Johnston glanced at his watch. “Billy should be out of rehab in another month. Maybe. I’ve heard meth is almost impossible to beat. He may need to stay longer.” His beefy hand closed into a fist on his desk. “That’s why we don’t need any more bad publicity, Mrs. Dean.”
Probably true. Billy’s meltdown had put them in a bad light with several large clients. He’d missed deductions. Added wrong. And even gotten one client in trouble with the IRS. Josie only knew Billy professionally, but the guy had always been full of energy.
“I hate to ask this since Billy’s my friend, but considering his drug problem, do you think he was skimming?” Daniel asked.
Josie studied the smooth number cruncher. “You’re friends with Billy?”
“Yes. We’ve worked together, mostly via Internet and Skype, for about five years.” Daniel tilted his head. “Skimming?”
“Maybe, and I always look for that. But I think so far it’s been a matter of simple mistakes. Mistakes we need to catch before tax season.” She’d seen what drugs could do to people and figured Billy had just been working poorly. With enough time and dedication, Josie could get the files back into order without there being an IRS issue. “Don’t worry—I’ll figure it out.”
“I could take over the files, if you want,” Johnston offered.
“No.” Josie shook her head. Enough with all the men in her life trying to ease her way. The attempts always backfired. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m supposed to take over Billy’s clients until he gets back.” If he came back. And if she’d made the mistake while she’d been learning the file, she’d fix it. If Billy had made the mistake while on drugs, she’d fix it. “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
Johnston shrugged. “Fair enough. Just keep me apprised. Like I said, we don’t need any more bad PR.”
Josie nodded, standing and heading for the door. “Of course.” Poor Billy. Growing up in foster care, she’d befriended many a lost kid who’d coped with life by taking drugs. She’d been offered pot at ten years old, meth at twelve, and cocaine at fifteen. But she’d always known there was a way out of the system, and that taking drugs would keep her in. It was a straight shot from foster care to juvey to jail. So she’d always said no to drugs. Unfortunately, her best friend had said yes to cocaine and had died from an overdose. Josie needed to visit her soon in the local cemetery.
Drugs did kill.
For now, Josie had to concentrate on the present and not the past. This current mess with Shane could cost her the promotion she wanted.
Navy blue industrial carpet cushioned her steps as she wound through the quiet hall to the main hub of the floor. Several secretaries busily typed away in rows of cubicles filling the center space as phones rang and printers whooshed. A trill of laughter threaded among the squeaking of desk chairs. The aroma of floral perfume and vanilla coffee scented the air.
She reached her office, hurrying inside and shutting the door to keep noise out. She didn’t have time to mess around—now she needed to go get a bunch of new clients to compete with freakin’ Daniel.
Hurrying toward her desk, she glanced at her appointment book.
“Hi, angel.” The heavy oak door swished shut behind her, the lock engaging with a click.
She froze. In slow motion, she turned around. The files trembled in her hands.
“Sit down.” Shane had been waiting against the wall. He tilted his head toward a leather guest chair. She’d chosen the light brown carefully to match the chairs her foster father Arthur had had in his office so many years ago. Classy and plush.
The phone. She could get to it, or she could scream. But if she screamed, who’d come running? Her secretary, Vicki? Vicki couldn’t handle Shane. Crap. She’d probably take one look at the soldier and rip his clothes off.
“Now.” He wore a fresh black shirt and new jeans, kick-ass boots covering his size thirteens.
“Nice boots.” Josie tossed the file on the desk and slid into a chair. She was wearing three-inch heels on her feet; they’d cause serious pain if necessary.
“Turns out I had cash hidden at the bungalow. Went shopping earlier.” He stalked forward and dropped into the matching chair, swiveling her to face him. Both legs stretched out on either side of hers, trapping her. “Miss me?”
“No.” She straightened her back with a sharp snap. So he admitted he’d stalked her from the bungalow. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Either way, her chest hurt. “How’s the head?” A new bruise covered his left temple. From her foot. Her grin even felt malicious.
“Excellent kick, angel.” He leaned forward, his hands clasping her knees above her skirt, his scent of heated cedar washing over her. “I taught you well.” He wore his soldier face today, no expression showing. But those eyes. Dark, gray, and swirling with emotion. He usually veiled better.