Prescription: Makeover

by Jessica Andersen

  Part of William wanted to leap at the chance, wanted to divorce himself completely from all contact with Ike. But he shook his head. “No, we already discussed that. Raine needs you here — we can’t forget that she might still be a target if Odin goes out for revenge. Besides, I’m better with the surveillance stuff.” He was better with the hand-to-hand, as well, if it came down to it, but Lord knows he tried to keep that to a minimum these days. It was too easy to let the violence inside him loose, too difficult to rein it in. Still, he sighed before he said, “It makes more sense for me to be the one backing her up.”

  “You going to be okay with that?” Max asked.

  William lifted a shoulder and said, “I’m going to have to be. Vasek & Caine is going to go under if we don’t nail this bastard, and Ike’s already proven she’ll go after him on her own if we don’t include her.” The very thought clutched an acid burn beneath his heart.

  “You got that right.” Max nodded, expression darkening. “She’s always been a bit of a bulldog, but when Zed died…it changed her. She’s harder now, more reckless than ever.”

  “Great,” William muttered, though Max’s words only confirmed what he’d already figured out on his own. “That’s just what I need. A kamikaze. Well, she’d better know who’s in charge. If she thinks —”

  A buzz from the outer room interrupted him, announcing visitors. With no clients scheduled, they’d locked the doors and turned on the intercom.

  “That’ll be Ike and Stephen,” Max said, hitting the door release after a quick glance at the clock on William’s computer monitor. “He said they’d be here around lunchtime.”

  A fist of nerves buried itself in William’s gut alongside something more, something hotter and more dangerous. He covered his reaction, tucking his hands in his pants pockets and nodding to the door. “Okay, let’s go see what they’ve come up with.”

  Part of him hoped the disguise was a failure, giving him an excuse to pull the plug on her undercover aspirations. But the rest of him knew they didn’t have a workable plan B. At the moment, she was their best hope.

  He left the office and headed down the hall toward the lobby, where a man’s low-pitched rumble was followed by the soft tinkle of a woman’s laughter. Stephen stood in the office lobby, his bulk making the space seem even smaller than usual. Near him, an unfamiliar woman stood with her back to the hallway, giving William a moment to take in the long honey-colored hair falling to the small of her back, the fitted white shirt and softly flowing flower-printed skirt and the shapely ankles and delicate feet strapped into embroidered sandals. For a moment he thought Raine had done something new with her hair.

  Then she turned, and his breath froze in his chest.

  Ike’s heart-shaped face was framed by a gentle waterfall of light-colored hair and perfectly accented with a hint of makeup. Her brown eyes were soft and liquid, and her lips were moist and color-kissed, curved in a half smile.

  Lust avalanched through him, vaporizing his blood in his veins and tightening his flesh with a primal male response that simply said, mine.

  Shocked by his own reaction, William shook his head to clear it. “Ike?”

  He expected her eyes to harden and her lips to form the familiar edgy smirk. Instead she tilted her head so her hair fell free of her ears, where tasteful pearl earrings gleamed, one on each lobe. “I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Eleanor Roth.”

  She held out her hand, and though there was nothing defiant in her expression or body language, the air between them crackled with an unspoken challenge.

  William crossed the room on legs that had gone suspiciously shaky. Before he could process the impulse or stop himself, he lifted her hand and kissed it.

  OH MY. IKE LOOKED down at William’s bowed head and felt a shimmer of wholly feminine warmth at the touch of his lips and the faint scrape of masculine stubble. Don’t get too caught up in the role, she told herself quickly, fighting to bank the heat that threatened to gather in her core. It’s not real. None of this is real.

  She pulled her hand away and reminded herself to keep her eyes soft as she glanced from William to Max. They both looked dazed, as though they’d been hit with the same blunt object.

  Irritation flared. Just like the secret admirer back at Boston General who’d sent her flowers along with the suggestion that she should make more of an effort with her appearance, William and Max seemed transfixed by the sight of her in a dress.

