by Julie Miller
Ironically, he seemed the one unwilling to touch her. A silent moment passed before his hand, nearly double the size of hers and scored with a dozen scars around tanned knuckles, wrapped around her fingers and swallowed them in his handshake.
“One of the partners.” BJ could see him sizing her up, checking his internal data on her. “Along with Emma Ramsey and Jasmine Sinclair. You're the creative one. You design LadyTech's programs.”
“Most of them,” she amended, pulling her hand away. This man knew more about her than a regular customer would. The observation put her on guard. “Can I help you?”
“I'm here to see Emma. I'm Brodie Maxwell.” He flipped out an ID that labeled him a security consultant. Before BJ could question exactly what that meant, he returned his billfold to his back pocket. “She hired me to investigate a security leak. I worked with her husband in the Corps.”
Emma's dead husband had led a team of crack Marine intelligence operatives. That meant this man possessed certain skills at which she could only guess. All of Jonathan Ramsey's men had been specialists. BJ wondered what this guy's specialty was. Stopping tanks with his fists, perhaps?
BJ shivered. Emma had mentioned bringing in outside help. She knew Emma had only the best interests of the company at heart. But Brodie Maxwell's presence confirmed that she was a traitor to both LadyTech and the partners who were her two best friends.
BJ had developed the missing designs. They had been her responsibility. Hell, the only way an industrial spy could get past her self-designed failsafe systems would be for her to give out the access codes. Which she hadn't. She would never betray her partners. She would never betray herself. LadyTech was her baby, after all. Most of its concepts and products originated inside her head.
Therein lay the problem.
BJ had mapped out preliminary designs for languages, games, and programs that could mean millions of dollars to the company. Yet no trace of them existed. Not on printouts, not on disks or memory sticks, not on the server or any hard drive at LadyTech or her home office. Her own shadowy memories provided the only evidence that those ideas had ever existed.
But could her memory be trusted? Where was the proof? Brodie Maxwell looked like a man who wouldn’t quit until he found answers. BJ dreaded what those answers might be.
She averted her eyes and busied her hands with rearranging her tools. “I guess you’re really here to investigate me, then.”
“Excuse me?”
She swiveled her face up to his, unable to retrieve a welcoming smile. “You want to solve the mystery, right? I’m giving you your most likely suspect. Me. I’ll show you to Emma’s office. She’ll be expecting you.”
BJ cleared the screen of the computer she had just installed before pivoting on her heel and crossing to the grand staircase leading to the executive offices on the second floor. Brodie’s long shadow overtook her, chilling her with the impression of a beast closing in on his prey.
Brodie ascended the staircase three steps at a time. He debated the woman’s sudden mood swing. She had been smiling, unguarded, almost—accepting—of him when she first crawled from beneath the table. But when he mentioned the purpose of his visit, she closed up. Grew defensive. A fire lit in her eyes, shouting anger and distrust. And something else. Fear perhaps?
But of him? Or his mission?
Her bottom swayed on the steps ahead of him. The loose shirt and baggy jeans camouflaged her figure, but they couldn't mask the rigid set of her spine. What was she hiding?
Brodie knew the first step in drawing information out of a suspect was to engage her in innocent, neutral conversation.
“BJ stands for Bridget Jacoba, doesn't it?”
“You've done the research—you should know.” The sharp bite of her words bounced off Brodie's tough exterior, but the visible sagging of BJ's shoulders told him she regretted saying them.
She softened her voice and flashed an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “My mom was Bridget. My dad was Jake.” She topped the stairs and pointed down an empty corridor. “Emma's office is at the end. You'll probably…”
BJ froze mid-stride. Her voice faded. “No. Not now.”
Brodie collided with her back, and would have sent her flying if he hadn't snatched her shoulders, steadying her. “Miss Kincaid?”
“Get out of my head!”
“BJ?”
