The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  No one man, no one team had written the encryption pro­gram that guaranteed the security and authenticity of the transmitted data. The software had been amalgamated, cer­tain functions of the individual programs utilized, others dis­carded, giving none of the original developers ownership or authorship of the product in its final form.

  Neither would they be able to access the original programs via the original commands. Exactly as it should be, Wickham had noted at the time, pleased to have a small part in his coun­try's defense and wondering what his recently deceased friend, Michael Gaudet, would have said had he witnessed Wickham's ridiculously uncharacteristic display of patriotic schmaltz.

  It was only years later, after the diagnosis of his illness, fol­lowing months of research into possible treatments and his discovery of the radical institute testing an experimental pro­cedure, that he remembered Dr. Jinks's penchant for hacking, for gaming, for leaving back doors into his own work.

  Patriotism did a man no good if he wasn't alive to benefit, or so Wickham would have argued with Michael. And there were always men willing to pay another for his treachery to give him that chance.

  This was Wickham's chance. This experiment that might offer his only prospect for a life worth living. It was a hefty cost monetarily, an even heftier one should his treason be dis­covered—though the possibility of a death penalty was hardly a deterrent when he was living with one as it was.

  It seemed Wickham had been right about Dr. Jinks. And now it was simply a matter of the younger scientist giving Mr. Deacon a proper demonstration of his capabilities. Wickham glanced up again at the guest suite's balcony.

  Once Spectra IT's representative was satisfied that the en­cryption software had indeed been cracked, and the transfer of funds had been authorized, then Wickham would set into mo­tion the rest of his plan.

  The part involving Natasha and her lover.

  Twelve

  Arriving home exhausted, Natasha tossed her clutch to the corner of her blue and beige plaid sofa, kicked her shoes off and up against the base. She needed a shower, a fat dose of as­pirin with hot herbal tea, and sleep. The recipe was a sure cure for avoiding tomorrow morning's guaranteed hangover.

  A hangover would only double her grumpiness at having to hire a car to drive her back to Wick's estate. Thankfully, his department's travel budget made it possible for her to write off such an expense. Obviously, Peter's business dealings with her godfather meant he would be returning, too.

  But just as obviously she couldn't count on getting a ride back with him. Stupid of her not to have asked for his cell number. Stupider even to think she wouldn't need it since she'd be seeing him later at the club. And if that wasn't the most stupid assumption of all, then she truly was the ass as­suming made of "u" and "me".

  Way too pleased with her tipsy and self-directed humor, she headed for the kitchen, shook out three aspirin from the bottle on top of the microwave before filling a mug with filtered water from the tap. After downing the meds, she stuck the mug in the oven for a quick blast and dug a tea bag from the pantry. She watched the mug rotate, grabbed it on the oven's first "all done" ding, and had just dunked the bag of aromatic herbs when she heard a sharp rap at the door.

  Since she wasn't missing any clothing and had made it home with only her own, she doubted her visitor was one of the girls. Unless Yvonne had lost her keys, or Elaine had for­gotten her address, or Susan was too depressed about being a year older to spend the night alone.

  Of course it could be Keith, lonely Keith, promising that this time he was leaving his wife. For real. He swore. Setting the tea on the counter, Natasha tiptoed her way to the door in the dark. No sense broadcasting that she hadn't yet gone to bed if it was indeed Keith and he'd been watching for her to come home.

  It took but one bleary-eyed peek through the peephole to identify her visitor and set her traitorous heart to pounding. She stepped back, swiped at her hair, sniffed her pits—ugh, she'd been sweaty—before deciding that any man who stood her up wasn't worth primping for.

  She unlocked the door, pulled it open, but did not swing it wide and invite Peter in. "If you're looking for your watch, I'm sorry but I haven't seen it."

  He blinked slowly, lazily, his blue eyes sparkling even at this late hour. "My business took longer than I expected. If I'd had a way to reach you, I would have called to keep you from waiting."

