Secret Intentions
Table of Contents
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Secret Intentions
Copyright © 2008 by Author
ISBN: 978-1-60504-197-1
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: September 2008
www.samhainpublishing.com
Secret Intentions
Caitlyn Nicholas
Secret Intentions
Dedication
For my entire amazing family and my fabulous, wonderful friends.
I adore you all.
Secret Intentions
Chapter One
Sheltering in the lee of the bell tower, Zani Best stared up at the imposing façade of Edes House and wondered whether suicide would be an easier option than going inside. It probably would, if she chose a painless, non-messy version. A bus roared past, charging up North Street toward the Market Cross. She almost managed a smile at the irony.
Cyanide, perhaps? Strychnine? She glanced around at the grey council chambers across the road and the huge cathedral that loomed behind her. Little chance of finding cyanide around here.
A movement in the shadowy cathedral porch made her hesitate and look more closely. She peered toward it, shivering a little, trying to make out the dark figure she thought she’d seen. The light rain had misted her glasses, and she pulled them off, squinting uneasily as she polished them dry on a corner of her scarf. The porch was empty when she put them back on. Must have been the ghost.
The wind gusted, and a cold drip from the roof of the bell tower landed on her head. She couldn’t stand there forever. She had a choice: Go inside, face Corbin de Villiers, lie, spy, do everything required to find out if he’d begun to stealthily orchestrate a management buyout. Or she could leave, go back to her own warm, safe office at the marina and seal her father’s fate.
She looked up at the building again. Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “Please, Zani, I could lose everything. We need you, darling.”
A tight ball of guilt lodged in her throat. She didn’t have a choice at all. She never had. Suddenly impatient, she hurried into the building.
“Just go on up, two flights of stairs then first door to your right.” Sunberri’s cheery receptionist pointed the way. “He’s expecting you. Don’t take the lift, it’ll be hours.” She was a local girl with a soft Sussex accent. Hours sounded like “aaahs”. “Good luck,” she added with a grin.
Zani climbed the stairs slowly. Her legs felt like lead. Each step took her closer to Corbin de Villiers. Closer to the man who could ruin her family. Anger at his transparent greed warred with fear. What if he succeeded? She couldn’t bear to think about it.
“Hello,” she called, and cleared her throat peering anxiously into the empty office, then took a couple of hesitant steps through the door.
Papers rustled and there was movement through a doorway on the opposite side of the room.
“You’re nearly four hours late.” He strode in frowning. “And then you go and waste even more time hanging about outside.”
“What?” stuttered Zani. “I’m sorry, I…” She scrambled to come up with an apology, twisting the end of her scarf around her fingers. The truth, that she’d been hiding in her own office at the marina until guilt and emotional blackmail from her father drove her to reluctantly drag herself to the Sunberri office in Chichester, would not help in this situation.
“Still, I suppose you’re here now, and that’s better than nothing,” he continued. “Do you think you’ll be as useless as the last temp I had?”
Zani knew one thing for sure. She’d make the last temp, no matter how woeful, look like an administration angel.
“Only if she spat in your coffee,” she said.
She tried not to enjoy the startled silence.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, only if she spat in your coffee. It was a joke.”
She’d seen a couple of blurry photos of Corbin de Villiers in the local papers, but they hadn’t done justice to the black smudges under his eyes and his grey face. He looked dreadful.
“I don’t appreciate your sense of humour,” he snapped.
Zani unwound her fingers from her scarf and settled her bag more firmly on her shoulder.
“That’s probably because you’ve got a cold.” She smiled sweetly.
“Somehow I doubt that, and I’m not sick.”
“You look sick. Your eyes are all bloodshot and your nose is red,” she said with some satisfaction. It wasn’t every day you got to tell local most-eligible-bachelor he looked awful. Though, despite his cold, his wavy chocolate hair and crystal blue eyes made an enticing combination. She’d imagined him to be shorter, more evil looking, with piggy greedy eyes or a cunning squint. “You should take something for it.”
His scowl became even more forbidding, and there was another silence, this one not quite as enjoyable as the last.
“Look. Here.” She dug about in her handbag and produced a crumpled foil packet of painkillers. “Take two of these, they’ll make you feel better.”
His frown didn’t budge. “Thank you but no, I don’t believe in drugs. When I’m sick I believe in letting my immune system fight the infection.”
“What, your body’s a temple, is it?” she asked, snorting in amusement at the thought.
“Which agency did you say you came from?” He asked the question mildly, though the threat was crystal clear.
Zani twisted her fingers in her scarf again. She hadn’t come from an agency. Her brother Paul, Sunberri’s Chief Financial Officer, had hurried her into the role, telling the head of Human Resources she was his stockbroker’s niece. Obviously nobody had mentioned it to Corbin de Villiers.
She hesitated, the carefully rehearsed explanations fading as she realised how ridiculous they were going to sound. Stockbroker’s niece? What had Paul been thinking?
