Page 88 of Tempt Me

It was all I could do not to dance as she inserted my license into a scanner, then handed it back to me along with a visitor badge.

“Elevators are that way.” She pointed. “Fourth floor.”

I slipped the lanyard around my neck. “Thank you.” I lifted my chin and glided to the elevator, which I entered with a clump of casually dressed Moo-Lah employees.

As I rode up, I surreptitiously checked myself in the mirrored wall. Wow, I did look a little like my mother. I curled my upper lip in a superior expression. Perfect.

I got out on the fourth floor, where a receptionist’s desk barred my way to the executive offices beyond. Moo-Lah’s space felt more closed-in than Jamilow’s. Its solid office fronts blocked the natural light, and LED lighting hummed.

I drew myself up again. “Audrey Jones to see Mr. Thakor.”

When the receptionist stood, I noticed his hands trembled. “Of course, Mrs. Jones. Right this way.”

How easy was this? If my PR career didn’t work out, I could get a job as a corporate spy.

The receptionist handed me off to an administrative assistant, who immediately picked up her handset. “Mrs. Jones is here,” she said. She listened for a moment, then waved at a forbidding-looking wooden door. “Go right in.”

I set my hand on the cool handle and pushed inside. The office was your typical masculine seat of power with dark wood furniture, a thick hunting-design Kashmiri carpet, and an enormous window overlooking a stand of pine trees and the distant Santa Cruz Mountains.

Gray strands sparkled at the crown of Pavel Thakor’s thick, black hair as he sat behind his massive desk. He looked up from his papers when I crossed the expanse of thick carpet.

“You’re not Audrey Jones,” he said, his lips turning down. He lifted the handset of his phone.

“I’m her daughter, Natalie.” I stood tall, trying not to think of what Mother would say if Thakor called her and told her what I’d done. “I need to talk to you.”

He set down the handset, but his stony jaw told me I had seconds to ask my questions.

I pulled out my phone and unlocked the screen. I turned it to face him. “Why were you golfing with Winslow Keating-Ashworth in Cabo San Lucas?”

His lips thinned. “Happenstance. We ran into each other at the resort and played a friendly round of golf.”

I flipped to the next photo. “And this is you with Winslow too.”

“That picture doesn’t show Mr. Keating-Ashworth.”

“Those are his shoes behind you. I’m sure of it.”

“What are you implying, Miss Jones? Silicon Valley is a small place. Everyone knows everyone. We’re friendly here.” He spread his hands like he had nothing to hide.

Slipping my phone into my purse, I planted my hands on my hips. “I think you’re a little too friendly with Winslow. I think you’ve been stealing secrets.”

He rose from his chair, taller than I remembered from my mother’s parties. “That’s a serious allegation, Miss Jones.”

I straightened. “Corporate espionage is serious business.”

“Fortunately, it’s not a business I engage in.” He lifted the phone handset. “Get me security,” he snapped. “I need Miss Jones escorted out. Now.”

I planted my heels in the carpet. “Those photos are proof, and they’re on social media.”

“Those photos prove nothing. You have zero evidence. You’ve come to my office with baseless accusations. Say anything to the media, and my lawyers will come down on you with shock and awe.”

“I’m not afraid.” I tried to sell the lie with another imperial lift of my chin.

“You should be. I’m calling your mother.”

I barely kept myself from wincing. “She’ll back me up.”

She wouldn’t. I’d be in so much trouble when she found out. He was right about my lack of evidence. Why hadn’t I learned from my mistake with Rhiannon?

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