The man gives me a few seconds to stare before saying, "I'm sure Ms Garrison would be delighted to meet you, but you may speak to me instead."

Oh thank God!

He's probably just her husband... or goading me.

Well, I'm as much Miss Goad as he is Mister Garrison.

"Seems as though we're at an impasse here." I say smugly, "You wanted a man and got a woman and I expected a woman and got a man."

He leans forward and his gaze is menacing, "But I always get what I want."

So he's that type, is he?

"Trust me-"

He cuts me off with the diagonal cutting motion of his hand. "I do not." He snaps emotionlessly, "I've just met your acquaintance, I'd be an idiot to trust you."

"Well, you will want me." I say, I need this job. "And from your messages yesterday, it leads me to believe that the lovely Mr Moray didn't have much work ethic."

He stares at me, not deigning to reply, then nods.

"I need someone to take to this meeting." He says, matter of fact, "Since the man I'm dealing with is bringing his wife it's probably for the best that you're a woman."

His off handed tone throws me... I'm here to help and the dealing is going to occur at the bar and grill that I scoped out yesterday. Surely I must be more than simple entertainment to a woman. Scowling, I almost insult him, only to realize that he's half way to the door. Not wanting to miss my chance, I stand quickly and follow him out.

His car is a clean, rickety, bucket of bolts that doesn't even look in a condition to be stationary, much less mobile on a road on which driving is akin to drag racing. I stare at it in horror as he glides into the old seat and turns the key and the car splutters, then another time and the engine coughs then hums to life. I pull on the door handle it seems to be in league with the engine. I tug a couple more times before he clicks a button beside him... it was locked!

Jerking the door open I plop into the seat and glance out the window. Some employer he turned out to be.

Without a word of warning, and not even waiting for me to buckle in, he zooms off into the street like a regular Paul Walker. Surprisingly the car doesn't conk out at any intersection or break apart due to the rapid motion. We arrive safely and park in the reserved parking.

"Aren't you afraid of getting a ticket?" I ask.

He exits the car and slams the door behind him, and I follow suit, only slamming my door a bit harder than necessary. He whorls on me with the wrath and potential destruction of a category five cyclone.

"Never touch my car in that manner again!" he says, glaring at me, "And yes, I would be afraid of getting ticketed... but the people issuing the tickets would be more afraid of my anger as opposed to whoever's parking spot we've occupied."

Hmm, "So you basically took the spot just because you can."

His face hardens further, "This is the spot where my car is least likely to be injured."

Injured?

"Mr. Garrison, if you care about your car this much, I believe that you should retire it." I say, hoping to irk him like he irks me.

No such luck though, "Ms... Moray, it's not the car I care about, it's the money that would be needed to replace it."

In turn I glare at him, "It's Ms. Periwinkle to you! And if all you care about is the money then just think about how much it'll cost you when you get into an accident with this piece of garbage. You'll have to replace it, pay your hospital bill, then there's insurance and the other people you've injured and possibly a court case."

He cheek jerks, "Fair point, although I will never hire a lawyer when I can defend myself fine enough."

With that he walks away leaving me with a lovely view of his behind. His cool indifference irks me and I think he knows it.

As I suspected, our brunch meeting is taking place at the bar and grill. We stop a few feet away and Mr. Garrison pulls a flip-out phone and places a call, speaking in rapid low tones, without even letting the speaker get a word in edge-ways . I don't even catch a word! Moments later, a police car pulls up and a heavy set, rugged looking hulk walks into the restaurant there's a few crashes and clangs and the man comes out dragging a waitress with black hair and stern features behind him. Most of the restaurant follows him out and I notice Mr. Garrison slipping in behind the crowd. The woman then wrenches herself out of the officer's grip and bolts down the street...

I presume a high speed chase ensues, I wouldn't know as Mr. Grumpy Pants tugs me by the material of my dress into the restaurant and remarks, "This was much less inexpensive than your idea of a jet and torrential downpours of money."

My grin resumes with full force, he used my idea of a diversion. "Seems as though my ideas have some merit."

"Which they achieve only after I modify them."

"Them? So far I've only given you one, and besides it would've worked fine if you weren't such a cheapskate." I say, crossing my arms.

"I'm not cheap, I'm prudent." Then he turns to the waiter who has managed to sneak up on us and demands, "What?"

The man shrinks back, wisely to avoid the venom flying from his mouth, "Your table awaits, sir, madam. Your company has not yet arrived, but you are free to wait and order in the meanwhile, we have been paid in advance."

