Knight's Mistress
Page 1
CHAPTER 1
She’d done her research like she always did before an interview. So she knew about him. Thirty-two, Stanford graduate, adventure traveller, and a more or less self-made billionaire who’d stopped counting zeros long ago. Quirky, too, but then so many in the start-up world were. Maybe even a little more than quirky since the death of his wife. But those rumours were confined to obscure blogs in cyberspace and were impossible to confirm.
Not that she cared about the man’s private quirks. She was here because his company had recruited her at MIT and working for Knight Enterprises, the most innovative, venture-capital company in the world, would be a dream come true.
Arriving last night from the East Coast, she’d expected to meet with one of Dominic Knight’s lieutenants at corporate headquarters in Santa Cruz. But an early morning email had sent new instructions. And here she was on a quiet tree-lined residential street in Palo Alto.
The cab driver came to a stop and pointed. ‘That’s it.’
She looked out the window, mentally flipped through her Art I memories and decided it was one of Green and Green’s rare, turn-of-the-century homes. The structure was surrounded by a beautiful, hundred-year-old Japanese-style landscape specific to the building design. It was an unusual venue for an interview, but no explanation had been given for the site change. Although, with the possibility of being offered her dream job, who was she to question the reasons why?
She stood for a moment on the sidewalk as the cab drove away, surveying the small redwood building. In her junior year she’d stayed in a mountain village in Japan, in a temple inn much like this, for what was supposed to have been a long weekend. So enchanted by the quiet isolation, she’d stayed a week. Strange that a street so near a major metropolitan area was as tranquil; she glanced around, unsure for a moment whether she was dreaming, her memories so intense.
Then a lawnmower powered up somewhere behind her. She shook off her reverie and moved with an easy stride towards the entrance to 630 Indigo Way.
A reception desk had been placed in the centre of the foyer and a secretary who’d been reading set down her book and looked up. She could have been some teenager taking a day off from school: ponytail, jeans, waist-skimming T-shirt and flip-flops. The girl bore a startling resemblance to the photos of Dominic Knight. Although, according to his bio, he didn’t have children.
Interesting.
The young girl smiled. ‘You must be Dominic’s four o’clock. He’s not here yet but he told me to tell you to go on in.’ She waved in the general direction of a hallway and went back to her book.
Dominic, not Mr Knight. Even more interesting. As if it mattered, she reminded herself and gently cleared her throat to get the girl’s attention. ‘Actually, I have an appointment with Max Roche. I’m Katherine Hart.’
Kate stood there for a moment, an awkward pause stretching between them while the girl apparently read to the end of a sentence before glancing up. ‘I think it’s Dominic you’re seeing. Lemme check.’ Shoving a pencil in the book to hold her page, she clicked a computer mouse, the screen on a sleek monitor came to life and she briefly scanned it. ‘Nope, not Max. Dominic.’ She pointed again. ‘Down the hall, last door. I’m supposed to ask you if you want coffee.’ Then she smiled and went back to her reading.
You didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know coffee wasn’t an option, so Kate followed the suggested route. The hallway was lit by clerestory windows, the lustrous light illuminating a photo gallery of sailing vessels; some large, some less so, all glorious action shots of sleek racing yachts, sails aloft, running with the wind. She stopped for a moment and leaned in close to a photo of two yachts together. Both were full-rigged, one boat heeling so hard to starboard that waves nearly skimmed its rails. And dangling inches above the water, one hand on the rail, the other reeling in a line, drenched with sea spray, was the CEO of Knight Enterprises, younger, thoroughly wet, a wide, exultant smile on his handsome face.
‘That was a World Cup race off New Zealand. Sorry to keep you waiting. It was unavoidable.’
The deep, rich voice was at ear level. Jerking upright, she swung around, gasped, breathed, Holy shit, then flushed. Dominic Knight in all his dark, sensual beauty was standing there, up close and personal, his quick raking glance so casually assessing that she should take offence rather than feel a shocking rush of pleasure. She almost gasped at the jolt, but caught herself in time because salivating in front of Dominic Knight would be super-embarrassing and useless. He did models, aristocratic babes, high-end call girls. Researching his personal life had been like reading Entertainment Weekly.
Oh God, he still hadn’t moved. Was he testing her sense of personal space? Was this some kind of psychological power thing? If it was he was winning because his tall, powerful body, sleek in a navy pinstripe bespoke suit, was way too close, way too personal. Her heart was pounding, she was having trouble focusing her thoughts, the speech synapses from her brain to her mouth were misfiring and unless she got herself under control, she was going to blow this interview. Breathe in, breathe out. Now say something normal. ‘The – weather’s – great … out – here.’ Breathless and sputtering. Shit.
His faint smile widened.
Arrogant bastard. But having finally regained her wits, she didn’t voice her thoughts.
His gaze amused, as if breathless women were the norm in his life, he said calmly, ‘I agree. Did you have an uneventful flight?’
