Standing in her own backyard now, Olivia drew herself straight. "I — I'm going to take my time over this. Be logical. Above all, I'm going to be...mature."
"Mature, huh?" Shana tilted her head frowningly. "That doesn't sound like much fun."
"Thinking you could be mature about this situation seems kinda dangerous," Brittany remarked.
"Well, mature is what I'm going to do. Mature, adult, thoughtful." Olivia whirled. "In fact, I'm going to call Gideon right now and tell him — and tell him — " And tell him what? What could she say that wouldn't put her in danger of those jungle drums of desire, the ones that had beat so madly as Gideon had walked out her door the night before?
"What are you going to tell him?" Brittany wanted to know.
Shana blinked innocently.
Olivia drew in a deep breath. "I'm going to tell him...we need to spend quality time together. Platonic quality time." She frowned as she considered this option. "I guess we'd better plan to meet in a public place." A very public place, Olivia added to herself, knowing from experience how creative — and daring — Gideon could be. He'd managed an amorous interaction once at an outdoor arts festival, and done the same on another occasion at a friend's wedding...
"Bo-ring," Shana murmured.
"A road to hell," Brittany muttered.
A big mistake? Olivia asked of herself. The more she thought about it, the less she believed Gideon could have been sincere about his willingness to confide in her. Not after all these months of stubborn silence.
What was the big secret he was keeping from her?
But...he had taken the difficult first step. He'd come to her door. He'd declared he was ready to try.
As Olivia let herself in through her back door and dumped the shards of her mug into the trash, she knew that she owed it to Gideon, and to their marriage, to take some risks of her own.
In fact, she was ready to take a few risks.
Damn, but she missed him.
~~~
The masking tape made a loud ripping noise as Peter unrolled a good length of it. He tore the length off and then carefully applied it to the glass of a ground floor window. While performing this operation, he was keenly aware two pair of tremblingly eager, young male eyes were inspecting him. Even under such scrutiny, he managed to keep track of the intimate little group that was gathered around Anja's back door.
He saw the group break up. The one with the legs used them to step over the low wooden fence. The female who had to be Olivia sailed in pseudo-Asiatic splendor back into her house. Peter had to hand it to Gideon for a surprising show of good taste. Olivia appeared to be both passionate and warm. Brittany loitered by the fence and pulled off some blooms that seemed to be giving her grief.
Peter ripped forth another length of tape. These women were awfully cozy with each other, comfortable even in their bathrobes and waltzing in and out of one another's backyards. None of them had appeared the least bit awkward about standing on Anja's back doorstep.
It occurred to Peter as he applied the masking tape to the glass of the window, that Gideon might be on to something here, after all. Up till now Peter had considered the idea of ingratiating themselves with Anja's neighbors to be on the order of a wild goose chase. But now...now he thought it might not be so off as all that. He'd met Anja and he couldn't think of anybody she'd suffer to hang around in so private a space as her back porch.
But she obviously let these ladies do it. Anytime.
So yes, Gideon was probably onto something here, after all...
And that dog — It was a bit too much of a coincidence, the presence of a dangerous-looking canine hanging around Anja's house. Peter would have to report on that to Gideon right away. Meanwhile, he was damn lucky Brittany had seen fit to deal with the creature before he'd been forced to.
Yes, Brittany... With his fingertips, Peter smoothed the tape he'd set on the window. The woman was a study in contrasts. Tough enough to take on a stray dog single-handed, but with the touch of an angel when it came to her kids. She had some real sweetness in her.
"You said we could help, Peter," complained a little voice from below.
"Ah..." Peter looked down at Sean, with his short, sturdy body and his too-big eyes. Nobody should be allowed to own eyes this soulful, Peter decided. "I said you could help... Right, right," he agreed, before Sean's soulful eyes could turn betrayed. "Uh..." He cast his gaze about the various equipment he'd hauled into the backyard from the pickup. There had to be something a five-year-old could handle.
