Project: Runaway Heiress (3 page)

Before she left, she’d also met with Reid McCormack of McCormack Investigations about running comprehensive background checks on everyone under Zaccaro Fashions’ employ. Lily honestly didn’t believe he would find anything incriminating, but better safe than sorry.

And she’d informed him that she would be out of town for a while, so she would call in weekly for updates. It seemed easier than having him leave messages at the apartment, where her sisters might overhear or access them, or having him call her on her cell phone at an inconvenient moment while she was still in Los Angeles.

Frankly, she hoped he never had anything negative to report, or that if he did, it would turn out to be completely unrelated to Zaccaro Fashions—an employee with an unpaid speeding ticket or college-age drunk-and-disorderly charges that had eventually been dropped.

But until her first scheduled check-in, she needed all of her energy and brain power focused on her new job and attempts at stealth investigations.

Studying Nigel’s schedule for the day, she was somewhat relieved to see that it didn’t seem to be a—quote, unquote—
heavy
day for him. It looked as though he would be in his office most of the time. He had a lunch appointment and a conference call in the afternoon, but nothing so far that would require her to go out with him—and hope not to be recognized or to do something she wasn’t ready or properly trained for.

She glanced at the schedule for the rest of the week, making a mental note to check again in a couple of hours. Just to be safe until it all became second nature to her for as long as she was here.

She took a few minutes to investigate some of the other programs and files on the system, but hoped she wouldn’t be expected to do too much with them too soon. Either that, or that the company provided tutorials for the seriously lost and computer illiterate.

What she did understand, though, was design. She knew the vocabulary, the process and what was needed to go from point A to point B. So she did recognize and know how to use some of the items already installed on the PA’s computer.

The question was: Could she use them to access the information she needed to track down the design thief?

Maybe yes, maybe no. It depended on whether or not Nigel knew about the thefts.

Was he involved? she wondered.

Had he sent a mole from Ashdown Abbey into her company? Or maybe on a less despicable level, had he recognized her designs within his company’s latest collection and ignored them? Looked the other way because it was easier and could advance Ashdown Abbey’s sales and brand recognition?

A part of her hoped not. She didn’t want to think that there were business executives out there who would stoop to such levels just to get ahead. Not when they had a bevy of talented designers on staff already and didn’t
need
to stoop to those levels. Or that someone so handsome, with that deep, toe-curling British accent, could be capable of something so heinous. Although more attractive people had been guilty of much worse, she was sure.

It happened every day, and she wasn’t naive enough to believe that just because a man was sinfully attractive and already a millionaire he wouldn’t steal from someone else to make another million or two.

Not that any of her designs had earned a million dollars yet, Lily thought wryly, but the potential was there. If she could keep other companies and designers from scooping her.

Tapping a few keys, she brought up what she could find on the California Collection—the Ashdown Abbey collection that included so many of her own works, only with minor detail alterations and in entirely different textiles. Just the thought sent her blood pressure climbing all over again.

A few clicks of the mouse and the entire portfolio was on the screen in front of her, scrolling in a slow left-to-right slideshow. The flowy, lightweight summer looks were lovely. Not as beautiful as
Lily’s
designs would have been, if she’d had the chance to release them, of course, but they were quite impressive.

She studied each one for as long as she could, taking in the cuts and lines. The collection mostly consisted of dresses, perfect for California’s year-round sunny and warm weather. Short one-pieces, a couple of maxi dresses, and even some two-piece garments consisting of a top and skirt or a top and linen slacks.

Not all of them were drawn directly from Lily’s proposed sketches. Small comfort. And it might actually work against her if she ever tried to prove larceny in a court of law.

A good defense attorney could argue that there might be
similarities
between the Ashdown Abbey and Zaccaro Fashions designs, but since the Ashdown Abbey line also included designs
without
similarities, it was obviously a mere case of creative serendipity.

Hmph.

