Uncovered (8 page)

Squeezing my eyebrows together, I shook
my head. “
No
,” I repeated.

His
expression was unreadable for a moment, and as we sat in silence, with the
energy crackling between us, I reminded myself of my goal. My dad. To find out
if there was more to his death than what I’d believed in the first place. And
Margaret was the key to all that.

I wasn’t here to moon all over my former
stepbrother—a man who was better known for his good looks and dating habits
than his career.

And still, I didn’t want to get up from
the table. Didn’t want to leave his office. Not yet, at least.

“Margaret,” he finally said. He took a
bite of his chicken taco and washed it down with a swig of his beer before
offering me an explanation. “I’ll have Easton get rid of any firewalls keeping
me from you.”

“She
blocked
you from messaging
me?”

“Don’t look so surprised. But, as I said,
I’ll have it taken care of.”

I downed a forkful of rice and dabbed at
my mouth with a napkin. “Is it that easy? Or does this happen so much, it’s
rote now?”

He scoffed. “You’re not back on Isadora,
are you?” Before I could deny it, he held up his hand. “Let me put your
suspicions to rest one more time. There is nothing between Isadora and myself.
She is my friend, she is also married, and if there’s one type of woman I don’t
fuck with, it’s the married ones.”

“I—”

“You want to know why I’ve been pursuing
you? You’re not married. You’re not in a relationship. Right now, you’re
looking at me like you want to rip my shirt off. I’m pursuing you because I’m
intrigued with you. And you—you’re intrigued by me.”

“You arrogant son-of-a-bitch. You don’t
know any of that about me,” I seethed and started to get up.

He shook his head. “Put your ass back in
that seat, Lizzie.” When I thinned my brown eyes into tight slits, he
immediately accepted my challenge, glaring back at me until I slowly sank down.
“You’re deflecting. I’m right, and you’re immediate reaction is to call me”—he
cleared his throat almost dramatically—“an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.”

“You’re not going to deny it?”

“That I’m cocky? Never. And I’m happy to
demonstrate,” he said, and a tremor raced through my body. “Are you going to
deny wanting me?”

“Yes,” I countered. “I don’t want you.”

“You’re even sexier when you lie.”

“I. Don’t. Want—” My heart slammed in my
chest the second he rose to his feet, the table rocking because of the abrupt
motion. I automatically stood and took a hasty step back, but that didn’t stop
him from stalking over to me. He halted my retreat. One of his large hands
pressed firmly against the small of my back, and the other framed my face.

His touch—oh God, his touch was pure
electricity.

“What is it you don’t want, Lizzie?” he
questioned, the rough pad of his thumb stroking from my high cheekbone to the
corner of my mouth, where it moved to trace carefully over my lips. “Go on, lie
to me, beautiful.”

I could lie to him
all
day—the
fact I was even standing here with him touching my face, my body, was because
of a lie—but if I couldn’t share
myself
, I could at least share the
truth of what I was feeling. 

“I don’t want to lose my job,” I
corrected, focusing my eyes downward under his intense scrutiny.

“That’s better,” he growled. “Tell me you
don’t want to be around me because of your job, or my mother, but don’t lie
about wanting me.”

I skimmed my hands up his chest and
leaned away from him. “It was very unwise of me to stay today.”

“But you did.” When I didn’t respond, he
continued, “I don’t want to dance around the subject, so I’m going to get this
out there: The way you looked at me the first time our eyes touched—like you
could have fucked me right then and there and not given a damn who saw us—that
look has haunted me ever since. Even if it’s only for one night, I plan on
getting your beautiful body naked and beneath me. That’s the only way I’ll be
able to get you out of my head.”

He wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t
dance around the subject. And he was utterly serious—I could feel his heart
rate pick up beneath my palm touching his chest.

“I—”

“Are you scared of me?” he demanded.

“A little.” My breathing became a harsh
tremble as he stroked the delicate column of my throat, and I dug my fingers
into the front of his shirt. “A
lot
.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He withdrew his arm
from my back, pulling his other hand from my throat reluctantly. “There are no
strings with me, Lizzie. But for now … let’s just eat. If I keep touching you,
I won’t be able to stop.”

But when lunch was over and I headed back
to Emerson & Taylor, feeling dizzy from being in Oliver’s presence for so
long, I told myself just how wrong he was when he told me there were no strings
when it came to him.

“Which is why I need to hurry the hell up
and find some answers,” I told myself firmly, making a beeline for Margaret’s
office with an empty USB drive grasped firmly in the palm of my hand.
Hopefully, Pen would be able to find something that would help us because the
longer I stayed around these people—the more I let myself get involved with
Oliver—the more tangled this mess became.

