Secret Acquisitions

by Raleigh Davis

  That gets her going too, almost as much as talking about her encryption algorithm did.

  “Cryptology challenges?”

  “Yeah.” She shimmies in her seat, which makes her breasts shift invitingly. I shift too. “There’s this one group I’m in, a women’s-only group, where once a month one of us has to come up with an encrypted code the others have to solve. We call ourselves the Bletchley group.”

  “Bletchley?” I’ve never heard that name before. Is he some kind of obscure computer guy?

  For a moment I think she might grab my arm. She’s practically glittering with excitement. “It’s a place, not a he. Bletchley is where the World War II code breakers worked. The Germans had a very sophisticated encryption system known as Enigma, and the code breakers at Bletchley worked on cracking it. Some of the first digital computers were built to help.”

  “Really?” In college, January had been full of amazing facts like that, much more interested in the history and arcane niches of computing than the rest of us were. I realize I haven’t seen anyone so excited by pure computing like this in forever. It’s all about money and branding and killer apps. Yeah, we talk big about disruption, but most of the time it’s just that: talk.

  She nods. “My cryptology group already has the name Bletchley, so I figured Ultra was a good enough name for an encryption company.”

  “Ultra?” I don’t see the connection.

  “Ultra was the code name given to all the information they decrypted from the German signals. We’re encrypting data here, but we’re also on the side of good.” She shrugs, but her eyes are glinting with suppressed enthusiasm. “So… Ultra.”

  “It’s an awesome name. How did the Enigma machine work?”

  I already know she’s got the plans memorized and could give a college course on it. That’s the way she is. Or at least used to be.

  I forgot how much I loved that about her in college.

  “Oh, so it’s a mechanical computer really.” With a few quick keystrokes, she pulls up a schematic. “So the basic premise is a substitution cipher. A equals Z, B equals Y, and so on. Which is ridiculously easy to break.”

  “Even I could do that.”

  She smiles at me, and my heart tries to crack. I don’t let it.

  Whatever is between us can be physical—hell, it’s already intensely physical—and it can be business, but it can’t be personal. Silicon Valley is always ready to chew up and spit out anyone dumb enough to stumble. January hasn’t come to me because she’s changed her mind about turning me down in college. She’s knocked on my door for money, and she’s glowing like because of cryptology, not me.

  The reminder makes my blood cool.

  She doesn’t sense the change in my temperature. “But the Enigma machine was special because it used a series of rotors to randomize the substitution. So you’re typing out your message.” She raises her fingers like she’s about to type. “A equals Z for your first key press. But then you do another and the rotors turn, changing the substitution. So now A equals Y instead. And so on, with the cipher changing randomly with every keystroke. Which makes the code almost impossible to break.”

  “But the people at Bletchley did it.”

  She could do it, I bet. She’s always been wicked smart. I can at least admire her brains along with her body.

  “It was a pretty big effort. There were spies and mathematicians and engineers all involved.”

  She knows every one of them. I can tell by everything swirling behind her eyes. And even though I’m here solely for professional reasons—I wasn’t joking about keeping a close eye on my investments—I want to hear her tell the whole story.

  Something pulses between us, something new yet also carrying a whiff of memories.

  This isn’t supposed to be happening. Yes, I brought her back to my place last night, which I usually never do, but it was only because she was frightened. I prefer to meet women in hotels. I tell them it’s because I wake up early—which is true—but that’s not why. It’s because I don’t want just anyone in my space. And I don’t want to be the bad guy when I have to escort a woman out the next morning.

  In a hotel, I can leave them with room service, whatever treatment they want from the spa, and a car whenever they’re ready to leave the cocoon of the room. And they can enjoy all my gifts without my having to be there.

  Yes, that makes me an asshole, but one that buys his companions thousand-dollar spa days.

  I didn’t offer January that, but I did bring her into my home. I let her spend the night. She doesn’t realize it, but even that much is more than I’ve given any woman before.