Without a word he barrels past the petrified man and into the lavish restaurant. Directly in my line of sight, there's the terrace, as much as I would love to go there, out of the freezing AC, there's no such luck. Mr. Garrison leads the waiter and I to a table in the corner with a circular, cushioned seat against the wall and two chairs directly opposite. He slides into the circular section with practiced ease and I glance at the distraught waiter and follow him. As the waiter places the menus onto the table and scurries away, I wonder how he knew the location of the table.

Not wanting to ask, I pick up the menu nearest me and flip it open while glancing at our surroundings. Not many people are here, and the staff still seems to be in disarray due to the incident before, but it's lush and reeks of snobbishness. There's a small chandelier hovering over the table giving off dim light. It's probably not the best place for a business meeting, but from the look of distaste that Mr. Boss has donned; he shares my opinion.

Ignoring him, I try to remember my summary of the menu and my mind dings as I land on a particular dish. I flip to the seafood section and glance at the grilled salmon and cassava fries. I've never tasted cassava before. Turning to the appetizer section I lick my lips and my menu is snatched away.

"I'm ordering fruit." Says Mr. Garrison, "Since I can't eat it all we'll share." He almost chokes on the word, and I don't argue with him because I was about to pick that exact thing.

Another waiter comes to our table and I almost laugh as I realize that Mr. Moody probably scared the previous chap, he takes our orders and I'm shocked when Mr. Garrison orders a plate of garlic bread, seasoned chicken and a small soup. How does he plan to fit all that food into his small, hard stomach... worse yet, how does he plan on paying for it.

"You plan on paying for this right?"

He looks at me, and his eyes flash... well that's probably as close to a horrified expression that I'll probably ever see. "Of course not!"

"Well neither am I."

"Our gracious, tardy host has taken that responsibility."

Ah, yes, the waiter did say that it was already paid for.

We sit in silence a few seconds and I keep my eyes glued to the door. For the first few minutes I just stare distractedly at the door, then my eyes narrow. The sign, 'Head Chef Needed,' grabs my attention like a vise. I'll have to tell Cage, if he's serious about getting a job, it could at least be one that he'll enjoy.

Something cold and leathery brushes against my leg and I jerk away. Does this place have rats? It hits me again, only harder this time and I glace up, meeting the irritated eyes of the owner of the rat shoe.

"Give me your ID card."

I almost comply before common sense takes hold, "Why?"

"Because I want it."

"Tragic for you."

"I am your employer!" he hisses, "Give it to me."

Rolling my eyes, I reach into my bag and pull it out, he moves to grab it, but I'm faster, "Let's compromise." I chirp, "I'll lend it to you for a few minutes."

He snatches it out of my hand and takes a picture of it with his phone. He then starts typing, "Hey!" I say, "What do you think you're doing."

He drops the card onto the table and not bothering to look up... or speak louder than a hushed whisper, says, "It's fake. A good fake, but I presume I'll still be able to find some extra info on you."

Instinctively, I glance at the door and lean away from him, "No!" people glance our way and I lower my voice, "This is an invasion of my privacy."

He remains silent and I continue, "You can't do that."

His eyes snap to mine and his sculpted eyebrow raises, as if to say, 'do you really believe that.'

I snatch the card and shove it into my bag and he suddenly glances up, "He's here. Maintain your silence."

My eyes drift to the door, taking in the middle-aged, well dressed scumbag who walks in. And it's not just an undefined assumption. Walking behind him like a lap dog is his wife. She looks under fed, terrified of him and meek. All that's missing is the chain so he can pull her along. He's just the type of man I escaped from.

Mr. Garrison remains in my periphery and seems unbothered by their arrival, he doesn't move to stand and neither do I. He approaches the table and stretches across to shake Mr. Garrison's hand then reaches for mine, which I offer unwillingly. To my utter horror he lifts my hand as though to kiss it. We're not in the nineteenth century and there's no way I'm letting him pollute my hands with those moist sponges he calls lips. Not making it obvious, I grasp his hand tightly, squeezing with all my force and shake it energetically.

"Hank Ford." He says jovially.

"Ms. Angelica Periwinkle." I then gesture to his wife, who he's neglected to introduce.

He waves a hand dismissively, "That's Melinda."

Flashing her my most prize winning smile I shake her hand gently. This of course causes Mr. Garrison to pinch me under the table, I take a swing at his hand only to find them neatly folded on his lap.