Closing down the slideshow, Lily dug around in the other documents within the file folder. She found another graphics slideshow, this time the sketches for the final pieces that made up the California Collection.

They were full color and digital, done on one of the many art and design computer programs that were becoming more and more popular. Even Lily had one of them on her tablet, but she still preferred pencil and paper, charcoal and a sketch pad, and actual fabric swatches pinned to her hand-drawn designs over filling in small squares of space with predetermined colors or material samples on a digitized screen.

But what caught her attention with these designs wasn’t
how
they were done, it was the fact that they were signed. Ashdown Abbey apparently had design teams on the payroll rather than one designer in charge of his or her own collection.

Moving from the graphics files to the text files, she found a list of the California Collection’s entire design team, complete with job titles and past projects they’d worked on for Ashdown Abbey. A jolt of adrenaline zipped through her, and she hurried to send the list to the printer.

The zip-zip of the machine filled the quiet of the cavernous outer office. It rang all the louder in her ears for the fact that she didn’t want to get caught.

When a buzz interrupted the sound of the printer, Lily jumped. Then she looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Finally, she realized it was coming from the phone, one of the lights on the multiline panel blinking in time with the call of the intercom.

Chest tight, she took a deep breath and pressed the button for Nigel Statham’s direct line.

“Yes, sir?” she answered.

“Could I see you for a moment?”

The abrupt request was followed by total silence, and she realized he’d hung up without waiting for a reply.

Grabbing the list of designers from the printer tray, she folded it over and over into a small square and stuffed it into the front pocket of her skirt. Patting the spot to make sure it was well concealed, she strode to the door of Nigel’s office, unsure of what she would encounter on the other side. She didn’t even know if she should bring a pad and pencil with her to take notes.

What did personal assistants automatically pick up when summoned by the boss? Paper and pen? A more modern electronic tablet? She hadn’t even had a chance to poke around and find out what was provided for Nigel Statham’s executive secretary.

So she walked in empty-handed after giving one quick tap on the door to announce her arrival.

Nigel turned from typing something into his own computer to jot a note on the papers in front of him before lifting his attention to Lily. She stood just behind one of the guest chairs, awaiting his every request.

“What are you doing for dinner this evening?” he asked.

The question was so far from anything she might have expected him to say, her mind went blank. She was quite sure her face did, too.

“I’ll take that to mean you don’t have plans,” he remarked.

When she still didn’t respond, he continued, “I’m having dinner with a potential designer and thought you might like to join us. Having you there will help to keep things on a business track, as well as better familiarize you with your position.”

For lack of anything more inspired to say, she replied with a simple, “All right.”

Nigel gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be leaving from the office, but you’re welcome to go home and change, or take a bit of a rest, if you like. I’ll come round for you at eight. Be sure to leave your address before you finish for the day.”

He returned his attention to his work, giving Lily the impression that plans for the evening had been decided and she’d been dismissed.

“Yes, sir,” she said, because she thought it was respectful and some sort of acquiescence was needed. Then she tacked on a short “Thank you” for good measure before hurrying back out to the reception area.

Taking a seat behind her desk, she tried to decide how she felt about this latest turn of events.

On the one hand, she already had a list of designers for the Ashdown Abbey collection based on her work. She considered that quite a coup for her first day in the enemy’s camp.

On the other, her most fervent prayer had been merely to get through the day without being found out. She’d never imagined she would be asked to put in extra time outside the office. Especially not
alone
with the boss.

Of course, she wouldn’t really be
alone
with him. It was a business dinner, so at least one other person would be there. But it was still an after-hours situation in much-too-close proximity to the man who held her future in his hands.

Her professional future and possibly her very freedom.

Because if he ever learned who she really was and why she was working incognito within his company, she’d likely find herself behind bars. No amount of crying “he was mean to me first” would save her then.

Three

A
t five minutes to eight, Lily was still racing around her apartment, trying to be ready before Nigel arrived.

