by Radclyffe
"Things can always change," Jason commented.
"Not this time."
It was clear to him that for the moment at least, the matter was closed. He also knew that if he continued to push the issue, Sloan was likely to lose her famous temper. He'd been on the other end of that enough times not to want to provoke her. Instead, he opted for a change of subject. "So, are you coming tomorrow night?"
"Of course I'm coming," she said emphatically. She loved to watch Jason perform, and still found it hard to believe that the sultry, sexy siren he became on stage was actually the man she had first spied years ago, buttoned-up and straight-laced in the esteemed Halls of Justice in DC. She often wondered which was the true personality, Jason or Jasmine. She like them both, and she had to admit to a slight bit of sexual provocation when Jasmine flirted with her. It was bad enough that Jason worked for her; the fact that he was straight made it even more confusing.
"Good," he said as he rose and carefully shook out the perfect creases in his trousers, "because Jasmine just bought a new dress." He winked at her and for a second, Jasmine flickered beneath the surface of his handsome male face. "And I just know you'll like it."
Sloan laughed again. "Why don't you go pretend to be my assistant for a while?"
He left without a word, and for a few moments she sat staring after him, thinking about her interview with Michael Lassiter. It wasn't the most difficult job she had ever undertaken. Now that all the major corporations and most small businesses were computer dependent, computer hacking and software piracy was becoming a daily occurrence. Most people who had systems installed knew almost nothing about them, and even those who did rarely took the time to ensure that they were totally tamper proof. Sloan had recognized the need for Internet security services well ahead of the pack. Now that the ease with which systems could be entered and altered was gaining publicity, computer security was a hot area. She had foreseen the need, and her previous experience made her perfect for the work.
What both intrigued and troubled her about this particular assignment was her employer. Michael Lassiter struck her as a woman who was completely capable of living with the consequences of her decisions. But once or twice, Sloan thought she saw a flicker of fear in the other woman's eyes. For no reason she cared to explore, that bothered her.
CHAPTER TWO
MICHAEL SWIVELED HER chair to look out the window of her twenty-first floor office. It was after seven on a Friday night, and just getting dark. Her Center City offices overlooked the river that separated Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Had she been looking, she would have been able to see for miles across the broad expanse of water as commuters crossed the bridges heading home. But her gaze was unfocused, and what she saw was only the ghost of an image in her mind.
Usually what floated there were visions of the future, the ideas she formulated for others to implement. What excited her were concepts, possibilities, the next steps forward in the evolution of human and technological interaction. How business could use the tremendous developments in electronics and informational systems to connect global communities as well as enhance day-to-day life. As the mechanics of the equipment became more and more sophisticated, the applications grew exponentially. She and her central core of designers theorized, and the talented crew of computer analysts, mechanical and electrical engineers, and economic strategists she and Jeremy had brought together forged those ideas into marketable form. Everything she had accomplished, and everything she hoped to accomplish, lay stored in the far from unassailable memory banks of the company's computer system.
She was not envisioning the future now, at least not the future she had imagined. Until recently she had had no reason to contemplate her own life, anticipating only the work that occupied her mind almost constantly and her efforts, along with Jeremy’s, to develop their shared dream. She had met Jeremy Lassiter almost fifteen years previously when she had been a precocious freshman at the Cambridge Institute of Design, and he had been a worldly graduate student at MIT. Barely 17, she had been socially inexperienced, despite her privileged upbringing, and intellectually too intimidating for most boys her age. But when they had met in a theoretical design class, Jeremy had appreciated her ideas and had been supportive and encouraging. Together they had spent hours talking, dreaming, and finally forging their shared vision into the formidable power it had become. Along the way, it seemed natural that they should wed. It had never occurred to her that their relationship lacked passion or romance. It was not something she was aware of needing. She probably would have ignored those moments when she felt a loneliness so acute it was physically painful, had she not finally become aware of Jeremy's affair with a young female designer in their firm. She was less hurt than baffled. Although she didn't consider herself particularly inventive or adventurous in the physical department, she wasn't aware of ever refusing Jeremy's advances either. Although it was a part of their relationship that left her strangely unmoved, she assumed it had been adequate. Clearly, however, Jeremy required something additional. She supposed that she could have simply ignored his affair, but, once she became aware of it, she rebelled at the idea of continuing a relationship so false. She also doubted that Jeremy would be content with their circumstance for long, and she felt quite certain that eventually Jeremy would seek greater control of the company. She intended to be prepared.
She leaned back in the contoured black leather chair, alone in the polished, elegant office that was so perfectly appointed it deserved a center spread in Architectural Digest. She was immune to the physical manifestations of her success after so many years. She didn't see the room; she didn't even see the spectacular sunset. What slowly came into focus just behind her nearly closed eyelids was J. T. Sloan's face. Strong, certain, a hint of aggression – she inspired confidence. Michael sighed, and hoped her assessment of the woman she had hired the day before was correct. She was going to need help.
"I'm leaving – the agenda for Monday's meeting just went to Development," a soft voice behind her announced, mercifully interrupting her introspections.
Michael swiveled away from the window to face the door. She smiled tiredly at the brunette in the doorway. "Yes, fine. Thank you."