Her hands flew to her temples, her fingers dug into the short curls there. “Get out!” Alarmed, Brodie turned her, keeping the shelter of one arm around her shoulders. He gripped her chin and tilted it upward. Her eyes squeezed shut. Was she having some kind of seizure? He couldn't recall any mention of a physical disorder in her profile. He searched her twisted features for an answer.
“Stop it!” Her voice sounded like cracked, brittle pottery smashing to bits on concrete. Thinking his touch frightened her, Brodie immediately released her.
Wildly, she clutched at his arm, clenching it with both hands until her knuckles turned white. Then she began to shake all over.
Her fingernails bit through leather and cotton into his forearm, but he ignored the bruising pain. If she needed something to cling to, he presented the most solid object at hand. He hardly qualified as an adequate nursemaid, but at that moment, he appeared to be the only one available. “What's happening? Do I need to call someone?”
“Not this time. I won't let you.”
Brodie realized she wasn't answering him. He wasn't sure she even knew he was there with her.
“BJ!” He shook her, roughly. “Bridget!”
The demon that possessed her disappeared as swiftly as it had come. Her body went limp. Her knees buckled and he scooped her up in his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, the crown snuggling just beneath his chin.
Damn. The woman was a cuddler. Even semiconscious, she turned and pressed her soft cheek into his neck. Every protective instinct that had ever gotten him into trouble surfaced, unbidden. Briefly, Brodie tried to remember the last time a woman had nestled against him so needfully without hesitation or fear or an ulterior motive.
Nothing came to mind. He muttered an angry epithet and refocused on the situation at hand.
He carried her to the first door on his right and kicked it open. He allowed himself a moment of stunned surprise when he entered the room. Other than the antique oak desk with its two computers in the center, it looked like a child's playroom. A truckload of toys lay scattered about the floor and on the furniture. Dolls, models, a train set, games. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with collections of several kinds, lined one wall. Baseball cards. Heart- shaped pillows. DVDs.
Without a conscious thought as to why, he knew this was her office. BJ Kincaid, former child prodigy with a Mensa-level IQ, multimillionaire partner in one of the hottest companies on the market, worked in an office overflowing with toys.
He determinedly thrust away a flood of unwanted emotions, and moved to a sofa behind the desk. Brushing aside a slew of quilted teddy bears, Brodie laid BJ on the cushions, propping her head on a stuffed plaid heart.
“Monster in my head…” she murmured, stirring as he elevated her feet.
Brodie knew all about the monsters that haunted a person's dreams. He got a reminder of his own tortured demons each time he caught his reflection in a storefront window or rearview mirror. For him, it was natural, as much a part of him as breathing. But for BJ, this couldn't be right.
He squatted on the floor beside her. With one hand, he took both of hers and began rubbing them, kneading warmth into her limp fingers. He smoothed her bangs from her forehead. Her skin was cool to the touch.
She had short, soft curly hair, in a nondescript brownish-blond color. He saw nothing striking about her even features. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't plain. She was just—average.
Brodie thought it strange that he’d noticed her looks. And even stranger that he wasn't disappointed. Maybe it had something to do with the friendly, open smile with which she had first greeted him. Or th
e way her eyes boldly met and held his gaze, despite the way she had to crane her neck to do so.
Or maybe it just had to do with the fact he was a male animal who had been too long without a mate, and the sensation of holding a living, breathing female in his arms was all it took to send his hormones into overdrive. It wasn't a comforting thought.
“Wake up, BJ,” he whispered, his voice dark and bass deep. “C'mon. Wake up.”
Footsteps on the carpet alerted him to company. “BJ!” Emma knelt beside him, frowning with fear. “Is she hurt?”
“Don't know. She hit the top of the stairs and had an attack of some kind. When it stopped, she collapsed.”
“This isn't the first time. Sometimes she loses track of hours. I have no idea how to help her. That's why I went through Jonathan's journal to track you down.” Emma went to a built-in bar and brought back some wet paper towels to dab on BJ's face. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”
“We all made a pact to look out for whoever was left behind.”
