Broken Build: Silicon Valley Romantic Suspense

by Rachelle Ayala

  She shook her head and rubbed her face. “I’m tired.”

  Dave backed off and went to the kitchen. He should let her go to sleep. But her presence eased his loneliness, and she could use a drink after all she’d gone through. He heated a glass of milk and spiked it with a shot of whiskey.

  * * *

  Jen rummaged in her suitcase. Thankfully Praveena had packed her supply of disposable contact lenses, toothbrush, and makeup. She fumbled open a bottle of Tylenol and popped two in her mouth. The bloodstained sweater was ruined, and she tossed it in her suitcase. The welts on her stomach were raised and jagged, hastily scrawled. Tears formed in her eyes. At least they used a blunt tool. The deep scratches that broke the skin did not require stitches. She changed the gauze pads and put on an oversized flannel plaid shirt belonging to her father.

  After a visit to the bathroom, she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and hopped back to the guest room. What had those guys said? About leaving a message for her boyfriend? Who? Rey was dead. They had to have known that. She buried her head into her hands. It was all too confusing. Dave deserved to know about the threat to his company and her part in it. But would he fire her if she told him?

  A soft knock startled her.

  “Care for some company?” Dave asked.

  “Sure, come in.” It was his house, after all. Jen smoothed her hair back and wrapped a woolen blanket around her shoulders.

  Dave entered with a glass of milk and set it on the nightstand. “Shall I turn on the heat?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  His eyes were kind as he settled on the edge of the bed.

  “I-I have to tell you something.” Her voice strained inside her raw throat.

  He raised a hand, looking like he wanted to touch her, but lowered it and stared at her.

  “Rey Custodio was blackmailing me.” She stared at her fingers twisting the satin edge of the blanket.

  His hand found hers, and he held it, cupping his palm over her knuckles as she trembled. “It’s okay. If you tell me your secret, there’d be no need to fear. What did you do?”

  She heaved a giant breath. “Because of me, some people’s lives were ruined.”

  “Did you commit a crime?”

  “No.” A sob trickled from her throat. “But I was negligent.”

  “Is that why your sister’s in a foster home?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t my sister who I hurt.”

  Pain like barbed wire poked under her ribs. Abby was gone and Dave didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he was at peace with it, but all her feelings poured out from seeing the crib, the dolls and the baby toys.

  “Then who?” He handed her the glass, but she pushed it aside, spilling some of it on the bedcover.

  He’d hate her if he knew. If she could find clues and bring Abby back, maybe he’d forgive her.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “I can’t. I need this job.”

  “But if you’re stealing code, I can’t have you working for me. The police are holding the memory stick they found on Rey’s body as evidence.” His voice changed from friendly to stern.

  She took a deep shuddering breath. If he was going to play hardball, she could too. “I didn’t give him the stick.”

  “Stop lying. They found it in his pocket.”

  “No-o. They couldn’t have. Some guy jumped me in the parking lot and took the memory stick I made for him. They drove off in a white car.” She pointed a finger at him. “A. White. Car.”

  He raised both hands. “Lots of people drive white cars.”

  “Not many people have blood on their bumper.” She tightened her jaw and glared at him with what she hoped was a formidable stare, then purposely smiled as if she held a secret. If he was going to pin it on her, she’d take him down with her.

  “Oh, you can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with this.” He tipped her chin. “You’re flirting with danger. You think this is funny?”

  “Just checking whether the glove fits.”

  He clamped her shoulders. “Someone stole my car, okay?”

  She stared straight into his flinty eyes. “Then why did you go to the carwash instead of calling the police? Who are you covering for?”

  He inhaled through his teeth. “Pretty convenient for you that your blackmailer died. Who are you working for?”

  “My car was in the garage all night. Where was yours?”

  He drew her face to his. “And my body was in a warm bed. Where was yours?”

  Jen slipped a hand around the back of his neck. “I think we understand each other, don’t we?”

  Before Dave could draw back, Jen pressed her lips over his and kissed him hard. A growl rumbled in his throat, dangerous and deep. Yanking her hair, he dragged her down on the bed. Jen parted her lips, and a shiver of excitement stole its way down her spine. Tingles blossomed over her chest and mingled with the sting of her wounds, every nerve sparking on high alert.

  His lips were strong with the tang of whiskey, and his stubble grazed her chin roughly. She wrapped her fingers around the hair at the nape of his neck while he grabbed both sides of her head and ground his tongue over hers, thrusting and jockeying for domination.

  She fought back and nibbled on his lips, sucking them into submission. He groaned and the kisses slowed into deep and languorous caresses. Soft sighs escaped her sore throat as he stroked her jaw and neck. He hovered over her, his weight supported by his elbows, his arousal firmly pressed against her hip.

  Her mind swirled with delightful delirium. He was innocent, of course, somehow mixed up with the thugs. They were framing him to extort the code. But he shouldn’t blame her, and she had to be sure he wouldn’t fire her, ever. At least his kisses were dreadfully delicious.