*

When I presented Pen with the
USB drive, she asked me to bear with her until Monday, but she gave me the bad
news a day early. Margaret’s desktop was squeaky clean. “
Nothing
?”
Because she’d dragged me with her to a twenty-four hour gym that was around the
corner from my apartment, I spoke in a hushed voice. “Nothing at all?”

“She must keep all her dirty shit on her
laptop. Unless you count her searches for herself, and some socialite Oliver
apparently used to date, her office computer is freakishly empty.”

I tore my eyes away from the
Walking
Dead
marathon playing on the tiny screen above my elliptical, creasing my
brows together as I faced her. “Oh? Which woman?”

“Your attempt at sounding nonchalant
sucks so hard,” she said dryly as she pushed a damp strand of dark hair off her
forehead. “But, since it might be important—Finley Scott.” The name didn’t ring
a bell, and I grabbed my phone from its spot inside the machine’s cup holder.
“Ugh, just
screw
the man already. You’re seconds away from falling on your
face just so you can look up his ex-girlfriend. That’s kind of sad, sweetie.”

I narrowed my dark eyes into a glare as
my fingers tapped across the smooth keypad. “He’s my—” My words caught in the
back of my throat as several images of Finley Scott popped up on my screen.
With her chin-length, shiny mahogany hair, startling hazel eyes, and Yoga body,
she was hot. Outrageously hot. But what the hell did I expect when it came to
Oliver?

“If you were about to give me that
stepbrother crap, I’m going to knock you off that damn machine myself,” Pen
stated hotly, rubbing her towel over her face before tossing it over her
shoulder. “
I’m
more related to you than he is.”

I returned my phone back to the tiny
compartment on the elliptical, adjusted the incline, and pumped my legs even
harder than before. “So now what?”

“You want my opinion on Oliver?”

“I’m talking about his mom,” I said
between clenched teeth.

“Ahh.” I couldn’t miss the grin that
moved across her face. “I’m going to work on getting into her laptop, but in
the meantime, you need to figure out how to get into her house.”

“Great,” I whispered under my breath.

 Pen turned to me abruptly. “You can do
this. You’re her personal assistant, so she’s bound to send you there for
something eventually. Figure out a way to speed that up.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Don’t worry, if there’s anything to
figure out, we’ll get it.”

“And if there’s not?” I asked miserably.
Though I hated to admit it to Pen, there had been many times where I doubted
myself for coming to L.A.

“Well, at least it got you out of Vegas
for a while. You can’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed taking … a break.” She was
quiet for a moment, and then she said so softly I could barely hear her over
the hum of the exercise machines, “August is helping me get a copy of your
father’s will.”

I squeezed my eyes closed and hated that
the mention of my dad’s last will and testament automatically brought to mind
the conversation I’d had with Margaret’s lawyer seven years ago. “I’ve seen it
before.”

“But you don’t have a copy of your own,”
she reminded me. “And
now
you have me. I’m not about to let some lawyer
scare me into backing down.”

Opening my eyes, I laughed because it was
the only thing I could do not to burst into tears. “No, you’re bypassing
lawyers and a paperwork trail so you can look at it.”

Pen lifted her shoulders, making an
unconcerned face when her eyes dropped to her sweaty skin. “Yeah, well, there’s
that too.”

The next morning, I walked
in to my office to find a pleasant surprise. The event planner coordinating
Margaret’s fourth annual Halloween Charity Ball had left me a voicemail over
the weekend. Although she sounded somewhat irritated, her message still took
what felt like a hundred pounds of pressure off my chest.

“Ms. Connelly?
This is Natalie Roche, from Natalie Roche Events. I received your messages, and
I’ll be able to accommodate your needs. I can meet you at ten-fifteen Monday
morning in the Heritage Ballroom. If you can’t make it, please call my cell.
Once again the address is—”

Sliding
Margaret’s coffee to the edge of my desk, I grabbed my LCD tablet and jotted
down the address. I replayed the voicemail to make sure I got it right before
hanging up my work phone and texting everything I’d written down to myself. It
was 9:28 now, which meant I’d have to leave to meet Natalie as soon as I was
finished checking in with the stepmonster. Balancing her latte, my purse, and
the folder full of information she’d requested last week, I flipped off the
light switch and went across the hall to her office.

She was already
behind her desk, looking formidable in a white tailored suit that only Margaret
Manning-Emerson could pull off in October, and her blond, highlighted hair was
twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her slim neck.

“Did you enjoy
your trip to New York?”

“Did you
rearrange the Paris trip like I asked you to?” she countered, referring to one
of the instructions she’d given me in the email she’d sent while she was away
last week.

I lowered her
coffee to the silver coaster by her right hand and the folder next to her
desktop monitor, eyeballing the laptop she was hastily pecking away on without
pause. God, I couldn’t wait to get a look at what she kept hidden away on that
thing. Dragging my attention from the second computer, I pointed to the
folder. 

