Uncovering You: The Complete Series (Mega Box Set)

by Edwards, Scarlett

  As much as it hurts to admit, everything was done by the book. The client pulled out—not my firm’s fault—and the whole project ceased to exist. As the only intern on the team, I got the short end of the stick. The full-time employees simply got reassigned. I got kicked to the street without a second thought.

  I’m angry. But, I’m also determined. Determined to do… something. I have a paycheck worth $2,300 for the work I’ve done. That’s something. I also have a company credit card with a fifty thousand dollar limit.

  I figure I have a day, maybe two, before it gets cut off.

  My first order of business is getting a new cell phone. I walk into the Apple store and let the associate charge the card for the newest, most expensive iPhone. I hold my breath when he swipes the card, then exhale in relief when it goes through.

  I decide to push my luck, and ask him to add a MacBook to my purchase. I don’t need it, but I figure I can pawn it on Craigslist for full value and get another grand in my pocket.

  The card gets declined half an hour later at Starbucks. I pay with cash and hurry out.

  When I return to my apartment, I clear a space on the dining room table and start to game plan. I have four days before my key stops working. That’s four days to figure out what the hell to do.

  Returning to Yale is not an option—at least not until January. I go to the admissions website and scroll through the onerous requirements needed to come back halfway through the year. The restrictions are there because of a limited amount of on-campus housing. My only shot is if somebody decides to go on a leave. That’s mostly a crapshoot.

  I cross that option off my list. It’s too uncertain.

  I start considering jobs I may be suited for. I know how few respectable companies would look at a candidate without a college diploma. “Few” becomes “zero” when the stipulation that employment is good only until the start of the next school year is added to the mix.

  Of course, I could lie and say I’m looking for something permanent. But that would feel sleazy.

  What about freelancing? SAT tutoring? Something like that?

  I frown and shake my head. Those may pay more than minimum wage, but they are unstable. What if I go through a drought and can’t find work? I need something guaranteed.

  My only real option is a low-paying service job.

  Like my mom.

  “Dammit!” I smash my palm against the table. The laptop jumps. My biggest goal in life is complete self-sufficiency. No reliance. No strings. I want to make my own decisions, and have life be in my control.

  I crave that. Growing up with an uneducated mother, I know how hard it is for someone without a degree to find work. I hated my teens. That’s when she started drinking. After Paul. We were always at the mercy of landlords and creditors and slimy exes she owed money to.

  The key to having control is an education. If my mother taught me anything, it’s that—if only by showing me the flipside of the equation.

  That’s why I work so hard in school. With a degree comes opportunity, which brings autonomy. And I will earn my degree.

  The problem is, for the next year, I am forced to step into my mother’s shoes.

  The apartment landline rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I look at the phone in wonder. Who could it be? I never gave the number out. Hell, I don’t even know it.

  I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  A cheerful, young female voice greets me. “Hi, is this Lilly Ryder?”

  “Speaking?” I say.

  “Oh. Whew! Ha, ha. I’ve been calling every apartment complex in the area looking for you!”

  “You have?” I ask, not following.

  “Oh, yes. This is my first week on the job and I’m still trying to get the hang of things. You would think working a phone is easy. But in this office there are so many flashing lights and beeping thingies and like, a hundred different lines to keep track of…” she trails off and giggles. “I left so many voicemails on different machines asking for you, and now I’m paying the price. I’m getting dozens of calls back from different people, all of them confused about what’s going on—”

  “Hold on,” I say. The girl’s talking way too fast, and none of it is making sense. Still, something about her enthusiasm makes me smile.

  “Who are you? Why are you looking for me?”

  “Oh. Oh!” She sounds startled, then seems to remember herself. “Jeremy always says I get carried away,” she admits, then quickly rushes on, making her voice an octave lower and a breath slower. She clears her throat. “I am calling on behalf of Mr. Stonehart, Chairman and CEO of Stonehart Industries.”

  I gasp. The sound must be loud enough for her to hear, because she returns to her real voice and asks happily, “Oh, you’ve heard of us?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you,” I answer, breathless.

  Stonehart Industries is the conglomerate that owns the tech company my firm was developing the ad campaign for.

  Stonehart Industries is also a wholly private company and extremely secretive about its operations. Most people don’t even know they exist, but they have their corporate finger in all sorts of industry, from mineral mining to drug development to food production to God-knows-what-else. Chances are, if you’ve used an American commercial product that came out in the last ten years, Stonehart Industries has contributed to it one way or another.

  “What I don’t understand,” I continue, “is why you’re calling me.”

  “Oh, that’s simple,” the girl answers breezily. “Word of what’s happened to you has reached Mr. Stonehart. He heard about the promising young woman whose plans got derailed when ZilTech terminated the marketing campaign for its new television product. He wants to offer you his sincere condolences.”

  That is the most ludicrous explanation I’ve ever received.

  “Is this a joke?” I demand, suddenly angry. “Amy? Is that you? Are you pulling some prank on me?”

  Amy was the only one in the firm I did not get along with. Something about my being there was threatening to her, or some such nonsense.

