“Google him on your phone,” her grandmother ordered.
Chloe kept eating. “He’s a billionaire. He’s not interested in a temporary assistant.”
“Not yet.” Grandmillie put down her fork and looked at Chloe.
“Fine.” Chloe got up and grabbed her handbag, digging her phone out of it and typing in Nathan Trainor’s name. She chose a basic bio that appeared up-to-date. “Not married. Never has been. That’s kind of weird.”
“Why, dear?” Her grandmother resumed her consumption of the satay.
“Because he’s so—” She’d been about to say “good looking” but decided she didn’t want to give her grandmother any additional ammunition. “—rich.”
“He just hasn’t met the right woman.” Grandmillie looked up. “Until now.”
Chloe smiled at the woman who believed the king of England would be lucky to marry her granddaughter. “You are so sweet.”
“Ha! The fellows trying to wheedle another drink out of me at closing time called me things that weren’t anywhere near ‘sweet.’?”
“Well, I’ll do my best to persuade Nathan Trainor to ask me out to dinner and see if I like him well enough for a second date,” Chloe said, giving up.
“Just be yourself, dear, and he’ll figure it out.”
Chloe wondered how many dates you had to go on to get an expensive bracelet when you broke up. She could sell it and sock the money away in the bank.
CHAPTER 3
Chloe stepped off the executive-level elevator with considerably more confidence than she had the day before. She had on her Louboutin knockoffs, black linen trousers, a white blouse, and a gray tweed sweater jacket. The jacket had been marked down about four times at Nordstrom. The only reason no one had snapped it up was that it had fallen off the hanger and was puddled on the floor under the round clothes rack. Even then it had been a splurge, but it was a classic she could wear until it fell apart at the seams.
She greeted Priscilla warmly and received a welcoming smile in return. All the people she’d met at Trainor Electronics were surprisingly friendly and relaxed. Considering that it was a cutting-edge tech firm, she’d expected more tension and competitiveness. Or maybe that was just because the last tech firm she’d worked for was on the verge of bankruptcy all the time, so everyone was worried about their jobs. The Russell jinx at work again.
Even the mighty Mr. Trainor didn’t give off a vibe of self-importance, just supreme confidence.
Chloe pulled out her desk drawer and dropped her bag into it before picking up a pad of paper. She knew she was old-fashioned, but she never quite trusted her notes to a computer tablet. Trainor’s office door was closed, and she hesitated outside it. The privacy light on the phone console wasn’t lit, so he shouldn’t mind being disturbed. She needed to let him know that she was at work on time. Well, ten minutes early, actually, but she wouldn’t clock in for that.
Chloe ran her hand over her sleeked-back hair and checked that her bun was firmly wound before she knocked on the door. There was no answer. Roberta Stern had said Trainor usually got in two hours before the rest of the staff, which made this seem odd.
She tried the doorknob. It turned in her hand, so she pushed the door open a crack and listened. No sound.
She opened the door wide enough to slip through it. The office appeared to be empty. Well, she’d just go back to her desk and wait for Trainor to show up. Then her glance snagged on a man’s raincoat tossed over one of the chairs in front of her boss’s desk. She looked more closely and discovered a briefcase leaning against the arm of the chair.
So he had been here.
Chloe turned to recheck his schedule, thinking she’d missed an early-morning appointment, when she heard a low, drawn-out moan coming from the direction of the desk.
The high-backed chair was swiveled so its back faced her. Remembering Teresa Fogarty’s presence the night before, she debated whether she might witness something she didn’t want to see if she walked around the desk. However, the chair hadn’t moved the entire time she’d been there, and judging by Trainor’s impressive physique, he would probably be fairly active when in the throes of passion.
She tiptoed around the corner of the desk and peered into the chair.
“Oh my God!” she gasped.
Her boss was slumped on the seat, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, while his head sagged to the side and his forearms hung limply over the armrests. His eyes were closed, and his skin bore a hectic, unnatural flush. “Mr. Trainor!”
She hurled the pad of paper onto the desk and dashed to his side. His eyelids fluttered open as she bent to look for injuries. “So hot,” he mumbled. “Who are you? Wait, the ringer.”
His eyes closed again. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead. His skin was on fire. She grabbed the phone and dialed Priscilla. “Mr. Trainor’s really sick. Is there a nurse’s office in the building?”