“Your father’s history may weigh against you.”
“Which would be a shame, since my father’s mistakes have nothing to do with me. Just because somebody has a criminal for a father doesn’t mean they’ll end up breaking the law themselve
s.”
“Interesting.” Jana shifts in her seat. “You do realize if you work here, I’ll treat you like any other employee. You won’t get any special preference because of your status as a client.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
A corner of her mouth twitches. “Tell me about how you ‘survived and provided’ for your sister.”
I give her the story as succinctly as possible. She nods and makes a few notes.
“I also read some articles about your rather colorful past,” she says.
My face heats.
“Are there going to be more of those in the future? I don’t care if you stripped on the side or not, but I do care about personal issues affecting your performance at work.”
“I can handle minor gossip like that without falling apart,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “After what happened with my parents… Well. Half-baked tabloid junk is nothing.”
“I see.” Jana studies me, her gaze unblinking.
I meet her eyes, unwilling to cower. This is a job—yes, a job I really want, but I’m not going to let her think she can intimidate me. I answered everything honestly, and if she doesn’t want to hire me because of my past, there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Thank you for your time, Annabelle,” Jana says finally. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“No.”
“Well then. Thank you for your interest.”
I thank her for her time and walk out. Although it feels like I was in her office for a while, I’m shocked to realize it was only fifteen minutes. Jana didn’t ask me a single question about my qualifications. Maybe she’s decided she isn’t going to hire me, but felt obligated to interview me anyway because of Elliot’s long-term relationship with Gavin and OWM.
The thought puts a damper on my mood. Maybe Elliot was right to tell me to finish my degree first. I’m certain Jana has applicants with résumés much more impressive than mine.
As the doors to the elevator start to shut, a hand slides between, forcing them to reopen. Dennis walks inside and hits the “close” button.
My breath catches for a moment—not in a good way—at the sight of my ex-boyfriend. His sandy hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his pale gray eyes are shooting so much anger that if we weren’t in public place, I’d fear for my safety. He’s been insisting that I need to make my husband back off or some such nonsense. For some reason, he’s convinced his trouble at the firm is due to me and Elliot. I drag in air through my mouth and consciously unclench my hands. The elevator has a security camera. Dennis won’t do anything rash.
Even as I reassure myself, I feel a growing unease in the pit of my stomach.
“What the fuck is it going to take for you to do what I asked?” he spits out.
“Elliot hasn’t done anything to jeopardize your internship here,” I say, staring straight ahead to the reflection in the brushed steel doors. He is standing with about a foot of space between us. To anyone looking, we’re just polite strangers or acquaintances sharing a car going down. “I want to help you, but I can’t make my husband undo something he didn’t do. You need to talk with your HR people if you think they’re unfairly singling you out for another background check.”
Dennis doesn’t want anyone to dig into his past because he lied. He even changed his last name to Dunn to avoid the taint of his father. Mr. Smith was Dad’s partner in the Ponzi scheme.
“This isn’t over, Annabelle.” Covetous fury blazing, his eyes rake over my clothes and the huge diamond on my finger. “This is far from over.”
He gets out on the first floor, and I let the elevator take me further down to the underground parking. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up as I navigate the gray, concrete area full of cars. Every sound makes me jump.
I’m being crazy. Dennis isn’t going to run down the stairs to the garage to harass me. Stuff like that happens in movies, not real life. What’s more, there are cameras here too.
But I still take out my keys and, in a self-protection move I saw on a video once, clench them in my fist so that three of them stick out between my fingers like claws. And when I finally climb inside my Mercedes and lock the doors, I sag in my seat.
Wrapping my hands around the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline, I take a few deep breaths. After a moment, my pulse returns to normal. A car door shuts with a loud thud a few spaces from me, and I jump.
I put a hand over my thundering heart and see a young, slim woman getting out of a Ferrari. She has a huge hat and a pair of sunglasses that covers most of her face. Her long, wavy brown hair hangs loose over her shoulders, and she moves with the entitled arrogance of a woman used to having money. The height, body type and attitude all remind me of Annabelle Underhill—and her threat.