Broken Build: Silicon Valley Romantic Suspense

by Rachelle Ayala

  She pulled a jacket over her sweater and slipped on her running shoes.

  “So what’cha doing today?” Sherry pitched the empty can at the wastebasket and missed.

  “Work.” Jen bit her tongue to avoid more nastiness and stuffed her laptop into her backpack. Sherry was here to share the rent, not butt into her business.

  Sherry shrugged and grabbed Max’s leash. “Come on. Let’s leave Ms. Prickly Pants to her misery. Oh, and your lawyer friend was by last night. I told him you went to the Pizza Arcade.”

  Jen didn’t dignify that remark with a response. She grabbed her keys and rushed out the door to the carport. Her heartbeat didn’t steady until she was well away from her apartment. What if Sherry talked to the police and told them she had gone out with Rey? She gritted her teeth to hold back tears. Rey, why did you have to die?

  And Rodrigo. His sad eyes burned in her memory. When Jen had returned from staying with her uncle, he had refused to talk to her, told her to leave him alone, even tried to pay her to go away.

  A car horn blared behind her. Jen stepped on the gas and made the left turn before taking a deep breath. Can’t change the past.

  She drove down Trimble and turned left on Zanker. She had to install the new fileserver today. A single car sat in the Shopahol parking lot. Jen pulled next to it and smashed the curb with a sickening crunch. Damn. She reversed it and cut the engine.

  A gust blew dried leaves in a circle on the sidewalk. Jen locked her car and bent to examine the damage—a cracked air dam on her brand new Eclipse. She dropped her keys and spit on her finger to rub out the black scratch.

  The neighboring car’s bumper stretched over the sidewalk. That’s why she had misjudged. Her eyes widened. Dried brownish streaks flaked off the bumper and grill, and a tuft of black hair was pinched to the license plate holder.

  Jen stood and backed from the car—a white Camry! She must not scream. Drive away. Pretend she didn’t see it. Whose car was this? Her breath came in sharp puffs, and she doubled over, trying not to hyperventilate or faint. She quickly retrieved her keys from the sidewalk. A pair of trousered legs met her on the way up. The scream erupted from her throat, and strong hands clamped her wrists.

  Steel-grey eyes bore into hers. “Calm down. Are you okay?”

  Words scattered from her throat. She tried to pull away, but the man, the CEO, the delectable Dave Jewell held her tight. He picked up her backpack and pulled her toward the building.

  “I-I ah…” Jen gasped, but she followed him through the door.

  “Let’s get you some water.” He handed her the backpack and steered her through the lobby toward his office. “It’s only a little front end damage. I’m sure your insurance will take care of it.”

  He appeared calm, too calm to have blood on his car. Jen’s brain burst with silent screams. She forced herself to breathe evenly. A CEO wouldn’t be driving a Camry, would he?

  There had to be an innocent explanation, and she sure as hell didn’t want to get involved. She’d pretend nothing was wrong. Consciously relaxing, she disengaged from his hold and accepted the bottle of water. “Sure. I’ll be down in the server room. I hope Bruce unpacked the boxes and racked the filer. Is that his car parked next to mine?”

  Dave looked up from his Blackberry. “Huh? I have to go. I came to grab a file. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  He jingled his keys, one with a Toyota emblem, and he patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about your car. I’ll pay for the damage. I should have had parking blocks installed, especially where the curb’s too high. Let’s go check it out. I know a body shop that’ll do you good.”

  Jen fought for her breath again. How could he be so light-hearted and casual? But wasn’t that the case with psychopaths? Especially charming, handsome, successful ones. The last one anyone suspected. He acted as if he didn’t remember meeting her last night at the pizza place. Oh, yes. Stupid. Of course. He was the boss, and this was work. Well, she’d pretend she never shared a video game with him, either.

  “No… no, I have to go to the lab.”

  “Okay, I’ll take a look on the way out and call someone to fix it. You just worry about the filer. Promise me you won’t break anything?” He smiled and pantomimed tipping his nonexistent hat.

