Make Me Forget (Make Me, #1)(25)

“Did you need vindication?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

He shrugged slightly and leaned back again, the action bringing her gaze downward to broad shoulders and a strong-looking chest. He knew how to wear a suit, that much was certain. Powerful. Elegantly dangerous. On Dylan Fall, a suit was transformed into the modern-day equivalent of a warrior’s armor.

“Not really, no. Durand is a privately held company, as I’m sure you already know. There are no stockholders to whom I need to justify my actions.”

“What about to other officers on the board?” she asked, curiosity trumping her anxiety.

His stare narrowed on her. “I was under the impression I was the one interviewing you.”

“Sorry,” she said quickly. Is that all she was going to do during this interview? Apologize? And was that a tiny smile tilting his mouth? Somehow, she’d rather it wasn’t, as unsettling as she was finding this whole experience. She wasn’t wilting, like Maggie had worried she would, but she was blowing this. Not by a slow burn, either.

More like death by blowtorch.

“I was just curious about Durand’s reaction to the article,” she backpedaled. “I worked on that project even in my sleep for fifteen months straight. It sort of gets into your blood.”

“As someone who sleeps, drinks, and eats Durand, I’m inclined to understand completely,” he said dryly. “Actually, Durand’s philanthropic goals are built in to Alan Durand’s—the company founder’s—directives. Durand has a long tradition of community projects, people-building, and charitable programs. After completing the study, were you convinced it’s a worthwhile goal for a company to have?”

“Sir?”

“Do you think most companies should include philanthropy in their operating directives?”

“The statistics certainly indicate they should.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She stared at her interlaced fingers, lying on top of her folder. A small patch of perspiration wetted the vinyl. “If a company can increase its profits by doing good works for the community and its people, it seems like a win-win situation all around, doesn’t it?”

She looked up at his dry laugh. “That’s certainly a politically correct answer. Now give me an honest one, Alice. Do you think companies like Durand should continue with philanthropic community efforts?”

The silence stretched taut.

“Alice?” he prodded quietly.

“Of course. It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.” His dark brows slanted menacingly. “It’s only . . . It seems . . .” What the hell, you’ve already blown the interview anyway. Everyone knows you never stood a chance from the get-go. “A little patronizing, that’s all.” She cringed a little when he went eerily still. “Aside from that, I think the answer is an obvious yes. I think large corporations should have charitable directives.”

“Patronizing?” he asked, his quiet voice striking her as similar to the deep purr of a misleadingly calm lion. “Like Durand is grandstanding, you mean. Making itself look good in the public’s eye for the sole purpose of selling widgets . . . or candy bars, soda, energy drinks, and chocolate milk, among other things, in Durand’s case.”

“All of the things your campers at Camp Durand—low-income urban youth from poverty-infested neighborhoods—consume,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying. Heat rushed into her cheeks.

She forced herself not to flinch under his boring stare, but her defiance definitely wavered. To call his eyes merely “deepest brown” or “almost black” vastly understated their impact. They shone like polished stones with fire in the depths. Somehow, his eyes managed to startle her on a constant basis instead of a quick rush.

“Do you consume those products, Alice?”

“Once in a while,” she said with a shrug. In truth, she was a chocoholic. Durand Jingdots, Sweet Adelaides, and Salty Chocolate Caramels rated among her favorite guilty pleasures while sitting at her computer running numbers. Not that she’d confess that weakness to Dylan Fall. “Why?” she asked warily. “Is that a prerequisite to be chosen for the Durand training program?”

“No,” he said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. Her heart raced. He was going to tell her any second the interview was over. Let him. The sooner she was done here, the better. He idly perused what she realized was her resume. “But I happen to know that Little Paradise—where you grew up—is one of the crime-infested, low-income urban areas you just described.”

Her heart jumped uncomfortably against her sternum. She unglued her tongue from the top of her mouth.

“How did you know I grew up in Little Paradise?” she rasped, mortified that Dylan Fall, of all people, knew about the infamous place where she’d grown up—Little Paradise, the grossly inaptly named, sole remaining trailer park within the Chicago city limits; a grimy, mangy little community tainted by toxic-smelling fumes from the nearby factories of Gary, Indiana. The address wasn’t on her resume. She wanted no part of Little Paradise. She’d used a local address ever since she’d left for college nearly six years ago.

“Dr. Lopez mentioned it,” he said without batting an eye. “Are you ashamed of where you grew up?”