Page 97 of Always Alchemy

‘Goodall keeping you overflowing with orgasms, is he?’

The derision in his voice is clear. Steve is a thirty-something, socially awkward nerd who runs an innovative hydrogen fuel cell company. I took the role to learn all I could about the renewables sector and because the salary was exceptional. It’s easy money in a fascinating space, and the fact that I have to fake it every Monday, Wednesday and Friday when Steve fucks me, missionary-style, on his office sofa, isn’t a huge deal.

‘That is precisely none of your business.’

It really isn’t, and he knows it. He also knows that I’d never allow any indiscretions where my employers are concerned, ironclad NDAs aside.

His voice softens. ‘Look. I know it isn’t. I’ve just—I’ve got a mate who could use someone exactly like you in his life, and I wanted to at least make you aware of the opening. You’re far too shrewd a businesswoman not to have an eye on the market at all times.’

I sigh. ‘Who is he?’

‘You know I shouldn’t tell you without an NDA.’

‘Your call. Butyoucalledme, remember? And you know I would never repeat our conversations.’

‘His name is Gabriel Sullivan. Gabe.’

I frown, trying to place the name. ‘Sullivan…’

‘As in Sullivan Construction. He’s recently taken over from his old man.’

Oh.Now I understand. Sullivan owns half of the London docklands. They’re an enormous Irish constructioncompany going back several generations. They went public a few years back, making the family billionaires several times over.

‘Does the son run the public company?’

‘No. He runs Rath Mor, the family’s investment vehicle. They’ve got assets of over eight billion. They kept a lot of the land. His brother runs the construction side.’

‘So it’s a private wealth fund, basically?’ I’m familiar with this concept: families so wealthy that they don’t go to a Swiss private bank like most normal rich people, but manage their assets in-house like a proper investment firm.

‘Exactly. Do me a favour. Look Gabe up.’

‘Okay. Give me a sec.’ I reach across and pull my MacBook onto my lap, typingGabriel Sullivaninto the search engine.

Holy fucking shit.

‘He’s not Steve Goodall,’ Anton quips.

‘He most certainly is not,’ I murmur.

A guy stares back at me from the array of corporate and Getty images the search throws up.

Black hair.

Black eyes.

Unsmiling.

Cheekbones that could cut glass and ramrod-straight posture.

In most of them, he’s wearing some variation of a suit and tie, or suit and unbuttoned shirt.

But as I scroll, one photo catches my eye.

I click into it and Google serves me up the following headline in the financial section ofThe Telegraph.

Gabriel Sullivan is to leave the priesthood and take up the helm of Rath Mor Asset Management. His father, Ronan Sullivan, is due to retire this September.

It’s a formal shot, but boy does it hit differently from the others. Gabriel is standing in the nave of a beautiful old church, arms folded and smile absent —so far, so on-brand—in basic priest’s garb. He has on a black shirt and trousers and a simple white dog collar. Around him, the space dances with fragments of colour, courtesy of the sunlight streaming through the church’s stained-glass windows.

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