Читать книгу Hidden Agenda - Kara Lennox - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

JILLIAN ROLLED INTO THE Mayall Lumber parking garage at 6:45 a.m., bleary-eyed but pleased to have missed the worst of the rush hour traffic. That was one benefit of showing up to work at the butt-crack of dawn.

She couldn’t think of any others.

No matter how hard she tried, she’d never been a morning person. Years of 6:00-a.m. swim practice, early college classes and working for Daniel—who also had expected her to rise early—hadn’t cured her of the tendency to sleep until noon if nothing woke her up.

Still, she was self-disciplined enough to manage to do a good imitation of a lark when called for. She’d driven through Starbucks for a Venti cappuccino and had been sipping on it nonstop during her commute. A healthy dose of caffeine now coursed through her system; at least her eyelids no longer drooped.

She opened the parking garage door with her new magnetic key card and smiled at the security guard seated at a desk just inside the door. The guard’s name tag identified her as Letitia, and she wasn’t exactly intimidating with her three-inch fingernails and an avalanche of springy curls pointing every which way. But Jillian tried not to judge by appearances.

Letitia looked at her quizzically, and Jillian showed her the badge on a lanyard looped around her neck.

“My first day,” she said.

The roly-poly guard looked her over, then decided to smile, revealing a row of crooked but bright white teeth in her round face. “Yeah? What department?”

“I’m an admin in Timber Operations.”

“Don’t tell me you’re reporting to Conner Blake?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

The smile turned to a dubious frown. “Good luck, sister. You’ll need it.”

Jillian saw no reason not to start her undercover work on the spot. Letitia could be a good resource, seeing as she knew everyone and saw them coming and going to and from the building. “He couldn’t be that bad.”

“If you’re still here by lunchtime, there’ll be a betting pool started. Everyone puts in a dollar and guesses the exact hour you’ll quit. I usually pick 10:00 a.m. the second day—so far, I’m up twenty bucks.”

“Really.” Was Letitia having a joke at Jillian’s expense? “What if I stay?”

“You think you’re made of pretty strong stuff?”

Jillian thrust out her chin. “Yes, I do. No one could be as bad as my old boss. Imagine the ruthlessness of Attila the Hun combined with the incompetence of Barney Fife.” She hoped Daniel never got wind of that description. He wasn’t at all incompetent, but he could be ruthless when he wanted something.

Letitia snorted, almost a laugh. “Maybe your old boss was bad, but was he a murderer?”

Jillian’s heart thudded so loudly she was sure Letitia could hear it. “Excuse me?”

“I guess you haven’t heard about Greg Tynes.”

“Oh, the man who was killed. Yes, I did hear something about that.” Jillian didn’t want to appear terminally ignorant.

Letitia nodded. “He worked in Mr. Blake’s department. We all think Mr. Blake did it.”

“Why?” Jillian didn’t have to fake her horror. She’d known someone at Mayall Lumber might be a killer, but she’d never imagined it might be her boss.

“Mr. Blake is mean, that’s why.”

“Does he have a temper?” She couldn’t recall Conner ever losing his temper, but he did have a devilish streak.

“Not a temper. It’s more like…a darkness,” Letitia said, warming to her topic. “There’s a reason that man can’t keep an assistant. They always just…” Letitia lowered her voice to a whisper “…disappear.”

Dear Lord.

Letitia clapped a hand over her mouth. “Now I’ve gone and said way more than I should. Never mind me. I’m sure you and Mr. Blake will work out just fine.”

“We will.” They had to.

As Jillian rode the elevator up to the third floor, she congratulated herself. With a little idle chitchat, she’d laid some groundwork for getting to know Letitia better, and she’d picked up some juicy gossip.

But she was also treading on dangerous territory. Her job was to observe and report, not ask questions, not snoop. In fact, Daniel had told her to talk as little as possible, and to keep to the truth as much as she could. She’d memorized a few pertinent facts about her fictionalized work background, and she was not supposed to elaborate.