Emma flashed him an apologetic look. “I led you to believe that I needed help, that the company was in trouble. But it's really BJ I'm concerned about.”
He shrugged off the misinformation that had gotten him here and jerked his chin toward BJ. “Looks like she needs a physician or a psychiatrist more than she needs my services.”
“There's a slight problem with that. BJ has some real hang-ups about men in lab coats, especially shrinks. I can't get her near one. Jas and I have both tried.”
Brodie wondered what someone as smart mouthed yet ingenuous as BJ had to fear from a psychiatrist.
Emma continued, “Besides, tomorrow at the stockholders' party, we're announcing the opening of our new Tokyo office. BJ doesn't want any bad publicity concerning her mental condition to scare off potential backers.”
BJ moaned, shifted on the pillow, and groaned again. “Tell him all of it, Emma. If he's the savior you say he is, you'd better tell him everything.”
Her eyes fluttered open. For the first time, Brodie noticed their unusual color. Not just green, but dark and blue-flecked, like a shadowy spruce forest. Earlier they had sparkled with humor, gleamed with intelligence. Now, a haze of uncertainty and fatigue clouded her eyes.
Her gaze wavered over Emma, then settled on Brodie. “It's not just my ideas that are being stolen. They're taking my sanity. Somebody's playing with my head. It's as if they're tapped into my brain, pulling out ideas before I can even get them on paper.”
“Enough.” Emma chastised BJ with a worried frown. “Nobody believes you're going insane.”
“So what just happened was normal behavior?” BJ's caustic remark echoed in the quiet.
“What did just happen?” Brodie asked. He rose and walked around the room, looking for hidden surveillance devices, getting a feel for BJ Kincaid.
Emma helped BJ sit up. BJ waved aside any further help and focused on Brodie. “You won't find any bugs—audio, visual, or tapped into the computer lines—I've checked.”
Brodie admired her astuteness. Nonetheless, he remained quiet. A long silence passed before BJ continued.
“These episodes happen two, three times a week. For about three months now. It's like…”
He heard her breath catch. The recollection obviously pained her. But he said nothing to ease her discomfort. It wasn't his place to do so. He’d agreed to help Emma because he owed her husband a favor. But when the job was finished, he intended to get back to his own life, solitary hell that it was. He didn't need to worry about anybody else's pain.
“It's like a shadow creeping into my brain. I feel it coming, pushing out everything else. Suffocating my ability to reason. Sometimes I beat it back, like today. Other times…I don't know when I lose it. Next thing I know, I wake up. I have a memory of the time passing, but nothing tangible to show for it. I'd write them off as dreams except they're too real. And afterward, I have the most awful headache you can imagine.”
Brodie paused at the DVD collection on the shelves. The movies consisted mostly of science fiction, including a vast assortment of old monster movies. Frankenstein. The Thing. Godzilla. She must think him a real-life extension of those video monstrosities.
“See anyone you know? You're not even listening to me.”
Decades of training in steely self-control kept him from starting at the sound of BJ's voice near his elbow.
“I heard every word.” He angled his face toward hers. She had incredibly expressive eyes. And the pissed-off message she broadcast to him now was unmistakable. He had to admire her courage. People rarely stood up to him. A savage look or sharp word usually deterred any challengers.
He'd enjoy going a few verbal rounds with BJ. She didn't intimidate easily. She spoke her mind and teased him more than most people ever dared try. But while the idea sounded provocative, he was in no position to indulge himself. Personal involvement meant risk. It meant the possibility of caring. And caring meant death.
He would never take that risk again.
Brodie hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, hunched his shoulders and scowled at BJ. “You talk about monsters in your head. Ghosts taking over your thoughts.” He nodded toward the shelves of movies. “You're sure you're not imagining this?”
Color flooded her cheeks. Then she caught him completely off guard and shoved at his chest, knocking him back a step. “You…You…Get the hell out of here!”
