Still, Kate was in too far to reverse course now. “I’m told I’m a pretty good problem solver. And I work, um, quickly.”
“Really.” There was speculation in Maggie’s eyes.
Maggie got up, then motioned for Kate to follow her. She walked Kate down the hall, over to a closed door, which she then opened.
It was like a very small office—or a very large supply closet. There was a huge stack of file boxes, and a rickety black desk that looked like a bastard stepchild at the Fiendish furniture reunion. Still, there was one of the sleek desktop workstations setup, as well as a scanner, a web cam, and a printer.
“Mr. Kestrel appointed me with the important task of getting all this highly confidential information from everyone who works in the building,” Maggie said, self-importance and warning threaded through every syllable. “I made sure every single person filled out the questionnaire I created.”
“Okay,” Kate said, looking at the stacks of papers. What, did she want them alphabetized?
“Well, now Mr. Kestrel wants a phone directory of all his direct reports. Just the phone numbers, not all the other stuff.” Maggie sniffed. “So do that.”
Kate walked over to the desk, picked up one of the “questionnaires” that was littered across the surface. “Wait… these are all hand written?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “So?”
So why didn’t you have everyone fill out an electronic form that was searchable? Kate thumbed through the paperwork. There were easily four pages full of everything—salary, social security numbers, passwords, you name it. All stacked haphazardly in boxes in an out-of-the-way, unlocked closet.
Nice and secure.
No question: “Ms. Maggie” was an idiot.
“What if someone has to change something?” Kate asked, appalled.
“They can fill out a new form,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Kate, it’s not that difficult. Some people even filled it out in pencil, so they could erase it if they had to.”
Kate bit her lip. “All right. I can make up a phone directory.” It shouldn’t take that long, she reasoned.
“For all these,” Maggie said, gesturing to the boxes.
Kate swallowed. Okay, strike that. It would take that long. “Um… when do you want it done?”
Maggie looked at her watch, then smiled, like a cat toying with a half-dead mouse.
“By the time I get in tomorrow will be fine.” Maggie’s eyes gleamed. “If you’re the whiz you claim to be, that should be more than enough time. And if you’re not… well, I don’t know how well you’re going to work out at Fiendish, dear. We expect a lot.”
“What, by nine in the morning? Tomorrow?” Kate echoed. Or I’m going to get fired?
“Eight forty-five,” Maggie corrected. “Guess you’re going to be crazy busy today, too, hmm?”
…
Thomas Kestrel had become a millionaire by the time he was eighteen years old, a billionaire by thirty. He was said to be one of the smartest, savviest, street-wise, self-made businessmen to hit the country in a century.
And here I am, lost in my own office building.
He scowled as he tried taking another turn. In his defense, he’d only transferred to the new headquarters a day ago; he’d been too busy tying up loose ends in the old building in North Carolina, including its demolition. And the labyrinthine design of the new headquarters, while deliberate and mystic and supposedly full of protective chi or some such, was also a real pain in the ass to figure out.
He was getting ready to stoop to using his phone’s GPS when he heard the strange noises. There was a ribbon of light spooling out from the bottom of a closed doorway.
His heart started pounding.
Who the hell is in my building at this time of night?
He approached cautiously. Fiendish Headquarters was built specifically to be an impregnable fortress, in more ways than one, but he knew better than to let his guard down.
“My anaconda don’t want none unless she’s got BUNS, hon…”
His eyes widened.
Apparently, whoever was skulking around at one in the morning was a Sir Mix-a-Lot fan.
He opened the door cautiously, peering inside. The woman he saw was thin, maybe five-six, wearing an ugly gray-green blouse and a shapeless khaki skirt. That alone told him she didn’t work for Fiendish. His employees wore strictly Fiendish Fashion clothing, and he’d know if they sold anything that damned ugly. She had long, ruby red hair pulled up into a haphazard ponytail, with straggling curls escaping.
She was also “shaking her money maker,” every now and then, shutting a file cabinet drawer with one jaunty hip shimmy.
