Hidden Agenda. Kara Lennox

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,