Hidden Agenda

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.