CHAPTER TWO
“Tell me why you think you would be a good fit at Executive Services, Leah?” Abby Markham asked, her eyes on the form before her, rather than on the candidate who was seated on the other side of her desk.
Leah St. George straightened her spine, squared her already erect shoulders, and smiled politely— in case Ms. Markham looked at her. Because I need a job and I need it now. Duh. “I am adaptable,” she said, trying to look competent, efficient and enthusiastic. “I think Executive Services could use a temp on the books who can walk into a new place and turn her hand to anything.”
Leah had spent money she didn't have to make sure her blonde hair fell in shining waves to her shoulders. Her face was carefully made up and she was wearing her best, her only, wool suit. But it didn't seem as if she was impressing her prospective employer. She tried her widest smile, the one that showed her dimples.
Abby barely glanced at her before making a note on her clipboard. She peered at Leah's CV on her computer screen, scrolled down, and moved on to the next question. “I see you haven't been employed for three years,” she said disapprovingly.
Leah kept her broad smile on her face through sheer determination. “It depends on your definition of employment,” she said firmly. “I gave up my job at Lever Security Systems to be my grandmother's full-time caregiver. She had Alzheimer's. But I've been writing code freelance for the last three years.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Hmm, I have clients all over the US,” said Leah. “My client list is private, but I can provide some references if you would like.”
Abby made another note and consulted her clipboard. “Why are you looking for a job now?”
“My grandmother passed away last month, so I'm free to look for a day job again.” Leah managed her best corporate smile this time, to disguise how sad those words made her feel. “I would prefer a job in IT, but while I'm waiting, I would be an asset to your team.”
Ms. Markham scratched at her clipboard with a pen. Her finger moved down her list on to the next question and the interview continued for another twenty minutes. At last, she stood up. “We'll be letting the successful candidates know next week,” she said dismissively, running censorious eyes over Leah's figure.
Leah stood up and let her navy skirt fall into place just below her knees. Nothing she could do about her bosom or hips. They were as nature made them. Abundant. She held out her hand even though the other woman didn't seem to want to go through the bother of the social niceties. “Thank you for your time,” she said pleasantly.
Abby watched Leah's tall, curvaceous body leave the office and her lips made a moue of distaste. She wrote on her clipboard and used her phone to speak to reception. “Send the next one in, Maddy,” she said.
* * *
“So did you get the job?” asked Beverley Simpson as she and Leah drank coffee at the Laughing Goat. Beverley was as dark as Leah was fair. Her glossy black hair framed her dark brown eyes and brought attention to her wide cheerful mouth.
Leah had tugged her carefully arranged hair into an untidy bun on the top of her head and fastened it with a stick, just to get it off her neck. Curls fell artlessly around her face. She looked much less prim with her hair in disarray, thought Beverley. But what the heck, it was hot even for Atlanta. And Leah needed to loosen up a little.
She and Leah had been friends since kindergarten when feisty Leah had faced down a pack of bullies who had thought they had a new victim in shy, sweet, gap-toothed Beverley. Their bond had held through high school and Bev's college days at Duke.
Leah unbuttoned her suit jacket and folded it onto the seat beside her to reveal her high-necked, blue shell. Now that she wasn't being interviewed she didn't mind if her girls were on display. And a wool jacket was a trifle warm for Atlanta in May, even with air conditioning.
Bev's question made Leah wrinkle her nose. She shook her head gloomily. “I don't know. I didn't feel as though I was talking to a person, if you know what I mean? Markham said she would call the successful candidates next week. Bless her heart.”
Beverley blew out her breath in exasperation. “Typical. When did it get to be acceptable to be so rude to job hunters? She interviewed you—she could at least send an email.”
Her friend laughed cynically. “I couldn't say, Bev. My Grandma told me that it used to be routine to send letters to job applicants—even when the letters were unsolicited. And she meant snail mail done by hand on a typewriter, and done over if you made a single mistake.
“Now we have email, and folks claim to be too busy to make a form to reply, 'Thanks, but no thanks.' I probably will never know if or why I didn't make the grade.” Leah chuckled. “I sound like an old bat complaining about modern manners. But maybe I'll get the job.”
“What are you going to do if you don't?” asked Bev in concern.
“Get a job waiting tables, write some code online. Carry on. If I don't get a job here in Atlanta, I guess I'll have to try elsewhere. It's not as though I have anything much to tie me to Georgia anymore.” Leah's plump face looked dispirited just for a moment before she remembered to smile at her friend.
“I'd miss you, girlfriend,” Bev said. “You keep looking. Have you heard anything from your real estate agent?”
Leah laughed ruefully. “Oh, yeah. He's found me a buyer. The house closes next month. When all is done and dusted, I am only going to owe about fifteen grand. Grammy ran through all her capital and her house belongs to the mortgage company.”