  That was so close to an apology she wasn't sure what to say, so she simply told him, "I didn't wait."

  "Good." He stood with one hand on the doorjamb, lifted the other to tuck her tangled hair behind her ear. "A woman as beautiful as you are should never wait for a man."

  God, he was doing it to her already. Doing it to her again. Barely touching her and making her want him. Her girlfriends were right. She hadn't needed them to remind her how weak she was, how susceptible to falling too hard and too fast, but the reinforcement could not have come at a better time.

  She drew on it even now. "Were you wanting something? Other than to let me know what time tomorrow you're think­ing of leaving?"

  The light in the landing shone around his head like a halo, limning him with a surreal golden glow, but casting his face into shadow as if to hide the truth. This man was no prim and proper white-winged angel. He looked mysterious standing with his head bowed, daunting when she took in the breadth of his shoulders, intimidating in that way he had of seeming to hold himself in check when he was capable of doing any dam­age he damn well pleased.

  She did her best not to shiver. She failed.

  His hand lingered, toying with the ends of her hair, using the tips of the strands as a paintbrush along the line of her jaw. "What time would be convenient for you?"

  "Wick's not expecting us until early evening. So, noon would be fine. That would give me time to run a few errands." When he stopped stroking her, she lifted her chin, uncon­sciously reaching for more. "Besides, if I get up too early I'll be worthless tomorrow. After tonight out with the girls, I've got to get some sleep."

  He let her hair go; his hand hovered at the neckline of her tank before he dropped it to his side. "Then I hope that tea you're drinking is decaffeinated."

  Her tea. Right. She cleared her throat and stepped back as if she'd never begged him to touch her. She wanted him to touch her and admitted then that desire was a bitch. "It's herbal. Would you like a cup?"

  "I would, yes." He moved to block the doorway, both hands now braced on either side of the jamb, and loomed over her. "But if you invite me in, I'm going to stay the night."

  "I see," she said, swallowing hard and reminding herself of the secrets he kept, arguing back that she would never have a better chance to ferret them out than here and now, the two of them alone without the interruption of his business with Wick. "The sofa's quite comfortable, though admittedly short. But I have plenty of blankets and pillows—"

  Peter cut her off with a shake of his head. "If I stay the night, I won't be sleeping on the sofa."

  She knew that. She knew that. And she let him in anyway. Doing what she could to justify her actions with reasons that even she would have trouble believing on a good day. Like en­tertaining Peter was all part of the job Wick had given her. Like she enjoyed Peter's enigmatic personality and wanted the quiet time to figure out why. Like she wanted to hear what he'd like to do in the days ahead so she could schedule her time accordingly.

  The truth was much more simple, as truth usually was. She let him in because her body steadfastly ignored the good inten­tions of her head, refused to listen to the warnings of her com­mon sense, denied giving credence to rational thought, which insisted she didn't know what she was getting herself into.

  So what if a previous leap or two of faith had ended badly. She was learning life's relationship lessons along the way, was stronger and smarter these days, less likely to be duped now that she lived with her eyes wide open. Right? Right? "I'm drinking honey chamomile. But I also have straight Darjeeling if you'd prefer."

>   "The Darjeeling, please," he said, closing her door and locking both of her deadbolts before following her to the small combination kitchen and eating alcove. There, he crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder on the long edge of her pantry door, and watched as she reached for the tin of tea. "This place suits you."

  She stopped herself from rolling her eyes, lifted a brow in­stead. "You haven't even seen it. And you've only just met me. How do you know what suits and what doesn't?" She filled a second mug from the tap, set it in the microwave, and turned toward him as the water warmed. "And don't give me that crap about thoroughly investigating anyone you're doing busi­ness with. I don't buy it for a minute."

  "Why not?" he asked smugly.