  His hand moved under her flannel shirt, brushing the tape on her belly. He cupped a bare breast, and she swallowed a gasp. Pain from her sore ribs mixed with an almost electric tingle of tortuous pleasure. She’d never melted into a man with just a kiss, losing all shred of inhibition, wanting, waiting, no, aching to be touched, probed and handled.

  He withdrew his hand. “Do you want me to stop?”

  Stop? Was he crazy? No woman told a man like him to stop, and Jen wasn’t about to break his streak. “No, kiss me some more.”

  His smile softened his face with boyish charm. “Sure. I can do that.”

  And he did. His kisses whispered hope into her heart and promised protection. He fingered her hair, as if enjoying the texture of fine silk. Wow, she could get used to this. Heat flooded her as she appreciated the corded muscles of his shoulders. She wasn’t sure if she had died and gone to Heaven. Floating on a cloud with a gorgeous man who acted as if he desired her, at least until he found out who she really was.

  Jennifer Lopez’s “I’m Into You” ringtone spilled out of his pants.

  Dave lifted off her and slapped his pocket. “I forgot. Here’s your cell. Praveena left it in your car.”

  Embarrassment flushed her face. Who had been playing with her ringtone? She took it from him and glanced at the display. Missed call from Christy.

  Dave pushed off the bed, his hair ruffled in odd angles that made him look positively delectable.

  “I shouldn’t have.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked on his feet side to side. “I’ll let you have some privacy.”

  He backed to the door and exited.

  Jen caught her breath as she flipped through her text messages. Christy heard she’d been kidnapped and was worried sick. Her fingers fumbled on the down arrow. Rey’s number and a new message. Where’s the code, bitch?

  Chapter 12

  Jen dropped the phone on the bedspread and limped to the bathroom. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, red and teary. Real attractive. Not. When the cell phone rang, Dave couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. What would he do if he knew she had been his nanny? She splashed water on her face. At least the kiss stalled him from demanding answers.
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br />   She hopped back to the guest room. Her laptop sat open on the dresser in screensaver mode. It had been strangely silent, no instant message pings, no softphone or video chat rings. What if they had replaced her already? She pulled the laptop on the bed and checked the message screen. Everyone was on. Praveena, Lester, Satish, Wei. Lester had been spinning the builds, and Greta had sent an email about automation. Nothing required her attention. No one asked where she had been all day, nor did Greta demand she be at work.

  Jen glanced at the time—Sunday already. She texted Christy to let her know she was okay and shut off her phone. Dave had asked her to stay as a guest. But she, of all people, did not deserve his hospitality. Or was his purpose to monitor her and force her to finish the work before he let her go? Bitter adrenaline gritted her teeth. What if he set this whole thing up to extract revenge? Frame her for Rey’s murder and then what? Make her a sex slave imprisoned in his home? That last thought sent a shower of tingles throughout her torso.

  Jen slapped the bedspread. Stupid. You watch too many horror movies. He’s just a broken man, and you did it to him. The phone message replayed in her mind. “We have your daughter.” She wiped her face, unable to dispel her feelings of gloom. It’s your fault, Jennifer Cruz. You deserve to pay for the hell you put him through.

  A knock on the door snapped her back to reality.

  Go away, she thought. “Come in,” she said.

  Dave frowned. “Hey, turn off that laptop. You’re supposed to rest.”

  “I was just checking. It looks like the code passed automation and sanity test.”

  “Good.” He walked in with a guitar and settled on a beanbag next to the bed. “One bedtime story for the inmate coming up.”

  “You’re serious?” She couldn’t hide a smile.

  “Would you like hot chocolate or a splash of whiskey?”

  “Why are you being so nice?” Jen placed her laptop on the nightstand. Despite the hot saucy kiss, Dave could still fire her in a Louisiana heartbeat.

  He tilted his head and tuned his guitar. “Hot chocolate or whiskey?”

  “Hot chocolate. I don’t drink on the job.”

  Since he didn’t respond about her not having a job, she leaned back and tried to relax. He looked kind of cute sitting there picking the strings and turning the pegs. What was it about a man and a guitar? Jen caught a sigh. Remember who he is and what gruesome thoughts you accused him of. Heat flooded her instead. She had always liked him, but Jocelyn got him. Of course, petite, ninety-five pound, sweet and perky Jocelyn. About all they had in common were brown eyes, a Spanish surname, and Jennifer Lopez Glow perfume.

  Dave finished tuning the guitar. “Hold this for me?”

  She cradled it while he went to the kitchen, no doubt to rummage through the cabinet in need of a lazy-susan. Wouldn’t be surprising if the mix was the same Ghirardelli she bought Jocelyn the Christmas before she died. She ran her fingers down the smooth neck of the guitar. Jocelyn’s picture stared at her from the dresser. A beautiful Filipina. Ay Bendito! What was fat Jennifer Cruz with her adipose Puerto Rican and Cajun genes against such grace and beauty? She sprained her ankle and the pounds would creep back without the constant workouts. Forget it, Jen. He had glared at her with such hatred after the kidnapping. And here she was still crushing on him. Pathetic.