Michael's private secretary studied her. "You look beat. Why don't you go home?"
"I will, soon," Michael lied, appreciating the concern in the other woman's voice. Why should I? Jeremy probably won't be there, and if he were, I wouldn't want to see him. It's easier to relax here.
Michael was suddenly more aware of being alone than ever before. It wasn’t because of the imminent loss of her marriage, but the absence of the intimacy that she and Jeremy had never truly shared. She forced a smile and waved goodnight, waiting only a moment before turning down the lights and closing her eyes in the welcoming darkness.
* * *
"Damn, I'm sorry!" Sloan exclaimed, watching Michael Lassiter blink in confusion. She automatically brushed the dimmer switch, muting the lights she had turned up full when she walked into the room. It was 9:00 at night, and she hadn't expected anyone to be around. Certainly not the CEO of the company, alone in a darkened room on a deserted floor. Sloan couldn't help but see that the fatigue hinted at the day before was more apparent now. Faint purplish shadows bruised the perfect skin under Michael's eyes, and there was a weariness in the way she pushed herself upright in her chair.
"It's okay," Michael assured her, rubbing her eyes and trying desperately to orient herself. She glanced out the window. Dark. Nighttime. She sat up straight, brushed her hair back with both hands. "What are you doing here?"
Sloan grinned her trademark, lopsided grin. "Working. You said I could do a quick systems review this afternoon when I called, remember?"
"I didn't realize you meant tonight," Michael said dryly, firmly in control again. "What are you doing in my office?"
Sloan leaned one jean-clad hip against the arm of an expensive leather couch and took inventory. A low glass coffee table occupied the space in front of
the sofa with other butter-colored leather furniture flanking it. Directly across from the seating area Michael Lassiter sat behind a huge pedestal desk with what looked like digital displays, keyboards and flatscreen monitors of some kind built into its surface. The woman behind the desk looked sleek and stylish too in an ocean green silk pants suit and low-heeled pale leather shoes, her blond hair looking only modestly disarrayed from her recent finger combing. Her momentary disorientation when Sloan startled her awake was replaced with a calm expression now, but, for an instant, she had appeared vulnerable, and very young.
Sloan hastily averted her gaze, ignoring the slight pulse of attraction. The room was huge, windowed on three sides, with a small alcove kitchenette/bar arrangement to her left and an impressive workstation with several computers, video equipment, and drafting boards to the right beyond the seating area. Impressive. The corner office, indeed.
She realized that Michael was waiting for an explanation. "Your computers. I can't very well look for break-ins if I don't look at yours. It's where the money is – so to speak."
She grinned that damnable grin again, and Michael was irritated to find herself smiling back. "Of course." She rose to gather her papers into a small portfolio, adding, "You'll need the passwords."
"I have them."
Michael looked up sharply. "No one knows mine. Not even my secretary."
"How often do you change it?" Sloan asked mildly, crossing to the console.
Michael shrugged dismissively. "I have no idea. Whenever the system prompts me to."
Sloan settled into the molded leather chair, spent a few seconds with the keyboard and mouse, and the 19-inch flat screen monitor leapt to life. She continued routing through the files, muttering absently, "Information is almost never truly deleted, merely layered over. This is a little like archeology – you just have to dig down to it."
"Wonderful," Michael commented acerbically. "I should at least be happy that Jeremy doesn't have much interest in the finer points of these things."
Sloan looked over her shoulder at the blond woman behind the desk, thinking once again how damned lovely she was, even with the lines of stress etched a little deeper around her eyes tonight. "He doesn't need to. He can hire someone."
"Yes. Like I did." Michael worked not to let her uneasiness show. She didn't like the idea of drawing battle lines with Jeremy, or of living in what could amount to an armed camp until their affairs could be disentangled, but she had to protect her business. It was all she had.
"What you should be pleased about is that you hired me first," Sloan joked. She frowned at something that appeared on the screen, clicked through a few items, then pushed back in the chair to look at Michael again. "Is this where you do most of your project design?"
"Here or my laptop at home. I just synchronize the files when I come in. The division heads get summaries of future lines of development, but no hard details. I work them out alone." Like I do almost everything, she thought, but saw no reason to add. She had been an insular child, an awkward teenager, and a reclusive student until Jeremy had taken the time to listen to her. Somewhere in the last fifteen years she had grown up, and out grown her simple need for validation. And when that had happened, they had little left to bind them. A shell of a marriage, and now not even that. She was suddenly aware of Sloan's deep voice. "What? I'm sorry, I was – wandering."
"I was saying that what we need to do fairly quickly is get you a smart chip to lock down this part of your system down."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
Sloan was staring at the monitor again, running through files. This was what she loved. The hunt – the chase. The thrill of finding the hidden secrets. Some of her less kinder critics had said that was what she loved best about women, too. The hunt. Had she cared at all about public opinion, it might have bothered her.
"A personal identification chip. They're common in Europe," she continued absently, arranging a work strategy in her head. "People use them for almost everything, like we do credit cards. They carry bits of electronic information about the user, and in conjunction with a PIN can be used to secure transactions."