"Terribly sorry for our late arrival." Says Ford, "There's a lot of traffic on the roads these days, you know how it is."

Mr. Garrison doesn't remove his gaze from his glass of water, but the room just became ten degrees colder, "No. I despise tardiness."

Ford's smile drops revealing his true face, he glances at me, "Angelica, may I call you Angelica?"

Cringe, "Of course not."

If Mr. Garrison can't realize what a fool this man is then I don't think I'll be able to work for him.

"We will address each other respectfully." Says Mr. Garrison.

Thank goodness, he's not an idiot.

With the tension strung tight, they commence their business dealings and I hear Mr. Garrison enunciate some of the longest sentences he's ever spoken, albeit he speaks slowly, but let's just focus on the length of the dialogue. Meanwhile, I talk quietly with Melinda. We have none of the same interests, and doesn't like talking on the whole so the conversation is a bit awkward.

Mr. Garrison's smooth voice acts as a soothing background noise to my meal, so I was quite distressed when it ceased. At first, I think it's because he's choked and I prepare to execute CPR... then I hear a sort of noise emanating from his direction. Has his stomach crawled into throat and began rumbling?

Then Mr. Ford asks, "You do know about the situation... about the Asian dollar falling. I know that you have vast dealings there, I need to know that your company is stable before investing in it, this dealership is predicted to soar within the next few months."

Quickly, I jump in, "Of course we know about the situation, we wouldn't be the richest people in the North if we are not aware of financial situations such as this. We're just surprised that you're discussing it so openly." I hope I'm gambling right, business men don't discuss information like this in public, and the waiter is nearby. Ford nods glancing around.

"Quite right." He says, "I should be more discrete when dealing with matters such as these, but I still need to know what measure you're employing."

Relief overflows within me... measures. "Well, we've from now until their dollar has risen once more, all payments are to be made in ICUs and an ambassador has been sent to assess the situation and give weekly updates. Also we've temporarily detangled them from our main trade while simultaneously encouraging them to hold back on productions until the crisis is averted." From the satisfaction on his face, I know I've said the right things, then something else occurs to me, something that he was also concerned about, "What have you done in the wake of this situation?"

He pauses with his drink halfway to his lips. Ha! I've got him now, there's no way he'll want to continue this line of questioning.

"Well," he coughs nervously, "We've recently learnt of this situation and we haven't had sufficient time to implement precautionary measures."

"Well see that you do!" snaps Mr. Garrison. Oops, I'd forgotten that he was here. His eyes dart between me and the now sweating car dealer, "I will not purchase your company until I'm sure that it's financially secure, if I remember accurately, and I always do, you also conduct the majority of your dealings in Asia."

He stops staring at me to pin Mr. Ford with a glare, Melinda quickly finishes her meal, sensing that they're going to be leaving soon.

After a full minute of silent contemplation, Mr. Garrison returns once more to his food, "Leave. This dealing is concluded until you send me a financial report."

For the following five minutes, Mr. Ford manages to alert the entire restaurant to our dealings while simultaneously gleaning no response out of Mr. Garrison and amuse Melinda and I. When he's done with his tirade, he's huffing and puffing from the exertion of attempting to garner some sympathy from Mr. Insensitive.

Mr. Garrison, without looking up from his plate, says, "I'll expect that report by Monday."

Ford, who seems to be at his wits end, grabs Melinda's arm and I try as inconspicuously as possible to thrust a napkin with my number on it into her hands. She glances at it and crumples it in her fist, hiding it then passes me with a small smile.

Hmm, now I can enjoy my food.

As suspected, the fruit basket is still filled. He's divided it into halves, and I think he's kept the best fruit for himself. He seems engrossed enough in his soup so I quickly rotate the basket and my eyes feast upon the red heart-shaped fruit with tiny seeds that people call strawberries. They're surrounded by small blobs of blueberries. Since I've already picked up the strawberry, I take a bite of the tip. An explosion of sensations rickets across my taste buds. First it's tart, then it turns sweet. I devour the berry before he has the chance to reclaim his sweet bounty. I wonder what to do with the leaf. We never get these in England, they're expensive to import and don't grow well.

Tentatively, I lick it and cringe. Nope, tastes like grass.

Still sipping his soup, Mr. Garrison, leans back and regards me silently... somehow managing not to spill a drop of his soup. I wonder what his game is, I regard him in the same manner and he narrows his eyes at me and I mirror the action. Bellamy told me that you can mimic people's actions if you want to get a sense of how they think. Apparently the exception to the rule is Mr. Garrison; he's still as unreadable as a doctor's handwriting. All the while throughout our intense staring contest I continue munching these delicious fruits while he slurps his soup.

