by Avery Flynn
“Let’s start with introductions. Jane, this is Ryder Falcon. She’s my new personal assistant.”
The receptionist was too much of a pro to show an overt reaction to his announcement, but he swore her eyebrow moved up a fraction of an inch. “And what exactly does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. George insisted.”
“I’m sure he did.” Jane gave Ryder an up and down glance. “Speaking of Mr. Dylan, he is at a bit of a loss today. Sarah called in sick.” Jane narrowed her eyes at Ryder and tutted. “I’m assuming you’re going to need access to the employee improvement fund?”
The fund was a catchall for everything from new baby presents to wedding gifts, to you-did-a-great-job rewards. Since Ryder wasn’t pregnant, wasn’t married, and had just started here, none of it applied to her.
“For what?” he asked.
Jane used her pen as a pointer, leveling it at Ryder. “Her clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Ryder sputtered as she smoothed her hands down her discount black skirt from several seasons ago.
“Your clothes are perfectly suitable, my dear.” Tactful but firm, Jane continued. “But they’re not really what one would expect on the fifteenth floor.”
The glimmer of an idea flickered in Devin’s periphery vision. George said he didn’t have any choice in working with Maltese Security, but that didn’t mean another agent couldn’t stand in as his assistant. Judging by the tension emanating from Ryder’s tight body, she hated the idea of a mandated makeover, hopefully enough to ask to be reassigned.
“Excellent idea, Jane.” He pressed the elevator’s down button. “If you need me, we’ll be in the luxury women’s department of the fifth floor.”
…
Twenty minutes and a pile of frighteningly bright dresses later, Ryder was ready to pull her Beretta in the middle of the poshest private shopping area in all of Harbor City. Sylvie and Drea would be in heaven at the idea of playing Barbie as part of an all-expenses-paid makeover, but Ryder dug in her heels and stared down the diminutive woman holding a fuchsia, cap sleeve dress from ESCADA. Used to her all-black wardrobe, the color blinded her, but not enough that she failed to notice the four-digit price tag. Kailer might be the stylist to all of the most famous shoppers at Dylan’s Department Store, but the woman was certifiable if she thought Ryder would be caught dead in that color.
“I don’t think so.” Just because she was pretending to be Devin’s assistant didn’t mean she lost all of her own power. She’d stood up to worse and won.
Not for the first time in the twenty minutes they’d been together in the roped-off private shopping area, Kailer huffed hard enough to send her thick auburn bangs fluttering upward. The stylist glanced over her shoulder at Devin, who was talking on the phone as he paced through the empty showroom. This area was open by appointment only—unless you were the number two at Dylan’s Department Store, and then it seemed you could torture people in there any time you wanted.
Not finding help from her distracted superior, Kailer turned back to Ryder and held up a cherry red dress. “Trust me, I’m a stylist. I dress people for a living. This one would be lovely with your skin tone. It’s a Burberry London, drape-front, mulberry silk dress. The design detail in the front helps to add interest. You’ll look perfect.”
Ryder crossed her arms. She wouldn’t be manipulated by anyone again. “I don’t want a new dress.”
Kailer’s bright blue eyes took on the weary hue of a woman for whom a three-martini lunch had become a foregone conclusion. “But Mr. Harris—”
“Can kiss my ass.”
A large shadow appeared, eliciting a delicious shiver up Ryder’s spine.
Devin cleared his throat. “Kailer, can you excuse us for a moment?”
“Of course.” The stylist hightailed it out of the roped-off, private shopping area faster than expected, considering her short legs.
“This is ridiculous.” Ryder rounded on him, hands on her hips and ready for a fight. “Being your Eliza Doolittle is not part of the job.”
He fingered the red silk dress hanging on the garment rack. “It is if you want to fit in and get people to answer your questions.”
Of all the stupid things. How superficial were these people? “I don’t—”
“Look, I’m the general merchandise manager for Dylan’s Department Store, the most luxurious store for the fashion-conscious in the country. That means I head a team of fashion buyers, merchandisers, and senior executives focused only on finding the most on-trend and profitable clothing and accessories to sell to our customers. I can’t have my assistant looking like the runway from two years ago. Fashion is these people’s passion and my bread and butter.”
Damn, she hated it when he made sense. But unfortunately, he did.
“I still don’t like it.” She crossed her arms.
“Lucky for you, fashion doesn’t require you to actually like it.” He stormed off to the cream leather chairs opposite the dressing rooms. “Kailer, she’s all yours.”
Thirty minutes and sixteen dress arguments later, the stylist’s face had taken on the determined devotional sheen of a high-priestess of fashion intent on making Ryder a convert.
“I think I found the one!” Kailer removed a royal blue dress from a stuffed garment rack near the three-way mirror. “It’s a matte jersey from the St. John Collection. It will move with you and be very comfortable. The asymmetrical collar gives it a touch of drama. What do you think?”
Ryder held it up and looked in the mirror. Of all the choices so far, it came the closest, but the color was so not black.
“Right dress.” Devin got up from the couch where he’d been glued to his phone and strolled over to the garment rack. He pulled out the same dress in darkest ebony. “Wrong color.”
