Wicked Lovers 07 Ours to Love (12 page)

“Mr. Maynard—”

“Doug,” he corrected.

“Thank you. I’m at a bit of a loss here. If R & D is using these log-ins, and they
say having the extras is necessary, why are you lobbying so hard to have them taken
down?”

“How long have you worked here?” Doug asked sharply.

Well, hell.
“Today is my first day.”

“So you’re not yet familiar with how seriously we have to take security here. We’re
dealing with government secrets and top-secret military equipment. Many of our projects
are for weapons and their systems that won’t be seen by others for three to five years,
sometimes more. Not only do we have to worry about possible espionage from hostile
countries, there’s also a genuine issue with corporate espionage. We’re a top-tier
company in a cutthroat business. We’ve been the target of many a corporate spy wanting
to sell our secrets to competitors. It’s not like we’re just worried about the KGB
or Interpol these days. We’ve had attempted breaches from everyone from the Taliban
to General Dynamics. So our systems being accessed from outside our firewall by untraceable
IPs is troubling, don’t you think? We have to run a tight ship or we will get our
asses handed to us and soldiers lose their lives. The sooner you learn that, the sooner
you’ll be an asset to this company. Until then, don’t question me again.”

London sat back in her chair, blinking rapidly. Doug had a point—many of them. But
really, she’d had no idea. Her innocent question had sparked a tirade. It wasn’t her
fault she’d just started today. Even so, shame crawled through her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Mr. Santiago asked me to look into it, and I’m trying to
understand—”

“Stop wasting my time,” he shouted, and she was pretty sure people in Siberia could
hear the conversation. “We need Santiago’s authority to pull the plug on these log-ins
because R & D has thrown such a hissy. So be a good little girl and tell him that
we’re doing this to keep the company safe. I already suspect that we’ve had a few
secrets about Project Recovery make it out the door. Tell Santiago that. We’ve invested
millions in that, and I don’t care if you have to give him the blow job of a lifetime
to make him pull his head out of the past and focus on this company.”

She opened her mouth to reply—no idea what she’d planned to say—when she saw Javier
standing in the door, looking thunderously angry. No doubt, he’d heard every word
of Doug’s diatribe.

“Give me that.” Javier strode toward her, hand outstretched impatiently for the desk
phone currently pressed to her ear.

She muted the call. “I can handle this. I’ll take care of it.”

“Not this time. Close your ears, little one.” He grabbed the phone out of her hand.
“Don’t be a stupid motherfucker, Doug. And don’t ever talk to my assistant like that
again. She’s been here two hours, and she was following my directive. If you’ve got
commentary above yes or no, you take it up with me. If you suggest one more inappropriate
activity between London and me, I’ll take your head off personally.”

He hung up on Doug, then speared her with a stern glance. She had the oddest urge
to apologize, but she hadn’t done anything wrong. She met Javier’s gaze. “He’s really
upset that, in his eyes, you’re jeopardizing the company by leaving us open to attack—”

“I know exactly what he’s upset about, and I’ll deal with him.” Suddenly, he sent
her a considering stare. “This is a high-testosterone environment. There are a lot
of loudmouths around here. You can’t let them eat you up or you won’t last.”

A little prickle of fear stabbed at her. “I told him that I hadn’t been here long
and that I didn’t know.”

Javier was shaking his head before she even finished her sentence. “With that, all
you said was, ‘I don’t know anything so tell me what to do.’ Never give anyone that
much ammunition to project themselves as the voice of authority over you. What you
should have said was that you simply had a directive and you expected him to respond
properly and responsibly. Put any further commentary in writing to you and copy me.
Don’t get in a dialogue with most of these windbags. They are convinced they’re right
and nothing you say otherwise will make them change their minds. If you hadn’t guessed,
I run everything with a bit of an iron fist.”

She blinked up at him. That shouldn’t be sexy. But everything about him was. The way
he protected and watched out for her. The way he tried to teach her how best to survive
in this company.

London cocked her head and regarded him with more curiosity than she should. “Do you
always help your assistants this much or are you just giving me all this advice because
you think I’m helpless?”

