Page 3 of Crude Heir

“Just someone from the office,” I reply, my eyes fixed on Nicole as she steps out of the vehicle and goes around to the passenger’s side. She bends down, offering a nice view of that shapely ass then retrieves a tray of coffee cups. Turning, she shuts the door with a quick kick before she heads our way.

The woman’s trouble in high heels. As always, she seems like a complete contradiction. She wants to dress like Little Miss Sunshine, but the image doesn’t seem to fit. Every time I see her, she fidgets, as if uncomfortable in her own skin.

“I’m thinking I should head back and start looking into this,” Addler says, pulling me from my thoughts.

What? I’m astonished at the sudden change of heart. I push the sound of her heels clicking against concrete to the back of my mind. “Why? I thought you said this wouldn’t matter.”

A glimmer of determination flickers in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me, directly. But I might be able to preserve evidence if they don’t know I’m coming.” He shrugs. “It might be helpful if you go to trial, maybe even recover some of the stolen funds.”

He’s right. Preserving evidence will undoubtedly benefit Kelly Oil if they decide to take legal action. The company would get the money back, but that has nothing to do with me. “Makes sense, but do you know what you’re looking for?”

He nods confidently. “I have someone there who can help. In fact, I probably have the best person for the job.”

“Well, I’ve done my part in telling you. Since you’re off the hook with everything up to Monday, I’m washing my hands of the whole thing,” I declare, a mix of resignation and determination in my voice.

“Of course you are.” Addler has the balls to laugh despite my standing right in front of him.

Chapter 2

Nicole

My gaze flickers across the parking garage to where Derrick Stockton is standing in front of a sleek, very-expensive-looking truck. It doesn’t seem like a chance meeting, so he must have opted not to use one of the conference rooms to talk to this man. It’s none of my business why. The simple fact the conversation is down at a whisper is enough to know it’s private.

I tighten my hold on the coffee containers and look straight ahead, nervously continuing through. The sharp click of my heels against concrete echoes in my head with every step.Don’t look,don’t look,don’t look.A nearly impossible task when you have not one but two extremely attractive men creating bookends along the front of the vehicle.

Of all the rotten luck, I had to come back now. But the boss likes his coffee from a particular shop on the other side of the downtown area instead of the location that’s around the corner. So I have to drive over and back, in one-hundred-degree weather, with a broken air conditioner in the car, fighting through downtown traffic, in each direction.

I duck my head continuing forward, as if I didn’t see them. If my hands were free, I’d pull my phone out and pretend to be engrossed in a call, just to avoid this awkward situation.

Feeling increasingly self-conscious, I quicken my pace, hoping to reach the elevator as soon as possible. Still, I’m conscious of their presence in the distance. Are they watching? Highly unlikely. Guys like that wouldn’t give me a second look. But that’s what I’m going for. I’m not supposed to cause a stir, so nobody will notice me, least of all him.

Derrick, known in the payment department as the office hottie, was brought in to do a system upgrade. Something Kelly Oil & Gas should have done years ago. He started out at the remote offices, upgrading systems and hardware, and worked his way to corporate. A place he was already known, considering he’s the son of the senior Mr. Kelly’s secretary.

I tighten my grip on the flimsy cardboard tray as I reach the elevators. If even a drop of the latte spills, there’ll be hell to pay once I get to Simon Kelly’s office. Jenae, his personal assistant, can be a real bitch. And it won’t matter one bit if that’s how the cup was served to me or if it happened along the way.

With three lattes in the tray, I’m hesitant to loosen my grip and have it tilt. Bending my elbows, I stretch out my index finger, aiming for the elevator button while simultaneously hoping I don’t end up with coffee all over my dress.

“I’ve got it,” Derrick Stockton’s deep voice comes from beside me.

I suck in a breath. Goodness, I was so lost in thought I didn’t hear him come up behind me. I need to pay better attention to my surroundings. If this had been anyone else, or at any other time of the day, the situation could have been dangerous.

With a smooth motion, he reaches past me, pressing the button for the elevator before he steps back. I turn, offering what I hope is a friendly smile and utter a polite, “Thank you.” Then I direct my gaze to the screen with the floor numbers.

In the weeks he’s been at the office, I’ve spent way too many hours thinking about him. While the occasional daydream may have gotten a little graphic, we’ve rarely gone past a brief hello as we ride the elevator.

“Sure thing.” As expected, short, curt, to the point. All at his usual level of aloofness. He tends to keep to himself, much to the dismay of the girls on the twenty-fifth floor.

I can always tell when he comes by. There is a flurry of activity, mostly glances in the mirror and retouching of lipstick. It is all in vain because he does little more than offer a greeting as he goes by.

Part of me thinks he keeps odd hours just to avoid ending up trapped anywhere with them. While the girls focus on his handsome face, I’ve had glimpses of something darker. I’ve dismissed it as annoyance at the seemingly unwanted attention, but I’m not really sure.

The chime announces the elevator’s arrival. The brushed steel doors slide open, and, with a sense of relief, I step inside and go to the far corner. I’m that much closer to having this moment over with.

But the relief is short-lived. Although Derrick is always serious, today is different. He steps into the elevator, and tension follows. It’s so strong, it envelops him, and me along with him, making the space feel smaller.

I glance up at him, registering the set of his jaw and the pulse of the vein at his temple. He’s angry. And angry men make me nervous.

“Executive floor?” he asks in a voice thick enough to knock over a tree.

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