The Bane Affair Read online

  He braced his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward, looking down at the gravel and concrete. "Not exactly."

  "Hmm," was all she said, and that brought his head up. Her eyes were a deep dark brown and flashed in the moonlight like sun on iced coffee. She gave a small laugh before saying, "Well, now you have me curious."

  He kept his fingers laced together, kept his thigh pressed to her knee. He wasn't one to be taken in by a pretty face. Not any longer, and certainly not this face. In this light, at this dis­tance . . .

  He clenched his hands tighter and reminded himself who she was and where he was, what year it was and how many miles separated the Adirondacks from Thailand. Flexing his fingers, he breathed deeply and expelled the reminders she brought up of his past.

  "A dangerous thing, curiosity," he finally said.

  "And therein lies your proof." Her eyes flashed again, this time showing off what he sensed was a self-directed shot.

  "Proof?" he asked, pressing his thigh harder to her knee.

  Her lashes drifted down, drifted up. She shifted slightly, not away, but at less of an angle so that the length of her leg, from hip to knee, touched his.

  "Proof that I was lying about lying." She smoothed down her short skirt with her palms. "Curiosity is my weakness."

  "Tell me, then. How many lives do you have left?"

  She shrugged, a slight lift of the shoulder closest to his. This time when she met his gaze, her irises glittered with a hungry need to know. Yet it was the tone of her whisper that gave away the extent of her interest when she asked, "That de­pends. How dangerous are you?"

  He held her gaze, unspeaking and still, and after a long silent moment, she shivered, rubbing her palms up and down her biceps. Gooseflesh pebbled her arms in a breeze that wasn't really that cold. It was good that he made her nervous, he mused, his mind returning to her question.

  How dangerous was he?

  She'd do better to ask that question of Eli or Julian or Kelly John or Tripp. None of the four would mince the words Christian wasn't able to speak. He'd seen things, done things, made deals that were no better than Peter Deacon's, though he'd never willingly hurt anyone innocent, never killed anyone who didn't deserve to die.

  He turned his gaze away, breaking the eye contact that had gone on long past what civilized conversation required. Natasha shivered again; he took advantage of the distraction, shaking out the suit coat that lay in his lap to drape it over her shoulders.

  She pulled the lapels close and, smiling, snuggled deep. "Thank you."

  "Not a problem." He left his arm behind her, his hand at her hip on the wall, his body offering shelter. No. It was Peter Deacon offering shelter to a beautiful woman. And Peter Deacon wouldn't give a rat's ass if Natasha knew what went on in the underground lab as long as she shared his bed for the duration of his stay.

  The thought again gave Christian pause. "So. Where were we?"

  She nodded briskly. "I asked you why you were here if not to tour the lab."

  He caught her gaze and held it, one heartbeat, two, wait­ing, wondering, curious if she'd retract or stick to her guns. They both knew that wasn't the question hanging pregnant in the air, the one he hadn't answered and was sure she hadn't meant to ask. He knew that by her hesitation, the sense he got that she wanted to say more, yet she was the first to look away. Her eyelids came down to shutter her gaze, and the mo­ment of heat finally fizzled.

  Christian moved on. "Those details are for your boss to share, not me."

  "Why?" She gave a wry grin. "Unless telling me why you're here means you'll have to kill me."

  His free hand came up to finger the lapel of his jacket above where her hands held the fabric close. "Do you want to talk about this death wish you have?"

  She stopped breathing as if anticipating his bolder touch. "I don't have a death wish."

  He continued to stroke; her gaze on his hand never wa­vered. "Then why all the people in line to kill you? Your styl­ist. Your godfather." He moved his hand upward until his knuckles grazed her bare throat. "Me."

  She laughed, a breathless, nervous twitter. "That's just a fig­ure of speech."

  "It's come up a lot in the last thirty minutes of this conver­sation."

  "I swear I won't use it again." She drew an X over her chest, right above his hand. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

  "Die. Right." He released her then; he'd pressed hard enough for now.