  "Because if you've gone so far as to check out my decorat­ing tastes and hatred of all things knickknack just to work with Wick on data encryption—"

  "I thought you said you didn't know the details of your godfather's work," he said, cutting her off sharply, his suspi­cious tone of voice bringing her chin up defiantly.

  "I don't." The microwave dinged, but she didn't punch it open right away. She didn't know what his deal was, repeat­edly challenging her on her involvement with Wick and the lab rats, but she was pretty much fed up. "But I'm not stupid. And considering the correspondence I handle for him, the conver­sations I have with experts from all over the world, the gist of what he does is not lost on me."

  When Peter didn't immediately respond, Natasha turned back to his tea to regain her bearings. She couldn't imagine that her godfather would've said anything to give Peter the im­pression that she was any more than an administrative assis­tant.

  The fact that he thought she might be involved in the pro­gramming and software development was, she supposed, a backhanded compliment; it took a hell of a genius to work with binary data. But repeating herself, defending herself was rapidly getting old.

  "You're right," Peter finally said as she removed the tea bag and offered him cream and sugar. "Black, a teaspoon of sugar, thanks. My thinking this place suits you is based solely on how it makes me feel."

  "How it makes you feel?" she queried with no little sense of righteous skepticism, as she stirred the sugar into his tea. Why should the place where she lived give him cause to feel anything? "I don't understand."

  He canted his head, frowning in thought. "Tell me some­thing. Are you most comfortable when you're here or when staying in your rooms at your godfather's estate?"

  Though she'd never really thought about it, the answer came to her without a moment's consideration. "Here, actu­ally. But that's because this is my place, you know? I have free reign when at Wick's, of course. And he's never made me feel as if I have no right to be there. But when I'm here there's no question of anyone looking over my shoulder. Besides," she went on, offering up a small shrug, "I get homesick for the noise and the bright lights if I stay away too long."

  "Is that what you feel when at Dr. Bow's place?" Peter's gaze slowly hardened. "As if you're being watched?"

  "No. Not at all." She handed him his tea, his fingers warm as they covered hers; the strange look in his eyes—guarded? protective?—told her he would have held her longer if she hadn't pulled away. She picked up her own mug, blew over the steaming surface. "At least not watched like being spied on. It's just hard to have any privacy with the lab rats coming and going and the staff in and out doing their thing."

  He held his mug in one hand, fisted his other and shoved it into his pants pocket. She had no idea what he was thinking, though the fact that he seemed to be fighting for control caught her off guard. And then remembering how this conver­sation had started quickly became a lost cause. He was look­ing into her again with that intensity that hummed over her skin like the wind racing before a wildfire.

  She watched him raise his drink to his mouth, watched him blow lightly then sip. She mirrored his actions, using two hands to hold her mug while he managed with only one. Funny, her sud­den awareness of their disparity in size, as if she wasn't inti­mately knowledgeable already. And before that train of thought took her into territory best avoided, she asked him, "So, what does make you think this place fits me?"

  "I'm not sure." He stared into his mug's dark liquid. "Or at least not sure I can explain."

  "Uh-uh. You started this. I don't buy that you don't have some clue."

  His head came up at that, his expression saying "fair enough." "I work a lot of hours, at least half of them while traveling. I stay in rooms that cost what is a monthly mortgage payment for many."

  "And that's what suits you?" she asked when he seemed to grow lost in thought.

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "I don't think it does. Not anymore."

  "Good. That means you're still human. And as long as you don't demand bowls of nothing but green M&M's when you're staying wherever it is you stay, then I don't think you need to worry."

  And then he laughed. "That's it. That's why your place fits. It's no frills and straight to the point. Just like you are."

  Her heart turned over with what she swore was an audible thump. She might feel most alive when in the city, but she was still a big fan of simplicity. And the fact that he had noticed .. . tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump. "So, then, you find my Spartan furnishings appealing."

  He smiled, almost tentatively. "Perhaps I do."

