Project: Runaway Heiress (2 page)

Two

N
igel Statham muttered an unflattering curse, slapping the company’s quarterly financial report down on top of his father’s latest missive. The one that made him feel like a child in short trousers being scolded for some minor transgression or another.

Handwritten on personal stationery and posted all the way from England—because that’s how his parents had always done it, and email was too commonplace for their refined breeding—the letter outlined the U.S. division’s disappointing returns and Nigel’s failure to make it yet another jewel in the Ashdown Abbey crown since he’d been appointed CEO eighteen months ago.

Disappointment clung to the words as though his father was standing in the room, delivering them face-to-face: hands behind his back, bushy white brows drawn down in a frown of displeasure. Just like when he’d been a boy.

His parents had always expected perfection—an aim he had fallen short of time and time again. But he hardly thought a year and a half was long enough to ascertain the success or failure of a new branch of the business in an entirely new country when it had taken nearly a century for Ashdown Abbey to reach its current level of success in the U.K. alone.

He thought perhaps his father’s expectations for this new venture had been set a bit too high. But try telling the senior Statham that.

With a sigh, Nigel leaned back and wondered how long he could put off responding to the letter before his father sent a second. Or worse yet, decided to fly all the way to Los Angeles to check in on his son in person.

Another day, certainly. Especially since he was currently dreading the job of training a brand-new personal assistant.

He’d been through three so far. Three attractive but very young ladies who had been competent enough but hardly dedicated.

The problem with hiring personal assistants in the heart of Los Angeles, he decided, was that they tended to be either aspiring actresses who grew bored easily or quit as soon as they landed a part in a hand-lotion commercial; or they were aspiring fashion designers who grew bored when they didn’t make it to the top with their own line in under six months.

And each time one of them moved on, he had to start all over training a new girl. It was enough to make him consider hiring an assistant to be on hand to train his next assistant.

Human resources had hired the latest in his stead, then sent him a memo with her name and a bit of background information, both personal and professional. It probably wasn’t even worth remembering the woman’s name, but then he’d never been
that
kind of boss.

Before he had the chance to review her résumé once more, there was a tap on his office door. Less than half a second later, it swung open and his new assistant—he deduced she was his new assistant, at any rate—strode across the carpeted floor.

She was prettier than her photo depicted. Her hair teetered somewhere between light brown and dark blond, pulled back in a loose but smoothly twisted bun at the back of her head. Her face was lightly made up, the lines classic and delicate, almost Romanesque.

A pair of dark-rimmed, oval-lensed glasses sat perched high on her nose. Small gold hoops graced her earlobes. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into the waistband of a black pencil skirt that hit midcalf, concealing three-quarters of what he suspected could prove to be extraordinary legs. And on her feet, a pair of patent-leather pumps, color-blocked in black and white with three-inch heels.

Being in fashion, he took note more than he might have otherwise. But as a man, there were certain aspects of her appearance he would have noticed regardless.

Like her alabaster skin or the way her breasts pressed against the front of her shirt. The bronze-kiss shade of her lips and rose-red tips of her perfectly manicured nails.

“Mr. Statham,” she said in a voice that matched the rest of the package. “I’m Lillian, your new personal assistant. Here’s your coffee and this morning’s mail.”

She set the steaming mug stamped with the Ashdown Abbey logo on the leather coaster on his desk. It looked as though she’d added a touch of cream, just the way he liked it.

She placed the pile of envelopes directly in front of him, and he flipped through, noticing that it seemed to be all business correspondence, no fluff to waste his time sorting out.

As first impressions went, she was making a rather positive one.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” he replied slowly.

With a nod, she turned on her heel and started back toward the door.

“Lillian.” He stopped her just before she reached the doorway.

Spine straight, she returned her attention to him. “Yes, sir?”

“Are those Ashdown Abbey designs you’re wearing?” he asked. “The blouse and skirt?”

She offered him a small smile. “Of course.”

He considered that for a moment, almost afraid to believe that his luck in the personal-assistant department might actually be changing for the better.

Clearing his throat, he said carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to be an actress, would you?” He resisted the urge to use the term
aspiring,
but only barely.

A slight frown drew her light brows together. “No, sir.”

“What about modeling? Any interest in that?”

That question brought out a short chuckle. “Definitely not.”

He thought back to some of the bullet points from her résumé. She hadn’t simply wandered in from the street, that was for certain. Her background was in both business
and
design, with a degree in the former and a few very strong courses in the latter.

On paper she was rather ideal, but he knew as well as anyone that everybody became a bit of a fiction writer when it came to cooking up a résumé.

“And your interest in the fashion industry is...” He trailed off, leaving her to fill in the blank on her own.

For the blink of an eye, she seemed to consider what response he might be looking for. Then she replied in a firm tone, “Strictly business. And the opportunity to get my hands on fresh designs sooner than the rest of the world. I’m a bit of a clotheshorse, I’m afraid.” She ended with a guileless half grin that brought out the tiniest hint of dimple in the center of her right cheek.

Almost in spite of himself, he caught his own lips turning upward. “Well, then, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Employees get a discount at our company store, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” she said slowly, and he could have sworn he saw a sparkle of devilment in her eye.

“Excellent,” he murmured, feeling better about her employment already.

He hadn’t exactly seen her in action, but she had, as they say, passed the first hurdle. At the very least, she hadn’t walked in with a wide smile and an IQ equal to her age.

“If you haven’t already, please familiarize yourself with my daily schedule and appointments for the week. There may be a few meetings and events to which I’ll need you to accompany me, so watch for those notations. And be sure to review the schedule frequently, as I tend to change or update it regularly and without warning.”

