by Lila Dubois
The temperature controlled server farm was illuminated by the lights on the racks of servers, red and blue pinpoints like a thousand regimented colored stars in the vast inky darkness of space. She worked the control and slowly rotated the head of the laparoscope, the camera feed shifting little by little.
The back of her neck was sweaty and it felt like ten minutes had passed before she located the cluster servers.
Luckily they weren’t far from where she’d made the hole in the ceiling.
When she withdrew the laparoscope to thread the fire-wire cable into the room below, a tiny stream of cool air caressed her face.
She remembered Alexander’s hand on her cheek and her stomach rolled.
She plugged the other end of the cable into the hardware protocol analyzer, with more force than was necessary.
Dangerously impatient, she slid the laparoscope back into the hole. It barely fit, thanks to the thickness of the cable sharing the space.
Watching the camera feed, she used the robotic clamp to grab the end of the dangling cable.
It took her several tries to get the plug of the cable lined up with a free port, but once she had it, she pressed the small button that controlled the robotic section of the laparoscope. The tip of the scope jerked forward, providing enough force to plug the fire wire cable into the stack.
Alena sagged in relief, hating the feeling of cold sweat on her back.
Aware that time was not on her side, Alena turned to the HPA.
It wasn’t a consumer device, so it didn’t have helpful things like a display to tell her it was working. The black hat who’d built it for her had grudgingly added a small light that would blink if the unit was picking up data packets.
The light was solid red.
Sweet suffering Jesus, why wasn’t this damned thing—
The light started to blink.
Alena nearly whooped with joy, but managed to restrain herself.
Taking a small satellite uplink transmitter from her pocket—it had been in the first tampon—she plugged it into a port on the opposite side of the HPA.
As data flowed through the cable into the HPA, it was then transmitted via satellite signal to her computer, which would in turn back up the data to an external hard drive, and encrypted cloud storage.
Gathering up everything she didn’t need, she left the HPA on the floor, its light merrily blinking, the laparoscope embedded in the floor, and headed for her room.
She would have preferred to stay with the device, but with her timetable thrown off, she needed to make sure to rehide her tools in her luggage. She wouldn’t have time to do it all later.
She started up the steps, moving quickly and quietly.
She didn’t see the shadowy figure standing at the far end of the hall when she opened the door to her room and slipped inside.
Chapter 13
He couldn’t sleep.
He wanted Alena again, and not just for sex. He wanted to hear her call him “sugar’” while she teased him. Wanted to ask her about the scar he’d noticed on her knee, if that was why she didn’t wear high heels.
She was right here, just one floor below him, and yet he was tossing and turning in bed, pining for her as if she were on the other side of the world.
Disgusted with himself, Alexander got out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Thinking about Alena, even if it wasn’t thinking of her as a submissive, had his cock half erect and tenting the front of his boxers.
Alexander splashed cold water on his face and the back of his neck.
He stared at himself in the mirror. She’d left an hour ago, and if he hadn’t fallen asleep by now he wasn’t going to.
Before he thought of all the reasons not to do this, he went to the closet and grabbed her pashmina.
He couldn’t let her leave without it. She might need it. He should return it to her.
He grimaced. Returning a scarf was no reason to wake someone up in the middle of the night. An utterly stupid excuse to go down there and wake her up.
Still holding the scarf, he got back in bed and spent the next hour willing himself to sleep.
It didn’t work.
He hated this feeling that he’d lost her, that she was now somehow beyond his reach. First of all she was only one flight of stairs away. Second, if he wanted to see her without manufacturing some stupid excuse, he could set an alarm and be there to see her off.
You’re never going to see her again.
Alexander pressed her pashmina over his face, half hoping he’d suffocate, putting himself out of his emotional back-and-forth misery.
He would see her in a month. He’d been in romantic relationships in which he saw the woman less frequently than once every four weeks.
A month. He’d wait a month and then they’d be able to scene together.
Unless she got another partner.
Alexander sat up.
He was a fucking idiot.
This was why he couldn’t sleep—they hadn’t said anything about scening together at the next club event. Was that why she’d turned to look at him?
He needed control, and yet he’d been so lost in the tangle of his own emotions he hadn’t stepped in to take control of this very simple thing. It was so blindingly simple that he couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to figure out why he couldn’t shut his brain off.
He’d been distracted by trying to convince himself he hadn’t fallen in love with her.
Jumping out of bed, and no longer caring that it was closer to dawn than midnight, he pulled on some gray joggers and, carrying her pashmina, jogged down the stairs. Determination brought him all the way to her door, but then he hesitated.
She’d said she needed some sleep since she’d be getting on a plane in a few hours, for a flight that wouldn’t be long enough to let her sleep. It was rude of him to wake her up just because he wouldn’t be able to get a good night’s sleep until he knew, without a doubt, that she’d be subbing to him at the next event.