“. . .baby got baaaaaaaacccck!” she shrieked, finally catching sight of him.
He couldn’t help himself. He grinned broadly. She had square framed glasses that were slipping down on a cute nose. She looked like an absent minded librarian, or a vaguely frumpy co-ed. She held up a stapler like she meant business.
“Um, hi. Just heard somebody singing, thought I’d investigate.” He held out his hand. “I’m Thomas.”
“Hi. I’m mortified.” Putting down the stapler, she shook his hand, blushing. Then she moved in a whirlwind, popping folders back into place, scribbling on a pad of paper. Within seconds, it seemed, everything was neat as a pin.
“Big project, huh?”
She wrinkled her nose, grabbing the paper. “Just helping get the personnel files a bit more… user-friendly.”
“Maggie ask you to do that?” He vaguely remembered Maggie taking on that task last year, but she’d complained at the sheer volume and complexity of the task, and the fact that she didn’t want to work with the “geeks,” as she called I.T., about automating it. He’d wondered what the big deal was, but a lot of Maggie’s “special projects” seemed to garner the same description.
The girl smirked at him. She had a great smirk. “Sort of. She asked me to make a phone list, but this will be a little more comprehensive.”
“Done for the night?”
She shut down the computer. “I think so. I just need to leave a note for Maggie.”
“Considering the lateness of the hour, I’d better escort you to her office.” He knew where the elevators were from Maggie’s office… at least, he thought he did. Hopefully this redhead knew the way to the office itself.
“Good idea.” She shot him a self-deprecating grin. “I mean, there’s no telling what kind of weirdos you might run into at this time of night, right?”
He chuckled. “So, you have a name?”
“Kate. Kate O’Hara.” Her smile was warm, sweet. “I’m a temp.”
“How are you liking it so far?” he asked, as they fell into step together, strolling casually down the hallway.
“What, working here at Fiendish?” He watched as she kneaded the back of her neck with one hand. “It sucks like a Dyson. But hey, it’s a job, right?”
He stopped, staring at her for a minute. “You do have a way with words, don’t you?”
“Oh my God.” She shook her head, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses with her fingers. “I’m sorry. My internal censor clocks out at midnight. Actually, I think it took the day off.”
“Don’t be sorry. I like it when people are honest with me.” And she probably didn’t realize he was the founder and CEO. That was sort of refreshing. “So what sucks about it?”
“Other than being stuck here at one o’clock in the morning organizing?” she asked. “I guess I never thought I’d be working at a place like this, you know?”
His feeling of amusement waned. “What do you mean, a place like this?”
“Big corporate.” She wrinkled her nose again.
He struggled not to feel offended… or at least, not to let it show. “Fiendish Enterprises is a multi-billion dollar corporation, true, but it’s really a dozen different smaller companies. Fiendish Fashion. Fiendish Fun. Fiendish Escapes. Fiendish Films…”
She shrugged, obviously unimpressed.
Okay. Now he was definitely offended. “So, you’re telling me you have no interest in fashion, or traveling, or entertainment?”
Kate shot him a quicksilver grin, momentarily stunning him. “Look at me. Do I look like I’m all into haute couture?”
He glanced at her ugly outfit again, although this time, he took a bit more notice of the woman underneath. There were some curves there, he noticed, buried under the business casual, but it was as if she’d deliberately chosen clothes to hide what she had.
He was accustomed to women who flaunted their assets and used fashion as a weapon. If anything, Kate seemed to use fashion as a duck blind.
She’s honest, though.
“As for the rest, I’ve traveled some, sure, but I crash on people’s couches or stay in hostels. Fiendish Escapes has the whole five-star treatment, doesn’t it? Like, maids and lackeys and Egyptian cotton and Kobe beef and whatever?” When he nodded, she shrugged. “I’m not interested in shelling out the down payment for a house just so I can have a bunch of toadying and overindulgence for an entire week. Frankly, I don’t need all that.”