De Villiers’s gaze dropped to her hands and the twisted scarf.
“Is this my desk?” She pointed with the end of her scarf and strode past him in a brusque, businesslike way.
“Yes, but—”
Zani glanced around quickly enough to see him examining the ceiling with an expression of pure exasperation. He muttered something that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary and shook his head slightly. “You haven’t told me your name yet,” he said and followed her across the room. She moved quickly around the desk, wanting to keep it between them, as if it’d provide some protection.
“Oh Zaniah, er, Chis…um, Chiswick, but everyone calls me Zani.”
The lie came more easily than she’d thought. Chiswick had been her mother’s maiden name, and to say it aloud was almost a comfort. Almost. Corbin de Villiers watched her expectantly, and she wondered if she should hold out her hand, shake his, but then baulked at the thought of touching him. Touching tended to be something she avoided, especially when bad-tempered, virus-ridden company CEOs were involved.
; “Zani, then. My name is Corbin le Joli de Villiers de Saint Marc. I shorten it to de Villiers, but you can call me Corbin. This is your desk, Zani.” He gestured toward it with a faintly mocking smile. “Please, take a seat.”
She fussily unwound her scarf and took off her coat, arranging them on the back of the chair, buying herself a moment to calm down and start acting like a corporate spy. Then she sat and smiled up at him, oozing professionalism and awaiting instructions.
“I take it you’ve used a Macintosh computer before,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she assured him breezily, even though she hadn’t. She glanced down, looking for the CPU. The area at her feet was suspiciously CPU-free.
“Are you sure you’ve used a Mac?” he asked, the permanent scowl deepening.
“Of course.” She straightened, sure she’d made a mistake.
“Mac computers come as a single unit. The power button’s just there.” He leant over her and pressed a button below the screen. She had to force herself not to recoil as his arm brushed hers.
“Oh, right, yes.” Zani tried a laugh, but it came out as a thin whinny, and she stopped abruptly. “Um, it’s been a while, years actually. In my last role they were all PCs.”
“I see,” said Corbin, though he didn’t look convinced. “Well, I’ll leave you to get re-acquainted with the machine.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Zani, sagging with relief as he disappeared into his office.
He reappeared within seconds and she abruptly unsagged. “Can you take messages? I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Sure.” Zani eyed the phone. Taking messages, that seemed quite straight-forward —well, as long as the phone didn’t actually start ringing. Maybe she’d be able to wing it as a PA after all.
The computer whirred away. After scratching its head for a while, it asked Zani for a username and password. She glanced at the doorway through which Corbin had disappeared and decided she’d venture into his lair only if death, the apocalypse or going-home time was imminent.
With a start of joy she found a dog-eared sheet of paper tucked under one corner of the phone. It had the words Internal Phone Directory written across the top. Perfect. Within minutes a harried-sounding fellow named Phil promised to come and fix her password problem just as soon as he could.
She glanced around the office, wondering what to do next. Pens sat in the caddy on the desk and she picked one out, ready to take any imminent messages. The silence lengthened, the unadulterated beigeness of the office closed in on her, and she thought of all the work that waited at her own office. Only her father’s desperation as he’d begged for her help stopped her from scooping up her bag and creeping from the soulless room, never to return.
The lull was brief. Simultaneously her mobile and the phone on the desk began to ring. She quickly checked the mobile. Karen flashed on caller ID. Her own, brilliant, personal assistant, who had, with her usual calm efficiency, undertaken the huge task of rescheduling Zani’s many commitments and appointments. Ignoring the desk phone, Zani took the call on the mobile.
“Love, am I interrupting?”
Zani pressed the phone to her ear. She could barely hear Karen. Despite being in the middle of Chichester, the reception was terrible.
“No, its fine,” she muttered, and hoped the ringing desk phone drowned her out.
“Finland. You’re booked to go and check on how the 147 is coming along at Baltic Yachts, in three weeks. You going to make it?” Karen asked.
“It’ll be fine. I’ll be out of here long before then,” whispered Zani.
Karen raised her voice. “Sorry, I missed that, love. I can barely hear you.”
Zani raised her voice as loudly as she dared. “Leave it.”
“What?”
“I said… Look I’ll call back on the landline.” She snapped the phone shut and turned her attention to the other phone. It stopped ringing. Shrugging, she decided they’d call back if it was important.
Sensing a presence, she glanced up to meet the icy stare of Corbin de Villiers and slid her mobile onto the desk, hoping he hadn’t noticed it.
“Personal calls…” He began what had the markings of a lecture, when the desk phone began to ring again. Zani pounced on it, giving Corbin a reassuring smile. “Come to my office when you’ve finished,” he growled.