But how was she going to learn anything important if she didn’t talk to people?

Just before stepping out of the elevator, she checked her appearance one more time. Following Celeste’s advice, she’d altered her wardrobe to look more like a working girl. She wasn’t chairman of the board, she was a secretary. She’d chosen a pair of wheat-colored linen trousers and a blouse in muted earth-tone stripes. Leaving all her good jewelry at home, she’d opted for inexpensive costume pieces.

But she hadn’t compromised with the shoes. She loved her high heels; they made her feel tall and invincible.

She was pleased to see she had beat Conner to work. His office was open and dark. Since no one was about—and since she was feeling brave—she fished the small, black disk out of her purse and peeled off the backing to expose the adhesive surface. Checking the hallway to make sure no one was coming, she dashed into Conner’s office, slapped the bug under the front ledge of his desk, then dashed out again.

If the grapevine said Conner was guilty, he was the one to target with her spy tricks.

She placed the recording device in the back of her credenza, placing a ream of paper in front of it.

Now, with that task settled, she could start on her own work space. She wandered down the hall until she located someone else who’d braved the early hour, another admin. Her name plate identified her as Iris Hardy.

“Excuse me,” Jillian began. “I’m Jillian Baxter, Mr. Blake’s new admin. I wonder if you could help me.”

Iris, a plain woman with a round face and the sort of dumpy clothes and hair that indicated she’d stopped caring about her image, smiled sadly. “He’s done something awful already?”

“Oh, gracious, no,” Jillian said, appalled by the other woman’s attitude. It was like her colleagues were setting her up for failure. “He’s not even in yet. I’m organizing my work space and I need some office supplies. Should I requisition them?”

“Only if there’s something special you want,” Iris said. “Otherwise, there’s a big storeroom right around that corner. It says Supplies on the door, you can’t miss it. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“Thanks. Do you want to have lunch later? If you don’t already have plans, that is. I might need advice on what’s good in the cafeteria, and what’s to be avoided.”

Jillian had been trying for a note of humor, but it fell flat. Iris frowned.

“Honey, you won’t be here long enough for us to become friends. If you want to save yourself a lot of aggravation, quit now.” She turned her attention back to her computer.

Jillian wondered if she looked frail. Otherwise, why would everyone assume she couldn’t stand up to the rigors of a difficult boss? Conner couldn’t be that bad.

Then again, with that cruel streak he’d shown her in high school, maybe he made Simon Legree look like Mother Teresa. And if he really was the killer…

She located the supply closet easily enough and opened the door, nearly colliding with a man on his way out. The slight man with thin, wiry hair and a face like a weasel widened his eyes in surprise when he saw her. It took her a moment, but she recognized his face from the Mayall Lumber Annual Report. This was Isaac Cuddy, the budget director.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Jillian. Conner Blake’s new assistant. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cuddy.” She held out her hand, but he didn’t reciprocate. He was carrying a large box overflowing with legal pads, pens, packing tape, staples and packets of coffee. “Oh, sorry, guess your hands are full. Would you like some help carrying?”

“No, thank you,” he said tersely. “I’ve got it.”

She held the door open, and he sashayed out.

What an unpleasant little man, she thought. And how odd was it that he was down here fetching his own office supplies? Surely he had an assistant, maybe a whole staff, to handle such mundane tasks.

With a shrug, she returned to gathering up hanging folders, file boxes and trash bags, pens and sticky notes, an extra ream of paper for her printer. She hauled it all back to her office area and dug in.

She’d been hoping the mess of paperwork might offer some insight into what Greg Tynes had been involved in before he died. He’d been an overseas timber buyer, which meant he worked for Conner’s department. But beyond spotting his name on a couple of invoices, nothing she found was of interest. Most of these papers, as far as she could tell, ought to be shredded, as they were duplicates of documents already filed in the computer system.