Ryder traded the blue for the black, glanced down at the price tag. One dress or groceries for the foreseeable future? An easy choice. “I can’t.”
“You can.” Devin hung the blue dress on the rack. “Or we’ll be down here all day. Consider it a gift.”
God, it was soft—she held it against her frame—and so pretty. “It’s too expensive.”
“It’s yours. Kailer, wrap it up and include the others in black as well.” He turned toward the elevator. “Come on, Ryder, we have work to do.”
Chapter Three
“Fashion is like a revolving door. Sometimes you get stuck in it.”
— Milana May
Storm clouds had gathered outside Devin’s windows when Ryder barreled into his office, her hair a wild, wavy mane around her shoulders. As always, she was dressed in head-to-toe black, this time the Armani, sleeveless sheath dress from the spring collection that showed off her toned arms and her muscled calves.
He shook his head. Fifteen years ago, all he would have noticed was her firm ass, not the clothes, and for sure not what they were called or when they’d debuted. Of course, back then he would have been too hung over at nine in the morning to even crack his eyes open.
All five-foot-ten-inches of blue-ball-inducing sexiness of her pulled to a stop in front of his desk.
For the past two days, she’d all but ignored him as she went through page after page of the store’s financials. He’d had a desk installed for her in the corner of his office so she could do her job without worrying about prying eyes. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Talk about theory versus reality. It had turned his office into a level of hell even Dante hadn’t considered.
Seeing Ryder twist her long hair around one finger only reminded him of how smooth the dark strands had felt on his stomach as she’d kissed her way south during their one night together. And then there was the way she mumbled to herself as she ran numbers in a low voice that vibrated down to his balls. The result being that he hadn’t sported this much useless wood since he’d been a teenager.
“We’ve got a problem.” Ryder held a manila folder in her hand. “There’s a lot more than ju
st a million dollars gone.”
Visions of her spread out beneath him on his bed fled in a heartbeat. His gut bounced against the floor. Shit, he needed to pull it together. “What are you talking about?”
“Four point seven million.”
White noise buzzed in his ears as he tried to process the bomb she’d just tossed into his lap. “That’s impossible.”
“Not really.” She paced in front of his desk. “Embezzlers don’t act like bank robbers—at least, not the good ones. They don’t run in, stuff as much cash in a bag as they can, and then split. They’re like car salesmen. They want to take some money from you this year and the next and the year after that. The smart embezzlers are in it for the long haul. I’ve spent the past few days going through your books with a fine-tooth comb. What I noticed was that one particular account had consistent growth. The more I looked, the more it looked off. So I dug into the records and discovered vendor invoices from businesses that never existed.”
“How do you know they don’t exist?” Anxiety pulled every muscle in his body tight. If this was true, the MultiCorp deal could collapse. Everything he’d worked to make happen for the last three years would be gone. The international market would be closed to Dylan’s for the foreseeable future.
“I’m an investigator. It’s what I do.” She stopped in front of his desk with her hands planted on her hips. “There’s more. The bogus invoices go back fifteen years. That equates to more than three-hundred-thousand dollars a year.”
Anger ripped through him, leaving him raw and hurting from the inside out. He turned on the messenger, ready to blast her out into the thunderstorm brewing outside his window.
“And you were able to figure all this out in what, forty-two hours, when we have some of the best accounting staff in the industry and they’ve never noticed a thing?”
She shrugged, but stood her ground. “They weren’t looking for someone doing them wrong. They were double checking that every check request came with an invoice and that the amounts matched. The culprit is familiar enough with Dylan’s inner workings to be able to produce the verification needed and controlled enough to keep from getting greedy.”
“You call 4.7 million not greedy?”
“Considering the damage he could have done? Yeah.”
“He?” Dread curled up in his stomach like a lead cat.
“Yep, all of the check requests have the same signature.”
“Whose?” Just getting out the single word hurt.
“The one person that no one would ever question.”
In a heartbeat, the room went from climate controlled to Florida in August. “That’s ridiculous.”
She flipped open the manila envelope lying in front of him. His lungs closed, leaving him stock-still in his chair and hearing only the blood rushing in his ears.
“Go on. Look.” She tapped the paper.
He hated her at that moment because he didn’t need to look to know whose signature would be slashed across the papers. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Let’s go find out what it is.”
The challenge hung in the air between them, a red flag in the bull fighting arena.
“George is my mentor, my boss, and the man who gave me a chance when even my own father had given up on me. That’s not the kind of man who steals from his own company.”
Her jaw clenched and she looked over his left shoulder as rain pelted the windows. “People cheat and lie about who they really are all the time.”
It didn’t make sense.
It couldn’t make sense.
“He’s got more money than God and he controls eighty percent of Dylan’s Department Store stock. His name is on the damn building for Christ’s sake. Why would he even need to pull a stunt like this?”
“Because as it stands now, the store only has another five years before the vultures start circling.”
He slammed his palms on the desk and shot out of his chair. The need to protect his mentor’s reputation beat a fast rhythm through his veins. “Now you’re just talking crazy.”
“No. I’ve studied the books. You need this merger.”