“Fifteen grand!” Bev was appalled. “Does that include the funeral?”
“Nope. Thank goodness for Veteran's Affairs. But Grammy’s urn will still be living on my bookcase for the foreseeable future. I just cannot afford to have Poppy's plot opened up.” Leah swallowed hard and blinked back her tears. “Who knew how expensive it was to die?”
Bev tossed her hair over her shoulders and patted Leah's hand. “Oh, you poor thing. But I'm sure you'll find something soon.”
“Sure I will,” said Leah, doing her best imitation of a plucky heroine. She stuffed the thought of her maxed out credit cards and her overdraft down deep. She didn't feel plucky. She felt scared and forsaken, but none of it was Bev's fault. Or Grammy's either. Old age and death weren't anyone's fault.
The two women parted with genuine hugs. Bev went back to her job at the bank, and Leah to the bus stop. She thought about saving the bus fare by walking, but the humidity would make her sticky and that would do her interview clothes no favors.
* * *
“Good morning, ma'am,” Leah said in her sweetest tones to the woman glaring at her from the doorway of this morning's temporary office. “Are you Ms. Randall?”
“Who the hell are you?” asked the tall, whippet thin woman who had entered Gwen Randall's anteroom.
Leah smiled broadly and said in her syrupiest tones, “I'm Leah St. George, ma'am.” She paused a beat. “I'm the temp from Executive Services. I'm filling in for Cecelia Bradley today. She has the flu.” Another big smile. “Ms. Randall doesn't seem to be in yet. Can I help?”
“The boardroom isn't open,” snapped the whippet.
Leah stood up. She was five eleven in her sock feet, but today she had on three-inch heels for confidence. Good thing, too. The whippet was wearing five-inch stilettos but Leah was able to look over the top of her head and smile down into her infuriated face. “Is it Cecelia's job to open the boardroom?” she asked, keeping her voice as sweet as pie.
“It supposed to be ready for the meeting at ten,” the other woman criticized. Which didn't really answer Leah's question.
“I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to do anything that Cecelia does until Ms. Randall gets in,” Leah said quietly. “This desk is locked. Her computer is password protected. I'm not authorized for anything, and IT tells me I have to get Ms. Randall to request authorization.” She looked at her watch. It was eight forty-three. She was not supposed to start work until nine.
“Let me know the minute Randall gets in.” The whippet turned on her tall heels.
“Yes, ma'am,” said Leah meekly. “Hmm. Who do I contact?” she asked the retreating back.
The whippet spun around, her pinched nostrils were white with anger. “Ms. Townshend,” she said and marched out.
Leah looked at Townshend's narrow back as she flounced off. That was trouble on stilts and she was going to get flack whatever happened. The temp was always to blame. Three months of working for Executive Services had taught her that her best was never good enough.
Because everybody asked for a competent person to fill in, but what they actually wanted was The Amazing Kreskin. If only she could show up having downloaded not just the exact skill set, but also the personal knowledge of the administrative assistant she was filling in for. Sadly, she was no mind reader. If no one told her, she didn't know where the photocopier was or how to operate it. And she didn't come with a complete set of passkeys either.
Townshend was already on her case because she hadn't done what she had no way of knowing needed doing. And she hadn't bothered with explanations, just attacked. Where the heck was Cecelia's boss if there was supposed to be an important meeting first thing this morning?
Leah reached for the desk phone to call security to see about getting the boardroom open, but it rang first. She answered it. “Sarkan Industries,” she said clearly, as she had been instructed by HR. “Ms. Randall's office. Leah St. George speaking.”
“Where's Cece?” croaked a female voice.
Leah repressed her sigh. “I'm the temp, ma'am. Cecelia is out sick. May I help you?”
“This is Gwen Randall. I'm afraid I have the same thing as Cece. You're filling in for her?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Who called you in? Have you been able to get the agendas ready for the C level meeting this morning?”
At least Gwen sounded pleasant, even if her nose was stuffed up. “I don't know who asked for a temp, Ms. Randall,” Leah said. “My company called me at six this morning, to be here for nine.”
“Huh.”
“Cece's desk is locked. Her computer turns on but won't let me in. Ms. Townshend was here a few minutes ago. She seemed unhappy to find the boardroom locked.” Leah laid it out in hopes that Randall would provide the missing details.
Gwen chuckled wetly and then coughed. “I'll bet. You get on to security right this minute. Tell them to send a tech to get you into Cece's computer. I think she waited to print the agendas until today—there are always last minute changes. You'll need to arrange coffee and pastries, too.” She coughed again. “I'll call Ms. Townshend myself.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” said Leah automatically. She dialed the number for security and was soon talking to an unhelpful man.