  I want her to think it’s just about sex and business, because that’s what it should be. What it will be once I get myself locked down again.

  “So what about your Ultra?” I ask. “You’re programming this intense encryption algorithm, you name it after Nazi fighters—isn’t that paranoid? Are ‘zee Germans’ coming for us?”

  The moment dissolves under her embarrassment and anger. Her face floods with color, and I feel like a complete dick. But I don’t apologize, because I still can’t see why normal people might need the fallout shelter equivalent of encryption on their phones.

  “Maybe,” she says stiffly. “But with cameras and microphones and entire lives on phones, shouldn’t people have the option to use the most secure software?”

  “You think the phone will turn on the camera all by itself?” I mean, of course it could do that, and I’ve heard stories of people putting tape over their laptop cameras, but that’s tinfoil-hat territory.

  Judging by the look on her face—wide eyes, suddenly white cheeks—she doesn’t think it’s crazy at all.

  “Why not?” That’s only just above a whisper.

  My forehead goes tight and my jaw tingles. What the hell is going on here? Is she only paranoid—or does she know something I don’t?

  But before I can reply, there’s a knock at her cubicle door. Or rather, the wall since it doesn’t have a door. Everyone else is at desks scattered through an open floor plan, and the sole perk January’s given herself is this shitty, doorless cubicle. I’m going to have to do something about her lack of an office. In fact, I spent this morning before I came here finding the perfect place for the company to move.

  “Someone’s here with lunch?” Doc looks very puzzled as she pokes her head in. “But none of us ordered anything.”

  I check my smartwatch. Perfect—they’re here exactly when I wanted them to be, down to the minute. “I ordered it.” At January’s expression, I add, “Providing food for your employees increases productivity by thirteen percent.”

  “I feel more productive already.” With a grin, Doc goes to let the delivery company in.

  January’s giving me a look, half-skeptical, half-amused. “You made that statistic up.”

  I gesture for her to go first. “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes I do.” She snags her cardigan and covers those luscious shoulders. “You were always doing that at Stanford, making up ridiculous statistics. Like… forty-two percent of alligators prefer human flesh to chicken when given the choice.”

  I can’t believe she remembers that. Or that the memories are amusing to her. If that tiny detail of mine has stuck with her all these years…

  Why did she turn me down in college? And why is she really with me now?

  “Doesn’t sound made up to me at all.” I keep my voice steady. I can’t give myself away to her. “Sounds perfectly reasonable. Did you know that ninety-five percent of alligator meat tastes exactly like chicken?”

  January’s still laughing as she leaves her cubicle, but when she sees the delivery people unloading lunch, she stops. In fact, everyone’s watching in shocked silence.

  Okay, maybe I went a little overboard. But there’s no way I’m eating stale peanut butter sandwiches and a leathery apple.

  Instead, we’ll be eating wild salmon served with a cauliflower purée. There’s freshly bake
d french bread in proper baskets, and the caterers are plating salads of baby greens, cranberries, and pumpkin seeds. Spring water both with and without carbonation sits in buckets of ice, and they’re also sending up a top-of-the-line coffee machine. The coffee machine will stay behind since the ancient drip system I saw here wasn’t fit for man or beast and Blue Bottle is too far for quick coffee runs.

  “Are you going to be with us every day?” asks Hallie. She’s rubbing sanitizer on her hands, which she seems to be doing every time I look over at her. I’m amazed she hasn’t rubbed her skin clean off.

  In fact, the crew January has assembled here is… not quite what I was expecting. For one, it’s all women. And the women themselves… One has been asleep all day, another hasn’t stopped muttering to herself about everything that irritates her, and another looks old enough to be someone’s mom.

  In the valley, there are two things coders shouldn’t be—a woman or old. January either believes in her employees deeply or she’s running some kind of social experiment here. Maybe both.

  Hallie has stopped rubbing her hands and is staring at me.