The filing cabinet used by Jillian’s predecessor was almost empty. Jillian remedied that, quickly setting up hanging files with neatly printed labels for invoices, contracts, correspondence and market research.

After almost two hours of dedicated organizing, Jillian’s desk was clear, with only a small stack of unpaid invoices and another of correspondence, all of which needed input from her new boss before she could take action. When she learned more about her job, she would probably be able to handle more things without bothering Conner. But whether he liked it or not, she would need his help getting settled in.

That thought worried her a bit. The less interaction she had with Conner Blake, the better. Just because he hadn’t recognized her or her name yesterday didn’t mean he wouldn’t today.

“What the hell?”

Or right now. Jillian’s heart swooped as she looked up to find Conner glaring down his aristocratic nose at her.

“Good morning, Mr. Blake.” She refrained from pointing out that it was now almost nine o’clock, when he said he’d be here by seven.

“What happened to all the stuff that was here?” he demanded.

“Sorted. Filed.”

“I had a system going here. You shouldn’t have touched this stuff until you knew what it was and what I wanted done with it.”

“I can find anything you need.”

“I need a letter from Gustav Komoroski regarding a parcel of 520 hectares in northern Poland.”

He was testing her. She rolled her desk chair to the filing cabinet, opened the drawer and was riffling the folders. She plucked out the single sheet of stationery, rolled back to her desk and handed it to him.

He returned it to her with only a cursory glance. “Call him. Ask him to resend the aerial photos to my email, which is—”

“I know your email address.” She’d figured that much out. Did he think she was mentally deficient?

“Also explain to him that he’ll no longer be working with Greg Tynes, who’s left the company. I’ll be his contact until we hire a new overseas timber buyer.”

Left the company. That was an interesting way to put it.

Jillian picked up her cobalt-blue Montblanc fountain pen—a birthday gift from Daniel two years ago. As his assistant, she’d always received nice birthday gifts from him. She would miss that.

“Before you do that, though, get me some coffee,” Conner said. “Strong as you can make it, two sugars, no cream.” With that he turned on his heel, offering Jillian a sigh-worthy view of his hindquarters in a well-tailored pair of khaki pants.

For a few moments she simply stared as unwelcome memories flooded her mind. Conner had been a fixture at her family home for as long as Jillian could remember. He and her older brother, Jeff, had met at summer camp in sixth grade, then attended the same private school from seventh grade through high school. They’d become as close as brothers, their parents had socialized, and Conner had been constantly underfoot.

Jillian had considered him a major annoyance—always raiding their fridge, making noise when she wanted to read, executing killer cannonballs in the pool while she swam laps.

But in eighth grade, her hormones had kicked in, and suddenly her brother’s best friend had become infinitely interesting.

By then he’d started to look more man than boy. He was driving, his voice had changed, and the donkey laugh that had so infuriated her had mellowed into a pleasing sound that tickled her nerve endings.

All Conner had to do was walk into a room, and she would turn into a puddle of quivering insecurity. She’d seen the girlfriends he sometimes dragged around with him—long-legged cheerleaders with cleavage and sleek hair and lots of mascara—and seethed with envy.

She’d lived for the day she would outgrow her awkward adolescence. She favored her Danish mother—everyone said so—and Mona Baxter was beautiful. Jillian just knew that someday, when her teeth were straight and she grew boobs and lost her baby fat, Conner would finally notice her.

By the time she entered high school, Conner had stopped teasing her and ignored her altogether. It had broken her heart when he walked past her in the hall, looking through her as if she were invisible—he was way too cool to talk to a freshman. But she hadn’t given up hope. She’d planned their wedding, mentally decorated their future home and named their future children.

Then came that wonderful day. The day he saw her. Looked her up and down, in fact. Smiled that devilish smile of his and said, “Jillybean, I need an assistant for my science fair project. Interested?”