“Of course we do, it’ll open up the international market to our brand.”
“And you need the cash infusion or trouble is imminent.”
“Trouble?”
“Yeah, the kind that usually involves contract renegotiations at best and bankruptcy judges at worst.”
“That’s crap. You’re wrong about George.”
“Maybe.” She crossed her arms and glared down at him from her standing position. “But I’m not wrong about these numbers or the signatures. They aren’t forgeries.”
“How do you know that?”
“Detailed comparison under a microscope. There’s no sign of a forger’s tremor, unevenness in pen pressure, or patching.”
“Patching?”
“When someone forges something, often they’ll touch up a faulty stroke or writing feature, like the extra flair on the G in George’s signature.”
“Let’s go.” He circled his desk and marched to the door, yanking it open with enough force to startle his secretary on the other side.
“Where are we going?” A wary edge hardened Ryder’s alto voice.
He didn’t care. This wasn’t just some case to him. This was his life. “To the old man’s office.”
…
A frazzled woman in her mid-forties sat at Sarah Molina’s desk outside George’s office. Powered by righteous indignation, Devin didn’t even pause to ask for entry before barreling through the double doors leading to his boss’s inner sanctum.
“I’ll do the talking,” he snarled over his shoulder to Ryder.
The old man sat behind his desk, the phone receiver pressed to his ear.
He glared at Devin and Ryder. “Yes, of course, I really appreciate this, Louis. Devin and his personal assistant will be taking the company jet out first thing in the morning. Dylan’s Department Store is thrilled to finally have a presence at Andol Fashion Week. And as for that other thing, I cannot thank you enough.”
The Andol Republic was an island nation off the cost of Chile. Small but influential in the world of fashion, in the same way as Cannes to the world of film.
Bristling with energy that begged for an outlet, Devin forced himself to be still. He’d fought too fucking hard to put the act-first, reason-second mentality behind him to give in now. Next to him, he could practically feel Ryder humming with excitement like a vibrating bed in a cheap motel. To her this was just a case and she thought she’d nailed it. Behind them the secretary hovered in the doorway, too nervous or scared to come in any farther.
George hung up the phone. “This had better be damn good for you to barge in here when I’m on the phone with The Andol Republic’s cultural minister.”
Lightning lit the sky behind him.
“I’m sorry, sir.” A thunderclap drowned out the rest of the soft-spoken secretary’s apology.
“It’s not your fault, Suzie. By the looks of him, it would have taken a dozen navy SEALs to keep him out.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Why don’t you take an early lunch?”
“But Mrs. Molina’s notes said not to take a lunch until you did, and even then to eat it quickly in the break room.”
“Well, Mrs. Molina is out sick, so I guess that means I’m in charge, and I’m giving you an early lunch. Why don’t you go check out the new cafe that just opened up next to housewares on the sixth floor? I imagine the tomato basil soup would really hit the spot on a day like today.”
Another lightning bolt exploded in the distance. Devin counted while the secretary backed out of the room. One. Two. Boom! The thunder shook the plate glass window. He’d have to call and check in on James soon. The lightning storms that used to fascinate his little brother now frightened him. Too often the nurses found him hiding under his bed during storms like this.
The door clicked shut, bringing Devin back to the here and now. The
red flush in the old man’s cheeks didn’t make an impact—he’d learned a long time ago that George was all bluster and no bang.
He’d hustled into the CEO’s corner office without pausing to figure out what in the hell he was going to say. It wasn’t like he could come out and tell his mentor that the obviously-off-her-rocker investigator thought George had embezzled from his own company. Devin rubbed his palm against his close-cropped hair and opened his mouth.
Ryder stepped forward. “Can you explain why your signature ended up on all these false reimbursement requests?” She handed the manila folder to George.
The old man quirked an eyebrow but accepted the folder.
What the hell? Devin whipped his head around so fast it almost rolled off his neck. He’d told her to let him do the talking. This was his show, dammit. “I told her the whole idea is ridiculous.”
George held up his palm for silence as he ran his finger down the center of each page. After a few minutes, he sighed and softly closed the folder. “It looks to me as though my faith in Maltese Security is not unfounded. It seems you’ve found our embezzler.”
The shock of his statement almost snapped Devin’s head back.
“My arthritis has made signing documents tedious, and I had a signature stamp made up years ago that I keep locked in my desk. Only two people have the key. Myself and my executive assistant, Sarah Molina.” George picked up a single sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Ryder. “You need to see this. I found this in my inter-company mail this morning. It was deposited two days ago, but got lost in the mailroom. I was going to give it to you after my call with The Andol Republic’s cultural minister. You’ll understand why as soon as you read it. Why don’t you do that out loud?”
She glanced down. Her brown eyes rounded and her chin jerked up.
George slumped back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go on. Get it over with.”
“Dear George. Thirty years ago, I chose you over my home and my family. I learned too late what a mistake I’d made, but don’t worry. I’m done with you and with Dylan’s Department Store. I know this business better than you ever could, but you never saw that. To you I was just an executive assistant on a good day and a lackey on a bad one. But don’t worry, I made sure to build my own golden parachute. Sarah Molina.”