Melbourne Heat by Elizabeth Lapthorne Page B

him. He wanted me to do his accounts. Anyway, so he comes in this morning, understandably pissed that I left him in the lurch yesterday and shoving his weight around. I was trying to calm him down and foist him on one of the other accountants when the guy grabs my arm. You’re going to think I’m crazy here. The guy sniffed me. Sniffed me. Can you believe it? That’s nuts, right?”
    Charles was staring at him intently.
    Spencer had expected him to laugh, or maybe goggle a bit at him, call his story bullshit, but he was enjoying himself too much to stop now.
    “Obviously I didn’t tell anyone at the office about this,” he said. “The last thing I need is for someone to whisper to a manager or HR and force me to see a shrink or quietly manage me out of the job because they think I’ve cracked under the stress. And then he said the strangest thing…”
    Spencer paused in his storytelling. Charles had barely moved a muscle and was still staring at him with an intensity that was starting to be strange.
    “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. Realization dawned. Once again Spencer spoke quickly. “Oh shit. You think I’m bonkers now, don’t you? But I swear it’s true, I couldn’t make shit like this up.”
    “No,” Charles said. “I don’t think you’ve lost it. Go on with your story.”
    Spencer was relieved at his words, but the situation didn’t seem quite so funny anymore. Charles stared at him, though much of the tension had dissipated when Charles had spoken. Still, Spencer found it difficult to muster the same level of enthusiasm he’d held. Charles stared at him like he’d lost his mind, and despite his words he still remained riveted upon him.
    Feeling uneasy and not quite sure why, Spencer continued, but more slowly this time.
    “Well, actually what he said next didn’t really make any sense,” he said. “Malcolm asked why I had the scent of another branded upon me. Then he said he had to make a plan, or something like that. Um, Charles, I think your sauce is burning.”
    A second after his words seemed to register Charles whipped his head around to the saucepan where he’d been stirring a creamy carbonara.
    “Fuck it all,” Charles said and lifted the dish from the cooking element. The sauce bubbled vigorously and Spencer could smell the unmistakable odor of burning milk.
    Charles stirred, blowing as he did so, but it was ruined. He sighed and put the lot on the side of the sink.
    “I don’t have enough ingredients to make another batch,” Charles said. “It looks like we’ll have to make do with a tomato based sauce instead.”
    Spencer couldn’t be certain, but he had the strong feeling Charles was more than a little distracted, and it had been because of something he’d said. Which didn’t make sense. He’d figured the story would be mildly entertaining, a bit funny, but nothing more.
    Something just didn’t add up.
    “What’s going on?” he asked. “What did I say that changed the mood so dramatically?”
    Charles had opened a cupboard and was searching for another pot, but at Spencer’s words he stopped. It seemed to take him far longer than it should have to turn around, and when he did his face was grave. Serious.
    Spencer was perplexed. He knew he was missing something, but for the life of him he didn’t know what. The way Charles stared at him, though, had his stomach knotting in worry.
    When Charles seemed to hesitate, Spencer lost his patience.
    “Damn it,” he snapped. “The meal can wait. What is it?”
    “You’re right,” Charles agreed. He came to the bench where Spencer sat and took the seat next to him. “I’d not planned to talk to you about this for a while. I wanted to give you time. But it looks like fate, or life—whatever—has different plans.”
    Spencer was only more confused as Charles paused again. The man seemed to be working himself up for something and all sorts of crazy things passed through his mind. Charles was sick.