It embarrassed her even now to recall how pathetically grateful she’d been for his attention, how she’d fallen all over herself accepting his proposition and had decided that his use of her hated nickname was actually a term of endearment. Of course, far worse humiliation was soon to come.

Little did she know he’d been sizing her up not in terms of her womanly assets, but because of her overall size and shape—which was, to put it bluntly, short and fat. He’d required a female of certain dimensions for his science fair demonstration, and none of his long-legged bimbo girlfriends had fit the bill.

Jillian shook herself, realizing she’d been staring after empty space for some unknown number of seconds after Conner had disappeared. She absolutely could not afford to lose herself in the past, to dwell on long-ago injustices.

She had a few present-day injustices to dwell on. Like the fact Conner hadn’t even apologized for making her come in at seven when it was totally unnecessary. And scolding her like a child for doing what any well-trained assistant should do—get things organized.

Then there was the business of ordering her to bring him coffee. She used to bring Daniel coffee all the time, but it wasn’t something he expected or demanded. He’d taken her on as his assistant to make his life easier, and it was her choice to perform the more personal tasks that a lot of admins would balk at.

Then again, she’d viewed her role with Daniel as far more personal than she should have. That was one mistake she wouldn’t make again.

If she brought Conner coffee, she would be setting a precedent and earning the disapproval of secretaries everywhere. But if she drew a line in the sand now, he might fire her. She had to keep her eye on the goal: maintain her job at Mayall Lumber. Find out who killed Greg Tynes. Exonerate Stan Mayall of any wrongdoing.

So she’d bring Conner his damn coffee, and she’d do it with a smile. The bastard.

A few minutes later, she tapped on his door, a steaming mug in hand.

“Come in.”

She was about to open the door when a tall woman in a tight, stark white dress came striding down the hall. She had an elegant face with a model’s bored expression. Her tumble of jet-black hair reached nearly to her waist, and her breasts were one deep breath away from popping out of the low neckline.

Platform white suede boots completed the outfit.

Good Lord. She was beautiful—if you liked silicone, Botox and hair extensions.

The woman tried to brush right past Jillian and into Conner’s office, but Jillian turned and blocked her path. “Can I help you?”

“Who are you?” the woman asked, frowning.

“I’m Jillian, Mr. Blake’s assistant.”

“Oh. Good luck with that. The first thing you should know is, he’s always in for me. I’m Chandra Mayall.” She waited a beat for Jillian to recognize the name. “The CEO’s granddaughter?” Taking advantage of Jillian’s surprise, Chandra took the cup of coffee from her. “I’ll deliver this to him. Run along, now.”

* * *

“CHANDRA. TO WHAT DO I owe the pleasure?” Inside, Conner cringed. His ex-wife showing up in person was never good news.

She handed him a mug of hot coffee. “Just the way you like it.”

He took a sip. It was hot, strong and sweet. “You didn’t pour this for me.” Which meant his new admin had done it. Too bad her job required a bit more than an ability to pour coffee.

Chandra shrugged one elegant shoulder. “Your new girl was about to bring it in. Plucky little thing, and protective. She was guarding your door like a pit bull, almost didn’t let me in.”

Another point in the woman’s favor. “I’m kind of busy. What do you want?”

“I need a new roof. It’s going to cost six thousand dollars.”

“Really. I thought that house had a new roof put on right before you bought it.”

“Hail damage.”

“Have you filed an insurance claim?”

“Oh, you know how they are. They give you this big runaround, and the roof is leaking into the dining room. It has to be fixed now.”

“So because you don’t want to make a phone call, I’m out six thousand dollars? I don’t think so. I’ll call the insurance company. Then I want you to get at least two estimates.”

“Couldn’t you just write the check now, and we’ll work out the details later?”

“No. Nice try.”

“Our decree says you have to pay for necessary home repairs.”

“And I’ll write a check directly to the roofer. Now, is there anything else?”