After the emotional release of the first blow, BJ attacked him in earnest. Brodie shifted his weight to balance himself, and stood immovable while BJ punctuated each word with a furious, desperate shove.
“I'm…not…crazy…!”
“BJ, stop.” Emma gently reprimanded her friend and hurried over to help. But Brodie shook his head and warned her off.
BJ couldn't damage him, so Brodie took the brunt of her outburst, lifting some of the burden of coping from the two women. That much he could do for them.
“I am not crazy,” BJ repeated through sobbing breaths, clasping his hands and clinging to him like a lifeline. “Somebody's doing this to me. I'm not crazy.”
He absorbed the last of her fury and frustration into his calloused palms. When she was spent, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against him, seeking comfort.
From him?
The trusting gesture surprised him even more than the first blow of her attack.
She must have finally realized he had nothing to offer her, because she pulled away. She took a step back and hugged herself tightly, giving herself the solace he could not. She lifted her face to his.
BJ's eyes were dark, desperate, hopeful.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I promise to keep it all together if you stay and help me. Please.”
This wasn't right. Expecting him to be anybody's rescuer. Missing data or industrial espionage he could handle.
But asking him to help a damsel in distress? In the cobwebby recesses of his mind, he tried to remember what laughter sounded like. He should be laughing at their ludicrous expectations of him.
Emma stepped behind BJ, squeezing her shoulders in support.
“Jonathan said you handled unusual cases for him.” Emma's concerned focus was on her friend, while BJ still concentrated her pleading eyes on him. “But more than that, he said you never quit until everyone was safe. Until everyone was accounted for. You weren't on his last mission, were you?”
Brodie shook his head. Jonathan Ramsey never returned from that last mission. The team had searched for over a year but found no body. Brodie still followed up any remote lead that presented itself. But his friend seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
Emma blinked moisture from her smoky blue eyes. “I believe if you had been on that mission, Jonathan would have come home to me. He believed in you that much. Because of that, so do I.
“Emma, I don't deserve that kind of trust.”
“Beowulf.”
Brodie's attention quickly attuned to BJ's husky, h
oneyed whisper. “Beowulf?”
“That's you.”
He thought he had left fear far behind, but the innocent hope in her deep green eyes frightened him.
“You're comparing me to one of the monsters in the story?”
“No.” She reached for one of his hands and gently spread it open, palm up. With her thumb she traced the expanse of his long, blunt-tipped fingers, touching each scar and callus as if his hand were a rare, precious thing. “You're the slayer of monsters.”
Even more than her words, BJ's guileless, gentle touches rocked him to the core. She didn't even know him. The damn fool didn't have sense enough to understand that he could break her neck with that hand. Yet she held on to him, fearful only of the monster inside her head, not of the one standing before her.
Brodie swore violently to himself. This job was going to get personal, he could tell. Yet, despite his misgivings, he accepted that he had already signed on for the duration.
Delaying the inevitable, he thrust BJ and her soulful eyes away from him and stalked across the room. He swiped a hand over his stubbly hair before turning to speak.
“I don't think you're crazy.” He wasted no time in getting down to work. “I suspect you're under the influence of mind control.”
“Mind control?” BJ and Emma echoed together.
“Posthypnotic suggestion. Brainwashing. I can't be certain, but that's my guess. The attacks come on suddenly, then vanish, leaving a vague memory, but no tangible proof.” He saw the wheels turning in BJ’s head, first evaluating, then accepting his hypothesis.
“You think someone has programmed me? How? Who?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Figuring out how it’s being done, and who’s responsible, is harder to solve. It will be pretty damn difficult, in fact.”
“But not impossible.”
“No.” He paced the room, needing an outlet for the sudden wellspring of energy coursing through him. He always experienced this rush when he geared up for battle. And this could only be described as a battle. A battle with an unseen enemy haunting an innocent woman’s mind. And an ongoing battle within himself. He couldn’t afford to lose either one.