Page 22 of Amethyst Flame
I gave him a once-over. “That’s funny because I had you pegged as a nepotism case, maybe a favor to a golfing friend’s kid looking to pad out the resume.” I tilted my head the other way. “Or maybe a junior men’s department formal wear model?”
For an instant, he narrowed his brown eyes—a shade just dark enough that I suspected his pale hair was bleached, which at that length indicated a commitment to upkeep rivaling that of any of the girls in the marketing department. Then he chuckled. “Nah,” he drawled. “My dad would never make it so easy for me.”
I let my gaze drop again, to his name tag this time. William Teller’s badge photo was a straight-ahead smile that managed to make his 2D cheekbones and jaw line even more sharply handsome. How nice for him.
“I’m Will, studying biomolecular engineering,” he said, obviously catching the focus of my attention. “And you’re Imogen.” He glanced at the others with that sort of natural leadership ability I’d always admired—and kinda resented. The others responded to his silent command, introducing themselves as Rahm (who’d suggested retrieving the cookies), Hassan, and Mary Liz.
By the time we’d finished, Oluwa had circled back to our group. “I’ll be your direct supervisor as well as your internship coordinator,” she told us. “So you can bring me any questions or concerns.” She slanted a glance at me. “Such as a dislike of team building.”
I tried for a sheepish smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace.
“For our team exercise, we’d like to steal the rest of the cookies without the other groups noticing,” Will said.
I peeked at him in surprise. It was one thing for me to fuck up a great chance like an internship with one of the nation’s leading tech companies, but I would’ve thought Young Lord Judge’em All would be a little more circumspect with his superiors. Then he smiled, which was even better looking in real life than on his badge.
Oluwa lifted her eyebrows. “Spoken like a true engineer.”
I didn’t want even the reminder of Alling’s premeditated murder pastries, but powered by Rahm’s enthusiasm for oatmeal raisin, our quintet masterminded a surreptitious assault on the café’s leftovers while the rest of the groups were affixing sticky notes to their foreheads and walking backward in each other’s footsteps, their legs tied together with strips of toilet paper.
At least I come by my dislike of team-building exercises honestly.
Later, while our team huddled with our victorious treats and the other teams cleaned up their paper scraps, Will took one of the comfy seats next to me.
“You gave your cookies to Rahm,” he noted with a grin. “Who doesn’t like cookies?”
I was already pretty tired of his weaponized smiles and probing questions. And as much as I was fumbling with day one of my Spy School, it was only going to get harder from here.
I gave him a look. “I already have a boyfriend. And a girlfriend.” There, that should shut him down.
Instead he laughed. “I’m just getting to know my team.”
“Notyourteam,” I reminded him. “We’re all just interns, checking the place out.”
His too-dark-for-his-hair eyes locked on me. “Yeah. Just checking it out.”
I got up to head for the bathroom—that was getting to be my only retreat these days—but Oluwa returned, debriefed us, gave us some homework and our schedules, and sent us on our way. I glanced down at the notes. Tomorrow, our engineering group was doing a tour of the lab.
The lab where I’d been tied up and drugged. The one I’d set on fire. Where I’d killed Alling with his own damn bullet.
Although presumably they’d cleaned up the smoke and blood by now, right?
I shivered and then glanced around, not wanting anyone to see.
Teller was chatting up Mary Liz, and no one else seemed interested in me at all. Good. To pull this off, I couldn’t afford any distractions.
As I stepped toward the front doors where even the mighty A/C couldn’t completely defeat the sunlight beaming through the tinted glass, my phone chirped its generic ring tone. It was nobody I had programmed in so normally I would’ve ignored it. But maybe it was Jacob on a burner phone. Or Dane cyberstalking me for his own devious pleasure. Or maybe I’d won the lottery. That could happen too, maybe.
Already feeling like a sucker, I answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Imogen Taylor?”
It was a girl. Sounded youngish, tentative, like a teenager. I’d have to speak to Shirleen again about this. She’d given out my personal number once before to a job applicant for the Freeze. Probably the daughter of a friend or something.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re not hiring right now. But if you come by and fill out an application, I’ll call you when something opens up.” Probably never.
“Or maybe you go by…Mimi?” The voice broke, just a little, but I heard it. Nobody called me Mimi anymore. I’d banned the name when I was seven. “You don’t know me,” she went on, “but I’m your sister.”
Ah. This was a fucking vishing scam. Usually callers put the fear of the IRS or police into their pitch. But posing as family was a whole new low.