Picking up his coffee, he took a sip, surprised to find it quite tasty. Almost the exact ratio of cream to coffee that he preferred.

“Yes, sir. Not a problem.”

“Thank you. That will be all for now,” he told her.

Once again, she turned for the door. And once again, he stopped her just before she stepped out of his office.

“Oh, and, Lillian?”

“Yes, sir?” she intoned, tipping her head in his direction.

“Excellent coffee. I hope you can make an equally satisfying cup of tea.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

With that, she closed the door behind her, leaving Nigel with a strangely unexpected smile on his face.

* * *

As soon as the door to Nigel Statham’s stately, expansive office clicked shut and she was alone—blessedly, blissfully alone—Lily rushed on weak legs to the plush office chair behind her large, executive secretary’s desk and dropped into it like a sack of lead.

She was shaking from head to toe, her heart both racing and pounding at the same time. It felt as though an angry gorilla was trapped inside her chest, rattling her rib cage to get out.

And her stomach...her stomach was pitching and rolling so badly, she thought she must surely know how it felt to be on a ship that was going down in a storm-tossed sea. If she
didn’t
lose her quickly scarfed-down breakfast in the next ten seconds, it would be a miracle.

To keep that from happening, she leaned forward, tucking her head over her knees. Over them, because it was nearly impossible to get between them in the slim, tailored skirt she’d chosen for her first day of working undercover and with a false identity.

Lillian.
Blech.
It was the best name she’d been able to come up with that she thought she would answer to naturally, the blending of her first and middle names—Lily and Ann.

And as a last name, she’d gone with something simple and also easily identifiable, at least to her. George—what she and her sisters had called their first pet. A lazy, good-natured basset hound their father had found wandering around the parking lot where he worked.

Her mother had been furious right up until the moment she’d realized George woofed at the top of his lungs the minute anyone stepped foot on their property. From that point on, he’d been her “very best guard dog” and had gotten his own place setting of people food on the floor beside the dining-room table whenever they sat down to eat.

So Lillian George it was. Even though being referred to as Lillian made her feel like a matronly, middle-aged librarian.

Then again, she sort of looked like a librarian.

Her usual style, and definitely her own designs, leaned very strongly toward the bright, bold and carefree. She loved color and prints, anything vibrant and flirty and fun.

But for her position at Ashdown Abbey, she’d needed to be much more prim and proper. Not to mention doing as much as she could to disguise her identity and avoid being recognized or linked in any way to Zaccaro Fashions.

She could only hope that the change of name and switch to a wardrobe drawn entirely from Ashdown Abbey’s own line of business attire, coupled with the glasses and darkening of her normally light blond hair would be enough to keep anyone at the company from figuring out who she really was.

It helped, too, that Zaccaro Fashions was only moderately successful. She and her sisters weren’t exactly media darlings. They’d been photographed here or there, appeared in magazines or society pages upon occasion, but mostly in relation to their father and their family’s monetary worth. But she would be surprised if most people—even those familiar with the industry—would recognize any one of them if they passed on the street. Although Zoe was doing her level best to change that by going out on the town and getting caught behaving badly on a more and more regular basis.

After a couple of minutes, Lily’s pulse, the spinning of her head and the lurching in her stomach all began to slow. She’d made it this far. She’d made it past human resources with her creatively worded but fairly accurate résumé and her apparently not-so-rusty-after-all interview skills. Then she’d stood in front of corporate CEO Nigel Statham himself without being found out or dragged away in handcuffs.

He also hadn’t followed her out of his office, shaking a finger at her deceit, or instructed security to meet her at her desk. Everything was quiet, calm, completely normal, as far as she could tell.

Ashdown Abbey certainly didn’t have the hum of voices and sewing machines in the background the way the Zaccaro Fashions offices did. But, then, Zaccaro Fashions wasn’t a major, multimillion-dollar operation the way Ashdown Abbey was, either. They hadn’t yet reached the point where their corporate offices and manufacturing area were two separate entities.

Frankly, Lily thought she could use the mechanical buzz of a sewing machine or her sisters’ laughter as she worked with her cell phone pressed to her ear right about now. Sometimes silence was entirely overrated. Times like these, when all she could hear was her own rapid breathing and the panicked voices in her head telling her she was crazy and sure to get caught.

To keep those voices from getting any louder and leading her in the wrong direction, she started to recite one of the simple, meaningless poems she’d been forced to memorize in grade school, then slowly sat up.

Tiny stars flashed in front of her eyes, but only for a second. She blinked and they were gone, leaving her with clear vision and a clear—or clearer, anyway—head.

Nigel Statham believed she was his new personal assistant, so maybe she should go back to acting like one.

Rolling her chair up to the desk, she pulled out her computer’s keyboard and mouse, and started clicking away. She’d familiarized herself with the computer’s operating system just a bit before going into Nigel’s office, but was sure there was much more to learn.

His daily schedule, for instance. Something she was apparently going to have to stay on top of or risk not knowing what she was supposed to be doing from one hour to the next.

She felt a small stab of guilt as she bypassed the email program, wondering if her sisters had found her note yet and honored her wishes by
not
telling anyone about her sudden disappearance or trying to track her down themselves.

She’d told them she had some personal business to attend to. Something she couldn’t discuss just yet, but needed some time away to deal with. She assured them she would be fine and wasn’t in any danger, and asked them to trust her to get in touch as soon as she could.

She didn’t want them to worry about her, but she wasn’t ready to tell them what was really going on, either. One day...one day she would fill them in on everything. She would tell them the entire story over a bottle of wine, and chances were they would have a good laugh about it.

But not until it was resolved and there was a happily-ever-after to report. When the threat to their company was gone and there were no fears or rumors left to spread like wildfire if anyone else got wind of it.