She stood and parked her fists on her hips. "What now?"
Damien scowled and let his gaze lazily roam her office, like he owned the place, her place. Fortunately her more private possessions lay nestled on her hard drive, a violation, but a minor one, a solitary indulgence she allowed herself when one day slipped quietly into the next. In her mind, all those midnight hours had earned her a minor indiscretion.
The object of her confliction stepped to within a few feet of her. He pressed his lips together and drew in a long deep breath through his nose. "I have to take your computer."
"I don't think so. I sort of need it." If he was pulling her leg, she wasn't amused.
He wasn't smiling. "IT will bring you a sterile loaner."
"No! Those are wiped so clean it'll take me a week to install all my auxiliary programs and fix the settings. And no connectivity to any external systems? Oh hell no!"
"I have to confiscate it. Step aside, Connie."
"What? No! Why?"
She did the opposite. She barred his path. "You're crazy if you think you're going to take my computer. I have all my files on it. I can't do my job without them. And matches what? What sort of match? I haven't been on any banned websites. I know the rules. I haven't broken them."
Damien widened his stance and flexed his hands, like a fighter prepping for battle. "It's not up for negotiation. I have my orders, and that," he leaned to the side and pointed to the computer behind her, "is evidence."
"This is ridiculous. My computer? I'm one of the good guys. Has everyone lost their cotton pickin' minds? What sort of match? Tell me." Connie matched Damien's aggressive stance, only she folded her arms at her chest for an extra barrier.
Damien's hands relaxed at his sides. "A security breach. That's all I can tell you other than you are not under arrest or on administrative leave. At least not yet. We still have to view surveillance."
Surveillance? "Where's the seizure order?" He couldn't take anything without that. Maybe he'd forgotten it. Maybe he didn't even have one, had just expected her to hand over her machine on the strength of their grudging respect for the other's position with NCIS.
Yeah, Damien was good. One of the best. But so was she, dammit. Of all the special agents in NCIS, why the hell did they have to send him? But more importantly, she wasn't a hacker or terrorist! Her parents were naturalized citizens, but she was born in this country and damn proud to be a first generation American. Someone had to have made a huge mistake. For all their head butting, she doubted it had been Damien.
God, what if he found those photos? Oh, they were innocuous enough, nothing unsuitable for work. No one else would even find them unusual ... except maybe she'd zoomed and cropped a few in a weak moment, or two, or three.
Why had she kept the damn things? Maybe having her crush outed was the wake-up call she needed to get the man out of her system. Sleeping with him in a weak moment had only aggravated the sickness.
"Why are you being so defensive, Connie? What's going on? If you're not guilty of anything, then hand over the computer so we can get this behind us and you back up and running as quickly as possible."
Connie shook her head and flexed her fingers at him in a hand-it-over gesture. "Nuh-uh. Show me the order."
"Oh, for God's sake, step aside, Patel." Damien tensed like a cat ready to pounce. All for show, she was sure.
"Make me or show me the order, because I’m not handing over a device containing top secret files just because you barged into my office and are throwing your weight around, trying to bully me!"
Damien blinked and shook his head as if he couldn't believe her audacity. He might be a lot bigger and stronger than she was, but the law was on her side ... at least until he produced the stupid order. No doubt he had one, but if he hadn't thought to bring it, had assumed she'd meekly do whatever he asked, he had another think coming!
"Make you? Are you serious? I'll show it to you later. It's on my desk one floor down. Don't be difficult over a stupid piece of paper!" He paused, and they locked gazes.
Their eyes narrowed. Lips set into firm lines. Damien moved left, but Connie checked him. He moved right, and she blocked his path again. In the distance she could swear someone was whistling the tune from an old Eastwood western. A Fistful of Dollars?
"Last chance," Damien growled out between gritted teeth.
"Go away," Connie said, snarling.
****
Damien did what he knew she'd never expect him to do.