  "Well, Spartan or not, the sofa is much more comfortable for conversation than standing here in the kitchen," she said, taking her mug of tea and leading him to the sofa on which he'd refused to sleep. And besides, if he laughed like that again, smiled like that again, looked into her eyes again as if searching out all of her thoughts, well, they needed more space between them than her kitchen allowed.

  "How was your party?" he asked, choosing to sit in her side chair instead—a choice that could have been devastating had she not just reined in her lust. Devastating, because sitting the way he was, one ankle squared over the opposite knee, the fabric of his clothing clearly showed off the build of his most amazing body and she was not as immune and strong-willed as she'd thought.

  "It was fun," she said, smiling, staring down at the surface of her tea to regain her bearings, and realizing that she really had enjoyed the raunchy fun—and needed the ass-chewing— of her girl's night out. "You didn't miss anything but a lot of girl talk and wild girl-on-girl dancing action."

  He didn't say a word. For a very long moment he simply sat there in a chair she'd never thought very comfortable, his el­bows on the padded arms, his big hands enveloping the mug he balanced on his belt buckle. Devastating, yes, that was def­initely the word, because she felt her will to resist him crumble into tiny particles of resolve.

  And then the corner of his mouth lifted. The right corner, revealing that dimple in his cheek she wanted to measure with the tip of her index finger. Measure and poke and feel the bris­tle of beard he wore.

  "I'm sorry I missed that," he finally said, lifting his tea to hide the full tilt of his smile. Typical man. Caught virtually speechless by the mental picture of writhing female bodies she'd painted. Or so she thought until he added, "The talk more so than the dancing."

  "You're kidding, right?" She tucked her legs up beneath her. "You would rather listen in on a conversation between four women than watch them dance?"

  "Dancing only tells me how your body moves," he said, completely serious. "That I already know. What you choose to talk about reveals so much more."

  They'd talked about other men. They'd talked about him. They'd talked about her need to curb her physical needs long enough for her brain to engage and involve itself in her rela­tionship choices. She couldn't imagine him sitting in on any of those conversations.

  "So, we talk now. I'll reveal all." She allowed herself a pri­vate smirk as she lifted her mug to her mouth. "Of course, that means you have to do the same."

  "Or we could simply go to bed," he countered, his expres­sion near enough to neutral that she sensed he was baiting her more than issuing an invitation.

&
nbsp; "We could, yes." Think fast. Think fast. "But how much more pleasurable to"—she stopped herself from saying make love—"share that intimacy with a partner you know."

  "I don't think either of us have missed out on any pleasure recently."

  Oh, but he was good. Seducing her with nothing but mem­ories and the silky tone of his voice. "Perhaps not," she whis­pered, her hands trembling around her mug. "But we'll never know without giving it a try."

  "Curiosity killing you again?"

  Of course it was. And she liked that he remembered more of what had gone on between them than the sex. "Well? Is it a deal?"

  He shook his head. "We can talk in bed."

  She heard hushed sex words, softly spoken requests, pleas disguised as rough demands. Her breathing quickened, as did her body, the rush of blood through her veins a singeing fur­nace blast that had her ready to strip naked then and there. "That's not the kind of talking I meant."

  "No clothes. No barriers. Both at our most vulnerable. Dangerously exposed. Perhaps saying more than we should."

  A little late in the game to be asking, but she had to know. "Peter, are you married?"

  A winged brow lifted, he murmured, "Would it matter to you if I were?"

  "Yes. It would. I'm not in the habit of sleeping with mar­ried men."

  "Are you sure?"

  Would he have investigated her that deeply? To have found out about Keith? "I made a mistake. I won't make it again. And, if I have? Then I need to correct the situation, don't I?"

  "No. I'm not married."

  She couldn't believe the relief that swept through her. Oh, but she was in deeper here than she'd thought. Wanting to do exactly as he'd suggested. Bare his body and work her way into his mind. "I have to shower."

  "Then we'll shower."