It didn’t help that she’d just moved in and had brought very little with her from New York. Or that this was supposed to be merely a place to sleep. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive—at least by Los Angeles standards. Simply somewhere to rest and hunker down with her suspicions and evidence while she worked days at Ashdown Abbey.

Never had she imagined that her boss—CEO of the entire company—would decide to “drop by” and pick her up for dinner.

And then there was the fact that she hadn’t planned for after-hours job requirements. Once she’d arrived, she’d filled her closet with Ashdown Abbey business attire, not only to fit in, but to subconsciously give Nigel Statham and everyone else the impression that she absolutely belonged there. But she hadn’t purchased a single item for an evening out.

Granted, she could probably get away with wearing the same skirt and blouse that she’d worn that day. If she was attending this meal as Nigel’s personal assistant, then it couldn’t hurt for her to look like one.

But she suspected Nigel’s choice of restaurant might be of the highly upscale variety, and she didn’t want to stand out. Or worse, blend in with the servers.

So she’d done the best she could with what her limited current wardrobe had to offer.

Another black skirt, shorter this time, with a sexy—but not too sexy—slit up the back. A sheer, nearly diaphanous sapphire-blue blouse that she’d intended to wear as a shell over a more modest chemise top. Now, though, she wore it over only a bra.

She’d checked and double-checked in the mirror to be sure the effect wasn’t trashy. Thankfully, the bra was barely visible, even though in certain light, flashes of skin could be seen beneath the top.

To dazzle it up even more, she added sparkling chandelier earrings, a matching
Y
necklace, and open-toed four-inch heels that—now that she was wearing them—might be a bit too suggestive for nine-to-five. They were more than appropriate for a night out on the town, though, professional or otherwise.

She threw a few items like her wallet, a lipstick, keys and her cell phone—just in case—in a small, plain-black clutch, and
finally
thought she was ready enough to jump when Nigel arrived.

She’d just taken a deep, stabilizing breath and was contemplating one last visit to the restroom when the doorbell rang.

Whatever calm she’d managed to find with that long inhalation evaporated at the shrill, mechanical sound, and a lump of dread began to grow in the pit of her stomach.

Fingers curled around her purse, she swallowed hard and moved to the door. Because she didn’t want Nigel peeking inside and seeing that there were no personal touches to the apartment to affirm her claims of having lived in the city for several years, she opened it only a crack, using her body to block his view.

As quickly and smoothly as she could, she slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed and locked behind her. Leaning back, she used the doorjamb to prop herself up, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and overly scrutinized.

Nigel’s hazel eyes studied her from head to toe. He was standing so close, she could see the specks of green dotting his irises and smell his spicy-with-a-hint-of-citrus cologne.

She inhaled, drawing the scent deeper into her lungs, then realized what she was doing and stopped, holding her breath in hopes that he wouldn’t notice her small indiscretion.

It was not a good idea to start thinking her boss smelled good. She already found him attractive, simply because he was. Anyone, female or male, would have to agree based on his physical attributes alone. Much the way everyone knew the sky was blue, a handsome man was a handsome man.

That didn’t mean she should be building on that initial assessment by adding “smells really good” to the tally.

He was a good-looking man with exceptional taste in cologne, that’s all. Lily hoped that others might consider her on the pretty side with good taste in perfume, as well. Especially after how much time she’d put into her appearance tonight.

Nigel—her boss, her attractive and well-scented
boss
—returned his gaze to her face.

“You look lovely,” he commented. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

To her surprise, he offered his arm. There was nothing romantic in the gesture, only politeness. After a short hesitation, she slipped her hand around his elbow and let him lead her down the well-lit, utilitarian hallway of the apartment building.

Would an American man have acted so gentlemanly, or was it just Nigel’s British upbringing? Whatever the case, she liked it. Maybe a little too much.