She debated a few moments before leaning on his desk, giving him an eyeful of cleavage. “Conner, I’m desperate. It’s my butt.”

“Wh— Excuse me?” That got his attention.

“It’s fallen. I’m going to Cancun over Christmas, and I tried on my bikini this morning and my butt looks atrocious. It needs a lift.”

Conner laughed. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not paying for your plastic surgery. Besides, if you keep going under the knife, you’re going to end up looking like a freak.”

“Conner. It’s not funny.”

“No, Chandra. Not a chance.”

She seemed to deflate. “It was worth a shot. Guess I’ll have to do more Pilates.”

He softened his voice. “How’s Stan?” Whenever Chandra was sad or worried, she turned to “fixing” herself as her own brand of therapy. She was obviously upset about her grandfather’s situation.

“He’s terrible, Conner. I’m so afraid. I wish there was something more we could do. The lawyer thinks no jury will convict him. But his health…”

“I know. He’s a tough old bird, though. He’ll pull through.”

“He better. I’m not ready for him to go.”

Chandra might be shallow and self-absorbed, but one thing Conner was sure of—she loved her grandfather. He summoned a smile for her, then stood and walked her to the door. “Your butt looks fine, you know.”

She sighed. “How would you know? You don’t even look at my butt anymore.” She air kissed him. “Ciao, darling.” When she opened the door, Ham was standing outside, just about to knock.

“Oh, hi, Chandra. You look stunning, as usual.”

“Aren’t you a sweetie.” She gave him an air kiss, too. “Give my best to Beatrice.” Both men watched her strut toward the elevators.

Ham shook his head. “Tell me again why you divorced her?”

Conner laughed. “You know why.” They both stepped back into his office.

Ham used to drop into Conner’s office almost every morning with a new joke or a funny story about his wife. Conner had enjoyed their conversations. But ever since Ham had taken over Stan’s job, he seemed rushed and harried. With two jobs to perform, he had no time for idle chitchat.

He must really need that report. “I’m working on the report today, I swear.”

“I didn’t come here to harass you. How’s the new secretary working out?” Ham asked as he eased himself into his favorite wingback chair. “Is she as useless as she looks?”

“She can pour coffee, at least.” Conner took a sip from his mug. It was cooling off. “I don’t understand why Joyce keeps pitching these pretty bits of empty-headed fluff at me, expecting things to work out.”

This one was worse than all the others put together.

“What was her name again?” Ham asked. “Hilary, Julia…”

“Something like that. Joyce claims this one has impeccable credentials—she was an assistant to some oil company exec. But I could tell with one look she’s never worked a hard day in her life.”

“You need someone with brains and maturity.”

“Or at least one who wears sensible shoes,” Conner grumbled.

“Why didn’t Joyce promote someone from within the company? At least she would know something about the lumber business.”

Conner raised an eyebrow. “Oddly, not a single employee applied for the opening.”

Ham laughed. “Whose fault is that? Your reputation has spread far and wide.”

“I’m not that bad. I just have a low tolerance for stupidity.” He stood and stretched, then walked to the far end of his office to gaze at one of his favorite paintings, a forest scene by a Russian artist. “How does she keep from breaking an ankle, tottering around on those ridiculous shoes?” Those stilettos made her legs look a mile long, but that shouldn’t be the aim in a work situation.

It wasn’t just her shoes. The suit she’d worn that first day had cost more than his, he was pretty sure. Three years of marriage to Chandra—not to mention growing up with his mother—had taught him to recognize Chanel when he saw it. Then there was the haircut. Hilary-Julia—whatever hadn’t gotten that style, or the subtle blond streaks, from a strip mall beauty shop. He pictured her lying back in a fancy salon chair while someone named Marcel shampooed her hair, digging his fingers into the thick, mock-gold strands, her head tipped back, creamy throat exposed….

Good God, where had that come from? He’d been too long without a woman, he supposed, but not many women wanted to spend time with him these days. He was too surly, too impatient.