“Yes, but Fiendish isn’t about need,” he pointed out. “Sometimes, it’s about desire.”
She paused for a second, and her green eyes went wide, her cheeks flushing just a little.
He wasn’t sure why he was needling her so hard, other than that sanctimonious pleasure-deniers tended to get his boxers in a bunch. But there was something about challenging her, watching her expression go surly, that was actually entertaining.
It occurred to him that, for a man who had made his livelihood on expensive, extreme, and exclusive options for entertainment, he actually, personally, enjoyed precious little of it.
“So what about fun?” he prompted. “Got something against that, as well?”
“Sure, I like fun. What’s not to like?” Kate agreed absently, looking up and down the corridor, obviously more intent on finding Maggie’s office than on what she was saying. “But from what I’ve seen, actually working here isn’t fun.”
Now it was his turn to grimace. “It isn’t?”
“No. It’s working your ass off to convince other people to drop a wad of cash on stuff they don’t need, so they can momentarily pretend their lives don’t suck as they bust ass to afford the stuff we’re selling… Here we are. Maggie’s office.”
He crossed his arms as she tried to put a note down on the desk, only to find no clear space. Finally, she sighed and put it on Maggie’s chair.
“So what you’re saying,” he reiterated as they headed toward the elevators, “is that my job—and everybody else’s job here—is basically pushing expensive, self-indulgent, ultimately hollow crap.”
She was silent for a second. Then she sighed, and to his surprise, she put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. That’s unfair. I’ve had a crappy day, and not a lot of great experiences with big corporate, but I’m firmly against snap judgments. I apologize for that.”
Her apology, and self-awareness, threw him off.
“Besides, you obviously love it here,” she said in a low, serious voice, releasing his arm and walking. “I felt that way about the place I used to work, before it went under. I guess… I just miss the way things used to be.”
I know that feeling, he thought.
“Besides, one of these days, I really should learn when to shut up.”
He laughed at her abashed tone. “You’re sort of a neat person, Kate O’Hara. And a very inventive singer.”
“And you’re probably the coolest billionaire I’ve ever met, Thomas Kestrel,” she said with a little chuckle. “Of course, you may be the only billionaire I’ve ever met, so that kind of narrows the field.”
“You knew who I was?” The elevator arrived, and he followed her in, torn between feeling amused at her audacity and a little disappointed—was she just playing up the smart-ass act, trying to get his attention?
“Your picture’s in the lobby,” she pointed out. “We’re not talking Sherlock Holmes here.”
“So, knowing all that, you still panned my corporation?” he pressed. “To my face?”
“Apparently.” She was blushing again, like rose petals on milk. Suddenly, he got the strong feeling that she wasn’t acting. She was not only being herself—she was probably clinically incapable of being anything else. “Besides, I don’t mean to make it sound like this is, you know, that bad. It could’ve been worse.”
He studied her, paused for a beat. “Could’ve been Microsoft, huh?”
“Don’t even joke.” She shuddered. “Anyway, it’s later than I thought. I missed the last train. Guess I’d better call a cab.”
He could smell her perfume, if it was perfume. Maybe it was some kind of soap. It smelled sort of flowery, but not in an overpowering way. Like… lemon, he thought, and the white clover he used to stretch out in, back home in North Carolina. He took a deep breath and noticed he was standing a little closer to her than necessary.
He didn’t move.
Pulling out his phone, he tapped a text to his limo company. “Listen, I’ll have one of our drivers drop you off, okay? It’s too late for you to catch a cab by yourself.”
“That’s really nice of you.” She smiled at him, then surprised him further by giving him a gentle punch on the arm. “You’re a good guy, no matter what the papers say. You know that?”
He felt a surge of warmth, started to take one step closer. Then stopped himself abruptly.
What the hell am I doing?
It was one o’clock in the morning, and he was joking with a cute redheaded temp. Noticing her perfume. Smiling at her.
Don’t you remember why you’re here?
