Hidden Agenda

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.