than boys, they started to worry a little, but knew their lovely young daughter would eventually feel the spark of interest in going beyond the fantasies she found in books.

She dated little in high school. She was quite modest, and quite polite, and expected the same of others. Her expectations were rarely fulfilled, especially with boys. They tended to be loud, obnoxious, rude, crude, and outrageously improper in what they said and did with her.

Even the few interested in a true intellectual discussion were all-too-eager to get their hands on her body at the first opportunity, especially her breasts, which were unfortunately quite prominent. Nor were they gentle, practically salivating with excitement as they squeezed her breasts as though the mere sight and touch had turned them into slavering beasts!

She expected better at college. She was a straight-A student, of course, and her marks were more than sufficient to win her entry to any number of elite universities. Harvard had beckoned, with its lovely old buildings and a campus rich with history. It had, unfortunately, turned out to be a disappointment.

Her roommates were air-heads. Only a short acquaintance told her that Amy, the blonde, got in because her parents were alumni. Millie, the Black girl, got in because Harvard had lowered the marks required for minorities. And Chantal claimed to be 'emotionally disabled' due to various neurosis, as well as being 'non-binary' and insisted on being addressed as 'they' instead of 'her' or 'she'.

As always, Elena kept her head down, had as little to do with them as possible, and carried on with her nose in her books. She had taken Accounting, and in particular, Forensic Accounting as her specialty. She loved numbers, and loved order. She had always loved puzzles, too. Forensic Accounting gave her an opportunity to puzzle out answers through numbers and formulas.

Because she had graduated high school early, Elena arrived at Harvard when barely seventeen. And through studious effort was able to complete her masters of Forensic Accounting at twenty-one, finishing first in her class.

Her college experience had not been one of parties and dating. Far from it. Her life had remained quiet and peaceful – and quite orderly. Which was just the way she liked it. Before graduation, she had a number of interviews from large corporations and accounting firms, and several offers.

She finally settled on the London Bank of Commerce. Which, despite its name, was headquartered in New York City. Elena loved order, and tradition and certainty. The London Bank of Commerce was located in the heart of the Manhattan financial district. But not in a giant skyscraper. Instead it was nicely ensconced in a century old six-story Tudor style building.

The London Bank of Commerce was old money, so old it was practically petrified. It was a corporate bank which handled the business and financial affairs of some of the city's wealthiest people. Its insides matched its outsides, reeking of dignity, age, and extreme wealth.

The walls were paneled mahogany, the floors Italian marble, the chandeliers from France, the richly upholstered buttoned leather furniture hand made in England a century ago, and still looking almost new.

There would be no young men pestering her for sex here! She could dress as she usually did, in a modest, brown, black or gray dress which helped disguise her distressingly shapely figure (distressing because it drew attention to her). Her hair was rich and soft and lush, and it drew attention when it was long. So she had cut it in a soft, loose bob, the tips curling in slightly just below her jaw. Her eyes were a deep, breathtaking brown, but nicely covered by thick-framed glasses.

Elena did not desire attention. Most especially for her looks. That sort of thing only led to embarrassment.

She started work on the fifth floor. Though unlike in most buildings, the top floors did not contain the finest of offices. The two top floors had formerly been an attic (in the case of the top floor) and servants quarters, for hers. The windows were smaller here, the ceilings lower, and the HVAC system in the basement struggled to keep up with the cold of winter and heat of summer.

What she did have, however, was an office. There were no cubicles here. This was an actual office with stone walls, a window, and a real door. It was exceedingly small, of course. She could fit her desk, a filing cabinet, and a visitor's chair in, and that was about it.

But that was more than enough.

She had two large, flat-screen monitors on her desk and a fine computer, and she spent her initial time doing data entry – at which she was extremely fast – and then adding up numbers and setting up formulas for various matching reviews.

She spent the first several months getting settled in, and finding a small apartment across the river in Brooklyn (no one could actually live in Manhattan on her salary). She was assigned a number of files to update and monitor which had been under the care of a Mister Glaston, who had just recently retired at eighty-seven.

It took her some time to puzzle her way through the numbers, as Glaston had not used modern computer software and formulas. And his methodology struck her as slipshod at best. Perhaps because he was old he had not kept as up to date on his files as he should have, she thought.

There were problems with every one of the files, requiring her to put in a great deal of effort to untangle. This meant she had to do overtime (unpaid) but that was fine with Elena. She found it relaxing to go over numbers, though irritating when they failed to add up.