  Give a man a girlie girl in a skirt and he’s ready to trip over his tongue, she thought bitterly. Give him a strong woman who knows how to stand up for herself and he trips over his own feet running away.

  Okay, so maybe that was a tad unfair, but she didn’t care. She didn’t like the way William was looking at her. Or, rather, she didn’t like that he was looking that way now, when he’d never even seemed to notice she was female before.

  She wanted to snap at him, but she caught Stephen’s eye and saw him give a little warning head shake, reminding her to stay in character.

  “Then I meet with your approval?” she asked, doing a little twirl that made the skirt flare out, showing off her calves and the place where a thin layer of flesh-toned latex covered the dragon tattoo that curled around her left ankle.

  “You look better than I dared hope,” William said, then winced and added, “What I mean is that unless you trip up or Odin has full surveillance on the Kupfer lab and they’re using really good facial recognition software, we should be able to insert you no problem.”

  Refusing to show the hurt that flared at the better than I hoped comment, Ike nodded. “Then let’s get me wired up. I’m supposed to meet Kupfer in his lab this evening for a quick get-to-know-you chat.” Under some pressure from head administrator Zach Cage, her contacts at Boston General had come through with references and a solid cover story, and William had produced all the documentation she could ask for.

  Ike’s stomach tied itself in knots as she followed the men to William’s office, where he’d assembled a pile of miniaturized surveillance devices from God only knew where. This was it, she was really doing this. She was going undercover to find Zed’s killer. God, she was nervous.

  But as she pressed a hand to her belly and willed her body to behave, she knew if she were being completely honest with herself she’d admit that not all of her nerves were due to her first official job in the field. A good bit of her agitation had to do with the man who paced his office with smooth, gliding strides and a fighter’s swagger and the idea that she and William would be together pretty much 24-7 for the next bunch of days.

  With luck, they wouldn’t kill each other. Or worse.

  GET A GRIP, WILLIAM told himself fiercely as he and Max worked to fit Ike with her surveillance devices. You’re a professional. But that was a laugh, because a pro’s hands wouldn’t shake as he wired up another pro, and he wouldn’t be too aware of each gesture, each touch. A pro wouldn’t resent Max as he fastened a microdot transmitter to Ike’s lapel and a pro wouldn’t let himself linger when the back of his hand brushed against the side of her breast.

  Hell, a pro wouldn’t even notice that the other agent had breasts. But William was acutely aware of the woman standing in front of him, acutely aware of each indrawn breath and the rise and fall of her softly rounded flesh as he worked to conceal a small camera near her collarbone, with transmitter filaments running along the strap of her bra, which was pink and edged with a scallop of soft lace.

  He glanced up, expecting to find her glaring down at him, expecting at any moment to hear her snap, Watch the hands, buddy. But she stood quietly, staring straight ahead, only a faint blush high on her cheekbones hinting that she’d noticed his accidental caress.

  The flush made her look innocent and vulnerable, punching a hard fist beneath his breastbone. If Ike had looked eminently unapproachable and prickly in black leather and boots, now she looked vulnerable and…touchable.

  “You almost done?” she inquired
. Her voice carried a bit more edge than before, but when he glanced up, there was nothing in her eyes besides polite inquiry.

  She was good, he admitted, partly relieved that their half-assed plan might just have a chance of succeeding, but mostly worried, because even if she played the part, he knew from experience just how many things could go wrong in a split second during an op like this one.

  Not for the first time, he wished Grosskill weren’t such an unapproachable ass.

  “You’re good to go,” he said, stepping back and resisting the urge to smooth down a crease in Ike’s blouse. He glanced over at Max and received an affirmative nod. “You’re wired for sight and sound, and Kupfer shouldn’t suspect a thing.” But when she moved away from him, he touched her arm, squeezing to provide emphasis when he said, “Shouldn’t is the operative word here. There aren’t any guarantees, Ike. If things go wrong, I might not be able to get to you in time.” He paused. “You can still back out, you know.”