  Was he a loon on top of being a murderer? Jen shuddered and backed out of his office. When she saw him exit, she ran to a window near her cubicle.

  Dave squatted in front of her car. He traced the crack and pulled on the broken air dam. He glanced at the white car and froze. Slowly he eased himself to his feet and looked at the office building. Their gazes locked.

  Jen threw her backpack over her shoulders. She had to get away. He’d seen her staring. She tore down the stairs toward the back exit. Yes. It would set off the alarm. But she had no choice. She didn’t want to know about the blood nor be the one to tell the police.

  The motion sensors lit the lights over the cubicles. She dodged and wove through the maze of partitions, and rounded a corner. Her foot caught in the slots of a pallet, and her ankle turned with a jolt of pain. She fell, splattering empty boxes and Styrofoam packing material.

  “Whoa, Jen, are you all right?” Bruce bent over her, his bulky frame blocking out the overhead lights. Running footsteps approached them.

  “What happened?” Dave knelt in front of her.

  “She ran right into the pallet,” Bruce said. “I think she twisted her ankle.”

  Jen gritted her teeth when Dave pulled her up, her ankle too tender to put weight on. He helped her to a cot in the break room.

  “Bruce, get me an icepack.” Dave took off her shoe and probed her ankle.

  Jen stared at the top of his head while he examined her. He pushed the jean leg up to her knee with surprisingly gentle hands.

  Bruce rummaged in the freezer and handed Dave an icepack. “I’ll clean up the corridor. Should we call an ambulance?”

  Dave pressed the icepack over her right ankle. “No. I’ll drive her to the emergency room. Go back and rack the filer.”

  Bruce waddled out of the room. Jen swallowed and pulled away from Dave. She backed into the corner. He knew she knew. What would he do now?

  He leaned over the cot, his weight shifting the flimsy mattress. “It’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.” She hoped her jaw would stay still and her teeth would not chatter. He hovered so close—she sensed his rapid heartbeat—his cologne and maleness incited a riot of firing nerves deep in her belly. All systems flashed ‘Danger’ in bright red letters, and sirens erupted in her inner ear.

  “Good.” His voice lowered into a hoarse whisper. “Because you’re going to lean against me quietly, get in my car, and go with me to the occupational clinic. No screaming, no hysterics, nothing. Got it?”

  “But… but the blood on your car.” The hard concrete wall was at her back, cold and unyielding.

  He edged into her space. She hadn’t noticed how warm grey eyes could get. How did he do that? And why was he? His lips touched hers ever so slightly. His hand moved up and appreciated her neck and her jawline, caressing.

  Jen told herself to breathe, to back away. She pressed his chest. Tighten and push. But the well contoured muscles, firm yet inviting, stirred her insides into a consistency of gooey, hot syrup. And instead of pushing, she grasped his shoulders.

  Her mind zipped and bounced like a silvery pinball flipped through tunnels of bumpers. He was rumored to be a boy toy of rich women—much too classy for her. Even though he still had his late wife’s picture on his desk, he was a player. But when was the last time she’d been kissed? Would he fire her now? Or kill her to shut her up? Or just suck all her breath away, leaving her a puckered wraith to be blown away by the wind?

  Oh, but the way he kissed, she might as well enjoy her last moments on planet earth. Oxygen already short-circuiting her brain, blood rushed to less rational regions of her body. Last evening, they had raced until they ran out of tokens.
He gave Christy and Alex money for ice cream sundaes and steered her to the twentieth-century vintage pinball machine hidden behind the soda cylinders. He had helped her press the buttons, his arms around her, and when he tilted the machine on purpose to score a match, he held her close for a moment. And she wanted him to kiss her then, but Alex found them and broke the moment.

  And now, oh, her mind swirled along with her lips. Had she just opened her mouth to his hot, slippery tongue? It barely tangled with hers, not plundering or rude, but entreating, polite, tasting like warm cinnamon rolls. His thumb tickled her beauty mark, and a rumble from deep in his throat made her hot, shaky, and swollen all over. He buried a hand in her hair and stroked the back of her head while his lips slipped gentle pulses of affection, like scraps of paper hearts between the crevices in the wailing wall of her loneliness.

