Page 126 of Crash Course
"Good for him."
She picked up the quotes again, started reading while her mind zonked. Totally busted. He’d have to provide proof before she’d admit to it.
"Imagine my surprise," he said, "when the IP address came up as Steele Ridge. Wasn’t that company your father hired to recover his painting in Steele Ridge?"
The IP address.
Dammit.
No wonder Rohan was a freak about IP address blocking software. But how was she to know Randolph Industries pulled reports on their employees? Dad had never mentionedthat.
She lifted her gaze to Paul's. "I’ll give you some advice. My father doesn’t like people disparaging me. Be careful who you’re accusing."
"So," Paul said, "when I ask him about why he logged in at three in the morning from Steele Ridge, will he be surprised?"
"I have no idea when my father logs in and out of DOC. Nor can I tell you how he’ll react to that question, other than to be offended that he’s your boss and you’re attempting to manage him. That doesn’t work with Dad. But, hey, if you enjoy sacrificing yourself, go for it."
Having had enough of this trip through hell, she eased around the side of her desk and strode to the door, waving him out. "If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do."
Finally, he turned, headed for the door and then . . . dammit . . . stopped right in front of her, invading her personal space. Refusing to cower, she cocked her head and the two of them locked eyes like a couple of stubborn rams.
Paul smiled an oily smile, then dragged his gaze over her body as ifthatwould back her off.Moron.
"Take my advice, Cilla. Be careful. I’ve worked for your father a long time. He doesn’t play nice when it comes to his company’s profits."
Once again, threatening her. This was becoming a pattern. She ticked back to finding the bullet on her car. She'd chalked it up to her upcoming murder trial.
Could Paul have . . .?
Nah. Too much of a weasel. Then again, his annual bonus depended on profitability and pissing off the environmental lobby wouldn’t bode well financially.
Cilla let out a sigh. "Again with the veiled threats?"
He shrugged. "I know what he’s capable of. Family or not, we’ll wreck you."
20
Eleven hours later,Cilla unlocked her condo, pushed the door open, and reached inside to flip on the entryway light. For a full thirty seconds, she waited to step in and peered around as if she could miraculously see through the wall that made up her entry hallway.
What the hell was she looking for?
A masked intruder? A bloody message scrawled across her meticulously painted soft-gray walls?
The run-in with Paul had rattled her. That alone pissed her off.
"High-security building, dingbat," she muttered.
Shaking her head, she stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind her. Not only did she have a doorman, they needed a code to enter the building from any entrance. Including the lobby. And the garage had an entry gate. If someone sneaked through, they’d still need the code to access the building.
No boogeyman here.
Besides, Cruz was ten minutes behind her. He’d spent the day doing research—whatever that meant—in Charlotte for a new assignment BARS had taken on. When she’d spoken to him after her impromptu meeting with Paul, he’d insisted on coming by the office to check on her. A gesture she found sweet and oh-so-welcome, but she had work to do. Important work that she’d sorely neglected.
Save it, she’d told him. That led to their first mini argument, which wound up with them compromising. She’d lock herself in the office all day, leave with Layla, and then Cruz could meet her at her condo for dinner.
At no point during the day was she to be alone. Blah, blah. Still, part of her found his concern sweet.
Blech!