Javier stared at her with blue eyes, so dark and focused. His stare drew on, and she
had to ignore her pounding heart. Finally, he inhaled sharply, as if he’d reached
a decision. “The HR-appropriate response is that, while it’s your job to assist me
in performing my work functions, I feel it’s my duty to make sure that you’re given
a work environment that’s professional and tolerable, so I apologize for my profanity
earlier. And I’ll just apologize now for any and all of my lapses in sobriety.”

Yeah, that was a fairly appropriate response that HR would mostly approve of, minus
the alcohol, but she had a feeling that didn’t have a lot to do with it.

“And the truth?” she whispered.

He leaned closer, and God his closeness made her downright dizzy. The heady, musky
scent of his skin wafted toward her, and she had to hold in an audible sigh.

“The truth.” He regarded her with another of those unreadable stares. “Your confidence
is lacking, little one. If you work for me more than five minutes, you’ll need more
spine. I’m troubled by the thought that you don’t quite realize your value yet, and
I’d like you to see that, first of all, no one has the right to treat you so rudely
in the workplace. And second, that you’re every bit as smart as Doug. You just haven’t
had the opportunity yet to learn everything you need to do the job well. That will
come in time. I’m hoping your confidence will, too. You’re far too smart, efficient,
and . . . pleasant not to hold your head high. Next time you encounter Doug or another
jerk like him, I expect you to politely put him in his place.”

London sat back in her seat, amazed. He seemed to actually care about her. About her
self-esteem, her growth, her happiness—at least to a degree. Because he wanted her
to succeed? His intent stare made her wonder if it might be something more personal.
She felt ridiculously lucky to work for such a kind, experienced executive. The fact
that he was incredibly hot was just another perk of the job.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll learn and do better next time.”

“I know you will. I have faith in you.” He stood and glanced at his watch. “Normally,
I would take a new assistant out for lunch on her first day, but I have an urgent,
somewhat personal meeting that can’t wait. He’s due here at noon. Please be gone before
he arrives. Don’t return before one.”

As Javier turned his back to her, she reared back and watched him close the door and
return to his desk, breezing through his e-mails as if he hadn’t just built her up
with one sentence, then shut her out with the next. She looked at the time in the
lower right corner of her laptop. Ten minutes until Javier’s appointment showed up.
She should probably get ready to go and try to talk herself out of feeling hurt by
his sudden dismissal. It wasn’t like they had a relationship beyond boss-assistant.
He owed her nothing but a paycheck.

As she put her computer to sleep and gathered up her things, a thirtyish man entered
the office, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that read W
ELCOME TO
S
HIT
C
REEK.
S
ORRY, WE’RE OUT OF PADDLES
rippling across his considerable chest. Muscles bunched with every casual swing of
his arms as he crossed the floor. Was Lafayette just populated with hot men? The first
time she’d come here, she’d imagined it would be all swamp people and lots of crawfish
stew. She liked this reality much better.

London gathered up her purse. “You are . . . ?”

“Nick Navarro, private investigator. Javier is expecting me.”

“Mr. Santiago is in his office. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

He reached across the space separating them and cupped her elbow. “Wait. Is he sober?”

She sat back in her chair, her thoughts racing. How long had her new boss been drinking?
“Completely. I’ll be back at one.”

“You’re his assistant, right?” At her nod, he sighed. “You’re new, aren’t you? Look,
don’t go too far for lunch. After I’m done here, he’s going to need all the assisting
you can give.”

The thought of eating her sack lunch at her desk drifted through her mind, and she’d
nearly decided to do just that when Javier stepped out of his office. “Hi, Nick. Thanks
for coming. London, you may go now. Good-bye.”

He stepped back and admitted Nick into the inner office. The door shut behind them
again. They shouldn’t, but Javier’s words stung. After all, his private business was
none of hers, but it bothered her that he’d disregarded her completely. She could
help him if he’d let her, listen and offer a sympathetic ear. She’d been through tough
times, too.