  “No joke, Miss Ryder,” the girl says quickly. “Mr. Stonehart says—”

  “I don’t care what ‘Mr. Stonehart’ says,’” I spit. This is beyond insulting. “I don’t want to hear about false sympathies or any other bullshit. If ‘Mr. Stonehart’ is truly sorry, he’ll reinstate the contract and get me my job back!”

  I slam the phone on its base with such force that a splinter cracks across the glass table. Good.

  The phone call has me really upset. I’m sure it’s Amy, just rubbing salt in the wound.

  As if the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company would give a rat’s ass about what happens to me!

  Just as I’m turning away, the phone rings again. I debate ignoring it, but I feel like screaming at someone.

  I grab it and knock the base over. “Amy, I swear to God, when I find out it’s you—”

  “Lilly.” A rich, deep voice answers me. I’ve never heard this voice before. But the two syllables of my name are enough to cut me off. There is an unspoken quality of command that naturally makes me want to obey.

  I’ve never heard my name said quite like that before.

  “This is Lilly Ryder, am I correct?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. The speaker’s voice is smoky and smooth all at once. Take one part Morgan Freeman, mix it with another part Sean Connery, and you still won’t hold a candle to the masculine power projected in this voice.

  It’s enough to make my core clench with the most desperate type of need.

  “Good. Lilly, my name is Stonehart. My secretary called you. But I take it she did not leave the most convincing impression?”

  I stammer something incomprehensible, shocked to actually be on the line with the Stonehart of Stonehart Industries. Instinct tells me this isn’t a joke anymore.

  “I’ll make this brief,” he continues. “I heard about what happened. I want to offer reparation for the injuries suffered by my
decision. Come to my office Thursday morning. I will have my driver outside your apartment at eight. He will bring you here and back. You don’t know me yet, but you will find I am a man of my word.”

  The line goes dead.

  I stare at the phone in my hand like it might grow wings.

  Did that really just happen?

  I fly to my computer and pull up YouTube. I search “Stonehart speech.”

  A lot of results come up, most of them useless, except for one: Mr. Stonehart giving the commencement speech to the Wharton Business School class of 2010.

  I click the video and read the description while it loads. Apparently, Stonehart is a Wharton alumni. His company donated twelve million dollars to the university to establish a scholarship fund that year.

  The video starts. It’s shaky and low-quality, so I can’t get a good look at the speaker, but when his voice comes through my speakers… my mind instantly places it.

  It’s the voice of the man who just called me.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit! The CEO of an enormous corporation just called me.

  Personally.

  I walk to the kitchen in a sort of daze. I pour myself a glass of water. Set it on the counter. Walk away.

  My mind is buzzing with questions. The most prevalent of which is, “Why?”

  Why would Stonehart care about what happened to me? Why would he call me himself?

  A Google search reveals nothing about him and very little about his corporation. Their website is a blank screen with the words “Stonehart Industries” in silver lettering across the middle. Nothing more.

  Should I go to the meeting? I snort a laugh. I can’t exactly turn it down. A call like that doesn’t happen every day.

  If I do go… I will have to keep expectations to a minimum. I should expect nothing, in fact, and be pleasantly surprised if something comes up. It’s a stretch, anyway.

  Stonehart is not Paul.

  I have two days left until Thursday. The best thing to do is keep planning my future as if the call never happened.

  I cannot rely on it.

  Chapter Twenty

  (Three weeks ago: Thursday morning)

  I step out of the black limousine in front of a towering glass and steel building. I am wearing a Classiques Entier Diamond Blend jacket, matching pencil skirt, and Attilio Giusti Leombruni belt pumps. The meeting required a new wardrobe. This one set me back an entire grand.

  That’s why all the clothes have their sales tags expertly hidden in the seams.

  The doorman offers a smile as I enter. I smile back. My heels strike the shining terrazzo floor. Each stride sends a confident jolt through my body.

  I pretend to scan the building directory, but I already know my destination. Stonehart Industries owns this building, and has offices spanning the top three floors. I’m just biding for time.

  I have no idea what I’m doing here. There are multinational conglomerate leaders who would kill to be in my position. How often do you get to face the owner of one of the most secretive yet influential American companies to be formed in the last twenty years?

  What could he possibly want with me? I refuse to believe this is just an act of charity. Real life does not work that way.

  There is always a catch.

  A hand touches my elbow, surprising me. I start to turn, but the voice I hear stops me cold.

  “Lilly.”

  Oh God. It’s him. There’s no mistaking that rich, masculine treble.

  What’s he doing down here?

  “M-Mr. Stonehart,” I stutter, turning. I curse my inability to hide my surprise. He totally caught me off-guard. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Then up some more.

  The face that I find is so striking it should belong to a Greek god.

  He’s younger than I expected. Late thirties, maybe early forties.

  That means he started his company when he was younger than me!

  Dark scruff lines his angular cheeks. His jet-black hair is styled in long, natural waves. My fingers itch to run through it.

  Totally inappropriate.

  He has a prominent nose that might be too big on a less imposing man, but on him, it’s perfect.

  In short, he’s a package of the purest masculinity I’ve ever seen.