Secondly, what if she said no? Or worse, what if she said yes, but only because she wanted to avoid turning him down in person.
He paced down to the far end of the hall, disgusted with his indecision.
He should just stay away from her. Earlier, when he’d told her she shouldn’t trust him, he’d scared her enough that she’d started to run.
Why was it that every time they were together, the night started off with one of them trying to walk away? Surely that had to be a bad sign.
Alexander propped his shoulder against the wall and stared at the door to her room, imagining what she looked like when she slept. Imagined waking her up by sliding his hands and mouth over her skin.
Imagined forcing her to straddle a wooden horse, her hands tied overhead, feet barely touching the ground. She’d stand on her toes as long as she could, but her calf muscles would fatigue and she’d be forced to put her whole bodyweight on her pussy, her labia splayed open by the narrow top of the punishment horse.
Alexander’s hand curled into a fist. Damn it. Those kinds of thoughts were exactly why he’d been the one to try walking away the first and second nights.
Alena wasn’t the kind of sub that would meekly accept the torture, using it to sink into some calm mental headspace he’d never fully understood, but greatly respected.
She would fight it, challenge him even as she suffered, and that would only make him want to see how far he could push her. To see what it would take to break her, to strip away her regal core, the reserve that made her the type of sub he really shouldn’t ever play with.
Divest her of everything that prevented the power exchange from tipping all the way to his side.
That thought was abhorrent. She’d said he wasn’t a monster, but deep down he was cruel and grotesque.
He’d mail her the damned scarf, and maybe by next month he’d have better control of some of his more sadistic fantasies.
The sound of footsteps made him look up. They were quick, purp
oseful steps and Alexander tensed. The end of the hall where he stood was dark, so if he held still, the person coming up the stairs probably wouldn’t see him.
It was probably one of his staff who’d stayed late working, or come in early for some odd reason. Most likely it was his chef, who came in early some days to start making bread.
Alena, dressed in black, her hair in a messy bun, cleared the last step and raced for her room. She was carrying a…hair dryer?
He rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing things?
The sound of her door closing was quiet, but very real. He hadn’t imagined it.
What was she doing up, and wandering around with a hair dryer? Did she sleepwalk?
If she was sleepwalking, should he wake her up? He frowned, trying to remember if he’d read somewhere that you shouldn’t wake up someone who was sleepwalking.
Before he could decide, Alena’s door opened again. She walked out, sans hair dryer.
Alexander pushed away from the wall and followed.
Alena slid into the parlor, and pulled the door closed behind her. She hustled across the room.
The light on the HPA was solid red.
Alena unplugged the firewire cable from the HPA, tucking the end under her leg as she knelt on the floor. Grabbing the laparoscope, she pulled her phone from her pocket and propped it up so she’d be able to see the camera feed one last time.
She could have unplugged the wire on her end and let it drop through the hole and hope there was no scheduled maintenance on the server farm in the next several days.
If she did that, the cord would eventually be discovered, and then, if they hired a good enough white hat to assess their IDS—which she’d blown by, thanks to pre-programed coding in the HPA—they’d figure out someone had accessed their data.
New, more secure protocols would be put in place, and if what she was looking for wasn’t in the current data, the evidence she’d left behind and their reaction to it would all but guarantee there would be no way to repeat tonight’s activities.
Coming back would mean spending another night with Alexander.
Alena wasn’t paying enough attention, lost in thoughts of the man sleeping somewhere above her head. She pulled the trigger to retract the clamp, but neglected to make sure the clamp had a good grip on the wire.
The laparoscope retracted, sans wire.
“Damn it,” she hissed.
Alexander stood, frozen, in the entrance to the second floor gallery parlor.
He watched as Alena manipulated a long stick-like thing which seemed to be stuck into the floor.
Not into, through, straight through the floor to…
That area of the parlor was situated was right above the server farm on the floor below. Those servers contained complete copies of all his Wagner Global data, from customer information to the proprietary tracking system they used.
He was so stupid that even when he’d seen her open the parlor door—which should have been locked—he’d assumed someone had forgotten to close the door. Assumed she was still sleepwalking.
Even when he’d tried the door she’d closed behind her, found it locked, and had to enter his master code to open it, he’d still been stupidly hoping this wasn’t really happening.
Willful stupidity, because he’d fallen in love with her.
He watched her, shock freezing him in place, as if he’d turned to ice.
She was a spy—maybe on behalf of the US government. Was she really American, or was that another lie?
That she was some American 007 was possible, though it was far more likely that this was corporate espionage.
One of his competitors had hired her to steal his secrets.
Not a spy, a thief.
Did that make it better or worse? A spy could at least claim patriotic duty.
A thief then. And apparently a very good one. She’d manipulated him, had sex with him, and given him no reason to doubt or question her identity.