"I've heard of that," Michael said, watching Sloan work. "But what's that got to do with my computer?"
"A few companies are working on prototypes that incorporate smart card slots into their hardware so that a user can be positively identified, and anyone else is locked out."
"Prototypes? How can you get one?"
Sloan was silent as she searched around in her tool kit for a temporary fix. When she had the intrusion detection program loaded, she looked up. "I have my ways," she answered, an amused glint in her eyes.
"Legal, I presume?"
A grin now. "Oh, but of course."
Michael was fascinated. By the topic, by the woman. Both were mysteries to her, and she wanted to know more. "How did you get into this?"
Sloan shrugged. "The Internet is the new frontier, and we are woefully unprepared to confront it. It is fast becoming the foundation of communication, commerce, even culture. And it's wide open, lawless. There are no rules, no methods of enforcing any, and no means to detect or deter crime. I saw the possibilities, and I had the experience." She hesitated, aware that she was revealing things that she rarely discussed. Michael Lassiter was easy to talk to, and even easier on the eyes. Oh man. Not good, not good at all! She shut up and concentrated on the monitor.
CHAPTER THREE
SLOAN STRETCHED AND looked at her watch, surprised to find that they had been sitting wordlessly together for over an hour, each working. She looked over at Michael, missing the pensive smile on Michael's face, unaware that Michael had been watching her for the better part of the last quarter hour.
"Done for the night?" Michael inquired.
Sloan nodded.
"So, you're a cyber-cop?" Michael inquired, still curious, and genuinely interested.
Sloan laughed harshly, thinking of how she had once been called that by condescending colleagues, another lifetime ago. "Hardly. Internet security specialist is the latest jargon. Mostly, I guess, I'm just a technogeek, without the glasses and pocket-protector."
Whatever you call yourself, you're far from that, Michael thought. It had been a long time since she had lost herself in conversation with someone when it hadn't been focused on sales or development or some other aspect of her work. Perhaps as long ago as those early years with Jeremy, when they had stayed up half the night fantasizing about a world that was now coming to be. Had it been this easy then?
"Somehow I don’t see you in the nerd role," Michael laughed.
Sloan laughed with her. "You should have seen me when I was twelve."
"So this was what you always wanted to do?"
Sloan’s immediate impulse was to change the subject. Her past was not something she discussed with anyone, even her friends, and she didn’t have many of those. She looked into Michael’s eyes, prepared for evasive maneuvers, and discovered something she hadn’t seen in a long time. Simple interest, unaccompanied by innuendo or pretense. Often when women inquired about her personal life, it was a prelude to seduction. Not unwelcome, by any means, but a circumstance she had learned to direct away from revelations that could put her at a disadvantage. From Michael, however, the questions seemed merely friendly, and Sloan dropped her guard. There was no need to protect herself from Michael Lassiter, because nothing was going to happen between them. There was no danger here.
"I was into computers before most of my peers, and it came easily to me. Pretty soon I was hacking into places I probably shouldn’t have been, but it got me turned on to the possibilities early on. One thing led to another."
"We have that in common," Michael noted.
Sloan regarded her with surprise. "What?"
"An early fascination with something other people don’t understand." Her face took on a distant expression, and she continued musingly, "It sets you apart. It can be hard."
"Yes."
Thei
r eyes met, and Michael knew that there was more that Sloan wasn’t saying. She was very aware that Sloan appeared to be censoring her words. There was a harsh undertone in her deep voice that hinted at pain. Michael wondered if it was the same lonely isolation that she had experienced, before Jeremy. She caught herself, realizing that what she had believed was a partnership had very likely only been dependence. She thought of Jeremy now – remote, calculating, a stranger.
Sloan saw the flicker of sorrow in Michael’s expressive eyes. Impulsively, she asked, "Have you eaten?"
Michael stared for a second. She was surprised by the question, realizing she hadn't even been aware that she was hungry, and surprised that Sloan was inquiring. Sloan didn't seem the type for easy familiarity, any more than Michael was.
"No," Michael replied cautiously, wondering where the conversation was headed.
Sloan hesitated, uncertain why she was doing what she seemed to be doing. Maybe it was because they seemed to share some of the same disaffected past. She shrugged. She was just being friendly, right? "I'm about to catch a show in Old City. A friend is performing, and the food there is serviceable. Want to come along?"
Warning bells were going off, but when Michael thought of the long night ahead, this seemed like a harmless enough diversion. "Why not?"
Why not, indeed.
* * *
Michael almost backed out a dozen times. Unfortunately, she had agreed to let Sloan drive, which at the time seemed to make sense. She hadn't thought about the fact that she wouldn't be able to make a hasty retreat if the evening turned into a disaster. She sat in the front seat of the sports coupe, staring out the window at the busy city streets. It was close to 11p.m. on an unseasonably warm Friday night in April, and an unusual number of people were still walking about, taking advantage of the weather. She realized that she was rarely out at this time of night, unless it was to travel home from the office. Then her mind was usually still busy constructing answers to questions most people hadn't yet asked. That was one of her strengths, her ability to see both the problems and the solutions inherent in a project before they developed. She wished the ability extended to her private life as well.