Beyond appearances

Work undercover, catch the bad guy, become a full-time Project Justice investigator. Simple enough plan, until Jillian Baxter recognizes the man she’s investigating. Her new “boss” is none other than Conner Blake—her childhood crush. Luckily, he has no idea who she is, since Jillian is no longer Jillybean, the short, overweight teenager he publicly humiliated.

Despite their past, Jillian knows Conner isn’t a murderer. Nor is he that same cruel boy. In fact, there’s much to admire about the man he is. Still, this is an ongoing case and whatever is happening between them will have to wait. As she gets closer to finding the killer, she must decide if she can trust Conner with the truth. And that could be her toughest decision yet.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Conner stepped inside and closed the door.

“Oh, Conner, you startled me. I was hoping Mr. Cuddy could give me the budget for the office party—”

“You were in here alone, with the door closed. Drop the dumb-blonde act, Jillian. I happen to know you’re highly intelligent. So I’ll repeat myself. What the hell are you doing in Cuddy’s office?”

“What did you come in here for? You didn’t even knock.”

“I needed something from my office for the meeting. Since I was headed this way, Cuddy asked me if I’d get his…his phone.”

Jillian couldn’t believe this. Conner was lying, too!

“I don’t see his phone,” Jillian said casually.

“Guess he didn’t forget it after all. Probably put it in the wrong pocket or something.”

“Is that the story you’re going to stick with?”

He crossed his arms. “Mine’s better than yours.”

For the span of a few heartbeats they stared at each other, challenging.

A rattling of the office doorknob caused Conner’s eyes to widen with apprehension. “Follow my lead.” Without warning he wrapped his arms around her and planted his mouth firmly on hers.

Dear Reader,

What was your most humiliating incident in high school? Almost every woman can remember a moment during her vulnerable teen years when she wished the earth would swallow her up, or she could move to a different state and change her name. And was there a boy involved? If you could see him again today, what would you say?

Fortunately, most of us can laugh at those cringe-worthy memories. But Jillian, the heroine of Hidden Agenda, isn’t ready to laugh. At age fourteen she was humiliated and she had her heart broken. Now, just when she gets a chance to prove herself in the eyes of her Project Justice colleagues, she has to work side by side with the boy—now a man—she used to love with all her heart, then vowed to hate forever.

I had a great deal of fun with Jillian. She’s made an appearance in all five Project Justice books, and I’m excited to give her her own story. I hope you enjoy her journey.

All best,

Kara Lennox

Hidden Agenda

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers. You can find her at www.karalennox.com.

For my best friend in high school and college, Anne O’Connor.

We sure had some adventures.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

I’M IN! JILLIAN BAXTER tried not to let the sense of triumph show on her face as the personnel director, Joyce Carrington, droned on about vacation policy and 401(k) plans. Jillian had crossed her first hurdle as a field investigator at Project Justice: she’d been hired by Mayall Lumber. Now she would infiltrate the company and catch a murderer.

“Well, we can go over all this when you officially start,” Joyce said breezily. She was a pleasant, matronly sort with a cloud of dark, frizzy hair escaping from numerous barrettes, a blouse with a coffee stain, and a desk piled high with messy stacks of paper itching to be sorted and organized. “We’ll make the job offer official as soon as Mr. Blake signs off.”

“Mr. Blake?”

“He’ll be your direct supervisor,” Joyce said. “I’ll warn you, he’s quite challenging. He’s been through four admins this year already. But with your experience, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble.”

Jillian’s experience was mostly fabricated. Daniel Logan, CEO of Project Justice, had put together a résumé that had made her sound like the best administrative assistant in all of Texas, making sure her stellar references would check out.

But Jillian had full confidence in her ability to please this Mr. Blake, whoever he was. He couldn’t possibly be any more demanding than Daniel was, and she’d been Daniel’s personal assistant for years before transferring to the foundation’s investigative arm.

“I’ll walk you over to his office.” Joyce stood, bumping one of the precariously balanced stacks of paper, which fell to the floor in a flurry of printed reports, invoices, newspaper clippings and employee candidate résumés.

Jillian hopped out of her chair to help clean up the mess. One particular paper caught her eye; it was a memo from the company’s public relations office with lots of capital letters and exclamation points.

Under no circumstances should anyone speak with reporter Mark Bowen— That was as much as Jillian could read on the fly.

“Oh, goodness, thank you,” Joyce said. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten behind in my paperwork. Things have been a little crazy around here the last few weeks.”

Jillian wasn’t surprised. When one of your employees was murdered and found in the trunk of your CEO’s car, it probably created all kinds of havoc.

Jillian made no reference to the scandalous situation. “Business is booming, then?” she asked innocently.

“Well, yes, business is good. But that’s not… It’s just that we’ve lost some key people recently. Others are retiring, including our acting CEO.”

Hamilton Payne. He was the one who had contacted Project Justice, and the only person working here who knew of Jillian’s true purpose.

“Your job must be quite demanding,” Jillian said sympathetically as she stacked the last of the fallen papers and laid them on the desk. “I hope you have a good admin.”

“On maternity leave,” Joyce said glumly.

“If I have any extra time, I’d be happy to help you out.” Jillian wasn’t just being generous. Joyce obviously knew the ins and outs of Mayall Lumber—who the key players were, their salaries, their responsibilities. She and her office could be a gold mine of information.

“Trust me, working for Mr. Blake, you won’t have much free time. He’ll keep you busy.”

Jillian hoped this Mr. Blake wouldn’t be too ghastly. But no matter how bad he was, she would make it work. She only had to put up with it for a short time, just until she found something to prove Stan Mayall’s innocence.

Mr. Blake’s office was on the third floor, in the executive wing. Mayall Lumber was a medium-size operation, with two sawmills, one large lumberyard and a posh corporate headquarters overlooking Houston’s Buffalo Bayou. They had only one retail outlet, a small place that specialized in exotic woods of the highest quality for furniture and cabinet makers. Most of their business involved selling to the construction trade and small lumber retailers. Daniel had provided tons of information on the company, which Jillian had dutifully memorized. Her knowledge had obviously impressed Joyce.

The personnel director stopped in front of an oak door and tapped softly. “Mr. Blake?”

“It’s open,” a deep voice called from inside.

Jillian barely had time to register that something about the voice struck a chord of familiarity before Joyce ushered her inside the gorgeous office.

The first thing Jillian noticed was the wood—wood floor, paneling, box beams holding up the ceiling. It was all stained a dark cherry color with beautiful grain. The furniture was made of wood, too. Despite the lack of upholstery, the chairs looked warm and comfortable. The desk, big as a Humvee, was made of some gleaming, exotic wood with a stripe pattern, reminding her of a crouched jungle beast. The only softness in the whole room was a low-slung 1960s retro sofa.

Finally she raised her gaze to the man behind the desk, her new boss. Every sane thought, every polished word she’d been about to use to introduce herself, melted away like mist in the sun. The giant, egotistical, bastard sun.