But why would he confide in a girl he barely knew? He’d probably been blowing smoke
up her ass earlier with all the talk about her self-esteem. Most likely, he saw her
as being barely competent enough to walk across the street without someone holding
her hand. She was a warm body he’d hired to answer his phones for five weeks, nothing
more.

She would prove him wrong.

Shaking her head, London stood and made her way out the door. There was a drugstore
down the street. Javier would likely need a few items this afternoon. She could shop
there and eat her sandwich while she did, maybe call Alyssa and check in.

The problem was, all of that only took her twenty-five minutes. Then she found herself
facing another thirty minutes or more of hundred-degree heat with ninety-five percent
humidity. She even walked back to the office slowly, but made it to the door with
half her lunch hour to spare. Javier wouldn’t be happy, and she was sorry for it,
but she stepped into the air-conditioned comfort of the professional suite with a
relieved sigh.

“Say that again,” she heard Javier snap.

“You heard me, man.” The other man hesitated. “All right. Go on torturing yourself . . .
I’ve identified your late wife’s killer as a paid assassin. The images captured on
the hotel’s security camera match this criminal. His actual name isn’t known in law
enforcement circles, just his face.”

“An assassin? You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yep. A French national. He struggles to step foot on European or American soil without
being arrested. Disguises don’t help much with facial recognition software these days.
So he’s taken to living most of the year in Cuba. He spends summers in Laos, except
when he’s working, of course.”

“Two huge shitholes. How would this man have met Fran? And when?”

“As far as I can piece together, they met in a bar a few weeks before he killed her.
He took a rental house in Aruba that May and probably orchestrated the meeting because
she’d already been marked. They became lovers the night they met. She returned home
for a bit, and they started corresponding through Facebook. Then e-mails and Skype.
She used her next trip to Aruba, ostensibly to hunt for a vacation home and hang out
with her girlfriends, as an excuse to see him again.”

London watched through the little window as Javier sucked in a breath, reeling back
as if Nick had physically hit him. She held a death grip on her purse. Javier’s late
wife had been unfaithful? Had he known that before today? Why would she cheat on him?
He had to be one of the most gorgeous men on the planet. Kind yet commanding. Rich,
educated . . . What the hell else had the woman been searching for in a husband?

“The assassin used the alias Jacques Valjean,” Nick said.

“Like the last name of that character from
Les Misérables
?”

Nick smiled wryly. “Yeah, that one. Clever, huh?”

She peeked again through the interior window of the office to see Javier pacing. He
looked agitated, furious. He grabbed a bottle of Cîroc. It was already over a third
empty.

“What else?” he demanded.

“We’ve narrowed the time of death to somewhere between two and three the morning of
June fourth last year. The cause of death was strangulation with a rope, as you know.
As best we can piece together, her killer carried her body in a large suitcase down
the back stairs, made his way to her rental car, then drove it and her into the ocean.”

“And how did he disappear afterward?”

The other man shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been too hard. And he was long gone, his
lease on his rental house expired, before he became a suspect. Aruban investigators . . .
not known for their prompt, quality work.”

Javier clenched his jaw, and London’s heart ached for him. He’d loved this woman,
and while he’d believed she was searching for a vacation paradise they could share,
she’d been unfaithful? Strangled and dumped like garbage by a professional assassin?
The shock of her infidelity would be enough, but to know she’d been murdered by her
lover who’d marked her for death all along. . . What agony Javier must be enduring.

“None of this answers my real question: why? Why was an assassin paid to target Fran
in the first place? She was the daughter and wife of an executive. She knew nothing
important. If her murder is related to corporate espionage, why not hit the direct
target, me? I doubt whoever hired her killer wanted her Versace handbags. So what
could he have wanted?”

“I’m still digging for a logical explanation. All I know is that this assassin is
expensive as fuck and works in secrecy. He’s been hired in the past by some unsavory
governments to off high-profile dictators and military officials. But I have no idea
who might have hired him to take out your wife. I’m wading through all the correspondence
with his Aruban landlord to see if we can determine a real name or permanent address—quietly.
I don’t want to alert him or give him any reason to trace this back to you through
me.”