by Tessa Layne
A slow smile crawls up his cheeks. "Fine. You want a counteroffer? There will be kissing, and handholding and all sorts of PDA. Only in public, and only when the situation warrants. And," he holds up a finger, smile broadening as if he's just thought of something awful to torture me with. "The dress code you've so willfully ignored for the last four years will be enforced starting tomorrow. Ignore it at your peril."
"B-but your dress-"
"Ah-ah," he cuts me off. "Not done yet. You've wildly underestimated my mother's sleuthing abilities if you think that laying off at six and not working weekends will go unnoticed. Do that, and she'll fill those hours with bridge parties, fundraisers and dinner engagements. You'll wish you were working. In fact you'll be begging me to come into the office. Last- each of us gets a one-time pass on any one of those clauses except numbers three through six."
I mentally jump through the list again, then gulp. What have I missed? "I don't understand."
The playful banter drops from his tone of voice. "Because I know you value financial security above all else, and if you'd wanted to scare me away from a deal, you should have asked for much, much more. You're irreplaceable, Penny."
My toes warm at the weird compliment, even as the rest of me rebels. "I refuse to follow an ancient, patriarchal dress code."
He shrugs. "Suit yourself. I'm giving you the moon, Penny. All I ask is a few more months of your time, and for you to dress like an employee not a goth girl on her way to a rave."
And just like that, he's turned the tables on me. Still, I won't go down without some kind of a fight. I know he expects nothing less. "Why the conditions? Isn't it enough I'm agreeing to be your fake fiancée?"
He flashes me his teeth. "Are you?"
"Just answer my question."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Because. I love nothing more than seeing you squirm." In the blink of an eye his expression goes from light to smoldering as he steps into my space again and tilts my chin with his finger. My stomach makes a slow, delicious roll. "And maybe, just maybe," his voice turns gruff. "I've been looking for an excuse to kiss you."
Chapter Three
Stockton
Four Years Earlier
Harrison walks into my office and drops a file on my desk. "I need you to leave right now and go pick up a hacker."
I remain focused on the string of code scrolling down my monitor. "I'm a little busy here," I point out, letting the snark enter my voice. We've been dealing with a new wave of cyberattacks that's had me pulling consecutive all-nighters for a week.
"I've got a meeting with Tokyo in an hour. And besides-" Stockton taps the folder with his knuckle. "You're gonna want to read this file."
"Doubtful." Truth is, if you've seen one hacker, you've seen them all. Mid-twenties, male, pasty from lack of sun, too smart for their own good. Which is where we come in. "Retrieving" hackers from FBI custody is nothing new for us. In fact, it's how we've managed to build one of the top cyber-security divisions in the world. No one can stop hackers better than a hacker, and in a world where seconds count, I want the smartest there are. So when the FBI calls, we swoop in with a probationary job offer. The guys always take it so they can avoid jail and keep doing what they love most - solving puzzles. Usually Stockton handles these deals. It carries a little more weight when the CEO gives you a get out of jail free card. The first six months, they eat, drink, and breathe Steele Conglomerate while I take them through a series of complex puzzles, each one harder than the last, designed to test not only their skill but also their ethics. The ones that fail go straight to jail. There's too much at stake to take any shit.
"Stockton," he says sharply. "I'm not dicking around. I need you to go to Rolla. Right now."
That grabs my attention. "Rolla? Do we have some kind of a wunderkind?" The University of Missouri has a science and tech school there - mostly local kids from rural Missouri and the surrounding states. When the FBI calls, we end up flying to places like Vegas, the Bay area, or the Beltway. Most hackers gravitate to money. Or power.
But Rolla? Now I'm curious. A kid like that, depending on the level of his offense, could be groomed to take over my position someday.
"Just read the file. Helicopter's waiting on the roof."
Only I don't, because I spend the brief flight setting up a trojan horse in our third line of defense that will destroy a hacker's hard drive. Special Agent Locke is waiting for me at the helipad. "Fair warning, DoD is on their way, so is the CIA. You have about a half-hour before General Woodward lands."