Mr. Blake. Conner Blake. The boy who had made high school a living hell for her. The boy she had once desperately loved, then hated with all the angst a fourteen-year-old girl could muster.

The cocky, mischievous boy was now a man, but despite the umpteen years since she’d seen him, he was instantly recognizable. A bit taller, a bit broader in the shoulders, hair more sandy than blond, but the beautifully carved planes of his face had grown only more handsome with the passage of time.

“Mr. Blake, I’d like you to meet your new administrative assistant, Jillian Baxter.”

He looked at her then, and she figured the jig was up. She would have to slink back to Project Justice with no job, her first undercover operation a bust because she had, in a fit of adolescent revenge, slashed two of her potential boss’s tires, an impulsive act that had only escalated her humiliation into high school legend.

But the look on his face reflected not a hint of recognition, only what she surmised was mild irritation at having to deal with the mundane task of welcoming a new assistant.

She held her breath as introductions, handshaking, and small talk ensued, waiting for the inevitable moment when he remembered. But, amazingly, it never came. Conner Blake had once been the center of her world. Apparently Jillian Baxter had been nothing but a tiny, forgettable blip on his radar screen.

He was still so gorgeous. It wasn’t fair that the universe would give one man that much sexy charisma. Even as the feelings of humiliation welled up, fresh as a new coat of nail polish, her heart thumped with an irregular tempo from the simple contact of a handshake and the knowledge that he was sizing her up.

What did he think of her, this new acquaintance suddenly thrust into his working life? While he retained a certain essence of his high school face and physique, she looked very different than she had the last time he’d seen her, as a high school freshman. She’d grown five inches and lost twenty pounds, for starters. The chlorine-bleached, frizzy cloud of hair from high school, courtesy of swim team, was now tamed into a sleek bob with expert lowlights.

She’d still been in braces her freshman year. She’d also worn glasses. And then there was…the nose. She’d broken it at a swim meet her senior year, and since she’d needed rhinoplasty anyway, she’d asked the surgeon to transform her nose so it was more in proportion to her face.

If her name didn’t ring a bell, Conner probably wouldn’t recognize her by her appearance, and that was a very good thing. If she didn’t shine during her first undercover assignment, she might never get any respect from her colleagues at Project Justice. She would forever be Daniel’s ex-assistant, the one who’d made a fool of herself by falling in love with her boss.

That’s all over now. New life, new goals. Jillian Baxter, finally grown up at age twenty-seven, knew what she wanted to do with her life. She wanted to help exonerate those unjustly accused of crimes. And she didn’t want a man—any man. The two men she’d given her heart to, devoted every fiber of her being to, had both brushed her aside with not even a flicker of interest.

The wanting hurt, and the rejection hurt, and why should she put herself through that again? Ever?

“So, I’ll expect you to be prompt,” Conner was saying. “I start my workday at 7:00 a.m., and therefore, so will you.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Blake,” she said with all the icy politeness she could muster even as her mind screamed, 7:00 a.m.? Is he crazy?

Joyce beamed. “Very good, then. Jillian, come with me and we’ll get all your paperwork started.” She headed out the door, and Jillian offered a nod to her new boss and followed. “Oh, goodness, I haven’t even shown you your work space. It’s just around the corner from Mr. Blake’s office, here. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess. The previous admin has been gone three weeks and things have piled up.”

Jillian took one look at the office and cringed. It would take her hours to shovel this place out. She couldn’t stand to work in a disorganized space.

“I should have warned you Mr. Blake starts the workday early,” Joyce rattled on. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine.” Jillian wasn’t a morning person, but she would do whatever it took to please her new boss, even if she despised him down to his rotten, cruel core.

* * *

“I REALLY NEED THAT REPORT ASAP.” Hamilton Payne, acting CEO at Mayall Lumber, sank into the wingback chair opposite Conner’s desk. At first glance, Hamilton gave the impression of a doddering grandfather, but Conner knew he wielded a keen mind and as director of sales had cultivated a healthy client base and a steady stream of new business for twenty years or more. He was running things while Stan was incarcerated, but he was on the verge of retirement and didn’t relish his new leadership role.

“I’m working on it.” Conner shuffled through the papers on his desk as if he could actually accomplish something.

“Maybe your new secretary could help.” Ham was obviously trying to keep a straight face, but Conner could tell he was about to burst out laughing.

Conner pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “You met her?”

“Joyce trotted her around and introduced her. I don’t know why she thinks I want to meet every damn secretary she hires.”

“She does it for them—so they’ll feel important.”

The new girl was hot, that was for sure. The moment she’d walked into his office, Conner’s brain had short-circuited and he hadn’t heard a word Joyce said. He’d been too busy cataloging those mile-long legs, which her short skirt and stiletto heels showed off to perfection.

The rest of her was just as stunning, from her nipped-in waist, her long, elegant neck to her huge, innocent blue eyes.

Innocent, right. A woman built like her was made for sin. She was a distraction he didn’t need. Good thing she wouldn’t be around long. For some reason, they never were.

“I’ll make the report a priority,” he said to Ham. “I’ve just been a little distracted. With Greg gone, I’m shuffling people around, trying to cover all the bases.”

Ham lowered his voice. “Have you learned anything new? About who might have killed him? You and I both know it couldn’t have been Stan.”

Conner’s throat tightened every time he thought about Stan Mayall toughing it out in a jail cell. Stan wasn’t just a boss to him. He’d been a mentor, a sounding board and a good friend. For three years Stan had also been Conner’s grandfather-in-law, as dear to him as any blood relative could have been. They’d remained close even after Conner’s divorce from Chandra.

“Of course he didn’t do it. There’s no way a jury would convict him.” But the case might not even get to a jury, if Stan’s health continued to decline. He’d been diagnosed with cancer just a week before his arrest. “It’s not right. He should be at home, where Chandra can take care of him.”

“I know.” Ham shook his head sadly. “I wish there was something we could do.”

Conner was doing something. He was peering into every nook and cranny of this company, searching for a motive for murder. He’d even found his way into Greg’s email account. So far, he’d turned up nothing concrete. But Greg’s personal life was a minefield of broken relationships and family feuds. Maybe his mysterious girlfriend, “Mariposa,” was involved. Conner knew of her only through the sexy emails she and Greg had sent back and forth. Maybe Greg had dumped her, and she’d hired a killer and told him to make it look like the murder was work-related.

It was a theory, anyway.

“Keep me in the loop.” Ham pushed himself to his feet. “I’m supposed to retire in less than a month. I can’t put it off any longer—my doctor and my wife have ganged up on me. But I don’t want to leave Stan, or the company, in the lurch.”

“I swear, Ham, we’ll figure it out. The most important thing we can do is to keep the company afloat. So when Stan is exonerated—and I know he will be—he’ll have a job to return to.”

And Conner could finally get his own life back. He would gladly walk away from this corner office and burn every one of his silk ties.

* * *

JILLIAN COULDN’T RESIST announcing her good news as soon as she bounced into the bull pen at Project Justice late that afternoon. “I’m in! Mayall Lumber hired me!”