They walked down the three short flights of stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Outside, the early evening air was fresh and cool, but not cold. A long, silver Bentley Mulsanne waited at the curb, and Nigel opened the rear door, holding it while she got in.

She’d intended to slide across so he could climb in behind her, but there was a rather large console turned down between the two rear seats, as well as fold-out trays on the back of the front seats. The one on his side was down, with an open laptop resting on it.

While she was still marveling at the awesome interior of the luxury vehicle, Nigel opened the door opposite hers and took his place, quickly closing the computer and tray.

“Sorry about that,” he said, moving the laptop out of the way on the floor beside his briefcase.

When she didn’t respond—she was apparently sitting there frozen, like a raccoon caught rummaging through household garbage—he returned the center console to its upright position, then leaned past her to pluck the seat belt, stretch it across her motionless form and click it into place.

As he stretched to reach, his arm brushed her waist, terribly close to the underside of her breasts. A shiver of something very un-employee-like skated through her, warming places that had no business growing warm. She swallowed and tried to remain very still until the sensation passed.

Nigel, of course, had no idea of the response he’d caused by such an innocent action. And with luck, he never would.

Licking her lips, she tamped down on whatever was rolling around under her skin and made sure her lips were turned up in at least an imitation of a smile.

“Thank you,” she said, tugging at the safety belt to show that she was, indeed, alive and well and capable of simple human functions. “It looks like you’re working overtime,” she added, relieved that her voice continued to sound steady and normal.

He leaned back in the seat, running his hands along his thighs and letting out a breath as he relaxed a fraction. “There doesn’t seem to be overtime with this position. It’s round-the-clock.”

Lily certainly knew what he meant by that. She’d worked twenty-four/seven to establish the Zaccaro label. Then when her sisters had joined in, the three of them had given all they had to get the company truly up and running.

Even now that they had their boutique open and were producing items on more than a one-off basis, life was no less stressful or busy. They’d simply exchanged one set of problems for another. And having an office-slash-studio at home only kept the work closer at hand.

“For tonight’s dinner,” Nigel began in that accent that would be charming even if the looks and personality didn’t match—at least to her unaccustomed American ears, “we’re meeting with a designer who’s looking to move from Vincenze to a higher position at Ashdown Abbey.”

Lily’s eyes widened a second before she schooled her expression. Vincenze was a huge, multimillion-dollar design enterprise. A household name and very big deal. If she wasn’t busy running her own fashion-design business, she would have been ecstatic over the possibility of going to work for them.

Yet tonight they were meeting with someone who wanted to
leave
Vincenze for Ashdown Abbey.

Which wasn’t to say Ashdown Abbey was a lesser label. Far from it. If anything, Ashdown Abbey and Vincenze were similar when it came to levels of success. But their design aesthetics were entirely different, and it would definitely take some doing—at least in her experience—for a designer to go from one to the other without traversing a sharp learning curve.

Fighting to keep her mind on the job she was
supposed
to be doing rather than the one that came more naturally to her, Lily said, “I’m not sure exactly what my role is this evening.”

“Just listen,” he replied casually. “It will be a good way for you to learn the ropes, so to speak.”

He turned a little more in her direction and offered a warm smile. “Frankly, I asked you to join me so I wouldn’t have to be alone with this fellow. These so-called business dinners can sometimes drone on, especially if the potential employee attempts to regale me with a long list of his or her talents and abilities.”

Lily returned his grin. She knew what he meant; the fashion industry was filled with big mouths and bigger egos. She liked to think she wasn’t one of them, but there was a certain amount of self-aggrandizing required to promote oneself and one’s line.

“Maybe we should work out a signal and some prearranged topics of discussion,” she offered. “That way if things get out of hand and your eyes begin to glaze over, you can give me a sign and I’ll launch into a speech about global warming or some such.”

Nigel’s smile widened, showing a row of straight, sparkling-white teeth. “Global warming?” he asked, the amusement evident in his tone.