Finally he speaks, "You thought I was a woman. Why?"

Instead of answering I pull the access card and show him the faded name. "It looked an awful lot like Rosepin."

He stares intently at the card, "Ruspin."

Hmm, nice name, makes more sense than Rosepin anyway.

"What's the issue in Asia? And who are your sources?" He says, diverting his attention to the sliced pineapples and kiwi's that we formerly on my side of the basket.

He actually believes that I know... I giggle, "I haven't the bloodiest idea."

The chewing action ceases and it's equivalent to his draw dropping, "Hmm, interesting, you saw it fit to take a gambol in my business dealings."

Scowling, I bite the next strawberry savagely, "Well you didn't seem intent on remedying the situation."

"Conceded." He says, he pulls his phone and places a call, once more speaking in low tones. How does he do that? When I try to whisper, I can still be heard across the room. "I'll give you two hundred ICUs for your service tonight."

What? It takes me a moment to register that he's dismissing me.

"No." I say, "I won't accept your money. I saved your deal tonight, I am useful."

"You are a English woman." He hisses past an apple.

"So you have something against women?"

"No. I have many women under my employ. My problem is English women."

"You racist-"

"Not racist, sensible." He says, "Do women work in England?"

No. Bloody hell no.

He nods decisively, "I thought so and your intelligence is less than average. I simply cannot afford to have you under my charge."

His phone beeps and cuts off my argument. His eyes widen marginally before glance up at me, "Well, you seem to be thirty three percent more intelligent than I first thought Angelica Periwinkle, nineteen years of age, eighty nine percent T.E.S.T score."

My heart rate increases... how? Does he know the rest, from his clam expression I presume now, and there's no reason to clue him in my having a panic attack, I chide myself.

"Does this mean that I can stay?"

He nods and stands.

The drive back is silent and we're both alive at the end.

When he parks, I open the door and let myself out.

"Good night." He I think he murmurs, but it sounded more like 'have a bad life' Glancing behind me, I see that Mr. Garrison has vanished! Oh well, it isn't as dark as before, so there's still a chance of getting a cab. Something whizzes past my head and lands with a thud against the wall. Then out of the dark, musty garage, comes a shrill war-cry and the distraction from earlier charges at me. In dodging her, I knock into the rear-view mirror and it slams shut. Does Mr. Garrison have such an aversion to the English that he's trying to kill me?

Her nose ring glints as it catches a ray of light and I dodge once more. Bellamy always told me that when faced with someone stronger than you... run like the wind. I dash towards the garage door and reach a few feet into the street before a humungous mass of muscle that isn't Cage locks his arms around me, immobilizing my arms and restricting my breathing.

The arms continue to act like a vise until spots start performing a dance across my vision. What was I supposed to do? No arms, no legs... yes, legs! Using all my might, I slam my heel into the man's foot at the same time I smash my head into his. Dear me, do people come with metal skulls these days. He drops me and I take a second to hold my head. Suddenly someone else is lifting me... three against one? Seriously?

My newest captor spins me to face him and of course takes no consideration for my head and general wooziness. Of course he's Mr. Garrison. He glance at my two assailants and remains expressionless, "Are you insane?"

The man, who I now recognize as the cop from earlier, says, sheepishly, "You gave the signal sir, we thought she was kidnapping you."

"And you felt the urge to shove me into the tool closet?" his voice is still even as Steven, his eyes are leaching rage.

"Leave." Without a word they walk past, the woman, giving me the evil eye.

The idea of Ruspin letting himself be stuffed into a closet is so hilarious that I burst into a fit of giggles.

"Did you suffer a head injury?"

"Did you?"

He rolls his eyes, "You're fine."

"Please." I say, examining my nails... claws, "I'm not you, I would never allow myself to be shoved into a closet by those two pipsqueaks."

He cocks his head and steps back, considering me, "Those pipsqueaks are the best trained assassins in the North and you managed to almost escape just fine."

I get at what he's implying, but don't bother to expand, then again, he doesn't even give me the chance, just plods on with his musings, "You scoped the building effectively, handled that dealing... you may be of some use to me after all."

"Lucky me." I say, luckily all nausea has faded and I'm returned to my normal chirpy self.

"Until Monday." He says, walking past me.