"Wait, isn't he-"
"Commander of U.S. Cybercomm? Yes. Everyone wants this kid." Agent Locke hands me a folder that's probably identical to the one Harrison gave me. And now I'm kicking myself. If military brass are involved, this kid is a super-genius and a threat. Which means his life changes forever today. "Managed to expose a trillion-dollar vulnerability deep within the walls of Social Security."
For a half-second I feel sorry for the punk and wonder what in the hell is in the file I'm holding. But before I can ask any questions or sneak a glance at the file, Agent Lock pushes open the door to a conference room and waves me in. What I see halts me in my tracks. This isn't some cybernerd who's lived in his bedroom or a basement since puberty.
It's a fucking girl.
I blink, mind flying in a half-dozen directions. She's as far away from the door as she can get, rocking on the back legs of her chair, eyeing me from underneath an uncombed mop of pink-streaked black hair. I recognize that expression, the mix of curiosity and defiance that's a hallmark of a brilliant mind. Her bright green eyes, overly lined with black, snap as she scans me. I flex as I meet her gaze, and a jolt of electricity arcs between us. A mutual awareness, here and gone so fast I'm sure I imagined it, except my palms are tingling.
She's wearing a black Ramones t-shirt and a half-dozen braided cords around her left wrist where the tail end of a tattoo peeks out. A pink gem glimmers on her nose and a small hoop encases the right corner of her plump lower lip. She's slender, scrawny, even, with pinched cheeks - like she's survived on Funions and too many Red Bulls, and not nearly enough real food.
Everything about her screams "piece of work." And if I were smart, I'd turn right back around and leave her to the military brass. Let them straighten her ass out with eight weeks of bootcamp. But I can't seem to look away. And if Harrison had me drop everything for this fool's errand, then she's flying back with me to Kansas City, come hell or high water. Still holding her gaze, I step fully into the room, placing my briefcase on the table and snapping it open.
Behind me, Agent Locke clears his throat. "I'll leave you two alone. Will twenty minutes be enough?"
Not even close. Normally these debriefings last two or three hours, sometimes longer, depending on the depth of testing a potential acquisition undergoes. But I hear his warning. I have twenty minutes to convince her to take a job offer with us. When the door clicks shut, I pull out a portable router and two laptops. I push one across the table. "Did Agent Locke tell you who I am?"
She shakes her head once. "No." Her voice is smoky, and rough. The kind of voice you hear after a night of hard fucking. Jesus. She's got me off my game and we haven't even started.
I give myself a hard mental shake. There's no way I'm letting a girl, especially one who looks like she could still be in high school, get the best of me. "I'm Stockton Forde. CTO of Steele Conglomerate." I don't expect her to know who we are. We're not a pop-culture icon like Apple or Google. We work on the fringe - experimental technology, communications, military contracts, banking, space... you get the idea. But her eyes widen a fraction when I drop the name. She's heard of us. Curious. "I assume you know why I'm here?"
Her eyes shutter and her mouth thins. She lifts a slender shoulder and makes a face, as if she's disgusted with herself for getting caught.
I press on. I don't have time to fuck around and I don't have Steele's knack for sweet talk. Her eyes dart from the laptop to me then back again. H
er fingers drum the table. She's itching to open it. I open mine, pull up the timer screen and set it for ten minutes. "Our laptops are connected. As soon as you open yours, it will trigger the timer in mine. You'll have ten minutes to get to level six. If you don't reach it in the allotted time, the motherboard will melt. If you do, the computer's yours."
Her eyes dart to mine, skeptical. "What if I refuse?"
