Chapter Three
Mara
A Rock Is A Hard Place
“Damn and double damn.” I curse as I stab at the elevator buttons, and breathe a sigh of relief as the car starts to descend. How stupid did I just look? Four years of university and not enough brains to get on the right elevator, for God’s sake. This one doesn’t even go to the basement level; so much for being on time, my mad scramble across GeoRock’s marble foyer entirely in vain.
But perhaps serendipity had intervened because the last four minutes were some of the most exciting in my entire life. Bastian Kingsley, CEO, had spoken to me… To me! And he even touched me, brushed the skin of my neck and jaw, and it had sent shivers down my spine. The good kind of shivers; the kind that made my knees weak and my head swim and—oh God—my panties wet.
The man was everything Lacey had alluded to, and his photo in the newspaper did him no justice whatsoever. He was every bit the archetypal high-powered executive; cool, aloof, his broad-shouldered physique impeccably dressed in a suit even Armani would envy. His tanned skin complemented the rugged planes of his face that had probably been hot-towel shaved just this morning by a private barber. And said barber would have trimmed and groomed that full head of thick, dark hair, made even more attractive by a few flecks of silver, into that professional yet casual style typically sported by much younger yuppie types.
But this man, more handsome than any middle-aged dude had a right to be, pulled it off brilliantly. On top of all that, behind those molten, chocolate brown eyes that pained me to look away from, was a cutting wit that I wouldn’t have expected from a stiff corporate type. Damn. He was the whole freaking package.
To coin Lacey’s phrase: Hot. As. Fuck.
God, is there something wrong with me? Is it unnatural or creepy that I’m attracted to an older man, instead of the useless pinheads my own age? Mind you that’s hardly a fair comparison; next to Bastian Kingsley, any man on the planet would seem like a homeless, uneducated cretin, unworthy of attention. But he has to be twice my age—around the same as my Uncle Doug—and that thought makes me shudder. I could be his daughter for fuck’s sake!
The elevator cab squeezes to a stop on the main floor, and my foot taps in agitation waiting for the damn doors to open. Nope. I have to put Mr. Kingsley out of my mind. He’s a no-go; not only old enough to be my father but my employer as well. Those were lines you just didn’t cross. At least, ones that Mara Snow didn’t cross. Now, if we were talking about Lacey…
The polished wall of steel finally parts and shoots me out onto the massive 24x24 marble tiles of the foyer once again. Straight ahead on the opposite wall are the elevators that will, sadly, transport me from the cloudlike heights of C-suite down to the darkened bowels of the basement. I chuckle at the ironic appropriateness of such a journey, considering I’m in the headquarters of an international mining company.
The open maw of a waiting car seems to swallow me as I dash across the floor and leap inside. Jabbing the button for the B level, my stomach lurches as the car plunges downward. Is this what it would feel like to actually descend into one of GeoRock’s diamond mines?
For a weird few seconds, I envision myself as one of the unfortunate workers who might have taken such a ride the day the Pretoria mine collapsed; oblivious to their impending doom and simply showing up for another long shift. I’d only just read about it, since it happened a long time ago, and as a fifteen-year-old, I would have hardly been interested in current events at that time, but now the enormity of the disaster fully impacts me. What a terrible end to meet—smothered and crushed by Mother Earth herself, her wrath utterly final and irrefutable. It was horrifying to even imagine.
The gravity-defying bump as the elevator hits bottom shakes loose my morbid thoughts of death and destruction, and underscores my reason and passion for the field I chose. To understand and have a deep relationship with this place we call home; the living, breathing planet beneath our feet that we think we understand but have literally only scratched the surface of. There is more, so much more to know than geologic strata and deposits and fault lines and mineral seams. And I want to discover it all.
The signage points me to the geotechnical analysis lab, and I scurry down the hallway and through the first set of doors. Further access is by authorization only, and I’m directed to the head lab tech. I feel like I’m in some futuristic DMV or a top-security intelligence headquarters, as my photo is taken and I’m issued a standard lab coat and a shiny new electronic ID badge. I clip it to a lanyard around my neck and run my fingers over its glossy laminated finish.
I suppress a sigh of satisfaction. I’m official now.