  "Okay, okay," she said, once again exhibiting the self-amusement that he'd noticed—and appreciated—before. "I hadn't even realized. My guilt at keeping Wick waiting must be eating at me."

  "Don't let it. Once we get back, I'll explain that you were showing me the extent of the estate."

  Her brow arched. "And you think that will appease him?"

  "I have every confidence that it will."

  "You don't know Wick very well, do you?" she asked with a bit of a huff.

  Christian leaned closer, forcing the contact of her shoulder with the inside of his and keeping his hand on the wall at her hip. Here it was. The test he'd been waiting to give her. "I know enough. He told me earlier that he plans to put you at my disposal for the length of my stay."

  Her pulse fluttered. Christian watched it there at the base of her throat. Good. She wasn't unaffected, though he would have liked to be sure of the cause.

  Was it being at his disposal and the intimacy that entailed? Or the realization that he knew of the deal she'd made to accommodate Deacon during his stay, a particularly telling de­tail she had yet to mention.

  "How long will you be here?" she finally asked, her voice less steady than before.

  "As long as it takes to get what I've come for." An honest and double-edged answer—and one she should have known. Her position as Bow's assistant should've given her the inside scoop as to why Deacon was visiting. There was a lot going on here that wasn't making sense.

  Uneasiness begin to stir where he stored his gut feelings. "My firm is investing in a project in its final stages of develop­ment. I want to be here for a complete demonstration of the capabilities. Plus, it's easier to troubleshoot from on site."

  "So. . ." she began, frowning while she processed what he'd said, continuing with, "you don't work with Wick at Polytechnic, then?"

  He shook his head. "No, why?"

  She shrugged again. "Most of his lab rats who spend time up here are graduate students. And if you're here to trou­bleshoot—"

  "I'm not a graduate student or a lab rat, Natasha. And if the project continues at its current momentum," he added, shifting so he could better see her face, gauge her reaction, "your godfather will be a wealthy man when I leave."

  He didn't need to see her face; her laugh gave away as much as her expression. This time he was the source of her amusement and, if he wasn't mistaken, a source of perceived insult. Interesting, that. Especially when he'd fed her the very least she should know as the employee who handled Bow's business dealings.

  She got to her feet, pushed her hair from her face, stood her ground as she faced him. "Mr. Deacon, you don't know Wick at all if you think money is the goal of his research."

  He hid none of Deacon's cynicism, which in this case mir­rored his own. "Your godfather works in data encryption, Miss Gaudet. Not exactly a humanitarian effort. I don't buy the altruistic sentiment."

  "It's not about altruism." She pressed her lips tightly to­gether, paced a short strip of graveled parking lot while gath­ering her thoughts.

  When she finally stopped, Christian was struck by the way her brows drew down, as if she wasn't at all pleased with her own conclusion. "It's about being able to say, 'I told you so.' About being right and proving everyone around him wrong."

  And with that, she handed him his suit coat and headed for the car's passenger door without a single backward glance.

  Christian waited, watching, taking his time shrugging into the jacket. He'd had but seventy-two hours to study her port­folio along with that of Dr. Bow. Deac
on's hadn't even re­quired a refresher.

  But now he found himself blinking rapidly as he mentally scanned each page of information, looking for anything he'd missed. Anything to prove his intuition wrong.

  Because right now, at this moment, his intuition had him swearing that Natasha Gaudet had no clue her godfather was making deals with the devil.

  Three

  The hank of security monitors behind which Wickham Bow sat was positioned at such an angle that he had no trouble viewing the floor of the underground lab from his raised plat­form in the room's corner. He could easily monitor the work­ings of the room at the same time he assured himself that his household staff aboveground was following his instructions to the letter.

  Natasha knew nothing of the hidden cameras throughout the house and grounds. She made for a perfect pawn—a beau­tiful woman, innocent and guileless, caught unawares in a tan­gled web of high stakes. He might have felt sympathetic had not so much been on the line.

  Had not his very life been on the line.

  Before he forgave her tonight for being late—and how could he not, watching her climb from Deacon's Ferrari, see­ing the other man guide her with his palm placed intimately in the small of her back?—Wickham would make his displeasure at her tardiness known.