He reached out, snatched her to him in a tight embrace, lowered his head, and kissed her soundly. A necessary but justified use of force? Abso-fucking-lutely. A little unorthodox? Guilty as charged. Effective? Hell to the yes.
Maybe the kiss started out as a means to unbalance Connie, but when the woman in his arms began to lose her rigidity and melt against him, their legs tangling, a different sort of objective gathered strength. He slid one hand lower on her body to find her ass and haul her up against his rapidly growing erection. The friction and heat of her sent more blood racing to the scene. Their lips fused, and he sought entrance to her mouth with his tongue. She parted them with a soft gasp.
Damn her. How could one woman bring him to his knees so easily, hijack his intentions? It still ached the way she'd blown him off after they'd spent an amazing night together. There had been so much sexual tension between them, the air practically crackled. Sure they'd been a little liquored up when a chance meeting at a bar—followed by a slow dance to the live band, followed by a few more drinks, a few more dances and finally the sweetest kiss of his life—had led to a mad cab ride to his house. Maybe the first time they made love had been a hazy sloppy mess. But only the first time. The second and third rounds had been sober, but drunk on each other.
She had been the one to claim what a huge mistake it had been, how she never meant to get so drunk. Hell, for the way she carried on, anyone would have thought he'd slipped her a roofie. Of course he hadn't, but it didn't stop him from feeling guilty as hell. If memory served, she had been the one to grab his crotch under the table, lean over and whisper in his ear, "Take me home." Home was clarified in the cab to mean his home, and he'd been stoked to comply.
Well, she wasn't drunk now, was she? Her soft lips gave as good as they got. Her hands roamed freely over his back, his ass. Her tongue slid aside to make way for his to simulate what another part of his body was urging him to do. Her hips rocked into his. They were definitely on the same page. Memories of making love to her in his bed came rushing back. They'd been insatiable for each other. All those months of sexual tension in the workplace had exploded with a ferocity that nearly incinerated him. The dark-eyed Indian beauty had branded his soul, Goddammit, and then cast him aside like a used condom. Damien Spiros didn't get cast aside by any woman.
But she had done that to him, and as much he wanted to jump on her denial wagon with his heart as much as his body, her morning after rejection had stung.
With a low growl, Damien got himself under control, picked Connie up around the waist and set her out of his way. He used her confusion to zoom in and start whipping out the cords and cables from the back of the machine. Tough shit if she lost data. They could have done this the easy way. She'd chosen the hard way and he had the wood to show for a war wound. Fortunately, Connie stayed out of his way and didn't attack or screech hysterically at him, for the kiss or for taking her computer.
"This can't be happening." She dragged her chair out of the way and fell into it. "How long will it be taken for?"
Bent over from unplugging wires and cables, Damien muttered how she should know the answer to that question better than he. The computer's CPU finally free of all tethers, he spun back around. "I'll also need any memory sticks or backup drives you may have."
Connie crossed her arms. "I don't use those. They aren't allowed."
"I have to ask. We don't show any remote device attachments, but I still have to ask." He believed her, but he couldn't leave her this way.
/> "No. I don't have any memory sticks or hard drives." She sounded defeated, and her gaze was unfocused and lost. Her shoulders drooped, and she muttered something about how it had to be a huge mistake, that she hadn't done anything.
Turning her face up to him, the light reflected off the tears pooling in her eyes. Tiny daggers stabbed at his gut, and prickles attacked the back of his neck. The computer in his arms suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. "Hey, look. We just need to check this out. Okay? Don't worry. No one thinks you've done anything wrong. It's probably a Trojan horse type of virus. The cyber guys will clean it up for you."
She nodded, and a flicker of a new emotion passed over her features. Brows drew together and lips pressed inward. Her eyes flashed, and her nostrils flared. With a speed he hadn't expected she launched herself from her chair and came at him, her fists clenched. "You! Get out! How dare you! That was uncalled for ... kissing me just so you could manhandle me out of your way. You have no heart, Damien. None. Take the damn computer and get the hell out of my office." She advanced on him, and from the waves of anger rolling off her, he knew his best strategy was a hasty retreat.