Correction. Peter turned when a very small, but dexterous, hand tugged on his pants leg. It was Cam, the baby who was bigger than a baby. He was also doing the deeply soulful look. Peter inwardly grimaced. Okay, so there had to be something a five-year-old and a two-year-old could handle.
Peter was just giving each of the boys a square of number 100 sandpaper when he noticed Brittany cease her fussing with the shrub that twined over the back fence. She turned in their direction.
His heart picked up speed. In an instant he became a predator on the hunt. Even as he got ready to show the boys how to rub the sandpaper over the old paint, a part of him prepared to lock eyes with his prey. Once he made eye contact, it'd be all over for her.
Ah, but he was good at this...
She was spare, irritated grace as she traversed the lawn. She was like a bundle of dynamite, rigid and ready to explode — rather fascinating, truth be told —
And she walked right past him. Eye contact? There was not a glance, not a word, not a breath to indicate she even noticed he was there. Peter was left staring into space and feeling as if his fur had been rubbed the wrong way.
"Peter? Peter?" Sean demanded.
The screen of the side kitchen door creaked open and banged shut. Just like that, she was gone.
"Peter!" Sean said.
Peter shook his head. "Hm? I'm sorry. What is it, Sean?"
"You were gonna show us how to do the sandpaper."
"Oh, yeah. Right, right." Even more patient than he might have been otherwise, Peter showed both boys how to work the paper over the surface of the wood. "Now, you don't do this on the windows, right?" he told them.
"Right," Sean said.
Cam just stared at him...soulfully. Peter sighed and hoped the kid understood.
As for himself, he didn't understand. At all. So far he'd given Brittany every one of his patented, guaranteed-to-be-effective moves. She hadn't responded. She hadn't even responded to the fact he'd befriended her sons. The woman was — unnatural.
He scowled and watched the boys take their sandpaper to the side of the building with a vengeance, shrieking at being allowed to do something so normally naughty. Then he took a deep breath and let it out with a chuckle.
Here he was, brought around to believing Gideon was right about the importance of gaining Brittany's confidence, and he was striking out like never before. Wasn't that just too much like real life? He watched the kids for another moment, then picked up his roll of masking tape and moved to the next window.
He wasn't going to worry about his lack of success with Brittany — yet. He'd known her less than twenty-four hours, after all. If another twenty-four passed without progress, well then he could start worrying.
Whistling, Peter ripped forth another length of tape.
~~~
Gideon sank into the cushioned wooden chair at his kitchen table and depressed the repeat button on the answering machine. For the third time, he allowed himself the bittersweet pleasure of listening to Olivia's lilting voice. And for the third time he cursed himself for having missed the call because he'd been on the other line, his encrypter cell phone.
It had been bad news, too, on the cell, from the guys working the technical angles. Anja's cell phone with the recently re-enabled GPS homing signal had been found in a Greyhound bus station in Buffalo, of all places, left on a bench. The tech guys had reason to doubt Anja, herself, had deposited it there.
It was sheer hell trying to find a woman w
ho had an IQ higher than the combined IQs of all the people trying to track her.
So in his sweat pants and T-shirt, Gideon planted his elbow on the kitchen table and turned his attention to Olivia's voice instead, to its tone and undertone, and, of course, to her marvelous words.
"...Bartolomeo's would be a good place, I think," she was saying, though her voice quavered, as if she weren't actually too sure. "If we're serious about this, then we need to spend some time together. Quality time."
Quality time. The highest quality time Gideon could think of spending with Olivia involved several long hours, if not days, on their big feather mattress upstairs.
She did not appear to be thinking along the same lines, since she went on to say, sounding way too starchy, "It's important for us to avoid ramifications."
Yeah. He'd bet his government clearance that 'ramifications' meant sex.
Not that it mattered. She'd agreed to see him. Indeed, she was demanding to see him. That was what mattered.
And, naturally, it mattered that when he saw his wife, he'd get a chance to find out if she knew where Anja might be, or where she'd stashed her damn research.