  Right.

  “I’ve arranged for lunch to be delivered every day, yes. There’s an app, and once everyone’s set up their accounts, you can order whatever you like each day. I had to guess today.”

  I sound modest, but I’m not feeling that way at all. I can tell they’re impressed, and I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself. Especially with the expression on January’s face.

  I could get used to this, her face is saying.

  Some part of me that I’m not supposed to acknowledge, perhaps the too-tender corner of my heart that I should be better at hiding, the corner that keeps trying to crack, wants her to get used to it.

  I tell it to shut up. Tenderness has no place in this deal.

  Chapter 8

  Mark has been here all day, a full eleven hours, and even though I know he’s running on less sleep than I am, he still looks as fresh as if he’d just woken up.

  We’ve been going over everything related to the company—financials, programs in beta, testing benchmarks, and our targets for the future—and while I’ve enjoyed it, I have to admit I’m starting to wilt. Lunch was almost six hours ago, and the coffee isn’t cutting my hunger any longer. Or helping my brain to stay sharp. Although the machine he’s installed makes the stuff the angels must drink in heaven.

  Mark, though, remains whip smart and laser focused, absorbing complex, abstract issues immediately and highlighting potential problems before I’m even done explaining.

  Not to brag, but it’s a rare person who can keep up with me when it comes to this stuff. And here’s Mark, outpacing me. It’s not competitive, not at all—and it’s a relief to have someone on my level finally. At least besides my employees.

  So even though I’m dead on my feet, I keep pulling up one more spreadsheet, one more source code file. Because when I grab my jacket and bag and say good night, today will be over. I won’t see him again until tomorrow. At least I think not—he hasn’t said anything about tonight, although he promised to in his note.

  I’m already addicted to his company.

  I’m going through the code Meryem gave me yesterday when I suddenly come to with his voice in my ear, whispering my name.

  “January.” His hand’s on my shoulder, and his fingers are brushing my cheek. He’s trying to wake me up, but I don’t want to. Not when this dream of him is so nice.

  “I’ve called the car. We’re going home.”

  That makes me sit up. Home? Does he mean his place? We haven’t discussed anything at all, and I at least need to run by my apartment to water my orchids and grab some fresh clothes. I can’t keep wearing gifts from him. Even if I’d love to see what he picks out for me next.

  “Okay.” I shake my head to chase off my drowsiness. “Let me check NextBus and see when the N Judah is coming—”

  “Don’t argue.” He’s not mean about it, just commanding. Commanding and sexy. “The car’s out front now. Are you hungry, or do you want to go straight home?”

  There’s that word again, as if his home is my home. Or maybe my place isn’t nice enough for him to ever consider it a home. Compared to his house, anything else would be a shack.

  My stomach rumbles, answering for me. Okay, so I can’t lie and say I’m not hungry, but I also don’t want to fall asleep in the middle of some fancy restaurant.

  “I could eat.” I barely get that out before I’m attacked by a massive yawn.

  “We’ll stop by my club then. We’ll get a private room.”

  I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not.

  When we pull up to his club, a building that’s remarkably discreet considering how ornate it is, I figure he’s probably teasing. This is not a place where you can sleep as you eat. This is a place where the richest of the rich come to socialize and grow even richer with the backroom deals they make here.

  For a moment I wonder if Fuchs will be here, if I’ll have to see him again. The thought climbs up my spine, locks my joints, even as I try to keep stumbling forward.

  Mark hooks his arm around my waist, taking my weight as if it were no more than a feather. His cheek brushes mine as he leans in close. “You okay?”

  I nod. “Just tired.”

  “We can leave.”

  I want to, but I can’t hide like a rabbit all the time. “No, I’ll be okay.”

  I feel Mark’s jaw tightening, the muscle and bone hard against my cheek. He isn’t quite buying it, but he leads us forward anyway.