The only other investigator there was Griffin Benedict, who was on the phone. He looked up with mild irritation, and she realized she could have been overheard by whoever Griffin was talking to. One of the first rules of working for the foundation was discretion.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, then whispered a quick “Sorry.” The only other people in the room were two interns, college students with whom she had worked until her recent “promotion” into fieldwork.

They both looked up at her. Bernie, the nicer one, gave her a tepid thumbs-up, but Kendall, who’d never gone out of her way to say anything nice to Jillian, rolled her eyes.

“Come to lord it over us?” Kendall said. “It’s not like you were really promoted. It’s just that you have secretarial experience.” She said the word secretarial as if it were nasty. “Soon as this job is finished, you’ll be back in the intern ghetto, licking envelopes and making coffee.”

“Probably.” Jillian tried not to let Kendall’s attitude bother her. “But at least I get to work in the field for a while.”

“You say ‘work in the field’ like you’re a secret agent or something.” Kendall didn’t try to hide her sneer. “Daniel isn’t, like, letting you carry a gun or anything, is he?”

“No, of course not.” Not yet. But she’d taken a firearms training course and had applied for her license to carry concealed. That was a long way from Daniel letting her do any such thing, but it was a step in the right direction. “I’m gathering intelligence.”

Kendall’s eyes lit up. “About what?”

Though Jillian wanted to dish, she knew she shouldn’t. Discretion, discretion. “I can’t really talk about it.”

Again, Kendall rolled her eyes.

“By the time this assignment is over, you guys will be back at school. So, this is goodbye.”

“We’ll miss you.” Bernie clearly didn’t mean it.

Kendall said nothing.

They were both probably glad to see her go. She’d already been working here several months when they’d arrived for their summer internships, so she’d shown them the ropes and tried to bond with them. But neither had warmed up to her. She was only five or six years older than them, but it was enough to cause a small generation gap.

She’d never been very good at making friends. In high school, at the exclusive Shelby Academy, she’d been shy and withdrawn, preferring books and her active fantasy life to interaction with real people. Swim team had been her only extracurricular activity, and she’d never distinguished herself in the sport, though she still loved the water, and all those laps she’d swum had at least slimmed her down.

In college, she’d fared better. With her new nose, bright, even teeth and long, blond hair, she garnered lots of attention from young men, none of whom impressed her because by then, she’d fallen hard for Daniel Logan. Their fathers had worked together, and all through college she’d spent summers at the Logan estate helping out Daniel’s mother.

While the guys flocked around her, other women, even her sorority sisters, had held her at arm’s length. She’d earned a reputation as snooty when really, she’d just been shy. She still didn’t relate well to other women. Some were put off by her trust fund, others by her attractiveness—she was honest enough to admit she’d turned out rather well in that department, given her shaky start. They didn’t want her around their husbands and boyfriends.

“Well, see you around.” She left the bull pen and went to find the one person she felt pretty sure would be happy for her—aside from Daniel, who sincerely wanted her to find a place in the world where she belonged.

Celeste Boggs, the office manager, was just shutting things down for the day at her station in the lobby—turning off her computer, packing up the magazines and books she liked to read during lulls in activity.

Celeste was somewhere in her seventies. She’d been the first woman patrol officer hired by the Houston Police Department, and despite decades of service had never been promoted to detective. Now she seemed to be rebelling against years in a uniform. Every day she showed up for work in an outfit more outlandish and age-inappropriate than the day before. Today it was a red polka-dot chiffon blouse with a big bow at the neck coupled with a red miniskirt and rhinestone gladiator sandals. Her long, acrylic nails bore decals of neon flowers, and her unruly gray hair was drawn up into a ponytail atop her head, resulting in a cascade of curls. Huge red dangle earrings completed the ensemble.

“Hey, Celeste.” Jillian leaned her elbows on the semicircular granite desk, designed to impress visitors. “What happened to the go-go dancer you mugged to get those earrings?”

“Buried in a shallow grave,” Celeste said in a stage whisper. “You like?” She gave her head a little shake. “Bought ’em on eBay.”

“Very retro cool. They look great on you.” Jillian actually admired Celeste’s fearless sense of style. The older woman didn’t care what anyone thought of her and dressed solely to please herself, and in the process had achieved a sort of thrift-store chic.

“So, spill it,” Celeste said. “Did you get the job?”

“I did.”

“Good for you.” Celeste took her through her complicated high/low-five sequence. “This is your chance to shine. You do realize, don’t you, that you’re the first female investigator at Project Justice?”

Jillian frowned. “What about Raleigh?” Raleigh Benedict, Griffin’s wife, was head of Legal but also managed her own cases. She was one of the most senior staff members.

“Raleigh runs things from a legal perspective,” Celeste said. “When it comes to fieldwork, she gets one of the guys to help her.”

“Well, I’m not an investigator yet. This is an important case—Daniel himself is coordinating the investigation. I’m just doing a small part.”

“Yeah, but you’re working undercover. If you do a good job, you have the chance to move into the vacancy Billy left.”

Billy Cantu had recently left Project Justice to return to the work he was truly meant to do, as a police detective. Only in her dreams could Jillian fill his shoes.

She voiced the question she’d been wondering about ever since Kendall’s put-down. “Do you think Daniel asked me to do this because of my experience as an admin? I can’t envision Griffin or Ford fetching coffee and making copies for some guy in a suit. Maybe I was the only one he could talk into it.”

“It doesn’t matter how you got the assignment,” Celeste said. “The important thing is what you do with it.”

True. But it still rankled.

“Daniel’s instructions were pretty clear. I’m not supposed to do anything except keep my eyes and ears open and report to him. He told me not to actively investigate.”

Celeste made a face. “Good thing you’ve got a mind of your own.” She shouldered her red patent-leather purse, too large to be legal as an airline carry-on, and made her way to the front door with her enormous ring of keys. “You listen to me, and you’ll come out of this operation smelling like a rose. The first thing you have to do is make friends with the other support staff—admins, legal assistants. They’ll gossip about their bosses, I guarantee it.”

“That’s a wonderful idea…in theory. But I suck at making new friends.” Oddly, though, Celeste seemed to like Jillian. The elderly woman was fierce and gruff with most everyone else, but she treated Jillian like her baby chick.

Celeste dropped her keys into her purse, then paused to look Jillian up and down. “You’re too perfect,” she said bluntly. “You intimidate other women. They despise you even as they want to be just like you.”

Leave it to Celeste to speak the unvarnished truth.

“Don’t worry,” Celeste soothed. “It’s nothing to do with your personality.”

Jillian wasn’t so sure about that. Last year, when Daniel’s eventual wife, Jamie, got sick, some people actually suspected Jillian of poisoning her.

“But you might try looking more…ordinary.”

“Ordinary.” Jillian wasn’t sure what Celeste meant. She felt she was ordinary.