Not that Gideon expected Olivia to know a thing. He didn't agree with the new-born optimism Peter had evinced when they'd last spoken together on the phone. Even if Anja had sincerely enjoyed her neighbors' company and the female camaraderie they provided, she would not have entrusted her deepest secrets to them. No way. No how.
Gideon released a heavy sigh and made a deliberate bid to unclench his teeth. Please God she hadn't.
~~~
Sebastian Archibald Hollister, III, sat in a throne-back wicker chair on the terrace of his rambling house in North Carolina and cursed the dogs, who were barking nonstop in their kennel down below. If they weren't so useful, he'd have had them both shot. As it was, he'd taken four Tylenol to battle the splitting headache they'd given him. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. Anger, frustration, and the furious sensation that he'd failed all sifted through Sebastian like bitter acid.
He'd lost her. He'd lost her! Oh, not when she'd climbed into that cab just before his dogs had been onto her. Obtaining the number of the cab and discovering its destination had been child's play.
After that he'd tracked her via her credit cards all the way from New York's Grand Central to Buffalo. But in Buffalo she'd given him the slip. It hadn't been she using the credit cards but some — some confederate. Sebastian frowned as he thought of the cell phone picture of the confederate he'd received from his private detective. She'd been a very strange choice of ally for Andropov. To his eye, an eye that had seen a great deal of the sort of creature in his youth, Andropov's confederate had looked to be a streetwalker.
Who would have — who could have — guessed Dr. Andropov even knew such a person? It had been a brilliant move.
Sebastian's fingers tensed on his temples. His desire for Dr. Andropov had been inflamed all the more by her brilliance. She'd managed to throw someone as clever as himself off her track.
Not that he intended to be off her track for long.
Oh, no. Sebastian lowered his hands to the arms of his wicker chair. If he hadn't been convinced before, he was now. He needed Dr. Andropov; definitely the woman, herself, and not merely the sequence of the virus's DNA.
With her, he was certain he could finally become the man he was meant to be.
The sound of hysterical barking rose through the evening air. Sebastian groaned. He wondered if giving the dogs a sedative would shut them up. It wasn't as if he was going to need them right away. First he had to contact his many connections, in this case technical geeks with no respect for the law.
It would probably be a few days until he picked up her trail again.
But he would. Sebastian Archibald Hollister, III, drew in a deep breath. He swore that he would. And then he would need the dogs.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ten, nine, eight. Standing on the flagstone front stoop of Shana Taylor's house, Dash swallowed and straightened his tie. Seven, six, five. He took in and let out a deep breath. He was dreading this dinner date with his target. Even if it was pretty pathetic for a thirty-four year old man to be dreading what could very well turn into a wild sexual romp. Dash closed his eyes. Yet the fact remained. Four, three, two. He felt like he was counting down to his own execution.
One. Zero.
Dash gritted his teeth, leaned forward, and pressed the doorbell. He could hear the cheerful chimes echo through the house.
He didn't have to have sex with her, he assured himself, for the ten thousandth time. Yes, if doing so would lead to Anja or to her potentially dangerous research, he would undertake the project in an instant. But the probability that having sex with Shana Taylor would lead to Anja was extremely remote. Not that Dash dared tell Gideon as much. Gideon rarely wanted to hear Dash's calculations of probability, no matter how mathematically accurate they might be.
But Dash knew. Refusing sex with Shana would not compromise the mission of finding Anja or her research.
The door opened, wide and swift. His target stood in front of him, looking soft and feminine and...available. Her dress, what there was of it, was diaphanous and flowing and ended in a flutter of pastel-colored ribbons well above her knees. With perfectly scientific objectivity, Dash had to admit Shana's legs were fantastic.
"Dash," she said in a low, husky voice. There was a dimple in her left cheek as she beamed at him. "Right on time. Come in."
Sex appeal oozed from her in buckets. Meeting her mischievous green eyes, Dash had to ask himself, once again, what was so bad about this. He liked women. God knew, he liked sex. As a matter of fact, he'd never had quite enough of either. The only sexual encounters he was able to manage were with shy, studious women he met in the engineering library at the University, or who sat with open textbooks at his neighborhood café late at night. These were women who were not terribly experienced themselves, women who had little basis for...comparison.