“Everything for
the Paris trip is right here. Also, the hotel upgraded you to the presidential
suite free of charge after I let them know what you said about your last stay
there.”

“Good enough.”
Although I’d hoped I wouldn’t be thinking about him so soon, hearing her mutter
those two words instantly reminded me of Oliver. I thought back to what he’d
told me last week in his office, about her reaction to his speech problems when
he was a child, and I fought to keep my gaze neutral. To keep myself from
slamming her computer screen closed, regardless of what flesh might be in the
way.

“Any progress
with Roche?” she questioned.

“I’m actually
headed out to meet her now.” Pressing the point home, I reached into the side
of my used Prada bag and fished out my car keys. “She’s expecting me to meet
her at the venue in less than an hour.”

Margaret’s head
popped up, her fingers hovering motionless above the laptop. “What did you
say?”

The smile I
offered her was the first genuine one I’d managed since stepping foot in her
office, even if there was an underlying smugness to it. “Natalie left me a
message over the weekend and confirmed that she’d meet me this morning,” I
explained as I started to back up to the double doors. I was still a little
stunned about that myself, considering last week the event planner had sworn up
and down that meeting today wasn’t a possibility.

My boss blinked
once, twice, and then a third time, and I thought I would explode from the
delight rolling through me. Sliding her chair closer to the desk, she tilted
her thin body forward. “Make sure you record it on your phone.”

“Excuse me?”

“Make. Sure.
You. Record. It.” She swallowed a drink of her latte, the fact that it was
still steaming hot not seeming to bother her one bit. “When I get the chance
this week, I’d like to take a look. Have her explain where everything will go.
This is a different location from previous years, and I’m absolutely kicking
myself for letting Oliver convince me to change everything around.”

I froze the
moment she said his name, and I prayed she couldn’t see my reaction. Then I
tried to convince myself that my response was only because this was the first
time I’d heard of Oliver’s involvement with the event.

“Is he
co-sponsoring?” I asked nonchalantly.

“The Heritage
is owned by Manning.” She returned her focus to her laptop, her manicured
fingers beating a rhythm across the keys. “When you come back to the office
this afternoon, I need you to start organizing lunch for fourteen to be
delivered tomorrow. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Definitely. Do
you have a particular restaurant in mind?”

Releasing a hiss
of irritation, Margaret looked up from her screen. “Weren’t you an assistant
before this?” she demanded, and when I replied that I was, she snapped, “Then
you should realize I’m too busy to go through menus. If the menu is in the
approved stack in your office, it’s acceptable. Surprise me!”

“Will do,” I
commented through a jaw so tense, it made the muscles in my face ache. With
every name in the book attached to my stepmother’s name and hurtling through my
thoughts, I was desperate to leave the building before I screwed up and let one
of them become audible.

I didn’t stop
moving until I was in the lobby, and an accented female voice called out my
name as I waited for an elevator to go down to the parking garage. I looked
behind me to see Stella striding my way, her black hair bouncing around the
off-the-shoulder neckline of her striped shirt as she closed the distance
between us.

“You look
chipper,” I commented when she stepped beside me and all I could smell was her
jasmine perfume.

“And
you
”—she
stared me up and down slowly, curiously, and then tapped her finger against her
lips—“well, you look like a woman possessed.”

“Headed to a
meeting with Natalie Roche.”

When the
elevator opened, we both stepped in the warm car, Stella moving her head from
side to side. “That poor woman won’t know what hit her. Did
she
send you
armed with a list of demands and questions?”

Recounting all
five minutes of my talk with Margaret, my nostrils flared. “I’m supposed to
record the entire meeting so she can take a look at it later.”

The marketing
manager fought to keep the smile from cracking through her professional mask as
the doors open and we stepped out of the elevator and beneath the dim lights of
the parking garage. “Interested in having company?”

“Are you
loaning yourself out to me?”

She reached into
her purse, her eyebrows knitting together as she searched for what I guessed
were her keys. “I was on my way out to burn some time before my one-thirty
doctor’s appointment.” She shrugged. “I’m a bad,
bad
employee.”

“Hence, the
chipper smile,” I stated. “But yes, I’d love to have some company.”

As soon as I
told her where we were going, she insisted on taking her car, a silver BMW
4-series convertible that she let the top down on since it was sunny and
mid-seventies. Though she seemed at ease with the wind whipping her hair around
her artfully made-up face, I grabbed a hairband from my bag and scooped my own
into a high, messy bun. While she drove, she made small talk, which gradually
improved the sour mood Margaret had managed to conjure in just a few minutes
this morning.

“So the foster
charity event—what are you dressing as?” At the shift of my eyebrow, Stella added,
“In case you were thinking of skipping out on Margaret’s function, cancel your
plans now. She’ll skin you alive if you’re not there.” She touched her chest. “
I
ordered a Catwoman costume, but I’m trying to figure out if it’s too
risqué.”

