Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(21)

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Good idea." If he had any hope of getting out of here without jumping  her again, it was probably smart for her to use that mouth for something  banal. Like talking.

Shooting him a bewildered look, she scrambled to a sitting position and  put her T-shirt back on. It didn't help. She still looked like she'd  been fucked within an inch of her life.

"How did you discover Carl was stealing from the company?"

Well, that was unexpected. But still, a nice chat about Winter  Enterprises' problems could be just the distraction the doctor ordered.  "I was working through a stack of mail late one night a couple weeks  ago. Seth was on vacation, so we'd had a temp in. An invoice addressed  to Carl mistakenly made its way into my pile, and I opened it before I  noticed it wasn't meant for me. It was an invoice for lumber."

"Is that suspicious?"

"Not inherently. But I know the names of all our suppliers. All. Like,  down to where we get our toilet paper. And I didn't recognize this one."

"Uh oh."

"Yeah. It was called A-plus Construction, which is not a name I know."

"And I would guess, being a developer, you know the construction  industry pretty well. Plus, that's, like, a name you would make up if  you were inventing a fake construction company."

"Exactly. And the address was a P.O. box, and there was no phone number."

She groaned. "And nothing on Google, I assume?"

"Nope."

"And the company turns out be registered to Carl?"

He nodded, glad she hadn't asked how he'd figured that out, because he'd called in a few favors.

"Funny," she said, scooting off the bed and heading for the kitchenette.  "It all came to light because of a misdirected invoice. Because of a  temp who screwed up."

"Yes, and I'm aware of how stupid I am."

"Not stupid. You trusted him."

"I should have known better." It was hard to say aloud. "There should be  more than one person's eyeballs on incoming invoices. Anyway, lesson  learned. Of course, that set me off looking at everything. If there's  one fake supplier, why not more?" He paused. He still hated talking  about it. She'd been nothing but kind, but his disability was a  shortcoming. A serious one. "Everything takes me ten times as long as it  should because I'm always second-guessing myself. Part of me still  wants to think he's doing some kind of creative accounting that I don't  understand, something that benefits us. Something he hasn't bothered to  tell me about."

She shook her head from her vantage point by the sink. "Sorry, but I don't think so."

He sighed. As much as it sucked, it was kind of a relief to have someone else confirm his worst suspicions.

"Coffee?" she asked. "I'm making some."

"No thanks. I should get to work."

She turned, coffee pot in hand. "Would it be okay if I looked around for you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm pretty familiar with your company now. What if I poked around a  little more, dug deeper, checked on the invoicing for the past couple  years? Then when you call the police-"

"I won't be a total ignorant idiot," he interrupted.

"That wasn't what I was going to say." She turned back to her coffee  making. "Anyway, don't worry if you'd rather not. I just thought-" She  cut herself off with a slight headshake.                       
       
           



       

"You thought what?" Her head kept shaking. He had to get her talking  again or the flapping of that evil dark mane would prevent him from  leaving. "Tell me."

"You helped me last night." She flashed him a sheepish smile. "And this morning. So I thought maybe I could help you, too."

The idea that she simply wanted to help him damn near took the wind out  of him. He couldn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was  embarrassingly raspy. "That would be great. I'd appreciate having at  least a big-picture handle on what has been happening before I call the  cops, knowing if there are any more suspicious suppliers. I was going to  worry about that after the Wexler deal, but if you have time … I'll pay  you, of course."

"I don't want you to pay me. Can I just do you a favor?" She tilted her  head, as if she were looking at a puzzle she couldn't quite make sense  of. "Is that against the rules? Having friends?"

Friends. His cock jumped. As if in protest? "Not against the rules," he  said. "Just not a lot of precedent. That Dax guy you met the other day  is as close as I get, and he's pretty much an asshole."

She smiled then-a real one. "Well, we'll muddle through." When she  turned back to pour cream in her coffee, she was all business. "Send me  whatever information you think might be good for me to look at-don't be  picky, just send everything. I'll start this afternoon. I'm at the bar  tonight, but I'll get back on it tomorrow."





Chapter Ten

The rest of the suppliers looked legitimate to Cassie, but she did find a  few cash withdrawals against the corporate credit card that seemed  suspicious. Historically, the company had paid its invoices by check and  charged expenses out in the world with corporate credit cards-but those  expenses tended to be meals, plane tickets, that kind of thing. Why  would someone withdraw two grand in cash, given the sky-high rates cards  charged for cash advances? And the bigger question was, where was that  cash going? Cassie worked all afternoon on the files Jack had couriered  over on a memory stick, quitting only when it was time to head to  Edward's.

Setting up the bar was surreal. After the insane weekend she'd had,  Edward's felt like a fragment of the distant past, a place she'd been  once when she was a different person entirely. Hopefully the evening  would go fast, and she'd be able to call Jack tomorrow with a progress  report. She wanted to get her hands on receipts to reconcile against the  company's credit card statements.

Her phone buzzed a few hours later, when the bar was in full swing.

Come over when you're off.

A frisson of excitement drew goose pimples on her skin, even in the hot  bar. After parting this morning-her cheeks heated at the memory-she had  assumed they would talk tomorrow, since he never said anything to the  contrary. Maybe he wanted to talk about whether she'd found anything.  Glancing around, she huddled to type her response. Even though no one  here knew anything about Winter Enterprises and its cheat of a CFO, she  wanted to make sure her texts were not seen.

I don't find any other questionable suppliers, but there are some cash withdrawals I want to ask you about.

I don't care about the withdrawals. Come over. Take a cab.

She'd be lying if she didn't admit his response was just a tiny bit  gratifying. Though she hadn't wanted to presume they would get it on  every night, she was all too aware that their "to hell with the rules"  time was slipping away. She paused. Did "no relationships" mean no  flirting? Oh, screw it. If you couldn't flirt with your  friend-with-benefits-for-three-nights, what was the world coming to?

Is this a booty call?

Ah! She almost dropped the phone, flustered by her own boldness. The reply came almost immediately, and it made her gasp.

18 Linden Street

She'd been assuming he was texting from the office. The idea of going to  his home seemed strangely intimate. And hugely exciting.

I get off in an hour.

I'll try my best.

She was unable to hide her stupid grin at the innuendo, clicked off the  phone, and proceeded to start counting the seconds until it was time to  go.



When the taxi pulled onto Jack's street a little over an hour later,  Cassie was practically thrumming with tension-mixed up with a heck of a  lot of curiosity. Jack lived in Corktown, a neighborhood tucked in  between the high-rises of the city's financial district and more solidly  residential swaths to the east. Home to some of the oldest row houses  in the city, the neighborhood was slowly gentrifying. Somehow, she'd  pictured Jack in a penthouse condo. But then, he had the killer view at  the office, so maybe he had the whole luxury-nest-in-the-sky thing  covered there. Alternatively, she would have expected he'd live in one  of the city's swanky mansion-filled neighborhoods, at an address with  status. The houses in his neighborhood were lovely in their own way, old  bay-and-gable Victorians, but they perched on tiny postage stamp yards,  and were in varying states of repair.                       
       
           



       

Unlike many of its neighbors, the narrow semi-detached house where they  rolled to a stop was immaculately restored from its clean red brick to  its bright white-painted trim, visible even in the dim glow of the  streetlights. She didn't even have a moment to marshal her courage  before Jack, wearing a parka, came jogging down the walkway and opened  her door. Handing the driver some cash, he waved off her attempt to pay.  Figuring it was useless to argue, she made her way up the path and onto  the porch. He must have been waiting for her outside, because she spied  a tumbler of scotch and a lit cigar.