“Do you think most companies should include philanthropy in their operating directives?”
“The statistics certainly indicate they should.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She stared at her interlaced fingers lying on top of her folder. A small patch of perspiration wetted the vinyl. “If a company can increase its profits by doing good works for the community and its people, it seems like a win-win situation all around, doesn’t it?”
She looked up at his dry laugh. “That’s certainly a politically correct answer. Now give me an honest one, Alice. Do you think companies like Durand should continue with philanthropic community efforts?”
The silence stretched taut.
“Alice?” he prodded quietly.
“Of course. It’s just …”
“What?”
“It’s nothing.” His dark brows slanted menacingly. “It’s only … It seems …” What the hell, you’ve already blown the interview anyway. Everyone knows you never stood a chance from the get-go. “A little patronizing, that’s all.” She cringed a little when he went eerily still. “Aside from that, I think the answer is an obvious yes. I think large corporations should have charitable directives.”
“Patronizing?” he asked, his quiet voice striking her as similar to the deep purr of a misleadingly calm lion. “Like Durand is grandstanding, you mean. Making itself look good in the public’s eye for the sole purpose of selling widgets … or candy bars, soda, energy drinks, and chocolate milk, among other things, in Durand’s case.”
“All of the things your campers at Camp Durand—low-income urban youth from poverty-infested neighborhoods—consume,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying. Heat rushed into her cheeks.
She forced herself not to flinch under his boring stare, but her defiance definitely wavered. To call his eyes merely “deepest brown” or “almost black” vastly understated their impact. They shone like polished stones with fire in the depths. Somehow, his eyes managed to startle her on a constant basis instead of a quick rush.
“Do you consume those products, Alice?”
“Once in a while,” she said with a shrug. In truth, she was a chocoholic. Durand Jingdots, Sweet Adelaides, and Salty Chocolate Caramels rated among her favorite guilty pleasures while sitting at her computer running numbers. Not that she’d confess that weakness to Dylan Fall. “Why?” she asked warily. “Is that a prerequisite to be chosen for the Durand training program?”
“No,” he said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. Her heart raced. He was going to tell her any second the interview was over. Let him. The sooner she was done here, the better. He idly perused what she realized was her resume. “But I happen to know that Little Paradise—where you grew up—is one of the crime-infested, low-income urban areas you just described.”
Her heart jumped uncomfortably against her sternum. She unglued her tongue from the top of her mouth.
“How did you know I grew up in Little Paradise?” she rasped, mortified that Dylan Fall, of all people, knew about the infamous place where she’d grown up—Little Paradise, the grossly
inaptly named, sole remaining trailer park within the Chicago city limits; a grimy, mangy little community tainted by toxic-smelling fumes from the nearby factories of Gary, Indiana. The address wasn’t on her resume. She wanted no part of Little Paradise. She’d used a local address ever since she’d left for college nearly six years ago.
“Dr. Lopez mentioned it,” he said without batting an eye. “Are you ashamed of where you grew up?”
“No,” she lied emphatically.
“Good,” he said, dropping her resume to the desktop. “You shouldn’t be.”
He was probably only ten or so years older than her almost twenty-four years. She resented him for his air of experience and unflappable composure, despite his relative youth. What were the circumstances of him becoming CEO of Durand at such a young age? Wasn’t he related to the company founder or something? She struggled to recall. It’d been extremely difficult to find personal details about both Alan Durand and Dylan Fall. She’d never found many details about Fall’s meteoric rise in the powerful company.
It suddenly struck her full-force how out of place she was in the face of his polished, supreme confidence. He was no doubt amused by her gauche defensiveness and confusion.
“Are you going to ask me any relevant questions in regard to business, my interest in Durand, or my qualifications?” she asked through a tense jaw.
“I thought that’s what I’d been doing.” Her rigid expression didn’t break. He exhaled. “Fine.” He briskly put on the charcoal-gray glasses he’d been wearing and picked up some papers from the desk. He looked extremely sexy wearing those glasses.
Of course.
“I have some questions for you in regard to your research decisions on the philanthropy and profit research.”
She began to relax slightly as he launched into a series of pointed queries regarding her statistical analysis. Alice knew mathematical models backward and forward. She was also a workaholic. In this arena, he couldn’t fluster her. Even so, she sensed after a period of time that Fall not only understood the nuances of the statistics as well, if not better, than her, he was light-years ahead of her in knowledge about what her conclusions meant in the practical workings of the business world. She was envious of his knowledge, but also curious. Hungry. Tantalized by the glittering promise of power that those numbers might grant her when paired with knowledge and experience like Fall’s.
After nearly an hour of intense question and answering, he tipped his forearm and glanced at his watch.