“'Taint my job,” he said. “André can override a password for a level ten, like Ms. Bradley, but not me. Want I should tell André when he comes in?”
“I do. Apparently there is a meeting of C level executives today and the boardroom can only be opened by this computer or Ms. Randall's.” Leah made it a question.
“Oh, I could open the boardroom. If I get authorization.”
By a quarter to ten, Leah had arranged to access Cecelia's computer, had the boardroom open, and had altered and emailed updated agendas to the attendees. She was in the boardroom kitchenette arranging donuts on a couple of large plates when the whippet spoke from behind her.
“Where the hell is Randall?” Ms. Townshend demanded.
Blindsided. But Leah knew better than to protest that Gwen Randall had promised to call Townshend herself. “Ms. Randall is also sick,” she said matter-of-factly. “She won't be in today either.”
“What the hell is that?” asked Townshend without acknowledging Leah's explanation.
“Krispy Kreme donuts,” said Leah holding out the platter.
“You can't serve those to Mr. Sarkany!” sputtered Townshend. “Where are the pastries?”
Leah shook her head. “I looked, but Cecelia didn't leave any notes about catering. So I went out for donuts. And I made coffee,” she indicated the industrial machine that was still dripping.
Tina's face was white and strained under her makeup. Her green eyes flashed angrily. “You can't serve drip coffee to Mr. Sarkany,” she insisted. Her whipcord body seemed to be vibrating in her sleek black suit.
A shadow blocked the doorway and Leah looked up. The man standing there was immensely tall, dark, and weirdly attractive—although she couldn't have said why. The hard, bleak angles of his face were too grim to be called handsome. And his expression was sardonic. But he did have great hair. Thick, lush, and almost black, it gleamed like polished stone.
He also had peculiar golden eyes that were examining her from head to toe as if he didn't care for what he saw. Leah kept her smile pinned to her face, even though her cheeks felt tight enough to split. And she knew she was blushing.
“Sure she can,” drawled the man. “So long as it's strong, hot and black, it will be fine, Tina.” His deep voice caressed the syllables of the other woman's name. “The important thing is that there be some.”
Tina put her red tipped fingers on the sleeve of Sarkany's black pinstriped suit jacket. “I'll send out to Vardi's,” she said.
The man shook his dark head. Not a single hair moved. Leah was impressed. It wasn't stiff looking and it was long enough that shaking his head ought to have ruffled it a little bit. She folded the donut box, put it in the recycling bin, and washed her hands. She stood awkwardly in the small space as Sarkany and Townshend talked to each other with their eyes.
Neutral. She could do neutral. She let her lips curve into just the barest hint of a smile and kept her eyes demurely lowered. She jumped when Sarkany spoke.
“What's your name?” he asked. His voice purred at her as if he couldn't help himself.
Leah opened her blue eyes wide and met his golden ones boldly. His black lashes were longer than hers. It was so not fair. But her blue eyes were her own, while his were obviously contacts. Who has gold eyes, for Pete's sake? “Leah St. George, sir,” she said clearly.
“Where's the other girl?” he asked.
“Cecelia Bradley is home sick, sir. So is Ms. Randall.”
“Huh.” His gold eyes wandered over her lush curves as if he could see beneath her buttoned suit jacket and high collared blouse to her opulent body. She felt naked but she didn't lower her eyes. Let the bastard look. She was worth looking at! She kept her face attentive but bland. Let this day end now.
“Is there anything else that needs to be done before your meeting, sir? Ma'am?” she asked deferentially.
“There should be water on the table and glasses and napkins,” said Tina as if she were stupid not to know. Yup, Kreskin wanted, again.
“Yes, ma'am. Do I serve, or do I just put out bottles of water and carafes of coffee?” Leah asked.
“You serve, of course,” Tina bit out.
“Gwen always takes notes,” said Sarkany at the same moment. “So she can send out a summary afterwards.”
Leah nodded. “Do you want me to do that, too, sir?”
Sarkany nodded.
“Where do I sit?”
Tina drew in a sharp breath and glared at Leah.
Sarkany laughed. “You'll sit behind me at that little console table.” He pointed to a narrow table behind the chair at the head of the long, polished mahogany table. It had a small chair that looked elegant and hard.
“Yes, sir.”
The door to the boardroom opened and people began to file in, greeting each other jovially while jockeying for position. Leah left the room briskly and retrieved the recorder she had found in Cecelia Bradley's desk. She checked the charge and returned to the boardroom as Tina was looking around impatiently. Leah showed Tina the device before going to the console table to plug it in.
“Mr. Sarkany,” she said quietly, 'I'm recording as of now.” She pressed start and headed for the kitchenette. Let the games begin.
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