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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.