“Like you don’t have a trust fund, girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

Celeste shut off the lights and set the security alarm. Phil, the night watchman, would arrive shortly. Celeste had left him a Snickers bar, Jillian noticed. She licked her lips, wondering if Phil would mind…

“Now,” Celeste said, snapping Jillian’s attention away from the chocolate temptation, “aside from the other secretaries, you need to get to know the janitors, or anybody who cleans or makes repairs. Those people are essentially invisible, but they see and hear much more than you think. Imagine what they could find out just by looking through the trash.”

“That’s the key? Getting to know people at work?”

“It’s the cornerstone of all undercover work, all police work, really. People have to get to know you before they’ll trust you. And they have to trust you before they’ll tell you their secrets.”

“Thanks, Celeste.” It sounded like good advice to her, and she could do it without disobeying Daniel’s orders to refrain from actively investigating, something he deemed too risky because she didn’t have police training.

“Oh, one more thing.” Celeste reached into her voluminous bag and drew out a small, black disk about the size of a quarter. “It’s a listening bug. Plant it in the office of someone you want to spy on, hide the digital recorder within a hundred feet. It’s voice-activated. The recorder has a memory card. You pop it into your computer and listen to the audiofiles. Elevates eavesdropping to a whole new level. Go on, take it.”

Jillian hesitated. “What if I get caught eavesdropping? I’d get fired and my cover would be blown.”

Celeste lowered her voice. “Daniel said to listen, right? This is listening. You gotta take some chances sometimes. I worked undercover in Vice playing a prostitute. Had to deal with some pretty shady characters. My life depended on keeping my identity and my true purpose a secret. You just have to be smart about it.”

Jillian took the bug and the small recorder with murmured thanks and hurriedly tucked it into her own purse. Despite Celeste’s confidence, she wouldn’t use it—she couldn’t take the risk of getting caught. Not only would Mayall Lumber fire her, but so would Daniel.

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.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT DAY, when Conner returned from lunch, he found a surprise sitting on his desk. Jillian had delivered a report based on the armload of trash he’d shoved at her only yesterday. The papers were sorted into file folders, neatly stacked on his chair, and a printed report—complete with graphs, charts and a spreadsheet—sat in the middle of his desk.

He was torn when it came to having an assistant. On one hand, he needed someone to keep him organized. Paperwork, scheduling, computers, meetings—he wasn’t terribly good at any of it. But he hated having assistants underfoot. Give him a nice stand of oak trees and he could read them like a book. He could tell a tree’s health just by looking at the color and texture of the bark, the number of branches and how they grew, the gloss of the leaf.

Stick him behind a desk and he was close to useless.

His job performance as director of timber operations was only so-so. This company was only as good as the wood it harvested, and that harvest was only as good as the men and women out in the field finding the stands of trees, evaluating them, negotiating for the purchase and supervising the harvest. From his office he could give his buyers directions, look at photographs and approve purchases or not. But it drove him crazy not to have firsthand knowledge.

And the paperwork—God, how he hated paperwork. All the hoops they had to jump through to keep this certification or that one, proving they adhered to green policies, that they had performed all the correct environmental impact studies. He’d had no idea how hard his predecessor’s job was when he’d accepted the promotion.

It was easy to blame Chandra, but deep down, Conner had no one but himself to hold responsible. He was the one who’d been thinking with his privates, rather than his brain and his heart, when he’d agreed to the corner office. He’d have done anything to keep Chandra happy.

In the end, though, his decision to settle down had backfired. Chandra had fallen in love with an adventurer and world traveler who brought home exotic presents—carved teak boxes, silks and Oriental rugs. She’d seen him as a modern-day Indiana Jones.

But she’d grown weary of his constant travel and had begged her grandfather to promote him. Yes, because of Chandra, he had advanced in the company at lightning speed, bringing home ever-larger paychecks.

But an executive who’d traded in his bullwhip for a smart phone didn’t interest her any longer. The divorce had been executed with surgical precision. Conner had lost his wife, his home, his dog, his savings, and he’d been left with a job he despised.

He wouldn’t be here forever—that was his only consolation. But leaving Stan—a man as dear to him as his own grandfather—in the middle of this hideous controversy over Greg’s murder was unthinkable. With treatment, Stan might beat the cancer. But prison would kill him.

Conner simply couldn’t abandon the sinking ship.

He’d met with Stan’s lawyer, who at Stan’s request had allowed him to go over the evidence collected by the police. One anomaly stood out to Conner right away. Stan wasn’t strong enough to hoist two hundred pounds of deadweight into a car trunk. That was a point in Stan’s favor.

But Conner still had no clue who might have murdered Greg and framed Stan. Any one of the directors, looking to move up, could be responsible. All of them had been interviewed by the police, including Conner. In fact, they’d looked at Conner pretty closely, since he was Greg’s immediate boss. But once they’d zeroed in on Stan, they’d abandoned all their other suspects.

Conner forced his attention back to his job, looking over Jillian’s report. She’d made a few errors, mostly little details that stemmed from a lack of familiarity with the lumber business rather than outright mistakes. He made some notations, then headed for her desk to return it to her.

Maybe he’d finally found an assistant with half a brain who could get things back on track. Someone to whom he could actually delegate responsibilities.

He found her at her desk, shredding a stack of papers he’d given her permission to dispose of.

“You know, you don’t have to do that yourself. Down on the first floor, there’s a whole department devoted to managing waste and recycling. You just hand someone the papers and they’ll take it from there.”

“I prefer to do this myself,” she said, sending another stack of pages through the slot and pausing while the blades whined. “That way, I know for sure it was done. In case a question ever comes up. I assume some of these numbers, the bids and such, are confidential.”

Today she was wearing a slim black skirt and a short-sleeved, lime-green sweater that showed him more of her curves than he’d seen on her first day. Her breasts were fuller than he’d thought at first, and her waist was so narrow he could probably span it with his hands. Twenty-four inches, he’d bet money on it. He had a lot of experience sizing up the circumference of trees.

Not that Jillian’s body looked anything like a tree trunk.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to work on?”

He snapped back to his senses. He had no business thinking about Jillian’s waist, or any other part of her body for that matter.

“Where did you learn to pull together a report like that?” he asked, instead of answering her question.

“I have a business administration degree from Dartmouth,” she said. “Is it satisfactory?”

“There are some mistakes,” he said gruffly, plopping the report in front of her. “Fix them and print it out again.” He turned quickly and walked away before she could see his reaction to her.

Wow. He fell into his office chair and spun it around. Where had that come from? How long had it been since he’d reacted to a woman like that?

No one since Chandra. Chandra, with her traffic-stopping body and long black hair and eyes like cut emeralds, just as sharp, too.

She did nothing for him now, especially since he knew everything about her was fake, from the hair extensions to the augmented breasts to the acrylic nails.

But it wasn’t just her physical self that was insincere. She had lied without conscience, without a second thought, to get what she wanted. She’d perfected the fine art of saying exactly what a man wanted to hear, and he’d fallen for it.

No reason to believe Jillian wasn’t just the same. She was cut from the same cloth—rich, well educated, groomed to manipulate her way to become a rich man’s wife someday.

To be fair, she’d given no indication that she expected him to fill the role of her husband. She’d been nothing if not professional. Even a bit cool.

Which was odd.