  And then there are his eyes. Oh my God. His eyes. They pierce into me like honing missiles. They are the deepest black I have ever seen. They would be frightening if they weren’t so beautiful. When the light reflects a certain way, you catch a glimpse of the purple underneath.

  They are like midnight sapphires. His eyes reveal a cunning intellect. Those eyes do not miss a thing.

  Add all that to his towering height, his wide shoulders, his confident-yet-at-ease posture… and Stonehart cuts an intimidating figure.

  My gaze darts to his left hand before I can stop it. No ring. He’s unmarried.

  He looks down at me, expectantly. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and I feel like I’m being dissected, measured up, and tucked away in some small corner of his brain. I imagine this is what a gemstone feels like under the magnifying class of the most critical appraiser.

  Stonehart clears his throat. I come to with a start, realizing I haven’t said anything in ages. I open my mouth, but the capacity for speech seems like a foreign concept to my brain. “I—”

  Somebody bumps into me from behind. I stagger forward. I’m not used to these shoes, so my heel steps the wrong way. My ankle twists under me, and I start to fall.

  I don’t fall far. The hand still on my elbow tightens, and Stonehart pulls me into him.

  I plaster myself onto the solid steel wall the man has for a body. I catch a scent of his cologne. It’s a deep, musky smell with a hint of charred spruce that is all male. It scrambles my thoughts even more.

  “Sorry!” a rushed voice calls out. From the corner of my eye, I see the postman giving a hurried, apologetic wave.

  Although the sequence lasts less than a second, it feels like an eternity. Pressed up against him like that, I don’t want to move. I know that I couldn’t have made a worse first impression.

  Stonehart eases me off him with a firm yet gentle grip. Our eyes meet. I flush the most vibrant red. His fingers graze my forehead as he brushes a lock of hair out of my face.

  Any tenderness I may have imagined vanishes when Stonehart takes out his cell. He long dials a key and growls an order. “Steven. See the delivery boy leaving right now? Have his building pass revoked.”

  I gape. Stonehart keeps speaking. “Wait. I thought of one better. Bar his company from accessing the building.” There’s a pause. “For how long? Indefinitely. FedEx can talk to me when they have an improved employee selection program in place.”

  The phone call gives me just enough time to compose myself. My heart’s still beating out of my chest. But nobody has to know that.

  I speak without thinking. “You’re going to restrict the entire company from serving this building because of that?”

  Stonehart humors me with an answer. “A company’s employees are its most important asset. Their behavior reflects the organization as a whole. If FedEx decided that clown is good enough for them, it tells me they’re sloppy. I do not do business with sloppy organizations.”

  “What about the other tenants in the building?” I ask. “Won’t that piss them off?”

  When I hear myself and realize how improper my question is, my cheeks flame red again.

  Stonehart’s eyes darken, as if he cannot believe I asked that question. I open my mouth to apologize for my imprudence, hating the way my professional skills have evaporated into thin air. I’m cut off by a short, barked laugh.

  “Miss Ryder.” He sounds amused. “I believe that is the most direct and honest question anybody has dared ask me in weeks.” He takes my elbow again and leads me to the elevators. I have to take two quick steps to match one of his long strides.

  “Yes,” he continues. “They will be ‘pissed off.’ But the perk of owning a
building—” he hits the elevator call button, “—is that you get to make executive decisions.” He gives me an unreadable glance as the doors open. “That is, at the risk of being questioned by inexperienced interns.”

  If that isn’t a loaded remark, I don’t know what is. I flush scarlet red for the third time since I’ve met him. I’ve never had a man throw me so off balance.

  The elevator is packed, for which I’m infinitely thankful. The trip up will give me some time to properly compose myself.

  Gratitude turns to panic when the crowd files out, meek as mice, when Stonehart steps in. None of the people waiting in the lobby follow us.

  The doors close. I’m alone in here with him. My heart’s beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

  He catches me staring. “Impressed?” he asks.

  “They know you,” I manage.

  His dark eyes flash with amusement. “Astute.”

  He swipes his left wrist in front of a card-sized scanner. A beep sounds, and the light to the highest floor turns on.

  “Biometric NFC chip,” he tells me in an off-handed way. “A tiny kernel I had implanted six months ago. Developed by the research team at ZilTech. One of my subsidiary firms. I understand you’ve dealt with them?”

  Stonehart’s phone buzzes before I can answer. He looks at it. “Excuse me.”

  I step half an inch back so I can admire his profile without being caught. He has one of those faces that only get better with age. I try not to eavesdrop on his conversation. I’m struck by the fact that sharing an elevator this way must be a very rare occasion for him.

  And so far, all you’ve done is make yourself look like an idiot, a tiny voice derides me.

  The elevator shoots up. Just three floors from our destination, it comes to a sudden halt. At the same moment, Stonehart drops the phone from his ear.

  The doors stay closed.

  He turns to me in a predatory move. “Going higher requires a retina scan,” he tells me. I can literally feel the reverberations from his rumbly voice. “The first swipe can be faked. This cannot. We have thirty seconds before the elevator goes back down.”