Project: Runaway Heiress

It helped, too, that Zaccaro Fashions was only moderately successful. She and her sisters weren’t exactly media darlings. They’d been photographed here or there, appeared in magazines or society pages upon occasion, but mostly in relation to their father and their family’s monetary worth. But she would be surprised if most people—even those familiar with the industry—would recognize any one of them if they passed on the street. Although Zoe was doing her level best to change that by going out on the town and getting caught behaving badly on a more and more regular basis.

After a couple of minutes, Lily’s pulse, the spinning of her head and the lurching in her stomach all began to slow. She’d made it this far. She’d made it past human resources with her creatively worded but fairly accurate résumé and her apparently not-so-rusty-after-all interview skills. Then she’d stood in front of corporate CEO Nigel Statham himself without being found out or dragged away in handcuffs.

He also hadn’t followed her out of his office, shaking a finger at her deceit, or instructed security to meet her at her desk. Everything was quiet, calm, completely normal, as far as she could tell.

Ashdown Abbey certainly didn’t have the hum of voices and sewing machines in the background the way the Zaccaro Fashions offices did. But, then, Zaccaro Fashions wasn’t a major, multimillion-dollar operation the way Ashdown Abbey was, either. They hadn’t yet reached the point where their corporate offices and manufacturing area were two separate entities.

Frankly, Lily thought she could use the mechanical buzz of a sewing machine or her sisters’ laughter as she worked with her cell phone pressed to her ear right about now. Sometimes silence was entirely overrated. Times like these, when all she could hear was her own rapid breathing and the panicked voices in her head telling her she was crazy and sure to get caught.

To keep those voices from getting any louder and leading her in the wrong direction, she started to recite one of the simple, meaningless poems she’d been forced to memorize in grade school, then slowly sat up.

Tiny stars flashed in front of her eyes, but only for a second. She blinked and they were gone, leaving her with clear vision and a clear—or clearer, anyway—head.

Nigel Statham believed she was his new personal assistant, so maybe she should go back to acting like one.

Rolling her chair up to the desk, she pulled out her computer’s keyboard and mouse, and started clicking away. She’d familiarized herself with the computer’s operating system just a bit before going into Nigel’s office, but was sure there was much more to learn.

His daily schedule, for instance. Something she was apparently going to have to stay on top of or risk not knowing what she was supposed to be doing from one hour to the next.

She felt a small stab of guilt as she bypassed the email program, wondering if her sisters had found her note yet and honored her wishes by not telling anyone about her sudden disappearance or trying to track her down themselves.

She’d told them she had some personal business to attend to. Something she couldn’t discuss just yet, but needed some time away to deal with. She assured them she would be fine and wasn’t in any danger, and asked them to trust her to get in touch as soon as she could.

She didn’t want them to worry about her, but she wasn’t ready to tell them what was really going on, either. One day…one day she would fill them in on everything. She would tell them the entire story over a bottle of wine, and chances were they would have a good laugh about it.

But not until it was resolved and there was a happily-ever-after to report. When the threat to their company was gone and there were no fears or rumors left to spread like wildfire if anyone else got wind of it.

Before she left, she’d also met with Reid McCormack of McCormack Investigations about running comprehensive background checks on everyone under Zaccaro Fashions’ employ. Lily honestly didn’t believe he would find anything incriminating, but better safe than sorry.

And she’d informed him that she would be out of town for a while, so she would call in weekly for updates. It seemed easier than having him leave messages at the apartment, where her sisters might overhear or access them, or having him call her on her cell phone at an inconvenient moment while she was still in Los Angeles.

Frankly, she hoped he never had anything negative to report, or that if he did, it would turn out to be completely unrelated to Zaccaro Fashions—an employee with an unpaid speeding ticket or college-age drunk-and-disorderly charges that had eventually been dropped.

But until her first scheduled check-in, she needed all of her energy and brain power focused on her new job and attempts at stealth investigations.

Studying Nigel’s schedule for the day, she was somewhat relieved to see that it didn’t seem to be a—quote, unquote—heavy day for him. It looked as though he would be in his office most of the time. He had a lunch appointment and a conference call in the afternoon, but nothing so far that would require her to go out with him—and hope not to be recognized or to do something she wasn’t ready or properly trained for.

She glanced at the schedule for the rest of the week, making a mental note to check again in a couple of hours. Just to be safe until it all became second nature to her for as long as she was here.

She took a few minutes to investigate some of the other programs and files on the system, but hoped she wouldn’t be expected to do too much with them too soon. Either that, or that the company provided tutorials for the seriously lost and computer illiterate.