  A uniformed doorman whisks us inside with easy deference. Before I know it, he’s taken our coats and my bag and told us that the wild mushroom pappardelle is particularly excellent today.

  “I’ll be using my usual room,” Mark says.

  The doorman accepts that with a nod, and we move forward through double french doors into the main area.

  Holy heck. My mouth wants to drop open, but I don’t let it. This… this is pretty overwhelming though. The carpet looks like it came straight from Turkey, the chairs are all burgundy leather, and the place is covered with gleaming wood accents. Even the ceiling gleams since it’s covered with copper tiles. There’s a double-sided fireplace in the middle of the room and a baby grand tucked into a corner where a pianist plays an accompaniment to the low conversations taking place at the tables.

  I’m so engrossed in taking everything in I almost miss Mark’s stumble.

  I freeze. Fuchs must be here. He must have followed me, first to the party, then here…

  But as I scan the room for him and don’t see him, some of my cold fear leaves me. Why would Mark be afraid to see Fuchs? He has no idea what the man has planned.

  So something—or someone—else must be spooking him.

  My gaze falls on Julian then, and I instantly see why Mark’s upset. Julian’s at a table with a woman so beautiful it’s like she’s stepped out of a magazine. But there’s nothing airbrushed about her high cheekbones, wide-set eyes, and flawlessly painted mouth. Or the body under her designer clothes.

  I dress really well for a programmer and take pride in being put together, but I’m nothing compared to this woman.

  Mark can’t take his eyes off her either, but he’s not happy about it. His jaw keeps twitching, like he’s holding back an eruption.

  “Who is she?” I whisper.

  “Callie,” he says in more of a growl than a whisper. “Logan’s wife. She has some fucking nerve.”

  Mark’s obvious distress gets to me. I want to be on his side, to stand with him.

  We’re not allies though, not really. I need to remember that.

  “What happened?”

  I want to hear a tale of how Logan cheated—he strikes me as the type, with his too-good looks—how Callie was right to go to Julian. After all, she’s a free woman, the same as the rest of us. She doesn’t owe Logan anything.

  “Nobody knows,” he says. “I know what it looks like with Logan, but
he really did love her. Does.” Mark shakes his head, his dark hair falling over his brow. “Logan thought everything was great. And then one day she was gone. Without a trace. Julian came to us and said any messages to Callie could be sent through him. Like Logan was going to track her down and do something to her.”

  Mark is furious, but he’s holding it in so tightly he’s vibrating. Strangely, I’m not a bit afraid. Maybe because he’s pissed on behalf of his friend.

  A detail floats back to me. “You said wife, not ex-wife.”

  That seems like an important distinction, one Mark wouldn’t slip up on.

  “She never started divorce proceedings. And Logan’s so fucked up over her leaving, he’ll never do it.”

  I take another look at Callie, peering past the blinding perfection. Her eyes are tight, her skin too pale, her mouth held rigid. She’s not easy, not at all.

  She looks as broken up as Mark says Logan is.

  Mark grabs my hand, making me jump. Oh no. He can’t—

  But he is, pulling me in his wake as he heads for them. I pull back, not hard, but to try to slow him down, get him to rethink this.

  He doesn’t though, and as we get close, I hear Callie saying, “I need to do something, Julian! I can’t go on like this. Why hasn’t he called a lawyer—”

  She stops dead then because Julian is rising, a nasty smile on his face as he stares down Mark. When she sees who’s coming, her face goes whiter than fog. She turns her head away, but not before I see her rapidly blinking as if her eyes are burning.

  “Funny seeing you here,” Julian drawls.

  Awesome. They’re going to have another showdown. At least pictures of this won’t make the front page of TidBytes since it’s a private club. The story will though.

  “Not so funny,” Mark says, “considering I’m a member of this club. Along with Logan.” He sends that to Callie.

  She whips her head around, her too-pale skin suddenly going red. She looks like she might be choking. “Is he here?”