by Sam Crescent
“I know.”
She smiled, weakly, and shook her head. “No, Damian. You don’t know.”
He wiped another tear off her cheek. “This is the part where you confess that you’re Harold Poleski’s niece, and tell me why he sent you to work for me. Right?”
The breath rushed from her lungs. He knew. Damian already knew.
But … how?
“I did a background check, remember?” His touch fell away but he didn’t avert his gaze. “It wasn’t that hard to connect the dots. Harold’s not as thorough as he seems to think.”
Layla’s mouth dropped open. “But … if you knew … why did you hire me?”
“A couple of reasons,” Damian replied. “You go first. Why did he send you to me? What was the purpose?”
Layla’s instinct was to plead for an answer, but she tamped down her curiosity as best she could. She owed him the answer he was asking for. “He wanted me to spy on you,” she said. “He hates you. He swears you stole the company from him, so he’ll do whatever he can to discredit you. He was hoping that, having a position where I’d see you in the privacy of your home, I’d learn something he could use.” She wetted her mouth. “I haven’t given him what he wants and he’s lost patience, so he’s decided if I can’t find anything by Monday, a sex scandal with your live-in employee will have to do.”
Damian scowled and pushed to his feet. An air of aggravation swirled around him.
Layla squeezed her eyes shut, pushing out a couple of renegade tears, and whispered, “I’m really, really sorry.” He had no reason to believe her. No reason to even trust her. She knew that. But the moment where he began to express those feelings was going to hurt like hell.
Seconds ticked by like hours.
Finally, Damian asked, “Why did you agree?”
She blinked through a watery veil to look up at him, finding his back was to her. He was hunched over his desk, palms braced on the wooden surface. The tension in his back was obvious from across the room. “What?”
He didn’t move a muscle. “Why did you take the job?”
Layla let out a breath. “Because he’s family. Because I needed a job to pay my bills.” She paused. “Mostly that second part.” He still didn’t move. “I never intended to spy on you, Damian. That’s not who I am.”
“But you’re loyal to your family,” Damian said.
Layla hesitated. Yes, familial loyalty had dragged her to the interview. That same feeling had driven her to do questionable things for her father and uncle in the past. Mostly lying to cover for them and turning a blind eye to their more glaring failures, but arguably still things she shouldn’t have done. It was accurate to say she certainly had been loyal to her family for most of her life, in spite of everything. She had become increasingly conflicted, though, over the past few months. After her last conversation with Harold, however…
“Not anymore.”
Chapter Eight
Damian was livid. Anyone would be, with the threat of a sex scandal hanging over their heads, and more-so with the knowledge that it had come from their own supposed business partner. But that was only a small part of it. Layla had confirmed some of his long-standing suspicions about Harold Poleski, and about why Harold had gone to the effort of anonymously submitting her application in the first place. Harold wanted him ruined. He actually believed if Damian fell the company would go to him.
Hearing confirmation of that only bolstered his other theory.
The question was, did he have enough ammunition yet? He doubted very much that Layla knew anything. Although, blackmailing his boss for leverage on company shares is something. But for absolute proof of that, he’d need the photographer.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Layla said, her voice cracking with the weight of her guilt. “Anything to make this right, please, tell me.”
Damian closed his eyes and drew a breath in through his nose. He hated hearing the pain in her voice. She thought he was furious with her, and he understood why. But she hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already suspect—except for the part about the pictures. Those were hardly her fault.
“The pictures,” he said as an idea struck him. “You saw one. What angle was it from?”
“Angle?” she repeated, confused for a moment. “Um. I mean, I was … full-frontal, so … west? Southwest?”
That was a good start. He straightened and stalked around his desk. “The entire fence line is monitored by security cameras. I’ll have someone review the footage from that night.” The photographer had to have gotten right up to the bars to get any decent shots. Which would also put him solidly on Damian’s property, adding one more legal charge to his immediate future.
Once Damian informed Raymond of what he needed, he set his cell phone on the desk and returned his attention to Layla. She had leaned forward and buried her face in her hands, her hair falling around her like a curtain. Her shoulders shook, and, as silence settled in the room, quiet sniffles drifted from her.
His heart ached, chipping away some of the rage. He wanted to hurt someone, but not her. No part of him believed she was anything more than trapped in a bad situation.
Damian spun one of the guest chairs around, positioning it to face her, and sat down. “I suppose this means it’s my turn.”
She sniffled again, louder, and lifted her head. “What?”
He made a conscious effort to soften his facial expression. “You wanted to know why I played along with hiring you, right? Even though I knew something was up?”
Layla wiped at her face and drew a shaky breath. “I did. Uncle Harold—” She winced. “He said you didn’t know who I was to him. That it was important I kept it that way.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Your uncle’s an idiot. His birth certificate is on-file as part of his identification records. My background search on you listed a Rodney Poleski, same spelling, as your father. Interestingly enough, Harold and Rodney have the same parents.” He shrugged. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t double-check.”
Layla gaped, obviously stunned at what he’d said.