What she did understand, though, was design. She knew the vocabulary, the process and what was needed to go from point A to point B. So she did recognize and know how to use some of the items already installed on the PA’s computer.

The question was: Could she use them to access the information she needed to track down the design thief?

Maybe yes, maybe no. It depended on whether or not Nigel knew about the thefts.

Was he involved? she wondered.

Had he sent a mole from Ashdown Abbey into her company? Or maybe on a less despicable level, had he recognized her designs within his company’s latest collection and ignored them? Looked the other way because it was easier and could advance Ashdown Abbey’s sales and brand recognition?

A part of her hoped not. She didn’t want to think that there were business executives out there who would stoop to such levels just to get ahead. Not when they had a bevy of talented designers on staff already and didn’t need to stoop to those levels. Or that someone so handsome, with that deep, toe-curling British accent, could be capable of something so heinous. Although more attractive people had been guilty of much worse, she was sure.

It happened every day, and she wasn’t naive enough to believe that just because a man was sinfully attractive and already a millionaire he wouldn’t steal from someone else to make another million or two.

Not that any of her designs had earned a million dollars yet, Lily thought wryly, but the potential was there. If she could keep other companies and designers from scooping her.

Tapping a few keys, she brought up what she could find on the California Collection—the Ashdown Abbey collection that included so many of her own works, only with minor detail alterations and in entirely different textiles. Just the thought sent her blood pressure climbing all over again.

A few clicks of the mouse and the entire portfolio was on the screen in front of her, scrolling in a slow left-to-right slideshow. The flowy, lightweight summer looks were lovely. Not as beautiful as Lily’s designs would have been, if she’d had the chance to release them, of course, but they were quite impressive.

She studied each one for as long as she could, taking in the cuts and lines. The collection mostly consisted of dresses, perfect for California’s year-round sunny and warm weather. Short one-pieces, a couple of maxi dresses, and even some two-piece garments consisting of a top and skirt or a top and linen slacks.

Not all of them were drawn directly from Lily’s proposed sketches. Small comfort. And it might actually work against her if she ever tried to prove larceny in a court of law.

A good defense attorney could argue that there might be similarities between the Ashdown Abbey and Zaccaro Fashions designs, but since the Ashdown Abbey line also included designs without similarities, it was obviously a mere case of creative serendipity.

Hmph.

Closing down the slideshow, Lily dug around in the other documents within the file folder. She found another graphics slideshow, this time the sketches for the final pieces that made up the California Collection.

They were full color and digital, done on one of the many art and design computer programs that were becoming more and more popular. Even Lily had one of them on her tablet, but she still preferred pencil and paper, charcoal and a sketch pad, and actual fabric swatches pinned to her hand-drawn designs over filling in small squares of space with predetermined colors or material samples on a digitized screen.

But what caught her attention with these designs wasn’t how they were done, it was the fact that they were signed. Ashdown Abbey apparently had design teams on the payroll rather than one designer in charge of his or her own collection.

Moving from the graphics files to the text files, she found a list of the California Collection’s entire design team, complete with job titles and past projects they’d worked on for Ashdown Abbey. A jolt of adrenaline zipped through her, and she hurried to send the list to the printer.

The zip-zip of the machine filled the quiet of the cavernous outer office. It rang all the louder in her ears for the fact that she didn’t want to get caught.

When a buzz interrupted the sound of the printer, Lily jumped. Then she looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Finally, she realized it was coming from the phone, one of the lights on the multiline panel blinking in time with the call of the intercom.

Chest tight, she took a deep breath and pressed the button for Nigel Statham’s direct line.

“Yes, sir?” she answered.

“Could I see you for a moment?”

The abrupt request was followed by total silence, and she realized he’d hung up without waiting for a reply.

Grabbing the list of designers from the printer tray, she folded it over and over into a small square and stuffed it into the front pocket of her skirt. Patting the spot to make sure it was well concealed, she strode to the door of Nigel’s office, unsure of what she would encounter on the other side. She didn’t even know if she should bring a pad and pencil with her to take notes.

What did personal assistants automatically pick up when summoned by the boss? Paper and pen? A more modern electronic tablet? She hadn’t even had a chance to poke around and find out what was provided for Nigel Statham’s executive secretary.

So she walked in empty-handed after giving one quick tap on the door to announce her arrival.

Nigel turned from typing something into his own computer to jot a note on the papers in front of him before lifting his attention to Lily. She stood just behind one of the guest chairs, awaiting his every request.

“What are you doing for dinner this evening?” he asked.