Pale Stranger (PALE Series) (2 page)

He chuckled; this guy was easy to please. "I can see what you mean, but my offer still stands. Come to my house for the interview at eight o'clock tomorrow evening and we'll see what we can work out." That worked for me; I didn't have any college classes that late. He tossed down a twenty dollar bill for a fifty cent cup of coffee and slid off the stool.

The fellow wasn't giving me much time to think about this offer, and he'd given me even less information to decide what to do. "Wait, I don't even know your name!" I protested as he walked toward the door.

He paused and glanced over his shoulder with a dazzlingly pale smile on his face. "It's John Benson," he replied.

"And don't you want to know mine?"

He shook his head. "I don't need to know it. I'll just call you my little Angel."

I wasn't modest enough to dispute the angel tag, but the little was not quite accurate. He was out the door and gone before I could say anything else.

Sheila came up to me with her hand raised and a finger pointed at the door. "H-h-he's-"

"-gone, I know," I finished for her.

She whipped her head to me and frowned. "Didn't you hear his name?" she snapped at me.

"My memory hasn't slowed up these long minutes with him," I countered.

I noticed Sheila's attitude had changed from a cowering coward to a giddy schoolgirl. "Then don't you know who he is?" she whispered.

"The only things I need to know is that he's a guy offering me a job, and I don't have to strip to do it."

"He's
the
John Benson, of Benson Investments," Sheila explained to me.

I stared at her blankly. "He's who of what?"

Sheila rolled her eyes. "It's only one of the largest investing companies in the country, and he's the head of it!"

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I would have heard about a business with an albino at the head of it. News like that's too good for the papers to ignore."

"It's because he doesn't let anyone see him. He works from home and rarely travels."

"Then how do you know it's him? John Benson isn't exactly a rare name."

She snatched the card from my hand and pointed at the B. "See? That's his company's logo."

I snatched the card back and stuffed the card into the front of my blouse. The damn thing stuck out and I abandoned my attempt to look cool by shoving it into my pocket. "So how come you know so much about him?" I asked her. She was the type of girl who only looked at a man's business to assess his bank account.

"Because he's young, eligible, and I knew he lived somewhere around the city," she told me. "So are you going to go?"

I shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. I don't work tomorrow, so I may as well see what he's offering."

She pressed against me and clasped her hands together. "Can I go with you? Pretty please?"

"You work tomorrow," I reminded her.

"Yeah, but if he really likes me I may never have to work again," she countered.

"How about you catch your own wealthy businessman and leave him to me? Besides, you're scared of him, remember? Pale skin and creepy blue eyes?"

We jumped when something hard knocked against the window and reminded us of the end of the world outside. That scared the gold-digger out of Sheila, and she nervously glanced at the windows and nodded. "Yeah, on second thought he's all yours. I'll wait for the next one."

CHAPTER 2

Truth be told I wasn't sure I wanted this rich man, either. The way his blue eyes looked at me made me feel nervous, and that's why the next day I brought Old Unreliable out of the closet. It was a handgun of ancient lineage, sometime before Elvis, and hadn't been properly cleaned since the King's death. That made it a very unreliable gun and possibly a dangerous gun. It was probably more likely to shoot a person behind the gun than in front of it. Still, it was all I had for protection against this odd rich man and his strange propositions.

The next thing I did was call my mom. She lived in the same city but clear across town, much farther from my college than I wanted to commute so I lived in my own dingy apartment. She answered the phone after two rings, probably because she recognized the number and knew she wouldn't be harassed by a telemarketer, just her daughter. "Hey, Mom," I greeted her.

"What do you want now?" she asked me.

"Advice. Is that free or do I need to give you my debit card number?" I joked.

"Trixie Calhoun, don't you dare say that number of the phone. Goodness knows who will hear it," she scolded.

I rolled my eyes. "Probably just us and the rats in my apartment."

She sounded exasperated. "And I wish you'd move back home. I know you wanted to be closer to the campus, but that filthy place is just disgusting."

"It won't be home for much longer if I can just finish these next two years of homework and dirty looks from the teachers," I pointed out. "But I called to ask your advice about something. I met a guy last night-"

"Finally!" she exclaimed.

"-who for all I know is married," I continued. I heard the steam escape her inflated hope. "And he said he might have a job for me, maybe a better one. I said I'd come by his home tonight and see what he's offering."

Mom didn't sound happy about this at all. "Where does he live?"

"According to the address he gave me, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, or a fifteen miles out of town," I replied.

"And how long have you known this Mr.-?"

"We talked for about fifteen minutes," I guessed.

My mom sighed. "Trixie, this sounds really bad. How old is this man? What does he do?"

My heart sank, but I wasn't going to take the safe route out; fortune favored the bold, and I was hoping for a small fortune from this rich benefactor. "He's about thirty and Sheila told me he runs his own company. Some Benson Investors or something"

"That doesn't bring me comfort," Mom dryly commented.

"I know, that's why I'm taking Old Unreliable. If anything goes wrong I can make the situation worse."

"For you or him?" she wondered.

"If I'm the one in back of the gun it might be more me," I admitted. "But he was sickly looking, so if push comes to rape I think I can take him."

Mom groaned. "Trixie, I know I can't convince you to not go, but please,
please
be careful, and don't forget your cell phone."

