Project: Runaway Heiress

by Heidi Betts

  Heart racing, she hung up, hoping she’d said the right things. Hoping she’d bought herself a little more time and extinguished at least a bit of his anger with her.

  She thought about calling her sister next, but it was Sunday afternoon, and though the store was open, the three of them usually took that day off. The chances of both Juliet and Zoe being home were too high. She would wait until tomorrow, when the two of them should be back at the boutique and unable to answer the apartment phone. Her message would be waiting for them when they got home, though, which should make them feel better about her health and welfare.

  That decided, she went back to flipping through papers and her notes, studying each carefully, just as she had several times before. The letters were starting to blur together, the words branding themselves in her brain. And yet she was clearly missing something or the mystery would have been solved by now.

  For the next few hours, she kept at it, sipping coffee to stay alert as she organized and reorganized, straightened and restraightened. Sighed and sighed again.

  She was going over the specifics of the California Collection—memos, instructions, supply lists and sketches—when something caught her attention. Sitting up straight, she leaned forward even as she brought the printout in her hand closer.

  Down in the far left corner, in teeny-tiny print smaller than a footnote, was a number. Or rather, a resource code, with numbers and letters mixed together: CA_COLL-47N6BL924.

  It meant absolutely nothing to her, except that it seemed to be an identifier for the California Collection. And like one of those 3-D magic mystery image puzzles, she might never have seen it if exhaustion wasn’t making her eyes cross and vision blur.

  Grabbing up the next page, she glanced down and found the exact same thing. And on the next. And on the next. And on the next.

  Her pulse jumped in anticipation. This could actually be something. Of course, she didn’t know exactly what and wasn’t even sure how to find out.

  But on a hunch, she ran for her laptop, popped the lid and booted up. Thanks to her position as executive secretary/personal assistant to the Man in Charge at Ashdown Abbey, she had all the log-in information to tap into the computer system from home—which she’d done numerous times after hours as part of her amateur investigation.

  Once she was in, it took her twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes just to locate anything even remotely related to the code, and another ten or fifteen to track down what the jumble of letters and numbers meant.

  It was, she discovered, an identifier for all of the sketches and other information related to the California Collection. And miraculously, it brought her to a compilation of scans of the original sketches for the California Collection.

  They were definitely rougher sketches than the ones she’d been studying all this time, done by hand in charcoal and colored pencil and with computerized drawing pads and the like. All grouped together, they were miniscule, but thankfully she was able to enlarge them and even run them across her screen in a slideshow fashion.

  A flare of annoyance raised Lily’s temperature several degrees. If she’d thought the final results of the collection were similar to her work, the original sketches were practically carbon copies. Someone had initially pitched almost her exact creations, and they had somehow—thank heavens for small favors, she now realized—been transformed into garments more suitable to Ashdown Abbey.

  Refocusing her attention away from her fit of temper, she began to scan every detail of the designs and right away noticed that each of them was signed with the same set of initials.

  IOL.

  Lily’s brows knit. So often with design teams, no one took or was given full credit for initial ideas. She’d suspected someone of using her designs as suggestions for aspects of the California Collection, but not that a single person had offered up complete, nearly identical sketches for all of the designs, which had then been applied to the overall collection.

  Apparently, she’d been going at her little investigation all wrong from the very beginning. The thought made her want to smack her head on the nearest hard surface, even as she admitted a newfound respect for folks like Reid McCormack, who did this sort of thing professionally. Clearly, she was better off locked in her studio with bolts of fabric and thread in every color than out in the world playing amateur sleuth.

  Not that she could quit now. She’d come too far and was finally, finally on the verge of figuring out this whole ugly mess.

  It took a minute or two more of tapping at the keyboard, but she found the entire list of employees connected to the California Collection and started scrolling through. No one, no one with the initials IOL that she could see. Dammit.

  Teeth grinding in frustration, she drummed her fingers on the coffee table and tried to think of what to do next.

  Bingo! Payroll records.

  Accessing the human resources files, she found the record of every single employee working at Ashdown Abbey, regardless of his or her position. From Nigel as CEO all the way down to the custodial team that came in nightly to clean the offices, she scrolled through every single name, looking for one to match to those three initials.

  A ton of L surnames popped up, only a few first names that started with the letter I. But she kept going, holding her breath in hopes that the mysterious IOL would pop up and bite her on the nose.

  And there it was. Her fingers paused on the touch pad, stopping the document’s movement. She blew out a breath even as her stomach plummeted and her heart hammered against her rib cage.

  Isabelle Olivia Landry. IOL.

  Bella.

  Lily leaned back against the edge of the sofa, feeling all the blood drain from her face. Bella? Zoe’s friend Bella?

  Sure, the thought had crossed her mind—briefly—after they’d run into one another, but she’d never truly believed anything like that could be possible.

  Could she really have done this? To her friend...her friend’s sisters...her friend’s company?