And so it was approaching Nine in the evening when she got up from her desk to go down the hall for more tea. Or rather, for more hot water with which to make her tea. The old building was quiet at this hour of the night. The lighting was not provided by fluorescent tubes as in modern office buildings, but antique sconces along the paneled walls. It was restrained and a soft yellow, but not terribly bright.

She made her way up the narrow corridor, her feet making little noise on the thick rug going down the middle of the wooden floor. It was not a large building and she didn't have far to go. Just around the corner was the tiny kitchen, which was little more than a cupboard, really. It had a sink, though, a small refrigerator, a coffee maker and a tea kettle.

There was, at best, room for two in the little kitchen, provided they didn't mind being rather close to each other.

Elena minded, of course, which was why she did her best to get in and out fairly quickly. Of course, at this time of the evening she had little to fear. She put more water into the kettle, then plugged it in and went back to her office.

Or at least, that was her intention.

Even after three months Elena did not know the people on her floor very well. There were eight other offices, all as small as hers, as far as she knew. She always kept her door closed and listened to soft, classical music on her earphones, so saw and heard little of them.

Above her was the attic, which, so far as she knew, was used only for storage. Except now, as she came out of the small kitchen near the stairs she heard a sound coming from the open door to its left. She had noted it as she'd gone into the kitchen but paid it little mind.

Now... now she heard a strange, repetitive sound coming from the open door. Or rather, coming down the wooden stairway from above. She glanced at her watch, then stepped to the open door and peered up. It was a narrow, curving set of stairs, even more poorly lit than the corridor. But she could see more light coming from the attic above.

She fidgeted with herself, wondering if she dared climb them to see what was causing that noise. It was a soft thumping sound, and it did not have a distinct pattern. She tried to imagine what might be causing it and failed. She almost called up, but did not like to draw attention to herself.

On the other hand, Elena liked puzzles. She was a curious girl and loved to solve mysteries. Which was why she was a forensic accountant. And so she softly climbed the stairs, thinking to peek over the top and sate her curiosity about what could possibly be making such a strange sound!

As she reached the top, she slowed so that she could peek over slowly. She immediately noted large chests of drawers to her left, like old fashioned wooden filing cabinets. As she rose higher she saw more of them, but the noise came from her right, so she turned to look there.

There were more chests, all of them taller than her, arranged in rows. It would be necessary to actually go into the attic and move further forward to find out what was causing the baffling noise. She hesitated, arguing with herself. She should go back down, she thought. But she compromised. She would just spend a few seconds.

She climbed up slowly, making as little sound as possible, and moved past the first few rows of cabinets. Peeking around the last she saw an open area where the sound was coming from. This was an area where furniture was stored against the walls. But space had been cleared in the middle, and a long, thick boxing bag had been hung from a chain attached to the rafters.

A man was standing in front of it, shirtless, wearing boxing gloves, and delivering a series of rapid and violent blows to the bag, which shook and shuddered.

This, of course, was the very last thing (almost) she had expected to find. There was no gym in this building! It wasn't nearly big enough! But this man had created a space for exercise. There were mats under his feet, and several loose dumbbells sitting on an old upholstered sofa.

There was no way he could hear her given the noise he was making, so he continued punching the bag as she gaped at him. She flushed immediately, of course. The man was half-naked! But she found her eyes caught by the large, impressively thick curve of his shoulders, the muscled smoothness of his back, and even, as he turned a little to the side, the thickness of his chest.

Elena rarely found herself attracted to men in the physical sense, which was partly what shocked her about the sudden rise in a very animal appreciation of the man before her. She recognized his face in profile now, for the short beard. She had occasionally seen him on her lunchtime trips to the larger kitchen on the second floor, which had a microwave and toaster oven.

She had no idea who he was, though. Only that he had an English accent.

And a very powerful chest, she thought, feeling a sudden sense of breathless appreciation as she watched him throw harsh, even violent punches into the bag. She flinched at those punches, but there was a dark, animal appreciation of them, as well, on some level she did not quite understand.

She started to draw back. She had already been staring at the man for an indecent length of time, after all. And then his head turned, as if caught by a sound. A moment later he turned around fully and Elena halted, gulping in air – caught!

“Uhm... uh... er... I... please do excuse me,” she said, her voice squeaking slightly as her face reddened. “The sound made me wonder if... if perhaps something wasn't... amiss,” she gulped.

“No, just working out some frustration,” he said. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Miss...”

“Uhm, Smithson,” she said. “Elena Smithson.”

He pulled one of the boxing gloves off, and to her dismay he walked closer. Elena flushed further and dropped her eyes away from staring at all that naked flesh!