“Depends,” I
said as she slammed on the brakes at a stoplight. Giving my seatbelt a tug, I
made sure it was secure. “Anne Hathaway Catwoman or Halle Berry?”

Her mouth
twitched. “Anne Hathaway.”

“You should be
fine then. And to answer your question, to be honest, I haven’t really given my
own costume any thought.”

“Could have
sworn you said Halloween was your favorite.”

“It is. Don’t
worry, I’ll find something good before then.” Though, when I stopped to think
about it, I was probably running out of time to put something unique together.
Last year, Pen and I had gone out as Sofie Fatale and The Bride from
Kill
Bill
. It had been my favorite costume in years, since the days when my
mother had helped me make the perfect outfit, but I could already picture
Margaret’s disapproving glare at my blood splattered wedding gown and fake baby
bump.

Sexy schoolgirl
and Captain Hooker were probably out of the question, too.

Pulling her BMW
into the Heritage Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, Stella parked by the ballroom
entrance—which was utterly unique since the venue’s walls were made entirely of
privacy glass. There were cars on either side of us, a gold Land Rover and a
sleek black sports car, and my mouth went dry when I realized I’d seen that car
before.

On the other
side of those tinted windows sat six-feet, two-inches of the most distracting
man I’d ever met in my life. I shoved all thoughts of costumes from my head and
focused on the problem at hand—the fact that Oliver was here for some reason.

Forcing me to
think about him.

“Hmm,” Stella
murmured, and I heard the click of her seatbelt as she unhooked it. “Wonder if
she
sent him to make sure you could operate the camera.”

I reached for
the door handle, squeezing it tightly. Even though I knew she’d only been
teasing, I muttered under my breath, “
She’d
hire a damn camera crew
before that happened.”

When I stumbled
out the BMW, I heard Oliver’s engine stop, and a moment later, he eased out of
his car. He was the epitome of calm and collected as he started toward me, the
slight breeze ruffling his already disarranged golden-brown hair. My attention
dipped to his day old stubble—would it be soft or scratchy—and then to the knot
in the scarlet tie that he was adjusting.

“Morning,” he
greeted me.

Do not think
of him naked saying that. Do. Not. Think. Of. It.

“What are you
doing here?” I crossed my arms tightly over my breasts. “Did you hack
my
messages too?”

He feigned a
look of surprise. “I’m checking in on one of my company’s properties before I
head to my eleven o’clock meeting.” His eyes darted over my shoulder to focus
innocently on Stella, and I turned to follow his gaze. “You can see what I’m
doing, can’t you, Ms. Marchand?”

“Yes, sir, I
sure can.” She nodded, resembling a pretty bobblehead. She held her wrist close
to her face, studying her watch before asking me dramatically, “Are you ready
to go in, honey?”

“Yes—”

Oliver
immediately cut me off, stepping between Stella and me, the spicy scent of his
cologne wafting into my face thanks to the breeze. What did he think he was
doing? After casting a wicked look behind him and turning my pulse into a
ticking time bomb, he turned back to her. His voice was smooth and persistent
when he said, “Ms. Marchand, do you mind filling in for Ms. Connelly while I
speak to her for a moment?”

“Pressing work
matters?” she questioned, and Oliver inclined his head in confirmation. I
fought the urge to cover my face with my hands, but I succeeded in facing her
scrutiny without flinching as she moved slightly to the left to look around him
at me. “I don’t mind going in to talk to Natalie, but is that something
you
want me to do?”

Oliver was
expecting me to stay out here with him, that much was obvious from his arrogant
smirk. If I went in the hotel, I’d have the satisfaction—albeit the incredibly
brief satisfaction—of proving him wrong. But if I went into the hotel, I’d
spend the rest of the day stressing over what he might have wanted from me.
Hell, probably the rest of the week. I glanced between them for a moment before
my shoulders sagged and I relented.

“I’ll be in
there in five minutes,” I promised.

“Take your
time,” she said, admiring Oliver one last time before disappearing through the
entrance. Fisting my hands by my side, I counted slowly until he finally turned
back to me.

“I hadn’t
expected you to bring someone,” he stated almost apologetically.

“And I didn’t
expect you to be here.”

He digested my
words for a second and then released a low laugh that reverberated through me.
He nodded to the black Viper parked behind where I stood. “Get in, Lizzie.”

“You could ask
me. I get enough commands from your mother throughout the day.”

He stepped
closer. “Please, get in the car, Lizzie, before I kiss the fuck out of you
right here.”

Piqued, I was
already breathing heavily well before my back touched the black leather seat in
his Viper. He didn’t give me an opportunity to catch it because as soon as both
our doors were securely closed, he leaned over the narrow center console and
pressed his face close to mine.