  Why would she have done such a thing? And how did she manage it?

  It made sense, though, didn’t it? The longer Lily thought about it, went back in her memory, the more things began to fall into place.

  Bella and Zoe were friends. Bella had visited Zoe not all that long ago. She’d stayed at the loft with them, toured the connected studio where they worked from home and the space where they worked in the back of the store, too, she was sure.

  She couldn’t blame Zoe for showing her friend around, either. Lily and Juliet had both given tours to friends, sharing their work space as well as designs they were currently working on. None of them would ever think a friend would steal their ideas and try to pass them off as their own or sell them to another designer.

  No, this betrayal lay solely at Bella’s feet. But Lily still wanted to know how she’d managed it. And why.

  Had she memorized so much from just a casual glance, or had she sneaked around behind their backs and literally stolen designs, perhaps traced or copied them to take away with her?

  Tears pricked behind Lily’s eyes even as her fingers clenched. She was sad and angry at the same time. Relieved to have the mystery solved, but dreading what was to come.

  Because she had to confront Bella now, didn’t she?

  Or maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe she should turn over all of this evidence to the police. Or Reid McCormack so he could investigate further and gather even more evidence against Bella.

  Gather even more evidence. So that they—she—could prosecute someone who at one time had been a close friend of her sister’s. The very thought made her want to throw up.

  But it had to be done, didn’t it? Even though now that she knew the truth, it felt like rather a hollow victory.

  And yet it was the whole reason she’d run away from home in the first place. Left without telling her family where she was going and sent poor Juliet into such turmoil over her whereabouts...flown to Los Angeles and gotten a job with a rival clothing company under
an assumed name...let herself get carried away by her feelings for Nigel and fall into an affair with him that was going to end badly...so badly.

  If she didn’t take action against Bella for stealing her designs, all that would be for naught.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Twelve

  There were some things makeup couldn’t hide, and the shadows under Lily’s eyes were two of them. She couldn’t remember ever spending a worse, more sleepless night in her life.

  For hours, she’d paced her apartment, chewed at her nails, despaired of what to do. Confront Bella herself? Call Reid McCormack for help? Or go home and tell her sisters everything? Maybe talking it through with her sisters would help her decide what to do, and since Bella was her friend, Zoe really did deserve to have a say in the matter.

  But no matter what she did where Bella and Zaccaro Fashions were concerned, she found herself having an even harder time figuring out what to do about Nigel.

  Oh, how she was dreading that. So many times during the night, she’d considered flying back to New York without a word to him or anyone else at Ashdown Abbey. And in fact she’d started packing her things, because either way, she knew she would be returning home sooner rather than later.

  The thought of seeing Nigel again filled her with equal parts excitement and trepidation. Excitement because every time she saw him brought a thrill of delight and desire. Trepidation because she’d been lying to him all along and might now have to come clean, telling him everything.

  He would hate her, of course. Hate her, be furious with her, possibly blow up at her before having her dragged from the building like a common criminal. Which was no less than she deserved, she knew.

  Her pulse was frantic, beating louder and louder in her ears the closer she got to her desk and the door of Nigel’s office. Before leaving her apartment, she’d called Reid McCormack again, this time glad when his secretary put her through and he picked up in person.

  He’d been short with her at first, on the verge of reading her the riot act, she suspected. But she’d quickly redirected his anger by filling him in on what she was really doing in Los Angeles and what she’d discovered. They made an appointment for her to bring everything she’d found to his office the following week, where he could look it over and they would decide what steps to take next.

  Then she called her sisters. For a change, she’d actually been hoping one of them would answer, but with the time difference between New York and California, she’d gotten only voice mail both at home and on their cells. Instead of the message she’d planned to leave before figuring out who was behind the design thefts, she’d told them where she was and that she’d be home within the next few days.

  She hadn’t told them why she was in Los Angeles or why she’d taken off the way she had, but assured them she was fine and would fill them in when she got back. In fact, she’d ended her message with there’s a lot we need to talk about. And, boy, was there ever. She only hoped this entire situation wouldn’t end up putting a rift between them.

  And then she’d picked up her purse and the letter it had taken her most of the night to compose. The ink of which her sweaty palm was probably smearing into illegibility at that very moment.

  Her breathing was coming in shallow bursts, her stomach churning and threatening to revolt with every boom-kaboom-kaboom of her aching, pounding heart. But as much as it pained her, as much as she wanted to turn tail and run, this was something she had to do.

  Swallowing hard, she laid her purse down on top of her—or rather, the future personal assistant’s—desk and turned toward Nigel’s office. The letter clutched in her hand was wrinkled almost beyond repair. She’d better do this before it became completely unreadable.

  Shaking from head to toe, she reluctantly raised an arm and knocked. Nigel responded immediately, calling in his deep British accent for her to come in. His voice snaked down her spine, warming her and causing a shivery chill all at the same time. Pushing the door open, Lily walked inside, her footsteps as heavy as lead weights.