“It’s a very important issue,” she said, adopting a prim-and-proper expression. “I’m sure I could fill a good hour or two on the subject, if necessary.”

He nodded a few times, very slowly and thoughtfully, his lips twitching with suppressed humor. “That could certainly prove useful.”

“I thought so,” she agreed.

“What would you suggest we use as a signal?”

She thought about it for a minute. “You could tug at your earlobe,” she said. “Or kick me under the table. Or perhaps we could have a code word.”

“A code word,” he repeated, one brow lifting with interest. “This is all starting to sound very...double-oh-seven-ish.”

Appropriate, she supposed, since he reminded her a little of James Bond. It was the accent, she was sure. Her stomach tightened briefly.

Feigning a nonchalant attitude she didn’t entirely feel, she shrugged. “Spies are good at what they do for a reason. But if you’d prefer to be trapped for hours by a potential employee you can’t get away from, be my guest.”

Silence filled the rear of the car, only the sound of the tires rotating beneath them audible as the seconds ticked by and Lily’s anxiety grew.

She might have overstepped her bounds. After all, she’d only been in this man’s employ for twelve hours. That might have been a bit too early to start voicing her opinions and telling him what to do.

Worse, she probably shouldn’t have jumped on his mention of James Bond movies and followed the spy thread. Because technically,
she
was a spy within his organization, and she didn’t want him spending too much time wondering how she knew so much about the business of espionage.

“I definitely agree that an escape plan is in order,” Nigel said, finally breaking the nerve-inducing quiet. “How would it be if I inquired about your headache from earlier? You can say that it’s come back and you’d really like to get home so you can rest.”

“All right.” It sounded as good as anything else they might come up with, and she certainly knew more about headaches than she did about global warming.

“And if
you
grow bored,” he continued, “you can ask me if I’d like another martini. I’ll decline and say that we should get going, as I have an early appointment in the morning, anyway.”

“Will you be drinking martinis?” she asked.

“Tonight, I will,” he said, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “It will bolster our story, if we make an excuse to leave the restaurant early.”

“We haven’t even arrived at dinner yet, and already we’re thinking of ways to get away as soon as we’ve finished eating,” she remarked.

“That’s because it’s a boring, uptight business dinner. If this were a dinner date, I would already be considering options for drawing things out. Excuses to keep you there well past dessert.”

Lily’s heart skipped a beat, her palms growing damp even as a wave of unexpected heat washed over her. That was not the sort of thing she expected to hear from her boss. It didn’t
feel
like a benign, employer-to-employee comment, either. It felt much too...suggestive.

And on top of that, she was suddenly picturing it: a dinner date with Nigel rather than a business dinner. Sitting across from him at a candlelit table for two. Leaning into each other as they spoke in soft tones. Flirting, teasing, building toward something much more serious and intimate.

The warmth grew, spreading through her body like a fever. And when she imagined him reaching out, touching her hand where it rested on the pristine white linen of the tablecloth, she nearly jumped, it seemed so real.

Thankfully, Nigel didn’t notice because the car was slowing, and he was busy readjusting his tie and cuff links.

Lily licked her lips and smoothed her hands over her own blouse and skirt, making sure she was as well put together as he was.

When the car came to a complete stop, he looked at her again and offered an encouraging half smile. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded just as Nigel’s door was opened from the outside. He stepped out, then turned and reached back for her.

Purse in hand, she slid across the wide seat and let Nigel take her arm as she stepped out. His driver nodded politely before closing the door and moving back around the hood of the car to the driver’s seat.

Looking around, Lily realized they were standing outside of Trattoria. She wasn’t from Los Angeles, but even she recognized the name of the elegant five-star restaurant. To her knowledge, the waiting list for reservations was three to four months long.

Unless, she supposed, you were someone like Nigel. The Statham name—and bank account—carried a lot of weight. Not only in L.A. or England, either, but likely anywhere in the world.