Most women responded to him from a…hormonal perspective. The nastier he was to them, the more they tried to win him over. It was the beauty-and-the-beast syndrome. They wanted to tame him.

But not Jillian. She didn’t flutter eyelashes, or lean over so he could get an eyeful of her cleavage, or flip her hair or lick her lips. In fact, he suspected she might be sneering at him behind his back.

It shouldn’t matter. She appeared to be qualified for her job, and that was the only important thing.

She still seemed familiar to him somehow. Who did she remind him of? If she’d grown up wealthy in Houston, chances were good he’d crossed paths with her at some point—a debutante ball, a charity event, even a high school football game. But surely if he’d met her, he’d remember her. Her looks weren’t forgettable.

Pushing thoughts of his new assistant out of his mind, he focused on his email. Great, just what he needed, another screwup with harvesting in East Texas. Unfortunately, Greg Tynes was involved. Dissatisfied with Greg’s job performance abroad, Conner had brought him closer to home, but he’d continued to make mistakes. Apparently he hadn’t understood the protocol and had marked a snag that was a popular owl nesting site. Owls had to be protected not just because they were cute; they were essential to a healthy forest ecosystem.

Conner would have to go there, apologize for the actions of a dead man and smooth some feathers, perhaps literally. But he welcomed any excuse to spend time in the forest, even dealing with disasters.

He had so little time these days. He wondered briefly if he could delegate the trip, then shook his head. Who would he send? Jillian? She might be good with paperwork, but he had his doubts she could manage trees, owls and angry forest rangers.

No, he’d have to go himself. But perhaps he would take Jillian with him. If she was going to stick around for any length of time—and he had to admit, she seemed a good fit for the job—he might as well start teaching her about lumber so she could really be of service to him.

Conner exited his office and strode into Jillian’s area, standing above her desk until she looked up. She was in the process of entering the corrections for the report.

“I’ll need another twenty minutes for the revised report,” she said.

“That’s not why I’m here. Were you apprised, when you took this job, that there might be some travel involved?”

“No, actually, I wasn’t.”

Conner felt a slight sense of relief. She didn’t sound happy. If she refused to travel, he could use that as grounds for firing her.

Not that he wanted to fire her. Not yet. But having a valid reason when he did send her packing would go a long way toward avoiding a wrongful termination lawsuit. He’d made some of his previous admins very unhappy with his admittedly unreasonable demands and capricious, sudden terminations, but so far none of them had sued.

“On occasion I attend meetings in the field with forestry experts, government pencil-pushers, eco groups, landowners. I need someone to make travel arrangements and keep me organized during the trip. I might need you to pack certain documents, a computer for PowerPoint presentations, and also to take notes during the meeting—make an audio recording, too—and transcribe it later. Is that a problem?”

“No, I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Good. Set up a meeting tomorrow afternoon in Stirrup Creek. I’ll forward the email that has the pertinent information. We’ll stay overnight and drive back in the morning. Reserve a Jeep from the company fleet. Do you own a pair of hiking boots?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re physically fit enough to hike into the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Can you operate a digital camera and get decent results?”

“Yes.” She looked up expectantly, her gaze direct and slightly challenging. He simply wasn’t used to this can-do attitude. No whining? No endless questions about what to wear, what to bring, what they would be doing, where they would eat, what kind of rooms she should reserve?

Just yes?

A beautiful woman who said yes. Jillian was dangerous to his libido. Tomorrow, she would show her true colors, he was sure of it. She was probably trying hard to make an extra-good impression, it being her first week and all. But at the first sign of a mosquito she would go ballistic and prove herself inadequate for the job.

“Okay, then.” He spun on his loafers and walked away, but Jillian stopped him.

“Conner?”

“Yes?” he asked without turning to look at her. Here it comes.

“There’s an intercom between our offices. You don’t have to keep walking out the door and around the corner. That seems a waste of your valuable time.”

He returned to stand in front of her desk again, purposely glowering at her. “You don’t like me checking up on you?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Afraid you’ll catch me watching a movie on my phone or talking to my boyfriend on company time?”

Her gutsy comeback took his breath away, as did her mention of a boyfriend. She acted as if she didn’t really need this job. And maybe she didn’t. Her paycheck was probably a drop in the bucket compared to her trust fund.

Or maybe it was her sugar daddy who paid for those expensive clothes. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t see how that information is pertinent to my job,” she asked, her tone carefully neutral. No snark. She wanted to please him, but at the same time she wasn’t going to take a whole lot of crap from him.

Good for you, Jillian Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is.

“Some significant others object to an employee’s travel schedule. I’d like to know whether I’m causing any domestic discord.”

“If there is, I’ll deal with it. But thank you for your concern.”

“I was checking up on you,” he admitted. “It only makes sense that I would keep a close eye on you your first few days.”

She thought about that for a moment, then said, “Yes, it does make sense. Thank you for your honesty. I’ll make the travel arrangements as soon as I receive the email.”

Conner’s skin tingled all over as he returned to his office. She definitely turned him on, which was a damned nuisance. What a brilliant move, insisting she accompany him on a business trip when he couldn’t spend two minutes in the same room with her before sporting a hard-on.

Way to go, Blake.

* * *

“SORRY I’M LATE,” JILLIAN said to Celeste, who was waiting for her on the atrium level overlooking the ice skating rink at The Galleria Mall. “The ogre wanted me to type up some notes of his before I went home.”

“The ogre?” Celeste heaved her faux-lizard bag onto her shoulder.

“My new pet name for him. It’s not enough that he has to terrorize me during work hours. Now he’s making me go on a business trip with him.”

“Whoa, Nellie, what’s that about? He’s trying to put the moves on you already?”

Jillian shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that. He’s testing me. Wants to see how much he can abuse me. Apparently that’s part of the job description they didn’t tell me about—a high tolerance for crap. His former assistants couldn’t handle it, but obviously I have to.”

“If you want any pointers, just ask me. You have no idea the kind of shenanigans I had to endure early in my career. Hateful stuff. The kind of sexist hazing that would get you thrown in jail nowadays.”

“I’m not sure this is sexist.” Jillian watched the handful of skaters buzzing around the ice—the little princesses with their flirty skirts, the gangs of boys racing and cutting up. “He’s trying to prove he’s the alpha, I think.”

“The alpha can mate with any female in the pack,” Celeste pointed out, which didn’t put Jillian at ease. “So what do you need my help with? I’m the shopping queen, but surely you’re at least a princess at it yourself. You’re the best-dressed person I know besides moi.”

Jillian tried to take that as a compliment. Today Celeste wore an ankle-length skirt with frogs printed all over it, a fluorescent orange tank top and a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped out. She’d tied her hair up in a hot-pink zebra-stripe scarf. Her dangle earrings were papier-mâché frogs, which at least matched the skirt in theme if not color.

“I need to buy hiking clothes. And boots. And a digital camera.”

“Ah, I know just the place.”