  The minute he spotted her, his face lit up...and Lily’s heart sank. He was so handsome. So charming and masculine and self-assured. And lately, he’d begun looking at her like she could come to mean something to him.

  He was certainly coming to mean something to her. More than she ever would have thought possible, given the fact that she’d originally come here thinking he might be behind the thefts of her designs.

  Now it was breaking her heart to think of leaving him. To have to tell him who she really was and why she’d truly been working for him.

  She’d tried to deny it, not even letting the thought fully form itself in her mind, but she’d fallen in love with him. With a man who, in only moments, would come to despise her.

  “Lillian,” he said, and the sound of her name—even her fake name—on his lips nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet and came around his desk. He reached her in record time, before she could register his movements and attempt to stop him. He gripped her arms, leaning in to kiss her cheek and then her mouth.

  Heat suffused her, threatening to fog her brain and drag her far, far away from her determination to come clean and tell Nigel the truth. She couldn’t help but kiss him back, but curled her fingers into fists to keep from wrapping them around his shoulders or running them through his hair.

  Whether he noticed her reluctance or not, she couldn’t tell. He was still smiling when he pulled back, which only made her insides burn hotter with regret.

  Nigel reached up to brush a stray curl behind her ear, offering a suggestive, lopsided grin. “Did you come in early for our little game of Naughty Secretary?” he asked. “I can’t think of a better way to start the day, and would be happy to sweep away all my work so we can make proper use of the desk.”

  Her throat grew tight and closed on her next breath. She shook her head and blinked back tears.

  At her response, his eyes narrowed, his expression growing serious.

  “Lillian,” he said again, taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t look well. What’s wrong?”

  Clearing her throat, she tried to find her voice, praying she could say what she needed to say without breaking down completely.

  “Can I speak with you?” she began, the words thready and weak.

  “Of course.”

  Still holding her hand, he led her to one of the chairs in front of his desk, guiding her into it before turning the other to face her and taking a seat himself.

  “What is it?” he asked, concern clear in the hazel-green depths of his eyes.

  Hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was shaking, she held the letter out to him.

  “This is for you.”

  While he began to open the envelope and take out the piece of paper folded inside, she rushed ahead, knowing that if she didn’t get it all out before he began to react to her letter of resignation, she never would.

  “I’ve been lying to you,” she said. “The whole time, I’ve been here under false pretenses. My real name is Lily Zaccaro, and I’m part-owner of Zaccaro Fashions out in New York. I came to Los Angeles and started working for you because someone stole some of my recent designs and used them to create your California Collection. I probably should have handled things differently. I’m sorry,” she hastened to add before pausing only long enough to take a much-needed breath.

  “I know you’ll hate me for this, and I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I didn’t do anything to harm you or Ashdown Abbey. I poked around only to find out who might have had access to my personal designs and was also involved in the creation of the California Collection. That’s all I did. I didn’t come here to spy on your operation or steal company secrets or anything like that, I swear.”

  Eyes stinging, she blinked back tears. Swallowed past the lump of emotion growing bigger and bigger in the center of her throat.

  Where only moments before Nigel�
�s features had been relaxed and soft with pleasure when he met her gaze, they were now stone-cold and harshly drawn with both disappointment and betrayal. He stared at her letter in his hand as though it didn’t make sense, and she didn’t know if he’d heard a word she’d said...or if he’d heard every one and couldn’t bear to look at her because of them.

  She sat stock-still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Simply waiting and bracing herself for his reaction, however ugly it might be.

  And then he raised his head, his eyes locking on hers. What she saw there stabbed her straight through: hurt, confusion, betrayal.

  “You’re leaving,” he said, his tone flat, utterly hollow. “You’re not who you proclaimed to be, and now that you’ve gotten what you came for, you’re leaving.”

  She didn’t know which was worse—having to explain her actions or hearing him summarize them so succinctly. Both had her stomach in knots of self-loathing.

  All she could do was croak out a remorseful “Yes.”

  The silence that ensued was almost painful. Like nails scraping down a chalkboard, but with no sound, only the uncomfortable tooth-rattling, grating sensation.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, his mouth a flat slash across the lower half of his face. His gaze drifted away from hers, locking on a point at the far side of the room and refusing to return anywhere near her.

  One minute ticked by, and then another, while she searched for something, anything to say. But what more was there? She’d already confessed, told him who she really was and why she’d pretended to be his personal assistant. Whatever else she came up with to fill the heavy weight of dead air would only make matters worse.

  So she held her tongue, waiting for the dressing-down she knew was coming and that he had every right to level at her.

  Instead, he stood and rounded his desk. Still without looking at her, he took a seat in the wide, comfortable leather chair and placed his hands very calmly on the blotter, palms down.