Page 125 of Crash Course
"I’ll stand. Won’t be here that long."
"All right."
Not one to let people assume a position of power over her, Cilla remained on her feet behind her desk. "What can I do for you?"
"I got a call this morning. A reporter from theCharlotte Times."
Should have pondered that cover story. Dammit. "Oh-kay," Cilla said, laying on a why-should-I-care? tone she’d perfected over her years as a trial lawyer. Part of what she loved about presenting a case was the drama. The theatrics she practiced and employed while rolling out her client’s version of events. Sometimes the difference between winning and losing came down to the best storyteller.
Cilla?
Solid storyteller.
Paul cocked his head. "Come on, Priscilla. We talked about you backing off our Morgan real estate deals. And now, suddenly, I’m getting calls from reporters about toxic levels of PFOA and PFAS in"—he threw his hands in the air—"what do you know,Morgan."
Talk about good acting. Broadway at its finest, right here.
Ignoring his sarcasm, Cilla gave him her best bland look. No raised eyebrows or puckered lips or squinty stare. The nothing face. "I haven’t spoken to any reporters about PFOA or PFAS."
Technically, that was true. She hadn’t. Documents of interest is what she’d told Allison. No mention of forever chemicals.
Was her defense a stretch? Sure. But Paul didn’t know that and she wasn’t about to admit it.
"So," he said, "this is a coincidence?"
"Paul, I don’t know what it is." She gestured to her office. "I’m busy managing a law practice. Now, I have work to do."
She picked up the estimates again and perused them. Still in front of her, Paul stayed put. So much for her not-so-subtle dismissal.
"Cilla," he said, "you’re fucking up. Trust me on this."
A flash of white-hot anger burned right through the back of her neck. Already exhausted, not to mention stressed over her father’s deceptions, she didn’t need his lackey coming intoheroffice and treating her poorly.
She dropped the document, then casually rested her fingertips on the edge of the desk. "Guess what, Paul? You don’t get to come into my space and speak to me that way. Don’t do it again. Ever. In fact, I’m getting tired of kicking you out of my office. Please leave. If my father has concerns, he can speak to me himself." She offered a sarcastic grin. "You have a lovely day."
Apparently unfazed, he lifted one shoulder. "I’ll go. There’s one more thing."
Great. "What’s that?"
"Every week, IT gives me a report of when management-level employees remotely log in to our system."
He knows.
Or at least suspects she’d logged in as Dad.
Shit, shit, shit.
A thrumming at her temples nagged and her fingers tingled. Panicking wouldn’t help. Still working for that Academy Award nomination, she gave him nothing. Zero body language. "So, you spy on your employees to see if they’re working hard enough? Excellent."
"Actually, it’s the reverse. We don’t want them burning out. If they’re putting in too many hours, we address it. Part of HR’s work-life balance initiative. Frankly, it’s a pain in the ass."
Heaven forbid he should care about his employees’ well-being. "Well, since I lost my access, I know you’re not about to tell me I’m logging in too much."
"Not you." He met her gaze, the hardness enough to split her skull. "Your father."
She forced out a laugh. "Now that’s funny. I suppose you want me to tell him to slow down? Good luck."
"Not at all. Your father has a pattern. Once he leaves the office, he doesn’t log in unless there’s an emergency. He delegates. He’s rarely in the system after hours."