I scan the badge over the electronic eye and enter the privileged realm of GeoRock’s main laboratory facility. The technician shows me around, the space much larger than I anticipated, with multiple clean rooms and testing apparatus. Desktop computers with giant imaging screens fill multiple rows of countertop space, and banks of shelves and cabinets line the walls. The lighting is bright, and one end of the lab is a glass wall with a view of the outer reception area and connecting hallways.
I’m shown to my workspace and introduced to Dr. Schilleman, the head geologist who is my immediate superior. He’s a studious but personable man, with a bald head and round-lensed eyeglasses that seem stylishly steampunk to me. I like him, and I like the sound of his lingering German accent as he runs through my assigned tasks for the day.
The morning flies by, and my co-workers escort me to the commissary on the mezzanine level for a quick lunch. I glance around the place, the pleasant sounds of conversation and clinking silverware humming in my ears. So many faces, yet I find myself scanning the room with its signature cafeteria aromas of hot soup and dishwasher exhaust hanging in the air, for a particular visage that I hope I might see again.
You dipshit, Mara. The company CEO doesn’t line up for mess hall rations with the great unwashed. He’s likely enjoying a catered, organic and gluten-free meal specially prepared for him by one of New York’s finest delicatessens and delivered by some exotic secretary that hangs on his every word and pines for his stellar body.
Ouch. I surprise myself at how much that picture stings me inside, and what would have even triggered such a scenario in my mind. Of course, Bastian Kingsley would have a personal assistant of some kind; but that didn’t mean she was gorgeous or lusting after his bones or his millions. She could be a sixtyish matron with just a few years to go before retirement, or hell, not even a woman at all. There were male PAs, weren’t there?
I finish my soup and head back to the lab, losing myself and my thoughts under piles of graded granular fills and cross-section images of core samples from sites all around the world. I find it fascinating, and giggle privately at the realization I’m exactly as Lacey described: an anomaly. But there was an old saying I’d heard, too: “Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” It’s true. This doesn’t feel like work to me, and now I know beyond a doubt I would do this whether I got paid or not. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
After a few hours, I lean back in my swivel chair for a stretch. My back feels all knotted up from hunching over my computer and imaging screens, and I do a few seated yoga poses that I learned in school.
I’m lucky that my workstation faces the wall of glass, making me feel less hemmed in. I gaze out to the main room and adjoining hallways, and my heart nearly stops. Not six feet away stands the impressive silhouette of Bastian Kingsley, leaning against a wall with his cell phone clamped to his ear.
I see his lips moving and, coupled with the wrinkles on his brow, I sense the phone call is not a good one. He shifts his stance and starts to pace, one hand shoved in his pocket as he takes three or four steps then pivots and repeats. I’m not sure what he’s doing down here in “steerage,” but I can’t tamp down the spike of adrenaline that shoots through me. I watch his graceful gait; the crease and drape of his slacks absolutely perfect as he moves. I note his trim hips and sexy butt, his sculpted buns discernible even through the fine dark-gray material. I know I’m staring, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away. My tongue might even be lolling out without knowing it. I check to make sure.
He pivots one last time and is walking toward me again, then stops in his tracks and thumbs the phone screen. Apparently, the call has ended as he shoves the device in his breast pocket and looks up. Straight. At. Me.
I jolt upright as though a steel rod has been thrust through my spine. A goofy grin spreads across my face, and I raise my hand in a friendly wave. Seems like he could use a little friendly gesture after what appeared to be bad news. He stares for a second, his face expressionless, then blinks and turns away. Not a smile or even a nod of his chin in acknowledgment. A burning sensation creeps up my neck and bursts into tingling blossoms on my cheeks.
He doesn’t even remember meeting me.
I turn to my computer screen, fighting back the urge to throw up or cry, or both. You idiot. As if some lab groupie would make his day with a wave and a smile. I’m as invisible as the glass window that separates us.
Separate. Disparate. Worlds apart. I am sieved from the likes of him just as surely as the varying grades of aggregates I’m studying. Cold reality hits me; I won’t be making any more gestures of friendship in the future to Mr. Bastian Kingsley. He can stay right where he belongs, in his tower of stone, and out of my foolish fantasies.