Celeste dragged her to Cliffs, an upscale sporting goods store, where Jillian purchased two pair of sturdy, canvas pants with lots of pockets, two long-sleeved cotton shirts, thick socks, hiking boots, a wide-brimmed hat, work gloves and a backpack. She also grabbed a handheld GPS, bug repellant, sunscreen, lip balm, a water bottle, granola bars and waterproof matches.

“Matches?” Celeste put her hands on her bony hips. “Oh, come on. Throw in a tent and sleeping bag, and you could hike across the whole country.”

“I don’t want to be caught unprepared. What about this snakebite kit?”

Celeste just gave her a look.

“Well, there are snakes in the woods.” She spotted some machetes hanging on the wall. “Do you think I need one of these, to cut through the brush?”

Celeste walked closer to the display, then tested a machete blade with her thumb. “Sharp. I wonder if this is like the one Leo Simonetti used to cut off his victims’ heads. Remember that case?”

“On second thought, maybe it’s not a good idea for me to be alone in the woods with an infuriating man and sharp objects.” Jillian gathered up her purchases and took her place in the checkout line.

“So, have you made any progress? Finding the real killer, I mean.”

“Well…one of the security guards suspects my boss.”

Celeste’s plucked eyebrows flew up and almost met her hairline. “Your boss? Hot diggity! If he did it, then the evidence must be in his office or his computer, his phone, or his correspondence—he left a trail, they always do. Does he seem…secretive?”

“Yes, actually. He nearly blew a gasket when I cleaned up my own office. He told me he doesn’t want me to touch his papers or his computer without his express permission.”

“Honey, I think you’re on to something.” Celeste thought for a moment, then suddenly gasped. “Maybe you already saw the incriminating evidence but don’t know enough yet to recognize it. If he suspects you’re on to him…maybe he’s going to take you into the woods and make you disappear.”

Jillian almost regretted confiding in Celeste. “I don’t think that’s the case,” she said.

“Just make sure someone else in the company knows where you’ll be—and who you’ll be with. Oh, and I brought you some more gear to help you with your spying.”

“I’m not supposed to be spying.”

“Do you want to get ahead or not? If you do, you have to take some initiative.”

A few minutes later—and with her wallet several hundred dollars lighter—Jillian was seated across from Celeste at a mall café eating a chicken Caesar salad. Celeste, impatient to show off her “gear,” started emptying her gargantuan purse. She hauled out a wad of wires and laid it on the table. “To record telephone calls.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

Celeste slid her gaze away guiltily. “Okay, how about this?” She pulled out a rather clunky-looking pair of sunglasses. “There’s a video camera in the earpiece. Records up to thirty minutes of video on this tiny flash card. You can pop it right into your computer for viewing.”

“Celeste, where do you get all this stuff?”

“Mostly The Spy Store. Sometimes I order it from the back of Soldier of Fortune Magazine. They have the weird stuff.”

“I don’t want to record phone calls,” Jillian said. “That’s wiretapping, and it’s a felony.” Daniel would have her head if she went against his orders and broke the law.

“Even to bring a murderer to justice? Honey, do you want to be stuck filing and making coffee forever? Because that’s what happens to women in this field unless they go out on a limb. You have to be smarter, stronger, faster and lots more clever than the men just to break even.”

Jillian knew what Celeste had said was at least partly true, even in this day and age. She considered Daniel enlightened, not particularly sexist, yet Project Justice itself was clothed in an air of macho that favored brawn over brains and subtlety. Even her professors at the junior college where she took her criminal justice classes didn’t take her seriously because of her delicate appearance.

“You don’t have to tell anyone you made the recordings,” Celeste reasoned. “Just let the information you glean point you in the right direction. Make yourself look smart.”

Jillian scooped up all of Celeste’s toys and stuffed them into her shopping bag. “I’ll think about it. And, Celeste…thanks.”

Celeste took a big bite of her hamburger and spoke around it. “Us girls gotta stick together.”

* * *

“IS SOMETHING WRONG, Mr. Blake?” asked Letitia, the security guard, as Conner strolled in through the garage entrance early the next morning.

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“You’re whistling. I’ve never heard you whistle before.” She lowered her voice. “I thought maybe you were trying to signal me that there was some kind of trouble.”

Conner shook his head. “No, no trouble. I’m just in a good mood, I guess.”

Letitia laughed. “Yeah, right. Have a good day, Mr. Blake.”

“You, too, Letitia.”

Conner supposed he deserved the guard’s derision. Three years working in this building and he’d probably never spared a nice word for her. He was a Grade A grouch. A good mood wasn’t a familiar state for him.

But how could he not feel good? In a few hours, he would be in the forest—pine needles crunching underfoot, breeze blowing through the high branches, fresh air washing the Houston smog out of his lungs, birds calling.

A stand of second-growth pine wasn’t quite the same as an old-growth forest in Montenegro, or the rain forest in Brazil. There was something special—sacred almost—about a part of the earth that hadn’t been touched by human development, and he always felt good knowing that he was protecting those areas from other, less responsible lumber operations that would clear-cut the trees, rather than selectively harvesting mature trees and leaving behind smaller ones for the next generation—and for all the critters who called the forest home.

Sure, his way was more expensive. But landowners and governments who managed public lands were more likely to sell to Mayall because of the care they took.

Conner’s musings came to an abrupt halt as he walked down the door to his office and got an eyeful of Dora the Explorer.

Jillian wore pants with enough pockets that she could carry provisions for an army. The camo shirt—what was that, National Guard chic? And those boots—good gravy, they must weigh twenty pounds each. The hat was more appropriate for a survival hike through the desert than a walk in the woods.

He couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing. “What the hell are you supposed to be? Are you auditioning for a role on the next season of Survivor?”

The hurt look on Jillian’s face immediately sobered him. He hadn’t meant to ridicule her.

“I dressed prepared for a hike, as suggested,” she said coolly.

He held up a hand. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed, Jilly…Jillian.”

Jilly. Jilly. Why had he called her that?

Then it hit him. Jillybean. This situation reminded him viscerally of another time when he’d laughed at a female’s expense. Her name was even similar. And that expression of injury on her face—uncannily the same.

Jillian pulled out a compact from her purse and tried to see herself in the tiny mirror. “Surely I don’t look that bad.”

“No,” he said distractedly as he stared at her, studying her features, trying to see something that wasn’t there. “You follow directions extremely well and you look…” Adorable. Sexy. How could a woman in camo, covered head to toe, look sexy? “Well prepared. We’ll leave in a few minutes, I just want to check my mail.” He escaped into his office and shut the door.

What was Jillian’s last name? Though the situation had reminded him of something from years ago, this Jillian couldn’t possibly be Jill Baxter, his friend Jeff’s kid sister. Jill had been short and chubby with a mop of frizzy, green-blond hair, a mouthful of braces, and a long, beaky nose.

Still, Conner rifled through the papers on his desk until he came up with the stack of résumés Joyce had given him to look over, a task he’d never gotten around to, forcing her to make a decision on her own. He flipped through them until he found Jillian’s.

Jillian Baxter.