  She pulled away, eyes dark with an unreadable emotion. “I know there aren’t any guarantees. And, no, I’m not backing out. And in the future please call me Eleanor. It helps me stay in character.”

  “Of course.” He dropped her arm and stepped away. “I get that. Going undercover…” He trailed off, realizing there was really nothing left to say. She’d made her choice and they would both have to live with it. “Never mind. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  He expected her to snap his head off. Instead she nodded. “I will. And I hate to admit it, but I’m glad you’ll be there. I’ll feel safer knowing that you’re backing me up.”

  You shouldn’t, he wanted to say. I could time it wrong again. I could get you killed. Instead he gestured toward the door. “Let’s roll. We don’t want you to be late for your meeting.”

  Chapter Six

  Located just outside the midsize city of Springfield, Massachusetts, the Markham Institute of Biomedical Research was high-tech dressed up to resemble the brick and ivy of the Five Colleges farther north. As Ike pulled into the parking lot, she picked out a pair of security cameras high up in a maple tree by the entrance, providing redundancy for the guard shack, where a uniformed security guard stepped out and motioned for her to buzz down the window of her nondescript SUV.

  The guard was in his early forties, with a hanging gut and sideburns that nearly hit his chin. He was carrying a clipboard and wearing a scowl, but when he ducked down to see into the car, his expression brightened. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  “Good evening,” Ike said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Lukas Kupfer.”

  She kept her smile in place as the guard checked his clipboard, though she seethed inwardly at the knowledge that he probably would have asked for three forms of ID if she’d been dressed in her normal clothes.

  The guard passed the clipboard over, along with a pen. “Sign in, please.” When she’d handed the items back, he pointed across the parking lot, where two huge brick-faced buildings intersected, forming a small alcove around a pair of glass-and-brass doors. “Go through the door, take the elevator to the fifth floor and hit the buzzer inside the lobby. Doc Kupfer will let you in.”

  She nodded her thanks and drove across the parking lot, choosing a relatively secluded spot in the back corner. As she drove, she remained acutely aware that she wasn’t alone in the SUV.

  Directly behind her seat, a polymer screen closed off the back of the vehicle. On it, a three-dimensional holographic projection made it look as if there was nothing but seats and normal car clutter in the back of the SUV. Behind the screen, though, William sat in a small command center wearing a pair of headphones and a scowl.

  She didn’t have to see the expression to know it was there; he’d been surly since they’d left New York City, long before they’d switched drivers and he’d moved to the back. They hadn’t spoken during the drive because there really wasn’t much to talk about. The air, though, had vibrated with the things they hadn’t said.

  “It’s showtime.” She turned off the SUV and dropped the keys into her girlie Eleanor purse. “Wish me luck.”

  She expected a snide rejoinder, but he said only, “Good luck.” His voice sounded both from behind her in the vehicle and inside her head, courtesy of a small transmitter that was tucked deep into her ear and hidden beneath her long hair.

  His restraint should have soothed her. Instead, as she climbed out of the SUV and shut the door, then crossed the parking lot toward the building the guard had indicated, nerves pulled her chest tight, making it hard to breathe.

  She paused at the double doors, suddenly unable to believe she was really going undercover in a dress and heels. She didn’t have her gun, didn’t have Tom, Dick and Harry or any of her usual equipment. She had a camera clipped to her bra — which was pink, for God’s sake — and nothing to work with besides her wits.

  “You going to stand there all day?” William’s transmitted question was dry as dust, but she knew he was really asking, Are you going to be okay? She felt a momentary flare of emotion at his concern, then cursed herself for wishful thinking. In all likelihood he’d really meant, Move your flower-covered butt.

  “I’m fine,” she said and pushed open one of two glass doors that were embossed with researchers’ names in gold paint. “I’m going in.”

  “I’ve got a visual from the camera,” he said with a touch of impatience. “Don’t give me a running commentary or you’ll look like an idiot.”