She’d done her research like she always did before an interview. So she knew about him. Thirty-two, Stanford graduate, adventure traveller, and a more or less self-made billionaire who’d stopped counting zeros long ago. Quirky, too, but then so many in the start-up world were. Maybe even a little more than quirky since the death of his wife. But those rumours were confined to obscure blogs in cyberspace and were impossible to confirm.
Not that she cared about the man’s private quirks. She was here because his company had recruited her at MIT and working for Knight Enterprises, the most innovative, venture-capital company in the world, would be a dream come true.
Arriving last night from the East Coast, she’d expected to meet with one of Dominic Knight’s lieutenants at corporate headquarters in Santa Cruz. But an early morning email had sent new instructions. And here she was on a quiet tree-lined residential street in Palo Alto.
The cab driver came to a stop and pointed. ‘That’s it.’
She looked out the window, mentally flipped through her Art I memories and decided it was one of Green and Green’s rare, turn-of-the-century homes. The structure was surrounded by a beautiful, hundred-year-old Japanese-style landscape specific to the building design. It was an unusual venue for an interview, but no explanation had been given for the site change. Although, with the possibility of being offered her dream job, who was she to question the reasons why?
She stood for a moment on the sidewalk as the cab drove away, surveying the small redwood building. In her junior year she’d stayed in a mountain village in Japan, in a temple inn much like this, for what was supposed to have been a long weekend. So enchanted by the quiet isolation, she’d stayed a week. Strange that a street so near a major metropolitan area was as tranquil; she glanced around, unsure for a moment whether she was dreaming, her memories so intense.
Then a lawnmower powered up somewhere behind her. She shook off her reverie and moved with an easy stride towards the entrance to 630 Indigo Way.
A reception desk had been placed in the centre of the foyer and a secretary who’d been reading set down her book and looked up. She could have been some teenager taking a day off from school: ponytail, jeans, waist-skimming T-shirt and flip-flops. The girl bore a startling resemblance to the photos of Dominic Knight. Although, according to his bio, he didn’t have children.
Interesting.
The young girl smiled. ‘You must be Dominic’s four o’clock. He’s not here yet but he told me to tell you to go on in.’ She waved in the general direction of a hallway and went back to her book.
Dominic, not Mr Knight. Even more interesting. As if it mattered, she reminded herself and gently cleared her throat to get the girl’s attention. ‘Actually, I have an appointment with Max Roche. I’m Katherine Hart.’
Kate stood there for a moment, an awkward pause stretching between them while the girl apparently read to the end of a sentence before glancing up. ‘I think it’s Dominic you’re seeing. Lemme check.’ Shoving a pencil in the book to hold her page, she clicked a computer mouse, the screen on a sleek monitor came to life and she briefly scanned it. ‘Nope, not Max. Dominic.’ She pointed again. ‘Down the hall, last door. I’m supposed to ask you if you want coffee.’ Then she smiled and went back to her reading.
You didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know coffee wasn’t an option, so Kate followed the suggested route. The hallway was lit by clerestory windows, the lustrous light illuminating a photo gallery of sailing vessels; some large, some less so, all glorious action shots of sleek racing yachts, sails aloft, running with the wind. She stopped for a moment and leaned in close to a photo of two yachts together. Both were full-rigged, one boat heeling so hard to starboard that waves nearly skimmed its rails. And dangling inches above the water, one hand on the rail, the other reeling in a line, drenched with sea spray, was the CEO of Knight Enterprises, younger, thoroughly wet, a wide, exultant smile on his handsome face.
‘That was a World Cup race off New Zealand. Sorry to keep you waiting. It was unavoidable.’
The deep, rich voice was at ear level. Jerking upright, she swung around, gasped, breathed, Holy shit, then flushed. Dominic Knight in all his dark, sensual beauty was standing there, up close and personal, his quick raking glance so casually assessing that she should take offence rather than feel a shocking rush of pleasure. She almost gasped at the jolt, but caught herself in time because salivating in front of Dominic Knight would be super-embarrassing and useless. He did models, aristocratic babes, high-end call girls. Researching his personal life had been like reading Entertainment Weekly.
Oh God, he still hadn’t moved. Was he testing her sense of personal space? Was this some kind of psychological power thing? If it was he was winning because his tall, powerful body, sleek in a navy pinstripe bespoke suit, was way too close, way too personal. Her heart was pounding, she was having trouble focusing her thoughts, the speech synapses from her brain to her mouth were misfiring and unless she got herself under control, she was going to blow this interview. Breathe in, breathe out. Now say something normal. ‘The – weather’s – great … out – here.’ Breathless and sputtering. Shit.
His faint smile widened.
Arrogant bastard. But having finally regained her wits, she didn’t voice her thoughts.
His gaze amused, as if breathless women were the norm in his life, he said calmly, ‘I agree. Did you have an uneventful flight?’
