CHAPTER SEVEN
As was his usual routine, Mark Battman walked into his office at 8 a.m., set down his leather bag, turned on his computer, then went out to the lounge to make a cup of coffee. When he stepped out of the lounge and into the hallway, he saw Summer Maldonado headed from the elevator foyer down the hallway in his direction. He stopped, waited until she was just a few feet away from him, then said, “Summer. What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” Summer said with an urgency that suggested this was not going to be a cordial chat.
“How did you get up here without an escort?”
“The security downstairs is a joke. A tight skirt and a smile, and they’ll break down like stale saltines.”
“Well, I’m not sure I feel comfortable meeting with you without a rep from HR present,”