  She found his sarcasm perversely comforting as she entered the building, stifling the urge to say things like I’m on the elevator and I’m buzzing to get let in now. As she stood in the chrome-and-glass waiting area just outside the elevator on the fifth floor, though, she couldn’t help feeling as if William were standing just behind her, smoothing out the jitter of nerves that gathered in her stomach. Figuring what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them, she allowed herself to take comfort in the image as a hazy figure appeared on the other side of the frosted glass. There was a buzzing noise and the door popped free of its lock and pushed inward.

  The man who held open the door was about her height, shy of six feet by an inch or two, but rang in at about twice her mass. He wasn’t fat, more like heavy all over, with large arms and powerful-looking legs beneath a gray suit, white shirt and conservative navy tie. As in his photographs, Lukas Kupfer’s face seemed caught somewhere between laughter and sadness as he held out his hand. “Miss Roth, welcome. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She shook. “The pleasure is mine, Dr. Kupfer. Thank you so much for allowing me to visit your lab on such short notice.”

  “Anything to help out the good folk at Boston General.” He grinned, the expression taking at least five years off his looks. “That’s the joy of working in academia rather than industry — we get to share the fun stuff.”

  He ushered her through the door and into a lobby that was done in muted grays and beiges. It held two cluttered reception desks facing away from a wall of filing cabinets, printers and copy machines. Both desks were empty since it was after quitting time, but their surfaces gave the impression of ordered chaos. Two of the walls were hung with colorful prints — fluorescent-labeled cells on one side and schematic pictures of DNA molecules on the other. The remaining wall space was taken up by doorways: four leading to offices; one to what looked like a break room; and an airlock-type doorway in the far wall offering access to the lab area.

  Kupfer waved her across the lobby. “Come on into my office. I want to give you a couple of reprints for background info, and then we can head into the lab and have a look around.”

  His office was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were uniformly stuffed to the brim with journals, along with enough books to fill a small library, their titles ranging from The Clinicogenetic Characteristics of the Muscular Dystrophies and a thin volume entitled A Boy Like Me — DMD Explained, to what looked like just about every Far Side compendium ever published. The stacked journals, papers and books lea
ned against one another with apparent disregard for the laws of gravity, looking as though they might avalanche at any moment onto the desk that sat in the center of the small room, facing the single window. The desk surface was nearly dominated by a good size desktop computer and an industrial-looking printer, along with a Mason jar full of what looked like Super Balls and a beat-up-looking stuffed dog.

  Kupfer crossed to one of the bookcases and started flipping through a stack of papers, no doubt looking for the journal articles he’d mentioned. Ike wandered to the other side of the small room, where a few more personal items rested on a relatively neat shelf. She could’ve told him not to bother with the reprints, that she’d already studied everything he’d ever written, plus a handful of the most recent papers published by each of his competitors. Instead she scanned the shelf, looking for insight into Kupfer, a hint of whether he was Odin’s coconspirator or his next victim.

  She focused on a trifold frame that held three photographs, all of the same subjects — a handsome blond woman and a young, brown-haired boy with stick-thin limbs and a devilish glint in his eyes. She touched the frame. “This was your son?”

  It seemed safe to use the past tense without giving away her background research. Any Google search would pull up the story of how Kupfer had first started studying Duchenne muscular dystrophy because he’d had an affected son who’d died.

  “His name was Matthew.” Kupfer crossed the room and stood beside her so they were both looking at the photographs of a laughing mother and child. “He was only ten when the disease took him.”

  “Too young,” Ike said, trying hard not to let the boy in the photo blur to the memory of another challenged child, one with downward-turned eyes and her father’s chin.

  “I think he’d be proud of what I’ve accomplished here,” Kupfer said simply. Then he handed her a thick stack of reprinted journal articles and waved her to the door. “It’s getting late and you’ll want to settle in at your hotel. I’ll give you a quick tour of the lab so you can orient yourself and then tomorrow morning I’ll introduce you to my head tech, Sandy Boylen. She’ll help you run your tests.”