“After we met, and you passed the test with the dogs, since you’d already passed on paper, I decided to take the risk.” Damian took a deliberate breath as he prepared himself to explain the real reason. “It was obvious Harold was up to something since he hadn’t just come to me with your application. And the thing is, Layla, I’ve been investigating Harold for a while. So I wanted to let him think he was getting away with something and see what happened, see if he slipped up and tipped his hand.”
Her shock morphed into confusion, and her head tilted marginally to the side. “Investigating? What do you mean?” Her brown eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’ve been using me to spy on him!”
Damian frowned. “No. It’s exactly as I said. I was curious what he hoped to gain by inserting you into my household. I’ve been watching him, myself. I do work with the man.”
She was silent for a long minute. Thinking. Processing. “Then what … are you looking for?”
He hesitated. There were only three other people who knew the answer to that question. He curled his fingers over the arm of the chair. “I need you to understand, Layla, the answer to that question is a carefully guarded secret.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked down at her hands in her lap. “I understand. I wouldn’t trust me, either, if I were you.”
That decided it. “No,” he said, almost urgently. “I’m explaining why you don’t know.”
She lifted her gaze back to his, curious and cautiously hopeful.
He launched ahead. “I inherited this company after my father died in a car crash. The thing is, my father kept me a secret from everyone, with the exception of his lawyer. So no one knew he had an heir.” He paused, and Layla nodded her head. She’d heard the story—most of the world knew that much. “The police pretty quickly ruled the crash a homicide, but the guy they got for it always felt like a fall-guy.” Her eyes widened. She’d
probably figured out where he was going with this. “For a while now, I’ve suspected Poleski was the real culprit. The problem is I lack proof. It’s not much of a secret that he wants the company, or that he doesn’t like me, but neither of those things makes him a killer.”
Layla covered her mouth with a hand, muffling her gasp. She looked horrified, but she lacked any of the anger someone should have at the idea of their relative being accused of murder. Either she was in shock or the concept wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility in her mind.
“If I can find a connection between him and the photographer,” Damian continued, “I can get Poleski removed from the company. But a good lawyer would be enough to keep him out of jail. I need more than what I have.”
Layla pulled her lips between her teeth for a moment, another tear rolled down her cheek, and she whispered, “There might be a way.”
Damian leaned forward. He hadn’t really expected any kind of solution from the conversation. “I’m listening.”
“My dad,” she said. “He knows everyone my uncle knew back then.”
“You think your father would turn on his brother?”
Layla swallowed audibly. “Not ordinarily. But he had one hard rule. He wanted me left out of the things they did.” Meaning Rodney Poleski wouldn’t be happy to hear about Harold trying to use her as a spy—or a scandal.
Damian inclined his head. “Are you up for that?”
Layla’s eyes hardened with determination. “I want this done. And I want to help you get answers.”
Shit. That was the sexiest thing a woman had ever said to him. He smirked and pushed to his feet. “Let’s go, then.”
****
Layla was always uncomfortable visiting her father in the prison, and even with Damian at her side, this time was no exception. Though she suspected some of that was due more to the reason she was there. She meant what she’d said when she’d told Damian she believed her father would rat on Harold given the circumstances, but that didn’t mean it would be an easy conversation.
“Who’s he?” Rodney Poleski asked with a quick glance to the side in Damian’s direction as soon as the requisite greetings were done.
Layla felt her stomach roll. The most he could do was yell and curse, until the security guards intervened, thanks to the glass partition separating them, but still she was nervous. He’d threatened more than one of her previous boyfriends. Not that Damian’s exactly my boyfriend. “He’s Damian Harker,” she said. “I work for him now.” Though for how much longer she wasn’t sure.
Rodney’s brows lifted high on his forehead.
She didn’t give him time to respond. “Damian is actually why I’m here today. There are some important things we need to talk to you about, Dad. Questions I’m hoping you can help answer.”
The surprise on her father’s face vanished, and he scowled. He pressed the worn, black phone harder into his ear. “What sorts of questions? What makes you think I know anything?” She heard what he was really asking. He wanted to know why she was coming to him, when supposedly she knew he would never betray Harold’s trust.
Layla took a steadying breath. But she knew time was of the essence, so she pushed past her nerves and blurted a quick and dirty version of the events that had led her and Damian to visit him. It wasn’t as if her father believed she were a virgin, and it wasn’t as if he could whip out a gun and shoot her new lover.
Rodney stared at her, his grip on the prison phone loose and wrinkled eyes wide.
“I’m going to pass the phone to Damian,” she finally said. “Please, Dad. Answer his questions. Help us get out from under Uncle Harold.” Then she stood, turned, and held out the phone for Damian to take. It had been her job to explain the situation and, she hoped, convince him, but Damian was the one who knew what needed to be asked.
Damian nodded at her and settled in the chair. “Mr. Poleski,” he began, his voice calm, “I apologize for dropping all this on you. As Layla explained, unfortunately we’re short on time.”