  He would relent once when she admitted her mistake, which she would in her efforts to please him. He only needed to decide whether his cause would be better served by chastis­ing her privately or in front of his guest.

  He flipped a switch on his control panel and brought up the camera above the kitchen's rear entrance to follow the couple up the ramp from the garage to the back of the house. Natasha stopped to slip on her suit jacket and to quickly run a brush through her hair. Good girl, he mused with a nod, his gaze moving to the man watching his goddaughter as she saw to her appearance.

  Peter Deacon had arrived only two hours ago and already the plan was coming together. Asking Deacon if he minded holding dinner for Natasha, then suggesting he might enjoy the water gardens while waiting, had been an ingenious stroke of luck on Wickham's part. His earlier irritation had eased once he'd realized the two were together. Both of his pawns were making the very moves he'd hoped for.

  All he had to do was sit back and watch the games begin. Then . . . checkmate.

  The fluid hem of her paisley Ralph Lauren halter dress flirt­ing at her knees, Natasha paced the mauve carpet of her rooms, from window to door, settee to fireplace, wing chair to bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush wool fibers that of­fered the only familiar comfort she'd found since arriving for the second time tonight.

  Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong.

  Her godfather seldom invited colleagues into his home, but never did he invite men of Peter Deacon's character. The gothic gingerbread functioned as Wick's living quarters, yes, but the house also sat atop the computer lab that was the hub of the estate's activity and the core location to which the majority of his visitors migrated immediately upon arrival.

  They didn't come for dinner. They didn't stay in the up­stairs guest room suite. And they certainly didn't require her escort services—so to speak.

  Most were the lab rats of which she'd spoken earlier, and lived the cliché, rarely sleeping, rarely eating, speaking to one another in binary instead of more accessible languages like Latin or Greek. Natasha seldom had reason to visit the lab. She handled her godfather's calls and correspondence—both printed and electronic—and made his appointments along with the few travel arrangements he still required.

  Thinking about it in those terms, the job didn't sound like much until one factored in the global scope of Wick's reach. In reality, Natasha was as much diplomat or envoy as personal assistant. As busy as she was, as long the hours she kept, she never disturbed him when he was at work down below. Her arena was aboveground, both in the city and here at the estate, making her the least likely candidate for effective guide.

  That said, she would hardly score points by refusing his re­quest, though she did wish he had checked with her before he'd guaranteed her services to Peter. She had so much on her upcoming plate that required her time and attention. Yet, even drawing enough of a salary to afford Ralph Lauren, Jimmy Choo, and her Infiniti FX45, it wasn't enough to argue that one of the rats would make a better companion.

  Wick ruled his castle as if he were king, his staff and house-guests his subjects. And that was the thing, she mused, squish­ing the carpet between her bare toes. She couldn't imagine Peter Deacon subjecting himself to any authority figure. Such an image, the man pledging fealty from his Ferrari, made no sense.

  She'd known him less than two hours, hardly enough time to make his acquaintance, much less form a learned opinion. But that much she knew. That, and the fact that the man he was exquisitely reinforced how opposite were the sexes—and how dull her romantic life of late. A dullness to which she could see him adding a much needed shine. He was the quin­tessence of everything she loved in the male of the species— and she'd always been mad about men.

  Tall and broad-shouldered and built. Blue eyes to drown in. A dimpled smile to knock her off her feet. But more than a compilation of all those clichés, he was confident. Successful. Powerful. He was observant, wrapping her in his coat when she was chilled. Generous. How many others would have let her behind the wheel of a nearly half-million-dollar car? Hot-bodied cars. Hot-bodied men.

  She pressed both palms to the flutters in her belly, slipping her fingers down to the coiled tension between her legs, know­ing the relief a quick orgasm would bring. She would . . . but she didn't have time. And if she wasn't careful, very, very care­ful, she was going to blow her good intentions not to fall into bed until she'd learned more about a man than how fully he turned her on.