“Give the girl a chance,” Ham said.

“I give her three days. She’ll either prove herself completely incompetent, or do something so thoroughly boneheaded that I’ll be forced to fire her.” He sighed. “I hope this one doesn’t cry.”

“Of course she’ll cry. They all cry. Besides, you’re a beast.”

“I’d be a lot nicer if I could get out of this damned office once in a while.”

“Back to your beloved trees.”

“Yeah.” God, he missed the trees. At night Conner dreamed about the forest, imagined himself in a hammock slung between two ancient tree trunks, the stillness and utter darkness all around him punctuated only by the periodic chatter or cry of nocturnal creatures. And during the day, he plotted how he would get back there.

“Well, I can help with that,” Ham said, coming to stand beside Conner and gaze at the painting. “There’s a forest sustainability conference in Jakarta next month. I want you to go.”

Obviously Ham expected Conner to be pleased about the junket. But trading in his office for a hotel conference room wasn’t high on his priority list.

“I’m not sure I can afford to take time away,” Conner said. “This situation with Stan…”

“It’s just three days, and it’s vital that Mayall Lumber attend. You should also check on Will Nashiki while you’re there, see how he’s coming along with the job in North Sumatra.”

A couple of days in the Sumatran rainforest? Conner could feel a grin spreading across his face. “Why didn’t you say that to begin with? Of course I’ll go.” Maybe, just maybe, things would be more settled by next month and he could stay in the field longer than a weekend. Nashiki would appreciate a chance to go home, spend time with his family. “If you’re sure you can spare me.”

“It’ll be tough, but I’ll manage,” Ham said, tongue firmly in cheek. He checked his watch and frowned. “Late for another damn meeting. I never realized how many meetings a CEO has to go to.” He limped toward the door, leaning heavily on his cane.

The new girl walked in as Ham left. “Good morning, Mr. Payne.” She held the door open for him.

Ham gave her a dismissive wave.

“Yes?” Conner asked brusquely as he returned to his desk. His office was Grand Central Station this morning.

“What else would you like me to do? How about if I start organizing in here?”

“No.” The single syllable came out more harshly than he intended. “You’re not to touch anything on my desk. Please,” he added grudgingly. “It might look disorganized to you, but I have my own system.”

“Of course,” she said agreeably.

“I’m kind of busy here.” He shuffled a few papers.

“Are you sure I can’t help? I’m good with figures.”

“This is a little more complex than keeping your checkbook register up to date.” If she even had a checkbook. She probably used plastic for everything, then had the bills delivered to Daddy.

“I’m proficient in all of the most widely used accounting and budgeting software. At my previous job, I assisted an executive in the accounting department of a midsize oil company.”

He looked up. “What happened?”

“Sir?” She flashed him a puzzled look.

“Why aren’t you working there anymore?”

“Oh. Philosophical differences. As I became more ecologically aware, I realized I could no longer support my employer’s policies. I’m a proponent of renewable energy.”

A well-rehearsed speech, he guessed, crafted to hide the real reason she’d been canned. Nonetheless, it piqued his interest. She didn’t look green to him. The women he knew who were environmental activists tended toward thrift-store clothes, Birkenstocks and no makeup.

He decided to challenge her. “Why a lumber company? We rape the land, too.”

“Mayall Lumber has one of the most ecologically responsible reputations in the industry,” she promptly replied. “The company is committed to responsible harvesting practices, and it even commits significant resources into saving the old-growth forests that support endangered species, such as the spotted owl and the orangutan. Also, the company has an extensive program for converting waste products into biomass fuel, reducing the world’s carbon emissions.”

She could have gotten most of that information off the web, but none of his other admins had bothered. Now he was impressed. He studied her with renewed curiosity. She’d dressed down today, he was relieved to see, though even in casual pants, she appeared quite well put together. The deceptively plain pants were still top quality, probably tailored to fit her long, lean physique. She could easily have walked off the pages of Vogue.

