For Your Love

Rain lashed against the windows of the 43rd floor office like angry spirits demanding entry. Henry Jansen's fingers hovered over his keyboard, the glow of three monitors casting shadows across his exhausted face. The digital clock in the corner of his screen blinked at 11:47 PM in blood-red numerals. Across the Hudson River, the lights of New Jersey twinkled mockingly through the downpour.

"Jansen." The voice came from the doorway, sharp as a guillotine. "Still here?"

Henry didn't need to turn to recognize the nasal whine of Richard Langley, his direct supervisor. The man's cologne-something expensive and woody preceded him into the cramped cubicle.

"Just finishing the Berkshire-Hathaway analysis," Henry said, rolling his stiff shoulders. His dress shirt clung to his back, the cheap polyester damp with twelve hours of nervous sweat.

Langley leaned against the partition, his Rolex catching the fluorescent light. "You know these reports don't need to be perfect, right? Just good enough for the partners to skim during their martini lunches."

Henry's jaw tightened. Six years at Wellington & Stern. Six years of ninety-hour weeks. Six years watching less competent men climb past him while he remained trapped in this glass coffin of middle management.

"I like thorough work," he said evenly.

The older man chuckled, adjusting his French cuffs. "That's why you're still here at midnight on a Friday while Carlton's kids are at his Hamptons estate." He tapped a manicured finger against Henry's framed diploma-State University of New York, summa cum laude. "Ambition without connections is just... sad."

When Langley's footsteps faded down the hallway, Henry finally allowed himself to exhale. The rain intensified, drumming against the glass like a thousand impatient fingers. He saved his work with unnecessary force.

The elevator ride down to the lobby took exactly forty-two seconds. Henry counted them, as he always did. The security guard-Miguel, according to his nametag-barely glanced up from his crossword puzzle as Henry pushed through the revolving doors into the storm.

New York in November was a different beast at night. The rain had cleared the streets of tourists, leaving only the desperate and the determined. Henry turned up the collar of his thrift-store trench coat-a pathetic defence against the horizontal downpour-and began the long walk to the subway.

It was on the corner of 52nd and Madison that fate intervened.

A black Bentley Mulsanne sat double-parked outside the Tiffany & Co. flagship store, its hazard lights blinking in rhythmic distress. A chauffeur in full livery argued with a traffic officer while gesturing wildly at a flat rear tyre. The scene would have been merely another Manhattan vignette if not for the woman standing beneath the store's awning.

Even through the curtain of rain, she was luminous. Tall and willow-slender in a silver gown that shimmered like liquid mercury, she held herself with the unconscious grace of old money. Her hair, the colour of wheat at harvest,, was piled in an artful cascade of curls that defied the humidity. But it was her mouth that arrested Henry: a lush, impatient curve currently pressed into a thin line as she checked a diamond-encrusted watch.

Henry might have walked right past if not for the taxi.

The yellow cab came barreling down Madison Avenue like a bat out of hell, sending up a tsunami of gutter water directly toward the woman. Henry moved without thought, lunging forward with his battered umbrella like some modern-day knight with a nylon shield.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Icy filth soaked through his clothing instantly, the stench of urban runoff filling his nostrils. But the woman-miracle of miracles remained pristine.

For three heartbeats, there was perfect silence.

Then she laughed. Not the polite titter of high society, but a full-throated, unguarded sound that seemed to warm the very air between them.

"My hero," she said, her voice rich with amusement. Up close, her eyes were the exact shade of emeralds in Cartier's window display. "Though I suspect chivalry may have taken a mortal wound tonight."

Henry, now thoroughly drenched, wrung out his tie with what dignity he could muster. "I've survived worse."

She arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Have you now?" Extending a gloved hand, she said, "Lolita Hedgewick."

The name hit Henry like a physical blow. Hedgewick. As in Hedgewick Pharmaceuticals. As in the 17th richest family in America according to last year's Forbes list. The gloves alone probably cost more than his monthly student loan payment.

"Henry Jansen," he managed, suddenly hyperaware of his frayed cuffs and waterlogged oxfords.

Her grip was firm, confident. "Tell me, Henry Jansen, do you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?"

"Only when they're about to be splashed by cabs driven by madmen."

Lolita's smile deepened, revealing a faint dimple on her left cheek. "Then I insist on buying you a drink. Marcus?" The chauffeur materialized at her elbow. "We'll take the town car. The Velvet Room, please."

Henry opened his mouth to protest-he was hardly dressed for whatever establishment this goddess frequented-but she was already sliding into the Bentley's supple leather interior. With a shrug that sent rainwater cascading from his shoulders, Henry followed.

The interior smelled of lemon polish and something floral-her perfume, perhaps. Up close, he could see the delicate tracery of veins at her wrists, the way her collarbones formed a perfect cupid's bow above the neckline of her dress. She studied him with equal intensity, her gaze lingering on the scar above his right eyebrow (a childhood bicycle accident) and the calluses on his knuckles (twelve years of weekend boxing at the YMCA).

"So," she said as the car glided through midtown, "what brings a man like you to Wellington & Stern?"

Henry stiffened. "How did you-"

"Your security badge." She tapped her own clavicle. "Also, you have that particular aura of exhausted ambition unique to junior analysts at second-tier firms."

The accuracy stung. "It's a job."

Lolita tilted her head, sunlight through the rain-streaked window painting gold streaks in her hair. "But not the one you want."

Before Henry could respond, the car stopped beneath a nondescript awning in Tribeca. The bouncer mountain of a man in a Brioni suit- nodded deferentially as Lolita stepped out.

"Miss Hedgewick. Your usual table is ready."

The Velvet Room revealed itself in layers: first, the scent of aged whiskey and Cuban cigars, then the low murmur of conversation in half a dozen languages, and finally, the visual splendour of crystal chandeliers refracting light across mahogany panelling. Every detail whispered of exclusivity, from the 19th-century Parisian absinthe fountain behind the bar to the original Basquiat hanging near the restrooms.

Henry's waterlogged shoes left damp footprints on the Persian rug. At least a dozen eyes tracked their progress through the room, curious, others openly envious. Lolita glided past them all, her hand resting lightly on Henry's arm as she led him to a secluded booth upholstered in oxblood leather.

A bottle of Dom Pérignon arrived unbidden, condensation glittering on its curves like diamonds. Lolita dismissed the waiter with a glance and poured the champagne herself, her movements precise as a surgeon's.

"To chance encounters," she said, clinking her flute against his.

The bubbles burst against Henry's tongue, crisp and expensive. He'd never tasted anything so alive. "You bring all your strays here?"

"Only the interesting ones." She leaned forward, resting her chin on one palm. "Tell me something true, Henry Jansen."

The directness caught him off guard. "Like what?"

"Anything. The first real thought in your head right now."

He considered lying. Then didn't. "I was wondering how many bottles of this champagne it would take to equal my annual salary."

Lolita's laughter turned several heads. "Finally, an honest man." She refilled his glass. "Now tell me why someone with your obvious intelligence is wasting it at Wellington & Stern."

Henry traced the rim of his flute. "You assume I have options."

"I assume nothing. But I recognize potential when I see it." Her gaze sharpened. "You're not like the others in that firm. You're hungry. I can taste it."

The champagne wasn't the only thing making Henry lightheaded. "And what exactly are you proposing?"

"Nothing so crass as a proposition." She smiled, slow and knowing. "Let's call it... an audition."