I work hard to cover my surprise. And then my anger. No one the FBI has brought to us has refused. Our offers are simply too good. Again, it occurs to me that she's dangerous and Steele doesn't know what he's doing, asking me to bring her on. I should walk out the door and leave her to the wolves. But I'm a sucker for a challenge and while it annoys me, I grudgingly admire her balls. I lean in and drop my voice. "Here are your options, sweetheart. You can go to jail where you'll likely get raped within your first week. Or you can go with the military top dogs who'll be here in..." I check my watch. "Seventeen minutes. They'll put you through eight weeks of basic, then dump you in a basement with a bunch of other plebe coders. And given the severity of your offenses, they won't let you out of their sight. For the rest of your life. And if you decide to break up with them you'll be looking at prison or life inside a foreign embassy in whatever country will take you. Also for the rest of your life." I spread my hands, only feeling a tiny bit guilty at laying out her options in such a stark manner.
To her credit, her face remains impassive. I want to ask her if she plays poker. Not that Danny would ever let a woman in on his high stakes games, but if he did, I'd bet even odds that she'd run the table. She holds my gaze for a long moment then reaches for the laptop. I open the file Agent Locke gave me, while keeping half an eye on the keystrokes scrolling down my monitor.
She passes the first level easily, in about ninety seconds. At the same time, I skim the file. Penelope Fischer, age nineteen. No named father. Mother in and out of jail, currently serving time in the State Pen for dealing meth and general child endangerment. Pulled into foster care at eleven, ran away for the first time at fourteen. Juvenile delinquent until tenth grade when a high school math teacher saw her potential. Nearly flunked out but managed a full ride to Missouri Science & Tech, probably thanks to a few dedicated teachers. I glance up. She's made it to level three with four minutes left.
I quickly scan the rest of her file. She's always had issues with authority, no surprise. Yet in spite of her terrible attendance record, she's at the top of her class - taking graduate-level coursework. Wunderkind indeed. I can see why Steele wants her working for us. Better to have her on our side than working against us. But holy shit, nineteen? Two-and-a-half-minutes. I shut the file and watch her. She's at level four. It's game over and her face shows she knows it. A crease appears at the bridge of her nose, and her tongue worries at the hoop in her lip. There is nothing remotely sexy about the girl in front of me, but a zing of awareness flashes through me, nonetheless. I've never seen that level of focus from anyone, except maybe Steele when he wants something.
I'm transfixed, eyes shifting between her and the clock, wanting desperately for her to beat my program. With twenty-two seconds to spare, she shoots me a glare then jams her index finger on the return button. The clock on my laptop stops. I push back from the table. "What the fuck?"
She folds her arms across her front. "You Kobayashi Maru'd me," she says referring to the second Star Trek movie Wrath of Kahn.
I don't deny it. I've set her up to fail, giving her the test we reserve for last. No candidate has ever passed it - by design. And no candidate has ever made it as far as she did in as short a time. I created a neural network that mines keystrokes then shifts the access requirements accordingly. The only way to win is for someone to rapidly figure out what the network is doing and then adapt their keystroke habits. "What the fuck did you just do?"
"What does it look like, Captain Obvious?" she shoots back.
She's. Fucking. Brilliant.
"You're a brat, too, I see."
She makes a face at me that has me biting back a laugh. Nice. If she was anyone but a scrawny nineteen-year-old, I'd have a raging hard-on for what just happened, because, fuck. A woman who's my intellectual equal? Hell, maybe even my superior? I'm like a fucking junior high kid looking at porn for the first time. And the whole brat thing she's got going on just makes it worse.
This complicates things in every possible way. For starters, she can't live with the cybersquad. We'll have to come up with alternate arrangements, which in and of itself is a problem. Our program works because newcomers live with and are mentored, monitored by my top guys - Cameron, Drake, and Hector - a.k.a. the cybersquad. The house they share is state of the art, and since there's always the potential for newcomers to go rogue or bolt, our goal is to quickly assimilate them. But how the fuck is that going to work with a female? A flash of caveman-like possessiveness rips through me. There's no way I'm letting a girl, especially one who's barely out of high school, live with those guys. Even if she can hack circles around them.
I jam my hands in my slacks pockets. "Nice work, shutting down the timer. That's a new one," I grudgingly admit. The cybersquad is going to go nuts when they find out how talented she is.
"How do I disable the trigger?"
