This would be my office as soon as tomorrow, and I despised it. Despised him.
He didn’t bother standing, simply waved a hand at the armchair across from him without looking up from the screen on his phone. “Have a seat.”
I lowered into the chair and straightened my suit jacket as Alicia slid a folder before him.
“Mr. Anderson,” she purred, cocking a hip beside him, “this is Logan Smith. Candidate for the Senior Vice President in the Technology Division.” She tapped the folder. “His résumé, sir.”
He flicked his eyes to her, one brow lifted. “I don’t conduct interviews, Miss Murphy. What is this?”
Benny had been right about Trent not preparing for meetings. Evidently, he didn’t even look at his schedule.
“It…it was on your calendar.” Her chin lowered, her fingers twitching against her tight skirt. “I should’ve checked with you, sir. I apologize for the error.”
It was on his calendar because Benny put it there.
I cleared my throat, effectively capturing their attention. “Miss Murphy, please collect the other board members. We have some family business to discuss.”
Her eyes widened at my audacity, and Trent’s shoulders stiffened. The skin around his thin lips tightened, his phone lowering to the desk.
He and I sat at the same height, yet he managed to look down at me, his hazel eyes tapering over the sharp line of his aristocratic nose. “What’s your name again?”
Not a hint of recognition in his unblinking gaze. Not that I expected it. But he knew something wasn’t right. Perhaps I wasn’t the first person to walk into his office with retaliation on the mind.
I reclined in the chair and propped an ankle on the opposite knee. “Logan.” I traced my bottom lip with my finger, slowly, deliberately. “Flynt.”
He didn’t gasp, didn’t twitch a muscle. Kudos to him for mastering a stone expression. Bet his stomach was churning though, boiling up some serious denial under that rigid facade.
“Flynt,” he repeated, his bored voice giving nothing away.
“Yep.” I popped the p, rubbing my chin, methodically. “Flynt like the young stunt woman, Maura Flynt.” I cocked my head. “She used to talk about you. Said you were her biggest fan.”
No finger wriggling under the collar of his tie. No squirming in his chair. Nothing that telegraphed discomfort. He simply jerked his chin at Alicia, his tone businesslike. “Call in the other members, Miss Murphy. Set us up in the boardroom.”
Just like that, he gave into the threat? No back-and-forth conversation to convince him just how serious I was? It was a sign of guilt, not that I needed more proof. He thought I knew he’d murdered my mother. Wouldn’t he be surprised when I pretended I didn’t?
Alicia’s footsteps sounded her retreat, followed by the click of the doors closing.
Heavy silence settled around us. He regarded me as I studied him. His meticulously-styled blond hair, the inelastic skin around his eyes, the stern set of his posture, all of it frozen in reticence.
If he was trying to intimidate me, it wouldn’t work. He didn’t know shit about me, but I knew him, knew his secrets. I held the upper hand.
The leather of his chair creaked, breaking the tension straining between us. He crossed his legs at the knees. “You’re not here for an interview.”
But I would be walking away with a job. I gave him my most charming smile.
He pressed his lips together. “How are you related to Maura Flynt?”
I held his unflinching glare with one of my own. “We’ll get to that.”
A muscle bounced in his jaw. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Flynt. I don’t have time for games.”
Very few wrinkles marred his face, and not a strand of gray in sight. He looked twenty years younger than sixty-five. Maybe his assistants found him attractive, but his mouth was too small, his forehead too big and, the more he stared at me, the deeper his beady eyes sank into his skull.
I challenged his glare for another heartbeat before reaching into the messenger bag and removing a folder of papers. The first eight pages were newspaper clippings. Eight murders.
Spreading them over the desk in front of him, I watched his blank reaction. This could go a number of ways, most of them ending with an assassin on my tail as soon as I stepped outside the building.
I was prepared for that.
He glanced at each article, briefly and dispassionately, and leaned back, found my eyes. Smart bastard. When hiding guilt, reserve was the best response.
But I was only getting started. “We both know this isn’t the extent of your crimes. Just a sampling of the ones I’ve linked back to Trenchant.”
He laced his fingers together on his stomach and rolled his tongue behind thin lips, his eyelids hooded. “Mr. Flynt, most of these articles are over twenty years old. You’re wasting my time.”
I hadn’t been as successful as my mother at digging up his crimes. Most of what I had on the families came from her notes. For the millionth time, I wondered how the hell she’d uncovered what she had.