The water of TCorp's pool felt smooth on my skin as I plowed my way through it on my Monday morning swim. But it would never be enough, never be sufficient to wash me clean—cleanse me of the vomit and the embarrassment of last Friday night.

A night followed by the worst hangover ever, its headache being my constant companion all the way through Sunday afternoon. And I had spent most of that time trying to push away any thought about the party—with little success.

I didn't want to think about the way Lawrence had taken care of me and driven me home. Sweet, endearing. And I had barfed up his car.

And I certainly didn't want to think about the way I had felt when Thierry had guided me through that dance with gentle yet unquestionable authority. Even in the cool, chlorinated water of the pool, the warmth of his touch lingered with me, as well as a whiff of mint and the memory of his innate, mysterious power.

Anyway, Thierry hadn't shown up again that evening. No surprise there. As was to be expected—why should he have taken an interest in a poor dancer like me?

But, even more, why should I take an interest in this spoilt, rich man's son?

And his sister was a bitch.

Thierry, though, he was a mystery.

When I was a child, my mom had rented an apartment in an old house for the two of us. The building had originally been a factory and was later repurposed as a tenement. From its factory days, it still had that labyrinth of a basement, most of it unused, barred off, and without lights—dark and mysterious. Off limits, especially for us kids. Yet the eerie call of its mysteries had been irresistible. So, one day, me and a friend of mine, we had pried off some of the boards at one of the entrances. I still felt the thumping of my heart as we had explored the place with flashlights. We had walked its corridors and chambers, some of them dusty, others damp and rotten. In the end, we had found little of interest, but I still remembered the powerful lure of the darkness.

The mystery of the unknown, the threat of danger, the knowledge to tread off-limits, all of that was Thierry Thorne.

I did an open turn at the end of the pool to start the next length. Doing so, I saw another swimmer two tracks beside me.

I usually had the pool to myself at this early hour, and I disliked the intrusion into my privacy. Ready to glower at the invader, yet also curious, I slowed my strokes and kept my head out of the water, froggy style, to get a closer look at who this was.

It was a man, and he was front crawling, breathing away from me. I couldn't see his face. We crossed midway. He was tanned, with a strong build, his hair short and dark.

Could it be?

Thierry was well-muscled, he could be a swimmer.

The water around me suddenly felt hotter than usual.

The man would have his face to my side when we crossed again on the next length.

Reaching the end of my track, I turned once more. He was already swimming towards me. A fast swimmer, his moves steady and powerful.

I concentrated on my own style, making stronger, smoother strokes, accelerating.

Was I trying to impress the guy?

He approached. Crossing, I caught a glimpse of his face—a fat, stubby nose ending in a mustache.

Not Thierry. Just some TCorpse.

And I was a silly, silly girl.

~~~

Stepping into our office, I was still mad at myself. Had I started to see Thierries everywhere? I wasn't an infatuated teenager, was I?

"You're looking glum."

Camille's greeting didn't help.

"Good morning to you, too," I said, not holding back on the irritation I felt.

"Oh, we're indeed glum." She grinned. "Didn't we see Thierry over the weekend... or Lawrence, at least?"

"Who?" I raised my eyebrows at her. "I don't know these guys."

She laughed.

Not in the mood to talk, I sat down at my desk, logged into the computer, and brought up the endless rows of the executive expenses account, ready to attend to my controlling duties.

Wondering if Thierry's boating expenses were still in there, I activated the search mask. Yachting Care Services, wasn't it? I hit the Find button and found... none.

The mysterious transfers had disappeared.

His secretary had corrected them. That's what Thierry had told me they would do. He had said the transfers were incorrectly registered as personal executive expenses. So they would now be elsewhere in the company's books.

I ran a global search.

And there they were, now booked under 'equipment operating expenses', money spent for running things that TCorp owned. They were still authorized by Thierry. But since the funds were now not for his personal benefit, he was entitled to do that.

TCorp must be operating a yacht, then. I wondered what they did with it and had a vision of Thierry, Theresa, the hyena, and a bunch of other good-looking males and half-starved females having unspeakable fun on turquoise waters.

Spoilt, rich gang.

Was I jealous?

Shrugging, I dismissed the thought and concentrated on the work they paid me for.

~~~

It was later in the morning when a message bubble popped up in the corner of my screen—incoming mail. The bubble flashed the sender's name.

Thierry Thorne.

A small yelp escaped my lips, and I brought up the e-mail app.

"What's the matter?" Camille asked.

"Nothing." Trying to suppress a grin, I read his message.

Dear Anne

What about a quick lunch? Pick you up at 12, north exit?

Yours

Thierry

"Someone's looking happy." Camille watched me from her desk. She got up, walked over, and peered at my screen. "Holy crap," she said after having read the message.

I was tempted to berate her for spying on me. But I realized that I wanted to talk about this e-mail.

I sat back in my chair and looked at her. "Should I accept?" The temptation was strong, yet the thought of lunch with Thierry scared the shit out of me.

Camille drew a breath. "Are you serious? This is Thierry Thorne. Of course, you'll accept. He's even calling you Anne and is signing with Thierry. You've struck gold, woman!"

"What is it, girls?" Sandra had joined the crowd at my table, clearly curious what the commotion was about.

Camille just pointed at the e-mail still hanging on the screen—my personal e-mail on my personal screen.

Sandra read the message, then she looked at me. "Go, you'd hate yourself for the rest of your life if you don't. Just be careful... that man isn't known for his monogamous habits."

I shrugged. She had a point—I was monogamous by nature.

"And..." Sandra hesitated. "Don't forget that he's top management, and you're a clerk."

I rolled my eyes. "I won't forget that." Yet Thierry was that dark basement from my childhood memories, that irresistible lure of danger unknown, and some part of me yearned to explore his secrets.

I hit reply.

My heart was racing as I tapped the keys.

Dear Thierry

I'd love that! See you at 12.

Best

Anne

"Stop!" Camille's shout stopped my cursor in mid-hover over the Send button. "Don't write 'I'd love that'. That's way too eager. And you have to be late."

"And don't call him 'dear'," Sandra added.

"Let me do the writing." Camille pushed me and my chair out of the way, the castors of the latter squeaking in complaint.

She typed.

Hey Thierry

Why not? CU @ 12ish.

Best

Anne

"What's CU @ 12ish?" Sandra asked.

"See you at about 12," Camille said.

"I'm not a teenager." I elbowed past her and edited the message once more.

Hey Thierry

Why not? See you at 12ish.

Best

Anne

With Camille's and Sandra's approval, I sent the thing off, sensing it swoosh through the cables all the way up to Top Floor—or down to that dark basement.

Was I making a serious mistake here?