Baxter was a common name—it couldn’t be the same Jill. But he hadn’t seen her since she was fourteen. That was, what, thirteen years ago? That would make her around twenty-seven now. The age was about right.

Though he and Jeff had been good friends at one time, they’d drifted apart after high school. Their families exchanged Christmas cards, but that was about it. He thought about looking Jeff up on Facebook, seeing if he could reconnect with his old buddy. Or, he could simply sift through Jeff’s friends and see if his sister was there, and what she looked like today.

In the end, though, he decided he didn’t have time for such a foolish pursuit. There was no possible way the gorgeous woman sitting at her desk just down the hall with the tiny waist and the sleek hair—and the straight, aristocratic, but definitely nonbeaky nose—was Jillybean, the girl he had humiliated in front of teachers, parents and half the student body.

The girl he’d last seen in her underwear, streaking across the football field toward the locker room as fast as her stubby little legs could carry her.

The girl who had vowed to hate his guts for the rest of his days, who had cursed his unborn children and sworn to condemn to hell if she could—according to Jeff, anyway. Conner had been advised not to get within a hundred yards of her if he valued his manhood.

He smiled at the memory; then immediately a tremendous stab of guilt nailed him right in the stomach. The incident had seemed terribly funny at the time, and he’d gotten extracurricular credit for participating in the science fair despite his invention’s obvious drawbacks. He’d gained yet another notch of notoriety at his high school—the kind teenage boys thrived on.

But it hadn’t been so funny to Jilly. Long after he’d gone off to college, he’d reflected on the incident and realized how mean he’d been to laugh at her expense. But he hadn’t felt bad enough to contact her and apologize.

Had she ever forgiven him? Probably not.

It was a good thing his new admin wasn’t the chubby Jillybean from his past, or he might have to think twice about spending time with her in the woods, alone, where there were no witnesses.

CHAPTER FOUR

JILLIAN TRIED NOT TO LOOK AT Conner. Although the four-wheel drive Jeep Cherokee Sport wasn’t a small car, it felt small when she was sitting in the front seat with Conner, whose sheer physicality dominated any space he occupied.

Instead, she experimented with her camera, consulting the instruction book, fiddling with the settings.

“Is that a new camera?” Conner asked once he’d navigated out of the worst of the Houston traffic. They were headed for the East Texas piney woods, a trip that would take them about three hours. She wondered why they had to stay overnight—it wasn’t that far. But she figured he knew what he was doing.

Celeste had insisted he wanted to get her out of town so he could either murder her or seduce her with no witnesses, but Celeste was prone to drama.

“Yes, I just got it yesterday.”

“I thought you said you knew how to use a digital camera.”

“I do.” The one on her phone, anyway. This one was more complex than she’d thought it would be. She’d snapped a few photos the previous evening just to be sure she had the basics down, but she had much to learn about settings and exposure. “I needed a new camera anyway, and this seemed like a good time to buy one. What will I be taking pictures of?”

“I’m not sure. Apparently the lumbering crew got overzealous and took down some kind of special owl tree.”

“Owl tree?”

“A hollow tree that’s been a barn owl nesting site for the past ten years.”

“Oh, poor owls. So this is a big deal?”

“Since our agreement with the landowner specifically stated that this tree, and the area around it, wouldn’t be disturbed, we could get sued. But even without the legal angle, it’s still a big deal. Hollow trees aren’t that easy to come by. For every cavity, the owls have to compete with other birds, like woodpeckers.”

That explained why the back of the Jeep was filled with birdhouses. Apparently Conner planned to offer some alternative housing for the owls whose home had been destroyed, and some for their competitors, as well.

“Are they endangered owls?”

“They’re rare in this part of Texas. The state forestry people like owls because the little ones eat insect pests that harm trees, and the larger ones, like barn owls, keep rodents in check. They’re an important part of the food chain.”

Jillian didn’t know anything about owls, but apparently Conner did. He’d always been interested in science, she remembered that about him. His father had been some kind of ecoscientist back before “green” was in. Conner had been smart, too—straight A’s. He’d managed to make that look cool.

Even entering the science fair—a notoriously geeky thing to do—had looked good on him.

Jillian stopped, determinedly focusing on the road ahead, the sky, the puffy white clouds. Thinking about that science fair when Conner was sitting inches from her was a dangerous thing to do.

“Your guy didn’t destroy a nest, did he? Like, with babies?” Jillian didn’t have any pets of her own, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like animals. She’d doted on Daniel’s golden retriever.

“Nesting season is over. But the adult owls were still roosting at the nest site, and they were undoubtedly disturbed.”

After a few more minutes Conner turned off the main road, then onto a still smaller road, then finally onto a logging road that was no more than a couple of tire ruts in the red dirt.

Conner was busy driving, skillfully lurching from bump to bump and avoiding the largest of the holes, so Jillian could study him without fear that he would notice. He seemed to change as they left civilization. The deeper they got into the woods, the more relaxed his face became, to the point where he was almost smiling.

She’d seen nothing but anger, impatience and irritation from him at the office; now he seemed to be enjoying himself.

However, his face and body grew tense again as they approached the logging site. This area, scarred by the trucks and saws, wasn’t so pretty, littered with the stumps of pine trees.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he muttered.

“Is something wrong?”

“Something is very wrong.”

Eventually they pulled up behind a huge, flatbed truck half-filled with logs. A U.S. Forest Service truck was parked off to the side. Several men, mostly in work clothes, milled around.

Conner grabbed a folder from the backseat and nearly flew out of the truck.

Ready for anything, Jillian followed, her camera around her neck, a digital recorder in one pocket and a notepad in the other.

One of the workmen, a scruffy-looking redhead with a full beard, was already heading toward Conner, his long stride full of purpose. “Mr. Blake. I didn’t know anything about owls, I swear. I was just taking down the trees that were marked.”

A second man had come forward, a tall, gaunt man in his sixties in overalls, clutching an unlit pipe in one hand. “He’s practically clear-cutting! Our contract states no more than twenty-five percent of the trees were to be cut, and just look at this! It’s a good thing I came to check on the progress.”

“I only cut the marked trees,” Scruffy Redhead said again. “You can check the truck. Every single tree on that truck is marked with blue paint.”

Jillian switched on the recorder, then started scribbling notes as fast as she could. This wasn’t anything like the civilized meetings she used to deal with at Daniel’s estate. It was a good thing she’d developed her own version of shorthand.

“Who did the marking, then?” Pipe Man asked.

“A man named Greg Tynes.” Conner’s jaw tightened and he all but spit on the ground, so obvious was his contempt. “I personally went over the contract with him and instructed how he was to mark. Obviously he didn’t follow directions.”

Jillian’s heart quickened. So the dead man had been violating the terms of the lumber company’s contract with the landowner. Could that be a motive for murder?

“Well, I hope you fired him!” Pipe Man said indignantly. “My forest looks like a wasteland.”

“Rest assured, Greg Tynes no longer works for Mayall Lumber,” Conner said, giving nothing away. “In fact, he’ll never work in the timber business again.”

That was one promise Conner could keep.