  Right before Jen lost all coherent abilities, the image of a tuft of black hair caught on his license plate frame clamped her mouth shut. Dave drew back, and she immediately regretted it and hoped she hadn’t been a horrible kisser. Not that she had much practice.

  “What was that for?” She sputtered, flustered and out of breath, peering in his eyes in time to catch a look of pure confusion and despair.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He lowered his face. It reddened from jawline to hairline.

  Jen looked over his shoulder. Bruce wavered at the doorway. “Need any help?”

  Dave turned and waved him away. “We’re good.”

  And how long had Bruce been standing there? Jen swallowed a jagged gulp. Gossip spread faster than a jackrabbit on a date. She couldn’t afford to quit, but the embarrassment...

  “Ready to go?” Dave touched her arm.

  She bit her lips and nodded. After she put her shoe back on, he pulled her onto her good foot and looped her arm around his shoulder. A good six-feet plus to her five-nine, she was just comfortable hopping after him. Strains of freaky horror movie music played in her head. But Dave’s magnetic pull made her stomach giddy while thoughts of getting in his bloody car slammed adrenaline into her ribcage. She should call out to Bruce. Or refuse to go with him. Scream, now! But her vocal cords remained frozen.

  Her body glued to his, she refused to glance at the bumper as she allowed him to help her into the passenger seat of the Camry. Wordlessly, he started the car and drove five blocks to a carwash.

  Jen’s ankle throbbed, and her head swam. A curl of nausea toiled in her stomach. Roller brushes thundered over the windshield and swept the sides of the car. She imagined bits and pieces of Rey’s hair, skin, and bones bubbling in the suds and rinsing down the drain. She dared not look at the man who sat impassively at her side. Oh, Holy Mother of God, she prayed. Was this it? How would he dispose of her body? And why was she sitting here admiring his profile?

  Chapter 8

  Dave set the transmission to park in the center of the carwash. Flapping rag brushes splattered over his windshield and water sizzled under his car. He had paid for the underbody wash, the works. He wasn’t about to take chances with the justice, or injustice, system. The detective didn’t like coincidences, but Dave sure as hell hadn’t run over anyone, not even a cat. And he damn well didn’t need a hysterical woman jumping to conclusions, especially one who knew the victim.

  The spray of soap suds streamed across the windows, followed by heavy rollers thundering around both sides of the car, giving it the feel of a boat suspended on the crest of a wave.

  The woman next to him sat petrified. Well, no wonder. He had committed sexual harassment, handled everything badly, and no doubt frightened her. He had only meant to distract her with the kiss and cart her away before she could scream. Or had he pounced because he wanted to, needed to taste those lips, touch her pulse, and feel her vulnerability? What for? When he could not dispel the ache and darkness that shrouded his heart. Better to shut off any avenue leading to more pain. Numbness was the key, the way to stay sane and focused.

  He pulled under the blower. Droplets of water fled over the top of the windshield amidst the deafening roar. He watched her stare at the wiper blades, as if imagining the blood of her boyfriend trailing down the sides of the window.

  “I didn’t kill your boyfriend.” The words percolated from his constricted throat.

  “He wasn’t my boyfriend.” Her voice faded in a monotone. “What are you going to do with me?”

  The green light indicated he should drive out of the wash. He pulled to the parking lot and skipped the row of vacuums. “Take you to the occupational medical clinic and back to your apartment.”

  “That’s it?”

  He clamped his jaw. He didn’t owe her any explanations. If she were smart, she’d be thankful he cleaned up the evidence since she was the last one who saw Rey Custodio alive. And he certainly couldn’t have his build engineer in jail before the Black Friday launch. He tried humor. “Did you want me to back over you on the way out?”

  “That’s not funny. We should have called the police. You destroyed evidence.”

  He perused her expression, unable to read her. “You really want the police to investigate when you’re the prime suspect?”

  Her eyes widened. “Me? I’m not the one with blood on my car.”

  “I’m not the one without an alibi.”