"Oh, don't be shy." Still smiling, not yet turned off by him, Shana reached over to tap Dash playfully on the shoulder. "Follow me."
Dash allowed himself a sigh as Shana turned. Then he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind himself.
Shana led the way to a high-ceilinged, surprisingly restrained living room. The carpet was a soft beige color. Native American print pillows dressed up a brown suede sofa and gold curtains framed the windows. It was actually...tasteful.
"Something to drink?" Shana swirled beside a polished cabinet, smiling as she faced him again.
Dash had to hand it to her. She wasn't put off easily. He knew his whole demeanor was less than enthusiastic. Indeed, he only barely resisted sticking a finger in his collar as he replied, "Oh, yeah. Sure. A drink would be nice."
"Sit down, sit down." Shana made a 'sit' motion with one hand, then went around to the other side of the cabinet. "White wine okay?"
"White wine sounds terrific." And if he didn't come up with anything of his own to say pretty soon he might have to shoot himself. The thing was...he wasn't actually turned off by her. From the sofa, Dash watched Shana's trim, efficient movements as she opened a bottle of wine.
She glanced his way and her eyes did a warm, soft thing before she returned her attention to the wine.
No, he wasn't at all turned off by her. His libido was definitely stirred by her eyes, and by the now-and-then revelations of her exquisite figure as provided by the diaphanous ribbons of her dress.
That was really the heart of the problem. He didn't want to be attracted to her. He didn't want to be...lured into a contest where he'd come out the loser.
"Here we are." Shana's hips swayed playfully as she bore two large glasses toward Dash on the sofa.
She handed Dash one of the glasses and met his eyes with a look that managed to be subtle and smoldering at the same time. Low, she murmured, "Tell me what you think."
Dash nearly dropped the wine. Fortunately, this mishap was avoided by Sh
ana folding herself onto the sofa about a quarter inch away from him. His fingers tightened reflexively around the stem of the glass instead of dropping it.
Say something! Dash ordered himself. Take some control, for God's sake. "So," he said, and took an oh-so-casual sip of the wine. "Have you had a good week?" Inane, but at least it was something.
Shana's eyes warmed yet further. "It's turned out to be wonderful."
Barely, Dash managed to avoid choking on his wine. Exactly what was she expecting here? "Oh. Ahem," he spluttered. "Good. I mean, what do you do?"
"What do I do?"
"You know." He hid his mouth behind the wine glass. "For a living?"
She blinked several times in a row and her come-hither warmth suddenly cooled a few degrees. But that only lasted an instant. Then she was leaning toward him, exposing an admittedly tempting expanse of cleavage. "Oh, let's not talk about me. That's boring."
"Not at all. You drive a nice car, you have a beautiful house. I'll bet you do something very interesting for a living."
He'd thrown her again. The hot look was replaced by rapid blinking. "I'm in public relations. With my own company."
"Ah," Dash said.
She grinned, and for an instant, a very strange instant, she was just a person, not a siren or anything particularly scary. "See?" she told him. "You are bored. Out of your gourd. I told you so. Now, tell me..." The siren came back, lowering her lashes, pouring out the pheromones. "What do you do for a living?"
Though discomposed by the vigorous return of the siren, Dash still remembered the correct answer. "I work for a software design company." This gave him license to claim Gideon as a connection, should the need arise.
"Software design," Shana purred, and inched closer. "That's fascinating."
Dash's brain wondered why what he did for a living should be fascinating while what Shana did for a living was boring. Meanwhile his body reacted to her thigh now pressed against his own, her breasts presented lusciously within reach of his hands. A fine heat built beneath his suit. Automatically, he scooted back.
She smiled knowingly and scooted after him. She pressed close enough for him to feel her own heat, and the well-toned give of her flesh.
Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way Page 6