The young, female forest ranger, who’d been listening intently, finally spoke up. “There’s more at stake than just the aesthetics of this woods. Mr. Whatley’s land abuts public lands, forming a contiguous forest, the size of which is crucial to—”

“The owls,” Conner said.

“Yes. Barn owl populations have been declining over the years. The nest site in question has been monitored by Cornell University for ten years. A camera has been in place for five.”

“I get a tax deduction for lettin’ ’em do that, you know,” Mr. Whatley put in.

“The owls are crucial to our woodland ecosystem,” the ranger continued. “They eat—”

Conner put his hand up to stop her impassioned speech. “You don’t have to convince me. We’ve done something wrong here. I want to fix it. I want to make things right. Obviously, Mr. Whatley here will have to be compensated for the excess timber taken from his land. As for the owls—will you show me the nest site?”

Conner retrieved a backpack from the Jeep. Then he, the forest ranger and Jillian began hiking.

“How many acres have been screwed up?” he asked the ranger.

“Between seventeen and twenty.” She seemed calmer, now that it appeared Conner wanted to make things right.

He breathed out a sigh. “At least it wasn’t the whole seventy-five.”

Jillian didn’t want to be impressed with the way Conner handled things. She wanted to continue hating him—it was so much easier. But how many men would so easily admit responsibility for a mistake and pledge to make things right, all without anyone making demands or threats?

She well remembered how the suits at Logan Oil, of which Daniel was chairman of the board, consulted teams of lawyers if there was any hint that they might have made a misstep, searching for all possible legal remedies and never admitting to anything until a full investigation had been conducted.

But just like that, Conner had owned the problem.

The hiking wasn’t as difficult as Jillian had feared; her two-hundred-dollar boots might have been overkill. But it was warm, given that most of the shade had been cut down, and she was glad she’d bathed in sunscreen and worn a hat and sunglasses.

Not the “special” sunglasses Celeste had provided. Those were bulky and unattractive. But Jillian kept them in her purse, just in case.

Conner had a hat, too, a battered, Indiana Jones–style thing. It made him look quite rakish.

Finally they came upon a huge tree lying on its side. It wasn’t pine, like most of the other trees around here, which Conner had said were planted maybe thirty years ago for the express purpose of timber harvesting.

This was something left from an older, slower-growing tree that had probably been here more than a hundred years.

It was dead, that much was clear. Dead, hollow…and marked with blue paint.

“Why the hell would Greg mark this tree?” Conner wondered aloud. “It’s no good as lumber.”

Poking around a bit more, Conner discovered the owl nest in a hole. A few whitish feathers drifted out on the breeze.

“The female was using that hole as her roost,” the ranger said.

Conner took his backpack off and rummaged around in it, producing a pair of binoculars, which he uncapped and used to scan the few trees that remained close by. No one said a word, so Jillian took a few pictures. Her camera lens was naturally drawn to Conner, whose straight back and wide shoulders pivoted this way and that as he searched, presumably for the displaced owl. She’d taken several shots before she realized what she was doing and made herself stop.

What was she going to do next, blow up prints and put them on her bedroom wall? This was Conner Blake, whom she would cheerfully have used for target practice if he ever showed up on the shooting range. Just because he was devastatingly handsome was no reason to stop hating him. After all, he’d been handsome when she’d started hating him.

“There,” Conner finally said. “She’s in that tree right there, third branch from the top on the left.”

The ranger had her own pair of binoculars. “I’ll be damned, she sure is. How did you spot her? She’s camouflaged perfectly with the tree trunk.”

“She cracked one eye open just at the right time,” Conner replied. “She’s watching us.”

Jillian squinted at the tree, but she couldn’t see anything. “May I borrow your binoculars?” she asked, surprising herself by how much she wanted to see the barn owl.

“Sure.” Conner lifted the strap from around his neck and looped it around hers. His fingers brushed her neck, and she gave a delicate shiver.

“You see the tree I mean?” he asked, standing close to her and leaning his head right next to hers. He pointed.

“I think so.”

“On the left side, count three branches from the top.” His voice was soft, intimate. “A ball of light tan fluff right next to the trunk. She’s probably hiding her face under her wing.”

“I don’t… Omigosh, I see it!” The bird turned its head and opened its eyes, as if it detected Jillian watching it. The round, black eyes shined from a white, heart-shaped face. “She’s cute.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw her swallow a whole mouse,” Conner said. “Or tear one apart to feed her babies.”

“You really didn’t have to tell me that.” She handed him back the binoculars.

“You can’t just put up a nest box and call it good,” the ranger said. “Owls are fussy. Although barn owls are more tolerant of humans than most owls, it’s very likely she’ll go someplace else next year.”

Conner seemed not to be listening. He was inspecting the stump, the fallen tree and the surrounding area. At one point he leaned over, and a silver medal of some type, suspended around his neck on a chain, fell out from under his shirt.

When he straightened the chain caught on a branch and the chain broke. The medal landed in the dirt.

“Aw, hell.” Impatiently he scooped up the medal and chain and handed them to Jillian. “Can you put that in one of your hundred pockets, please?”

He was making fun of her hiking pants. Well, he could think what he liked—the pants were practical.

The medal was a Saint Christopher. She gave it a brief look before tucking it away. Conner hadn’t grown up Catholic. She wondered why he would have such an object.

“We’ll put the tree back up,” he announced suddenly.

“Beg your pardon?” the ranger said.

“Yeah, it can be done. Get a forklift out here, maybe a winch and a truck and some strong guys. We’ll drill holes and sink some dowels into the stump, maybe erect some braces—yeah, it’ll work.”

“That sounds like an expensive project,” Jillian said.

Conner shrugged. “Gotta give Mrs. Owl back her house. And we’ll reimburse the university for the equipment that was destroyed, of course.”

“Really?” The ranger took off her hat, scratched her head, as if she’d never encountered someone so agreeable.

They hiked back to the road, where Conner informed the landowner that no more timber would be harvested until Conner himself had re-marked the trees to be taken—doing it right, this time. “We’ll start in the area that’s farthest from the owl nest, and we’ll make sure not to disturb that area any more than necessary. And, like I said before, we’ll compensate you for the extra trees taken above and beyond what was contracted.” He took out his phone, punched a few keys, then showed the screen to Mr. Whatley. “Would that amount be acceptable to you?”

Mr. Whatley tipped his hat back. “I expect so.”

“You should have a check in your hands no later than next Friday.”

“What about me?” the lumberjack said. “Me and my crew gonna sit around on our thumbs till the trees are re-marked?”

“You’ll be back to work by Monday, and you’ll be paid for the downtime.”

Everyone nodded, and then they just stood there. They’d come fired up to do battle with Conner, yet that hadn’t proved necessary. It was like a pall of anticlimax had fallen on the group.

Conner rubbed his hands together. “If that’s everything, then, I’ve got work to do. I’ll use red paint to mark the trees.” He addressed the lumberjack. “Tell your team to ignore blue paint, cut red paint.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Blake.” He and his men piled into an SUV, so covered in dust it was hard to tell the color, and bounced away.

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