“You like orangutans, do you?” he asked.

“I’ve never met one personally,” she admitted.

He gathered up the sea of papers on his desk into one giant pile, picked it up and handed it to her. “See if you can make sense of this. I have to put together a report that shows the dollar amount spent on conservation efforts as a percentage of the gross profits from harvests in the European Union over the past three years.”

That ought to keep her busy for a while. And out of his hair. She was one powerful distraction, all long, coltish limbs and svelte curves his palms itched to explore.

“Yes, Mr. Blake.”

“And, um, you can call me Conner. We’re not that formal around here.”

“Very well, Conner.”

“And what do you prefer to be called?” He still hadn’t remembered her name.

“Jillian is fine. I don’t like having my name shortened.” She sashayed out of his office, her arms loaded with paper, and suddenly he realized she reminded him of someone…from a long time ago.

* * *

JILLIAN HAD TAKEN ADVANTAGE of a few quiet minutes to do an internet search on the forbidden reporter mentioned in the memo she’d seen in Joyce’s office. Mark Bowen was easy to find. She’d assumed he would be someone trying to dig up dirt on the murder, or Stan Mayall’s arrest. But he wasn’t a crime reporter, he was a business writer for some lumber trade magazine. She found a picture of him: in his thirties, kind of a scrawny guy but pleasant looking, in a nerdy sort of way.

He probably had nothing to do with the murder. Jillian debated whether to contact him or not, then decided in this instance she would heed Daniel’s orders. She wasn’t confident enough to confront a reporter who could write something about her and get her in heaps of trouble.

Besides, her stomach was grumbling. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.

The small office cafeteria reminded Jillian way too much of the one from her high school. As she pushed her tray along the line and selected a carton of yogurt and an apple, she checked out the tables behind her from the corner of her eye. They all seemed to be occupied by tight groups of people, mostly women. She saw no executive types. They probably went out to one of the many nice restaurants in this neighborhood, or had food delivered.

Her plan was to pay for her food, then boldly set her tray down at a table of women and introduce herself. How else would she get to know more people here?

But in the end, she just couldn’t do it. She had too many memories of trying to make friends her freshman year in high school.

That seat’s taken.

We don’t let losers sit with us.

The pig trough is that way.

Adolescent girls could be particularly cruel, and the cliques at her exclusive private school had been worse than most.

Eventually she’d made friends—swim team girls, mostly. But the popular girls had always ignored her, and after the terrible prank Conner had perpetrated on her, they had actively tormented her. Even the boys had teased her until she cried.

Jillian was about to sit at an empty table when she spotted a familiar face. Letitia sat alone, reading a newspaper. Jillian brought her tray to the other woman’s table and set it down.

“Hi, Letitia, okay if I sit here?”

Letitia looked up from her paper without cracking a smile. “You’re not very practiced with office politics, are you?”

Truth was, Jillian had no direct experience with office politics. The only place she’d ever worked besides Project Justice was at Daniel’s mansion, where her place among the staff as queen bee had been secure. She’d had no need to play games, curry favor or assemble a group of allies. But she’d read enough Cosmopolitan articles to understand how it worked.

“Maybe you could help me out with that,” she said.

“The first rule is that you sit with your own kind,” Letitia said. “You’re a top-level support staff. You sit with other executives’ assistants. You don’t sit with rank-and-file secretaries. And you certainly don’t sit with a security guard.”

Though stung by the rebuff, Jillian refused to show it. “That’s a stupid rule. Anyway, I want to sit with you. You seem like an intelligent and interesting person.”

“Oh, sit down. Jeez. Is that all you’re gonna eat?” Letitia had the remains of a chicken potpie in front of her. “No wonder you’re a size zero.”