  A knock at the door brought her head up and her pensive-ness to a halt. She hesitated briefly, then shook off the last few minutes of misgivings and headed for the door, slipping her feet into strappy black sandals along the way.

  "Wick. Come in." Stepping back, she gestured him inside.

  But Wick shook his head, his hands laced in his lap as he glanced up at her over the gold rims of his bifocals. "You seem to be ready. We can talk on the way to the dining room."

  "Sure. Let me grab a wrap." The dining room remained perpetually cold, and she tossed the fringed silk shawl over her shoulders as she pulled the door closed behind her. She hadn't seen her godfather since returning from the spur-of-the-moment drive to Overlook Point, and an apology was in order.

  "I met your guest earlier," she began, walking alongside Wick's wheelchair down the second floor hallway. "We drove out to the lake, so I'm to blame for dinner being late. I should have let you know before taking off like that."

  "Mrs. Courtney has a sixth sense for timing her meals. I'm sure none of us will suffer for your . . . disregard."

  Natasha cringed. "I do apologize. It's just that when I drove up, Mr. Deacon was outside. And he drives a Ferrari, did you know that?"

  Wick seemed to hedge, but Natasha heard rather than saw his smile when he said, "No, but that would explain the im­promptu drive to the point."

  "You should see it. All that sexy metallic black and leather. And the horsepower." She reached down, vigorously rubbed his shoulder. "If you're undecided on what to buy me for Christmas . . ."

  At that, Wick laughed; the deep, familiar, and humor-filled rumble tickled Natasha's palm. "I'll be sure to let Mr. Claus know."

  Natasha grinned, glad to be forgiven. And to see her god­father in good spirits. As his health deteriorated, so did the state of his moods, yet his mind remained as sharp as ever. Knowing the slow, wicked death he faced, becoming a pris­oner in his own body . . .

  She squeezed his shoulder again, dispelling what she could of her anxiety. "You know, I'll bet I could talk Mr. Deacon into letting me take you for a ride."

  They'd reached the elevator door at the end of the corridor. Wick brought his wheelchair to a stop. He pulled his glasses from his face, then
a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket, and cleaned the lenses.

  He delayed a long, thought-filled moment before he looked up. "I depend on you too much, Natasha. You never fail to make me laugh when I disabuse myself of having reason to—"

  "Of course you have reason to," she began, stopping once she realized the list she was getting ready to tick off was hers, not his. He lifted a brow expressively, forcing her admission of chagrin. "Well, you have me, anyway. Use me at will."

  "I do hope you mean that, dear."

  She studied his face; the grooves around his mouth ap­peared to be deeper now than when she'd been here earlier in the week, the sallow tinge to his complexion more noticeable. His eyes were as bright and expressive as always, but the tired circles beneath broke her heart.

  Leaning down, she kissed his cheek. "I don't say what I don't mean as a rule."

  Wick considered that, then said, "I'd like to hear your im­pression of Peter Deacon."

  Natasha straightened, sighed. The hot-bodied part of her impression of their visitor was probably best not spoken aloud. That or the way he'd felt sitting there beside her on the wall at Overlook Point. He'd felt like a fantasy, as if he'd come out of the dark when she'd most needed to look up and find him waiting.

  Funny, that, as she'd been reared to be independent, and had never needed to look up and find any man. "Actually, it was a quick drive. We hardly had time to talk."

  "I don't need to know what you talked about," Wick said, his mouth grim now. "Merely your impression."

  Yes, but the meat of her impression had been formed based on their conversation. Not so much on what he'd said but on the tone of his voice, the way he'd looked at her while speak­ing, as if he were trying to see beneath the surface of what she'd revealed to the truth.

  A strange sensation, since she considered herself an open book and hadn't kept anything from him—anything beyond the urge to place her palm to his cheek, to feel the heat of his skin, his stubble, the strength in his jaw.

  He, in fact, had been the secretive one, and she wondered if that was what Wick was asking. "He seemed quite intense, ac­tually. Focused, I suppose," she added, recalling the other man's eyes. "I'd say he was evasive, but that's more than likely the response of my unsatisfied curiosity."