  He caught the slight flinch. She crossed her arms. Her face reddened a moment later, and she shifted in the seat.

  “I have the server boot logs. No remote access, remember? I had to physically re-cable the power cords and push the buttons.” She leaned back and looked in the vanity mirror.

  “So, you’re covered—unless you stole my car and ran him over before going into the lab. There was quite a time gap between you leaving the restaurant and accessing the building.”

  She whipped her neck to glare at him. “How can you believe that?”

  “The same way you believe I left my bottle of Brunello and high society date to stalk you and your jughead through a deserted industrial park.”

  “You’re an ass.” The pout swelled her lower lip. “I can’t believe I thought you were nice last night.”

  “What happened last night?” He glanced casually over his shoulder to change lanes.

  Her eyes constricted before she composed herself. “So you want to pretend it never happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I was out with my Little Brother and you were with your family.” He had to nip it now, or he’d only hurt her later. He shouldn’t have let his guard down no matter how good she was with the video controller. The memory of her body pressed against him made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  She crossed her arms and stared out the window. “And what about just now? In the break room?”

  He didn’t miss the quaver in her voice. She wasn’t an experienced kisser, but her kisses had filled him with yearning, and for that he had to shut her out. “A mistake. Are you going to sue me?”

  “No.” Her voice was small, almost without breath. She blinked and looked at her hands. “Everyone makes mistakes. Especially me.”

  An ache traveled to his heart at her obvious discomfort at being rejected. He pulled into the parking lot of the occupational medicine clinic. “I’ll call Greta and let her know what happened and get someone to set up the filer. Eddie can allow remote management so you can work from home later on.”

  “Sure.” She opened the door and propped herself up. He came around to her side, shut the door, and pulled her arm over his shoulder to help her. She fit perfectly by his side, and her hair smelled fresh, like summer flowers and sunshine. On impulse he swung her into his arms and lifted her.

  “Oh!” Jen squeaked but hung on while he carried her up the wheelchair ramp. A man opened the clinic door for them. Dave gave Jen a reassuring squeeze before letting her down in front of the admissions counter. What the hell was wrong with him? He had to be confusing her big time.

  The nurse handed Jen a clipboard while Dave took out his wallet and showed them his company’s workman’s c
ompensation plan number. After she checked in, he settled in the waiting room and talked to Greta while looking through the manila folder containing Jen’s personnel records. Twenty-five years old. Graduate of San José State. No criminal record. Jennifer Jones. What kind of parents would name their child after a defunct movie star? No wonder she insisted on going by Jen.

  Greta gave him the run-around, as usual. He snapped at her and told her in no uncertain terms that he needed a good build tonight for the customer presentation. He hung up before she could protest and went back to Jen’s file.

  Something niggled in the back of his mind, a memory or déjà vu? The picture in the file stared back at him, almost frightened, with those strange feline eyes. It would never work. She was an employee, and she had no business stirring feelings reserved for Jocelyn.

  He’d weld his heart shut. She couldn’t mean anything to him—just another pretty face, another hot young female—nothing special about Jennifer Jones who carried the moniker of an ancient movie starlet.

  He closed the file and stuffed it in his laptop bag. He had more pressing matters. Like whose blood had been on the car? And how his car appeared two blocks from where he parked it. It should have been across from Claire’s tennis court, hidden in the trees. He had lent his car out a few times, but always got the key back. Didn’t make sense unless someone stole it to frame him for murder.

  He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, something his mother nagged him about. His phone beeped. Melissa’s number flashed. Perhaps she cleared the funds with her accountant.

  Dave affected a jocular attitude. “Hey, babe.”

  Her gooey voice creamed through the airwaves. “Hey, deli-i-cious… I’ve got all day. Mmwwaahh.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful.” He drummed up enthusiasm. “Your lock up period for OgleNet expired this Wednesday and the stock recovered on Friday. Did you sell?”

  “I’ll tell all in the hot tub.” She giggled. “You’ll have to tickle every penny out of me.”

  “Will this be before or after your gaggle of witches meet?”