She’d been at the Orchid Club for him. But he’d been the one to approach her. It had been his idea to invite her into his home.
For one moment hope rose, and he was sure he was wrong.
There were none so blind as those who would not see.
Icy shock melted under the heat of a new emotion—rage. Pure, blinding rage.
Alexander stalked into the room, his anger burning a hole in his broken heart.
She was so focused on trying to get the pincher to grab hold of the cable that she didn’t notice the sound of the door open.
But there was no way to miss the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps.
Alena released the laparoscope, and swiveled around, still on her knees.
Alexander.
Alexander was stalking towards her, his face twisted by anger.
Adrenaline flooded her system, even as her heart cried out in desolation.
It wasn’t until that moment that she admitted to herself that she’d hoped to see him again, to submit for him again. With the data she now had there would probably be no reason for her to contact him again, but the possibilities—either that she’d need to find her way back into his home, or that she could keep being Alena Moore long enough to see him at next month’s event—were what had kept her from mourning the fact that she had to leave him today.
As he closed in, her emotional anguish was quickly shoved aside in favor of panic.
Alena grabbed the HPA and jumped to her feet.
“Alexander—”
This isn’t what it looks like? It was.
I can explain? She couldn’t.
Alena stood her ground, waited until he was only a meter away then darted to her left.
She raced past him. Alexander was quicker than she expected. His hand caught the fabric of her shirt, but didn’t get a good enough hold.
She zig-zagged between the pedestals of art, her thoughts racing. With her passport and a credit card safe in the pack strapped around her waist she could run and just keep running.
If she fled into the night, she’d be abandoning things—tools, her Alena Moore identification—that she would rather hold onto.
But nothing was worth the risk of going back upstairs.
Alena made it out of the parlor, and was halfway to the stairs leading down. Two flights and a door. It no longer mattered if she triggered alarms. She’d disappear into the park across the street, and hopefully be several blocks away before the authorities could get there.
Her panicked breathing was too loud, and it covered the sound of Alexander’s rapid, heavy footfalls.
He caught her on the landing between the second and first floors. She’d slowed down to make the turn, and that’s when he grabbed her.
Alexander’s hand closed around her upper arm, his fingers digging into the muscles. Her forward momentum was arrested by his hold, and all that kinetic energy transferred to her shoulder joint. A white-hot stab of pain lanced through her, but she gritted her teeth, forced herself to ignore it.
She had a split second to try to decide what to do. To decide if there was any hope of her getting out of this.
Alena tossed the HPA down the steps. It cracked and clattered as it broke into pieces.
Then she was slammed back against the wall so hard her head bounced. Alexander loomed over her, his hands squeezing her upper arms so tight, her fingertips started to go numb.
He’d done this to her once before, but this time she doubted it would end in the same way.
She looked up, into Alexander’s eyes, and she saw the hurt, the betrayal…and a frightening, seething anger.
“Alexander, I’m so sorry, it’s—”
He grabbed her by the throat, squeezing tight enough that she couldn’t speak. She could breathe, but barely. Alena grabbed his wrist, trying, ineffectually, to loosen his grip on her throat.
She fought him, raking her nails over the back of his hand, tried to knee him in the balls.
He ignored her nails, and pressed his hips to hers, trapping her
legs.
Fear, icy and hot at the same time, washed through her.
Alexander was physically stronger than her, and if he lost control of his anger, he had the kind of resources that would make it easy for him to dispose of her body.
It was just a game. That’s how she approached all her jobs. This was a particularly complex, difficult game—her favorite kind.
But in games, no one got hurt.
And she’d hurt him.
Alexander was supposed to be the black knight, a piece she could manipulate across the board in order to win.
But Alexander wasn’t a game piece. He was a dangerous opponent. She’d let her feelings, her desire to submit to him, cloud her judgement.
Her red pashmina was draped around his neck like a scarf.
The devil was always in the details.
If she hadn’t been so heartbroken at leaving him, she would have remembered the scarf. If she’d remembered the scarf, he wouldn’t have had a reason to seek her out in the middle of the night.
Alexander squeezed her neck tighter, briefly cutting off her breath. She tugged helplessly at his hand. His enraged gaze bore into her as she gasped for air, prying desperately at his fingers.
He released some of the pressure, but didn’t let go. The betrayal she saw in his eyes made her sick. She closed her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks in pain and relief as she sucked in air.
Finally, Alexander spoke, his tone ice cold and cruel. “Who are you?”
The story continues in Vienna Bargain.
He’d never felt anger like this before. He wanted to hurt her. Really hurt her.
The way she’d hurt him.
Alena—was that even her name?—was a thief, and he was a fucking fool.
“Who are you?” Alexander was surprised how cold his voice sounded. It was the polar opposite of the white-hot rage shredding his insides, leaving gaping emotional wounds, the pain constant and relentless.
