Rapunzel in New York

“Does he pay you?”

Heat surged. Was everything about money for him? “Worried I’m operating a home business without a license?”

“No,” he said. “Just curious.”

He shoved his hands into deep pockets, lifting the hem of his expensive coat and flashing the line of his dark leather belt where a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into a narrow waist. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to someone in formal business wear. And a long time since she’d seen someone whom business wear suited quite so much. She immediately thought of her brother dressed up to the nines on his first day at his first Portland job. He’d been so overly pressed and so excited.

Her chest tightened. A lifetime ago.

“We have a kind of barter system going. Mr. Broswolowski was a stage producer and he’s still got connections.”

“You’re an actor?”

Her laugh then was immediate. The idea of her standing on stage in front of hundreds of strangers … Her stomach knotted just from the image. “No. But Angel on three is, and Mr. Broswolowski throws her opportunities every now and again in return for me doing his laundry.”

“Wait … You do his laundry and someone else reaps the benefit?”

“I benefit. Angel babysits the deCosta boy half a day a week as a thank you for Mr. B’s inside information, and in return Mrs. deCosta brings me fresh groceries every Monday when she does her own run.”

If he frowned any more his forehead was going to split down the middle. “Just how many people are involved in this scheme?” he asked.

“Across the whole building? Pretty much everyone, one way or another.”

He gaped. “Thirty-six households?”

“Thirty-five. 8B’s been empty for years. But pretty much everyone else gets involved in one way or another. It suits our needs. And it’s economical. Doing Mr. B’s ironing keeps my refrigerator stocked.”

“What happens when the deCosta boy gets too old for babysitting?”

Tori blinked. Straight to the weak link in the supply chain. No wonder he was a squillionaire. “Laundry’s not my only trade. I have other assets.”

His laugh was more of a grunt. “A regular domestic portfolio.”

She fought the prickles that begged to rise. “Hey, I didn’t start it. Some poor kid with an entrepreneurial spirit came up with it in the eighties as a way of making ends meet. But it works for me.”

Inexplicably his whole face tightened. His voice grew tight. “You do know you can have groceries delivered to your door?”

Tori blinked at him. “Sure. But who would do Mr. B’s ironing?”

The Captain of Industry seemed to have no good answer for that. He stared at her, long and hard. “I guess you have a point.”

She fought down her instinctive defensiveness. The man was just trying to make conversation. “It’s not like it’s against the law, it’s just neighbors getting together to help each other out.”

He turned back on a judgmental eyebrow-lift. “You’re exchanging services for gratuities.”

Heat blazed. “I do someone’s ironing. You make it sound like I’m selling sexual favours in the hallway. That hasn’t happened in this building for a decade.”

He spun toward the television, but not before she saw the way his face rapidly dumped its color. All of it. Every part of her wanted to apologise, but … what for? He’d insulted her.

She sighed. “How about we just stick to what we’re here for.” She took a deep breath. “Tell me about this CCTV jig.”

He took a moment before emerging from behind her modest television. “This doesn’t have the inputs I need. I’ll bring you a new one.”

“A new what?”

“A new television.”

“You will not!”

He blinked at her. “This one won’t work with the CCTV gear.”

“I’m not accepting a gift like that from you to get you out of community service.”

His eyes narrowed. “Have I asked you to let me off the service order?”

“I’m sure you’re working up to it.” She lifted her chin and absorbed the tiny adrenaline rush that came with sparring with him.

“You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?”

Tori frowned. “I’ve been entrusted with … I feel like there’s an obligation there.”

“To do what?”

“To sign your attendance. Properly.”

“Like some kind of classroom roll call?” The stare he gave her went on forever. “And you wouldn’t consider just signing it off to be rid of me?”

Oh, how she’d love to be rid of him. Except someone had forgotten to tell her skin that. The way it tingled when she opened the door to him this afternoon. The way it prickled even now, under his glare.

She shrugged. “They’re trusting me.”

“You don’t know them.”

“It doesn’t matter. I would know.”

“Well if you want me to do this by the book you’re going to need to take the television, otherwise there can be no webcam.”

“I can’t accept a television.”

“Ms Morfitt—”

“Oh, for crying out loud, will you call me Viktoria? Or Tori. You make me feel like an aging spinster.” And that likelihood was something she tried very hard not to think about. Living it later was going to be hard enough …

She stood and moved toward the kitchen. Toward her ever-bubbling coffeepot.

“Viktoria …”

Nathan frowned, not liking the formal sound of it on his lips and tried again as she moved away from him. “Tori. I run an IT empire; we have monitors and televisions littering my office. Giving you one is about as meaningful to me as giving you corporate stationery.”