“James Wild,” he said, extending his hand.

Elena most definitely did not want to take that hand! But refusing would seem extraordinarily rude, so she hesitantly reached her hand out and put it in his very much larger, very much hotter and very much male hand!

“You're the new girl,” he said.

“Uhm, well, three months or so new,” she said anxiously.

There was so much bare flesh there! And right in her face! And it was so... attractive to the eyes! His skin was soft and lightly tanned, hairless, stretched across quite prominent muscles! The lighting up here wasn't much better than in the hall, and the muscles of his chest and stomach were picked out in soft shadows.

She jerked her eyes away, then forced herself to look at his face.

“I'm working late and... the door was open, you see,” she said apprehensively. “I didn't mean to intrude, Mister Wild.”

“Pretty girls are rarely an intrusion,” he said with a soft smile.

And then he drew her hand upward and bent to brush his lips across the knuckles.

“Enchanté,” he said.

“Ah, er... uhm... th-thank you,” she squeaked.

“Forensic accounting, yes?”

“Uhm, yes.”

“Finding things interesting, are you?”

Elena didn't know where to put her eyes! She had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and she resolutely ordered her eyes to stay there!

“Yes... yes, quite!”

“I imagine you've found Glaston's files in some disarray.”

“Well... to be honest, yes. That's why I'm working late.”

“Whereas I'm working late because of the incompetence and stupidity of some people who ought to know better and don't have the excuse of old age to excuse them.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Not your fault. From what I hear you're frighteningly competent.”

She blushed further. “Oh, well, I don't know as I'm exactly frightening,” she gulped, pleased.

“You quite impressed Lawrence. Old stick that he is he's rarely happy about hiring women, you know. You had to be good to overcome his natural prejudice.”

“I... do my best,” she said.

“And that is all anyone can ask.”

He pulled off his other boxing glove and turned away from her, which let her eyes streak downward across that impressive chest and stomach again before she yanked her eyes away. He went over and picked up a shirt, then pulled it on.

“Must be getting back to work,” he said.

“Me too,” she said hurriedly. “Uhm, pleased to meet you, Mr. Wild.”

He smiled and nodded as she turned away and hurried back to the stairs.

She blew out a puff of air as she reached them and hurried down. Her water was already boiling, so she hurriedly made her tea and then scurried back to her office as she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Back in her office, she closed the door in relief. Back in the security and comfort of not being seen nor having to navigate through difficult conversations. Numbers were sooo much more relaxing!

Of course, they didn't look like James Wild! The man could have posed for da Vinci! He'd put Michelangelo to shame! His voice had been a soft, deep rumble which had seemed to vibrate off the inner walls of her ribs, as well!

His face was a bit harsh, though, or perhaps, dramatic, she thought. He wasn't ugly, but square-jawed, with piercing eyes that made him seem to scowl threateningly. Just looking at that face made her nervous wondering what she'd done that had irritated him! Yet from his voice and attitude he clearly hadn't been upset with her.

She wondered what he WAS like when upset!

Best not to find out, she thought, as she sipped her tea and tried to get back to the numbers.

These numbers, unlike most numbers, were not as soothing as she would wish. They were like singers in a choir out of key with each other. They simply weren't agreeing, weren't adding up. It was irritating because she had not yet been able to figure out why.

Sometimes it was just a small error in a formula. Sometimes it was just one mistaken entry that was throwing off everything else. In order to check she had to go through past records to find out which entry was wrong – if it was wrong at all! She'd already spent some time examining the formulas to ensure they worked.

But this spreadsheet was drawing on numbers from other spreadsheets. And thus she had to validate their origin, too. That meant more than just looking at spreadsheets. She had to go and look at actual files. But she couldn't do that until she had a clue as to which ones might be throwing the numbers off.

It was... annoying!

Also annoying was that images of James Wild kept popping into her head to interrupt her. She'd had little experience with men, and even less with partially, let alone entirely naked men. None of the ones she did have experience with had been remotely like James Wild.

Her preference for men of intelligence and dignity and maturity and an interest in the arts and reading meant they tended to be rather slim, and often short. And none had the kind of barrel chest of James Wild, nor those startlingly visible muscles across their chests and belly.

She wondered how old he was. Certainly he was considerably older than she! Easily in his thirties, she thought. But that wasn't necessarily bad. It meant he was more mature. Perhaps she ought to have been considering the possibility of meeting older men all along. They were bound to be less juvenile and silly and crude.

Was James Wild married, she wondered.