Again, her question surprises me. Of course, no computer has survived the test, so it's a moot point.
"I'll have the guys in the office dismantle it."
She cocks her head. "That presumes I'm accepting your offer."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"I'm weighing my options."
I fight a smile. I like her spirit. "Think jail is going to be more fun?"
She lifts a shoulder again. "Three square meals."
She can't be serious. I reach into my briefcase, pull out the offer, and push it across the table. "One-twenty a year for four years, half goes into escrow to be paid out at your four-year anniversary. At that point, you'll receive your escrow and a twenty-five percent pay raise. You'll also be eligible for profit-sharing. We also provide your housing for the first four years and a car allowance."
She scans it quickly, scowling at intervals, then spears me with a look. "Skirts or slacks? Are you for real?"
I clear my throat. "We have an image to uphold."
"In Twenty-Twenty?" She's incredulous, and suddenly I want to laugh, because she's absolutely right, and I'm wondering now why I didn't see this coming.
"Look, kid," I say kid on purpose. As much to remind myself that Penelope Fischer is a child, even though her brain gives me a boner. "The choice is yours." I look at my watch again. "And you have exactly three minutes before General Abel Woodward who is the head of U.S. Cyber Command, director of the National Security Agency, and chief of the Central Security Service, and some of his top dogs march through that door. If you want to spend the next seventy years owned by the military, be my guest. But let me remind you, their dress code is far stricter than ours. As is federal prison."
Checkmate, sweetheart.
Chapter Four
Penny
Four Years Earlier
Kid.
The word makes me grind my teeth. I've been underestimated my whole life. And if this guy wants to pat me on the head like Cindy Loo Who and send me off to bed with a glass of milk while he Grinches around, I say bring it. He will not know what hit him.
I can't deny his offer is incredible. The thought of that kind of money in my checking account makes me salivate. Any person in their right mind would take it. But Stockton Forde makes my pulse race to the point of distraction. If I'd been paying attention to the code challenge and not the spicy warm scent of him that permeated the room when he walked in, I'd have realized in the first thirty-six seconds of the test that I was walking into a trap. The first level was too easy. The second one a little harder, but by then it was too late. My ego got in the way. I mean after all, I did just expose a trillion-dollar vulnerability at the highest levels of the government. As soon as I realized the program was learning my keys
trokes, I shifted gears, because dammit, I'm not going to lose a basic code challenge to a suit. No matter how handsome his cheekbones are, or how compelling his dark hazel eyes.
I hate that Stockton's right. The alternatives to his job offer are... less than desirable. I hate his smug look even more. But fuck that antiquated dress code. If he thinks I'm going to show up to work in a dress and remove my piercings, he's got another thing coming. I meet his gaze head-on, making sure he sees I'm not afraid of him. I've met worse bullies and come out on top - I can handle him. What's harder to handle is the riot of hormones he's stirring up. Even from across the room, he makes my belly quiver. And that spark of whatever it is that keeps passing between us makes me want to push all his buttons. I stare at him, mentally counting down until the time has run out because I take a perverse kind of joy in seeing the way his razor-sharp jaw ticks impatiently. Every twenty seconds he fists then relaxes his left hand in his pocket - he's dying to look at his watch, but doesn't want to let on.
I decide to put him out of his misery and push the laptop across the table as I rise. "Keep it." His eyes sharpen as he watches me round the far end of the table. I'm not quite brave enough to cross directly in front of him. Too close and I might combust. I pause with my hand on the door, unable to keep from smirking. "Those security breaches you've been dealing with? Not North Korea." Before he can respond, I step into the hall and call for Agent Locke.
Locke pushes off the wall and comes toward me. "You're an idiot if you don't take their offer. You don't seem like career military, and I'd hate to see you waste that mind in federal prison."
The enormity of the last twenty-four hours hits me like a freight train. The taste of metal rises in my mouth. The old sick feeling in my stomach returns. The one that always arrived with the social worker coming to take me away to the next home. "Who says I'd be wasting it?" I challenge with more bravado than I feel.