He had nearly escaped when his conscience got the best of him. Pausing in the doorway to choose his words, he took a deep breath, held it, and then turned. "I'm sorry, Connie. You're right. That was uncalled for, and I apologize."
"Out!"
Chapter Two
Nate Barstow strolled in a half hour later than his usual hour-long lunch. Connie cast a cynical eye his way and wondered how he got away with such blatant disregard for the rules. He had a brilliant mind she admired but a silver tongue she did not. She could only assume he'd talked his way into someone's good graces.
"'S'up, Connie? What's that you're doing there? Pushing a pencil?"
Connie kept her back to her office mate. If she made eye contact, he'd want to start chatting and she hadn't the time for that. His powers of observation left a lot to be desired given she'd been without a machine for a day and half. "They took my computer away. Said it had some sort of virus. I'm waiting for IT to bring me a sanitized loaner which leaves me nothing but these primitive instruments." She held up her pencil and paper over her head. "Took me barely twenty minutes to use up the eraser." With a shake of her ponytail, she bowed her head and returned to her work.
"Took your computer? That sucks." The opposite end of her Ethernet cable crash-landed on her desk. "Since you aren't going to be using that for a while..."
"Oh come on, Nate. Just leave it plugged in. For the gazillionth time, it's not in your way."
"Safety first. Your cable shouldn't be stretched across the space between our desks in the first place, but this current office arrangement forces it—when you have a computer, which right now you don't."
"The outlet's beneath your desk. It's not a safety hazard." She wasn't in the mood to rehash this tired argument and reminded herself to let it go. He only nagged her about it to get her attention.
"It's in my way when I want to stretch out my legs. My shoe sometimes catches it. I could get tangled and suffer a nasty fall."
"Whatever." Connie drained as much emotion from her one word response as she could.
"Hey, you want me to run any numbers for you? Save a little graphite?" Nate's chair squealed and popped, the two sounds that always meant he was on the move, usually into her space. And he had the nerve to complain about her cable invading the space beneath his desk.
"Thanks but no, I got it." No favors, she reminded herself. Favors were Nate's preferred currency. She'd already let her conflicted emotions over Damien and Nate's gentle persistence con her into attending the annual NCIS ball with him a week ago. Nate was a nice enough guy, when he wasn't being a turd about the Ethernet cord, but they had zero chemistry. Plus, she didn't go for lazy guys or guys who took shortcuts. She preferred hard-working guys who weren't afraid to get dirty, guys who looked great in chest hugging black t-shirts and NCIS jackets, who had high, tight asses and battle scars honorably earned catching bad guys.
Connie didn't have to look to know Nate stood right behind her chair. She could hear his breathing, smell his expensive cologne. The man came from money and politics. Daddy had been a state Senator and congressman until he retired five years earlier. Why his son was slogging away at a desk job at NCIS had always seemed odd given his IQ and political connections, but she didn't care enough to ask why.
"You look tense." A pair of heavy hands rested on her shoulders for a split second before they started massaging. "Let me just help you work out the kinks here."
Connie wrenched away. "No, thank you. I told you I don't like those." She cocked her neck first to the left then to the right. "Please, Nate. I have a lot of work to do."
Hands raised in a defensive gesture, Nate backed away. "Okay, okay. Just trying to help. Sorry if I offended. Wasn't my intention. Only trying to be a team player." He made her feel like the bad guy for telling him to keep his hands to himself. How did he make her feel guilty for his sins? "I'm not offended ... it's just I don't like to be touched when I'm working. It kills my concentration. It's not you. It's me." Ugh. The words curdled in her mouth before they'd even left.
"No worries. I understand, Connie Bo-Bonnie. I guess I'd better get cracking on my own work. Got an investigation to solve. Speaking of which, I noticed Special Agent Spiros was up to his old tricks again in the lobby."