He closed his eyes. Thinking of the real reason he’d moved to Oakland. Thinking, for a moment, of the real—and deadly serious—purpose of the new Fiendish headquarters.
And it’s just the beginning.
“No, Kate,” he said in a low voice, finally taking a deliberate step away from her. “No, I’m really not a good guy.”
…
Kate fell asleep in the town car. To her embarrassment, the driver actually had to nudge her awake when he got to her parents’ driveway. She rubbed her eyes, thanking him, then stumbled up the walk, the motion-sensor security lights momentarily blinding her. She fumbled with the lock, opening the door as she yawned.
There was an audible click. Not the sound of the lock—the sound of a gun hammer being cocked back.
She froze, immediately awake.
The light switched on.
Her father stood there in his ratty boxers and a scruffy plaid flannel bathrobe in shades of faded orange and brown. His moccasins were scuffed and there was a hole developing in the sole, she noticed.
He was also pointing a gun at her.
“Damn. And I really wanted to steal that flat screen.”
“You always such a smart-ass when someone’s got a gun pointed at you?” He scowled at her, de-cocking the service revolver in his hand.
“I figure if you haven’t shot me by now, my odds are pretty good.” She’d meant for it to come out as a joke. Considering her history of trouble, she realized it would’ve been funnier if it weren’t so true.
“You break your cell phone?”
“I didn’t expect to work so late,” she said, hanging up her jacket on one of the pegs by the door and kicking off her pumps. She’d forgotten how uncomfortable heeled shoes were—she was wearing flats tomorrow, definitely. “And I’ve got to get back to it by eight forty five tomorrow, so…”
“You were at work?”
The clear doubt in his voice slapped at her. “I really am sorry I didn’t call, Dad.”
“You know we worry,” he said, and there was just a tinge of judgment to it. She was twenty-nine years old, not thirteen, but come home late, and suddenly it was like junior high all over again.
This is what happens when you move back in with your parents.
She straightened. “I got that temp job at Fi
endish Enterprises. The lady I’m working for is…”
A real bitch.
“Demanding,” she said instead.
“Do they expect you to come home at two in the morning every night?” he asked. “And who dropped you off? Those headlights were like helicopter floods; they woke me up.”
“Town car. Company car,” she clarified. “The boss—the big boss—said I shouldn’t grab a cab so late. Little did he know that I’d be putting my life in jeopardy just by walking into my parents’ living room, huh?”
“Old habits.” Her dad grunted, putting the gun away. “Think you’ll be able to hold onto this job?”
She stiffened. “I held onto the job at Uncle Felix’s for three years,” she said, not even bothering to keep the resentment out of her voice this time.
“Felix isn’t exactly demanding,” he threw back.
“Dad, it’s late, and I’m too tired to have this conversation,” she said, heading for the stairs. “I was at work. I’m doing everything I can to keep this job. Okay?”
Her father’s hair was thinning, going from a sandy brown to a peppery gray. It was standing straight up—he’d obviously been tugging at it. “Are you getting paid well? At this job of yours?”
“Decent,” she said.
“Decent for you,” he asked, “or, like, a normal person wage?”
She bristled. “They’re definitely the richest company I’ve ever seen, and I’m getting paid a little higher on the scale than usual temps.”
Her dad sighed. “You know that we were okay with you moving back as long as you got a job,” he rumbled. “But you also knew that it wasn’t going to be permanent.”
“Trust me, I have no plans on staying permanently,” Kate said before she could stop herself.
Her father glared a little. “You’re not a kid. And we don’t want to make a habit of bailing you out.”
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral, mostly from the numbness she was feeling.
“No, no,” he said. “But I think that it would be best if you paid rent.”
Pride had her chest lifting up, her chin jutting out. “I have no problem paying rent.” It would mean that much longer before she could save up to move out, which stung. Still—if she paid rent, maybe she could actually be more like a tenant and less like the fuck-up teenager they seemed to still believe she was. “I’ll write you a check in the morning.”
Temping is Hell Page 2