"I'm a college student, Mom, I have that with me twenty-four seven." I often forgot it in my car. "And I'll call as soon as I get back from the house."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I ended the call and sighed. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right, this was a dangerous undertaking. The big problem was I was a little desperate on cash. I had a big rent payment coming in a month along with a new semester of book-buying that was sure to drive me into poverty, and my pay at the diner couldn't cut through soft cheese, much less these large expenses. If I went without food I could make things work, but my body refused to die for my college tuition.

There was always the option of asking my mom for money, but my pride wouldn't allow it. No matter how much I'd begged Pride, it always said no; damn stubborn thing. That meant my last hope was this unusual offer from an even stranger man to drive out to his place far in the country to see about the unknown job. What could go wrong?

That evening I got into my car that smoked so bad it looked like it ran on coal, and drove out to Mr. Benson's house. Thanks to Google maps I knew where I was going, otherwise people would've seen my skeleton driving by still searching for that damn road. I took so many lefts and rights that I was cross-eyed and upside down by the time I hit the final road up to the place. When the house came into view I was pretty impressed, and horrifically terrified. It was an old Victorian mansion complete with ghoulish gables, ominous eves, and spooky steps. The lawn around the house was well-kept and a circular driveway ran up to the front porch. There was a garage on the left side of the house with a heavy cloth that ran from the exterior door of the house to the garage side door. I parked at the steps, but made sure not to hit the parking brake just in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

I stepped out of the car and was surprised when lightning didn't ominously flash across the sky behind the house. The stairs up to the porch squeaked like they needed oil, and an old Marley knocker sat in the center of the door. I gingerly grabbed the knocker and banged it against the entrance. The noise echoed through the hollow-sounding house, and in a minute I heard a quick tapping noise. It grew louder and faster the closer it came to me like a bomb about to go off, and I was just about to duck for cover when the door swung open. Rather than a bomb there stood a bombshell in the form of a beautiful woman. She was average height and a mathematical improbability of 36-24-36. A lot of women would have killed to have those measurements, making a lot of women murderers. Fortunately for this woman I was not one of them, and I smiled at her. "Hi, um, is this where Mr. Benson lives?"

She looked me over with the only displeasing part of her: narrow, suspicious eyes set behind a pair of small, square glasses. I knew we were going to be good friends when she sneered at me, and her voice sounded like she'd rather let the dogs loose on me than talk to me. "You must be Miss Angel," she spat out.

I wiped the spittle off my face and my smile got a little thinner. "Miss Angel is too formal. Please call me Miss Calhoun."

My joke fell flatter than a buttered piece of toast dropped onto the floor. "Follow me, and remember to close the door."

She probably thought I was born in a barn, which showed how little she knew about me; I was born in a tool shed. I stepped inside and saw that the decor was done up in late eighteenth century Dracula, complete with no mirrors. On my left and right were the dining and living rooms. In front was a long hallway that stretched to the back of the deep house, and beside the hallway rose a narrow staircase with a landing to reach the second floor.

Miss Measurements led me upstairs where the hall curved back to run in line with the long hallway on the bottom floor. We stopped in front of a door that looked like every other one, and she knocked. "Mr. Benson, your-" she glanced at me with venomous snake eyes, "-guest is here." With this woman I felt like a meal waiting to be eaten.

"Bring her in," came the familiar voice of the pale stranger. I almost bowled the woman over to get at him; I preferred Dracula over this She-Beast any day. At least he'd make love to me before eating me. The room we stepped into was a bedroom done up in a spartan style complete with Greek vases on a shelf. The bed sat opposite the door beside a window, and Mr. Benson lay under the covers with a smile on his face. "Good evening."

I wanted to ask if he drank wine, but the situation was uncomfortable enough with viper lady beside me. "Um, good evening. Nice place you have here. Must be popular with the trick-or-treaters."

The woman rolled her eyes, but Benson chuckled. "It would be very popular if there were any children this far out." He glanced to the woman. "You may leave us now, Miss Sievers." She nodded, cast another wishful look of death-and-horrible-pain at me and left us alone, taking some of the tension with her. I breathed a sigh of relief loud enough for the sharp-eared man to hear me. "Does she make you uncomfortable?" he asked me.

She'd make a psychopath nervous, but I had to act professional in this very unprofessional room. "A little," I replied.

"I must admit she isn't very friendly, and as my personal secretary and diplomat I need someone more personable who isn't afraid of both my opponents and me."

I thought I heard a job opening in his words. "Personal secretary? Is that the job you want me for?"

He nodded. "Yes. As you can see I'm not a very photogenic person myself and need a face to act as a go-between for me to the outside world."

"But you were out last night," I pointed out.

"A doctor's appointment, and you can see the success." He gestured down to his sheet-covered self. "But I don't believe you came here to discuss my medical matters. How are you with in writing down notes?"

"I've caught several pencils on fire from taking orders," I replied.

He chuckled. "This I have to see." He grabbed a pen and pad beside on the nightstand and held them out to me. I hesitated, but he wasn't insulted. "It's fine, these don't bite."

"Have you ever had a paper cut?" I countered, but took the items.

"Now try to write down everything I say." He spoke a few lines about stocks and bonds, and I took them down as well as I could manage. "Now let me see what you wrote." I handed back the pad, and a puzzled expression swept across his face. "I can't read this at all."

I shrugged and smiled. "It's my own shorthand for taking orders. No cryptographer or cook has ever deciphered it."

"So that's why waitresses always yell the orders," he mused with a grin. "Read back the contents and let me see how well you wrote down my words." I took back the pad and repeated the lines. He gave a satisfied nod. "Very good. Now do you know anything about investing or stocks?"