Oddly, when people said she was too thin—something she heard all the time, although she was a perfectly healthy weight—it hurt almost as much as being called “Jillybean,” the nickname she’d endured in childhood. A size four was a long way from a zero but sometimes seemed threatening to certain women of more generous proportions.

Letitia, however, didn’t appear to be malicious with her observation; she just called it how she saw it. Jillian set her tray down, claimed a chair and unwrapped her straw, placing it in her glass of iced tea.

“So, how’s your first day going?” Letitia asked. “Ready to throw in the towel?”

“It’s not bad so far. It’s hard work, but nothing I can’t handle. Mr. Blake’s job is interesting, so I think mine will be, too.”

“Huh. Does he make you bring him coffee?”

“I don’t mind.” When she got to know him better, she would request that he not order her around like a chambermaid. But she had a sneaking suspicion Conner was being a jerk on purpose. He wanted to see how easily she could be intimidated, how far he could push her before she either cracked or pushed back.

If a billionaire formerly on death row couldn’t intimidate her, Conner certainly couldn’t.

“He’s got a hot man-booty.” Letitia took a sip of her coffee, then added another packet of sugar. “But I don’t know whether I could put up with him just to enjoy a little eye candy.”

“He’s a nice-looking man,” Jillian agreed blandly. What an understatement! “Is he married?”

“No, not anymore.” Letitia laughed. “Can you imagine committing yourself to that for life? At least if you’re an employee, you can walk away. No one was surprised when he got divorced.”

Divorced? Jillian had guessed he wasn’t married. He displayed no family photos on his desk, didn’t wear a ring and hadn’t mentioned a wife or kids. But she hadn’t pegged him as divorced, either.

“What happened there?” she asked, going for broke. Why not? Ordinarily she wouldn’t engage in idle gossip about her boss, but she was here to gather intelligence, right?

“No one knows. He’s tight-lipped when it comes to his personal life. But my guess is, Chandra got tired of sitting at home waiting for him. First he was always traveling, then he was always here, works sixteen-hour days most of the time.”

“Chandra Mayall?” That pushy, exotic creature who’d barged into Conner’s office that morning was his ex-wife? Of course he would marry someone like that. She’d probably been a cheerleader in high school.

“Yup. The boss’s granddaughter—and his sole heir, I might add.”

Conner Blake must have looked like a good catch to Chandra. But Jillian agreed that eighty-hour workweeks weren’t conducive to a good marriage.

“He’s young,” Jillian said. “I expect he’ll find someone else.”

“But not you, I hope,” Letitia said. “You wouldn’t want to be hooking up with a murderer.”

“He’s not a murderer,” Jillian said firmly, trying not to think too long and hard about how angry he’d become when she’d organized papers without his permission. And how he didn’t want her to touch anything on his desk or in his office.

“He’s got motive,” Letitia said, warming up to her topic. “Greg Tynes was having an affair with Chandra.”

“More gossip?”

“This I know for a fact. I saw them together. In the parking garage. Kissing.”

This was good stuff! “But Chandra is his ex. Why would he care?”

Letitia gave her a look that told her exactly how naive her assumption was.

She shivered slightly. Was it possible? She could think of little nice to say about the man, but could he possibly be a murderer?

In high school, when his cruel prank was still fresh in her mind, she’d envisioned all sorts of ways she might make Conner Blake pay for his crime. Her revenge fantasies had included such soap-operatic scenarios as transforming herself into a siren, tricking him into falling in love with her, then jilting him at the altar. Or waiting until he was running for congress, then revealing to the press what he had done to her just days before the election.

She’d grown up and realized how outlandish her fantasies had been, how improbable and immature. But never in her wildest imagination had she envisioned sending him up the river.

Now, that would be payback—sending Conner to prison. The thought brought her no satisfaction. He might be a despicable fathead, but could she really believe he was capable of taking a human life?

She didn’t have to draw conclusions. She only had to report what she found out and Daniel would follow up. Tonight’s report would be a juicy one.