Layla watched her father interrupt Damian, unable to hear his words through the surprisingly effective soundproof glass. But her father’s expression told her his first reaction wasn’t immediately cooperation, but anger. She supposed she should have expected as much. If only they had the time to deal with his temper.
“That wouldn’t change the situation in the slightest,” Damian said when her father stopped speaking.
Rodney clenched a fist over the tabletop and leaned forward, speaking again.
Layla could only presume he was threatening Damian now.
This time Damian cut him off, his tone shorter, sharper. “If you want to help your daughter, then you need to hear what I have to say. You need to dump your brother.”
Layla fought to contain her smile. Her father wouldn’t appreciate those words, but she sure did. She could have kissed Damian. Instead, she made a visible gesture of tapping her wrist, to remind her father that time was ticking. These visits were limited.
Rodney scowled fiercely, looked between them again, and sighed so heavily Layla swore she could hear it. He slumped a little in his seat and spoke, his fist going lax on the table.
“Thank you,” Damian said. He waited barely a beat, just long enough to let the words linger. “I need names. Who are Harold’s contacts?”
Layla pulled her purse up and dug out the pen and notepad she’d brought with her for this purpose. She passed the items along to Damian silently.
“Most importantly,” Damian continued, “I need to know everything you know about Harold’s involvement with Edward Harker’s murder.”
Rodney nodded his head, shifted his weight in his seat, and propped his elbow on the table. Then he started talking, and Damian started writing.
Layla chewed on her lip as Damian scribbled notes, her father doing the bulk of the talking now. She wished she could hear both sides of the conversation. But she supposed it didn’t matter. What did matter was that her father was cooperating. He was helping them, helping Damian, even knowing it would hurt his brother. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she willed them away. She looked into the glass, watching her father study what he could see of Damian’s notes, still talking. Thank you, Dad.
Damian spent most of the trip back to the city on his phone, ordering investigations into the names her father had dropped. But he made all those calls with one arm around her, as if he knew she needed the comfort.
By the time the car pulled into the garage that night, Layla was intensely confused.
She’d expected Damian to fire her on the spot when she confessed her connection to Harold and her treacherous reason for being under his employ. Even when she learned he’d already known, or suspected, the truth, he had every right to fire her. Yet he didn’t. Instead, as the driver cut the engine, Damian pulled her against his side and lowered his lips to her ear.
“Join me in my room after dinner.”
Layla’s heart jumped into an echoing, rapid-fire drumbeat at the prospect of his whispered words. She barely noticed him release her and climb from the car, and she paid about as much attention to her own movements when she followed suit. She was nearly into the house when she noticed her car, right where she usually parked it on the far side of the obscenely large garage. But she was sure she’d left it in that public lot across town.
“I took the liberty of retrieving your car, using your spare key.” The declaration came from Raymond, who’d suddenly appeared in front of her.
Layla jumped, startled. “Oh! Raymond.” His words finally processed. “Thank you.” She didn’t know what she was supposed to say next. How much did Raymond know?
He offered her a small, but startlingly genuine, smile and stepped sideways, extending his arm. “Dinner’s almost ready. Given today’s events, I made sure the animals were looked after. You don’t need to worry about them this evening.”
Her feet moved forward at the promise of food. It’d been a long day, and she was suddenly starving. “I�
�m so sorry about that, Raymond.” She wanted to promise to make it up to him, but she still wasn’t sure she’d have a job come sunrise. Maybe that was why Damian wanted to see her privately—to fire her without an audience. Maybe he figured he owed her that, in some way. She had no idea.
“It was no trouble, Miss Layla,” Raymond said as he walked with her. He offered nothing else, and he separated from her at the dining table in order to put the finishing touches on the meal.
Layla claimed her usual seat with an unfamiliar weight on her heart. She couldn’t believe how quickly she’d gotten used to this life. That was stupid. She’d known all along it was temporary. That sooner or later, somehow, it would end. She should have prepared herself to part with it—all of it. She hadn’t, and now she didn’t know how.
Her delicious dinner was bittersweet, but she smiled wide and graciously thanked Raymond when she was done. Then she headed off to her room, while it was still her room, and indulged in the magnificent shower.
Because she was stalling.
But she could only stall for so long. Eventually everything was scrubbed clean, so, wearing pajamas and wrapped in a fluffy robe she surely wouldn’t get to keep, Layla made her way to Damian’s room.
Her heart picked up its earlier wild rhythm, and her stomach knotted. She was excited and mildly terrified at the same time. Still, she knocked, and held her breath.
Damian opened the door moments later. He was still mostly dressed for work, but again he’d discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves. One of his eyebrows arched high on his forehead as he scrutinized her choice of appearance. “I was starting to think you were standing me up.”
“Of course not.” She understood why he thought it. As the door closed behind her, she blurted, “I just like the shower.”
Damian made a sound somewhere between a choke and a snort, as if he were trying not to laugh. “That’s good, I guess.” He walked back into her line of sight. “It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”
Layla took a long breath, curled her fingers in her soft, fluffy sleeves, and dove straight for the punchline. “But I am, aren’t I?”