Connie's ears pricked up, but she ground her feet into the floor to keep from spinning around in her chair to engage Nate. "Oh? What do you mean?" Fail. Why'd she let him bait her like that?
"He was chatting up the blonde from the coffee shop. You know the one I mean, right? The one with the big—"
"Yes, I know who you mean." Connie inwardly groaned. Who didn't fawn all over Gilda Steiner and her pouty Swedish accent? Worst of all, the woman was not only gorgeous and blonde, but you couldn't help but like her, too.
"Anyway, the pair of them were canoodling in plain sight. Very unprofessional if you ask me. Spiros probably has so many notches on his bedpost he could use them as saws."
Huh? Nate's similes and analogies left much to be desired, but she got his drift. Damien was no shrinking violet when it came to women. He thought nothing of using his sex appeal to lure women into his clutches. Good thing, she'd taken the initiative to close the door on their dalliance. She was nobody's notch! He was her notch! Only she wasn't a notch kind of gal. She was more into deep grooves made for permanency and constancy, two characteristics that would never describe Special Agent Spiros.
"I'm not concerned with Damien Spiros's indiscretions. He can do whatever he likes, canoodle with the barista, wink at the receptionist. It's nothing to me. I'm happy he keeps his distance most days. The man is annoying with a capital A."
"As a smart, independent career woman, you aren't also annoyed by his other capital letters out of sheer principle?"
"What other capital letters?"
"The M and the W." The distance in his voice confirmed he'd retreated to his own space, thank God.
"M and W?" She had to ask. Dummy. Way to disengage.
"Man and Whore."
"Who's a man-whore?" came the deep voice of the man they'd just applied the definition to.
"Uh-oh," Nate sang. His chair groaned and popped. "Busted!"
"You got a problem with me, Barstow?"
Connie gripped her chair long enough to slip on her game face before she turned. Maybe he had brought her computer back or had news of when they'd be done doing whatever it was they needed to do.
"I got no problem with you, Spiros. Always appreciative of your service. You and your kind keep our Naval men and women safe as well as America. Why would I have a problem with that? It's our common mission." Nate's sucking up was usually more masterful. This serving was sarcastic and borderline hostile. As much as Nate liked to gossip about Damien and almost everyone else at NCIS, he was never so bald-faced.
"Really? Because I could have sworn you were talking about me." Irritati
on tinged Damien’s tone.
Connie spun around. Damien wasn't carrying her computer, and he wasn't alone. Special Agent Menendez accompanied him. Both men had their weapons on full display, no jackets to keep them tucked out of sight.
Menendez focused a laser sharp gaze on her face. "Connie, I need you to come with us."
A cold, icy grip seized Connie and trickled its malignant dread through her veins. Was she under arrest? For what? The blood drained from her face, and her head threatened to float into the atmosphere. Her fingers tingled. She stood. The less said in front of Nate the better. Plus she couldn't argue with Menendez like she'd done with Damien. They didn't have that sort of rapport. Menendez was tough as nails and second-in-command. A knot of betrayal formed in her belly as she considered what had happened between her and Damien during their last confrontation. Did this mean they’d found incriminating evidence of some sort on her machine? Evidence that pointed to her?
"Do I need a lawyer?" she asked between short breaths.
Menendez hiked a brow. "I don't know. Do you?"
"Don't be an ass, Tony," Damien said. He directed his next words to Connie. "We found something on your computer we'd like to show you and have you explain. If you think you need a lawyer, then call him now. You aren't under arrest, but you are a person of interest."
That didn't reassure her. She hadn't done anything wrong. With a minor number of exceptions, everything on her computer related to cases she'd worked on. Her machine had always been secured with a strong password, the office door locked at night. The building and her floor required passcard access. The firewall could withstand nuclear force hacker attacks. But perhaps all those layers of security damned her more, pointed to an insider breach.
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