Several minutes and half a pad of Post-Its later, Zani hung up. Judging the coast to be Corbin de Villiers clear, she rang Karen and confirmed the Finland trip, then carefully wrote out Corbin’s message. She did a beautiful job, reducing it to only four Post-Its, and without a single spelling mistake.
Ten minutes later Corbin loomed over her desk again.
“Did you want me for something?” she inquired artlessly.
“Well, I did. You were supposed to come and go over my diary. But it’s too late now. I have a meeting. I’ll be back in an hour.” He sounded exasperated, again, and Zani made the uncomfortable discovery that even though she’d never worked as a personal assistant in her life, she didn’t like not being good at it.
“I’m sorry, I was so busy writing out your messages that I forgot. See…” Zani gestured to her four Post-Its and realised they were in the wrong order.
“Usually we email phone messages.”
“I had some trouble with the computer,” she said, hating to admit it. Corbin came around the desk, behind her chair. Having him stand so close sent an unwelcome shiver of awareness down her spine. His aftershave tickled her nose, crisp and fresh. Pressing her fingernails into the palm of her hand, she glanced at him, then back to the computer login screen.
“I thought you’d have seen the note, the username and password are written here.” He sighed as he pointed to a Post-It stuck to the bottom of the screen. It could not have been more obvious.
Username: Admin
Password: Admin
“I didn’t realise,” she said, miserably aware that she sounded pathetic. She grasped for some excuse, something that would explain. But whilst, I’m not a PA, I’m a boat designer, and I’m here to spy on you, may divert Corbin’s icy attention from her lack of observation, it would almost certainly prove to be counter-productive.
He shrugged. “Obviously not. I’ll be out for an hour or so. See you later.” With that, he left the office.
Zani watched him go. As soon as she was sure he wasn’t going to unexpectedly return, she slumped back in the chair and wondered for the thousandth time how she’d managed to get herself into this situation. She cursed her father and brother for talking her into this whole farce, then cursed herself for not putting her foot down and refusing to be involved. The whole thing was ridiculous.
They wanted her to find evidence that Corbin de Villiers was leaking top secret company information onto the Internet in order to reduce the share price and stage a management buyout. She didn’t even know where to start. She designed yachts, luxury ones, racing ones and some that were a bit of both. Industrial espionage was not an area she’d hitherto considered.
She typed the username and password into the computer. After several minutes of trial and error with the unfamiliar Macintosh setup she managed to find the Internet browser and out of habit checked the weather out in the Solent, the stretch of sea between the Isle of Wight and the mainland. Calm seas. South easterly wind, six knots with gusts. Not much fun for a sail, but better than sitting in a horrid beige office. She nibbled a nail, wishing she was out on the water, just her, free, sailing her small Laser across the waves. Then, with an exclamation, she closed the browser and, forgetting sailing and the weather, concentrated on locating and snooping through what company files she had access to on the computer.
Corbin took the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time. His meeting was close, and he took a shortcut through the grounds of Chichester Cathedral. The choir practiced, and he slowed a little as the ravishing sound of Vangelis’s Jerusalem filled the air.
“I shall not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in
my hand,” sang the choir.
Corbin sighed at the words and glanced up. There, tucked away under the eaves of the roof, crouched his favourite gargoyle. Hideously distorted, it mournfully supported its wide open mouth with clutching hands. It had such an expression of outraged reproach that it always made him wonder what it had done to end up in such a predicament. Today he knew just how it felt.
He shook his head over the smart-arse temp. What did she think she was doing? Storming into his office, not recognising sarcasm when she heard it, and then accusing him of being sick. He never got sick. He simply wouldn’t countenance it. Crunching down the graveled Priory Walk to the Café Rouge at Southgate, he buried his hands in his coat pockets and bowed his head against a gust of wind that made him ache with cold.
Of course, she’d have to go. He’d not become CEO of one of the largest computer game development companies in England at the age of thirty-five without being able to spot a fraud. There could be little doubt Zani was a fraud. Mac computers had been a single unit for years. Therefore Zani had never used a Mac. Either the temp agency had sent him an assistant with no Mac experience, or someone had told a few lies on her CV.
He sighed. She’d have to do for today. At least she could answer the phone. Not that she appeared to be particularly enthusiastic about that job, either. She seemed more interested in sorting out her social life on her infernal mobile.
“You look awful mate, just awful. Got the dreaded lurgy, ’ave ya?” asked Karl Crushenski by way of hello.
“If that means am I sick? Then the answer is no,” replied Corbin in his “don’t argue with me, I’m the CEO” voice.
“Now, now, don’t get on your high horse. Take a load off. I’ve ordered us some coffee. Tell me what you need.” He gestured to the chair opposite.
“I need your help, Karl.” Corbin sat and wondered if the private investigator realised his toupee was crooked.
“I am, as always, at your service.” Karl bowed elaborately. No small feat considering he was sitting down. Used to his idiosyncrasies, Corbin ignored the gesture and waited for him to stop performing.
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