  A flush of sweat mortified her. She set the guitar aside and opened her laptop. The transactional update had failed. She scrolled through her messages. Wei would check in a fix. Greta was badgering the engineers and asking why they hadn’t run regression. Satish reported a failure in the auto-update unit. She ought to be there to help.

  “Jen?” Dave entered with a tray and two steaming mugs. His brow furrowed. “I thought I said to close your laptop.”

  “But, the code’s broken again.”

  “People are on the job to take care of it.” He leaned over and gave her a hot mug. “Be careful.”

  “D-do I still have a job?”

  He picked up his guitar. “Your access is still granted, isn’t it? I told Greta to let you have the weekend off. You’ve been through enough.”

  She sipped on the chocolate. Why was he treating her like she was a princess when she was just an employee? But… a fluttering sensation tickled her inside when he hit his first chord. She was the only employee who knew about the blood under his car.

  The Spanish lilt of flamenco caressed the edges of her nerves, dispelling her suspicions. She took another sip. The rascal had spiked it. Warmth bathed her chest, and the quiet melodies brought back memories of her mother brushing her long wavy hair and singing “La Pájara Pinta.”

  And his voice, wow. Not at all like the nasal twang her father put on. Dave’s voice was full and melodious. Deep. ‘Still waters run deep,’ her mother used to say. Jen finished off the mug. Her eyelids drooped.

  The driving guitar sped up and thundered her down the country roads of western Puerto Rico, on visits to Mayagüez, where Uncle José docked his sailboat, and her abuelita fanned herself under the bright red plume of the flamboyant tree. And the mangoes? Small, intensely yellow, and potent, rolling on the hot sidewalk, but oh, so sweet and juicy like Dave’s lips.

  * * *

  Dave put his guitar down and looked at the sleeping beauty. Did she have the slightest idea she was gorgeous? She didn’t give off the vibe of a woman used to male attention. Yet whatever she was hiding had made her bold to press that kiss on him. He lifted a lock of hair and stared at the fading marks on her neck and the fresh bruises on the side of her face. Whoever wanted the code was willing to kill for it.

  He picked up the mugs and put them on the tray. She was in deeper trouble than she let on. What did they have on her to cause them to attack her? He arranged the pillows and tucked her in, careful not to wake her.

  Asleep, she looked so pretty and innocent. He brushed her hair aside and then kissed her lightly on the forehead. A sigh escaped her lips. She smelled clean and chocolaty at the same time. He picked up the tray and backed out of the room. Hot, but off-limits. Not only was she his employee, but she was also mixed up with people who wanted to bring his company down.

  After cleaning the dishes, Dave turned to his email and found a stream of messages from Sherry Monzon, her surname of the week. He skimmed and deleted them. Ridiculous. His cell buzzed. Claire. He chuckled. Buzzing’s so passé. He ought to have a more interesting ringtone too. A ghetto one Claire would choke on.

  He answered the call. “Hey sweetheart, how’s the cruise?”

  Claire’s voice crackled through a barely there connection. “Wonderful, darling. I miss you too. When I’m standing on the deck with Steve, I pretend it’s you.”

  “Then give him a little loving.” He suppressed a snort. As if she could warm up fast enough. Unlike the firecracker Melissa, Claire was just about the slowest boat to Iceland.

  “Ha, you’re a bad boy. About the funding. I’ll give you half a million tomorrow and the other two and a half million after your product launch. It’s not that I don’t believe the concept, darling. But it’s the execution I want to verify.”

  “Claire, you’re too smart for your own good. How many shares do you think you’ll get before the launch versus afterwards? If I’m successful, I could price the shares higher, do a forward analysis and risk tradeoff. How about fifty-fifty?”

  He could picture her wagging her patrician finger and fluffing her perfectly styled blond hair.

  “One million tomorrow and two after the launch. A girl has to be careful about her nest egg.”

  “Sweetheart, for you, I’ll give you a deep discount.”

  “How deep?” Her throaty laugh crackled through the airwaves.

  “How deep do you want me to go?”

  “I’ll take a rain check. Oops. Time for breakfast, and there’s spa and massage this morning.”

  “You do miss me.” He laughed. “If I were there, you’d have no time for breakfast, spa or massage.”

  “Yes, thank you very
much. I’ll take a look at the statement when I return.”

  The call ended, no doubt interrupted by the appearance of her husband.

  Dave turned back to his email. Delete, delete, delete.

  One message was titled, “Urgent: Do Not Delete!!!!”

  Dave laughed and hit delete.

  He scrolled down. A slew of “Do Not Delete” emails trailed from this evening. An itch crawled on his scalp. What time had Jen been attacked?

  He opened the message.

  A yahoo account from Twinkletoes?

  Mr. Jewell. Consider yourself warned. Back off from the Black Friday launch or you will suffer more repercussions. What happened to your girlfriend was no accident. We’re watching you.

  Dave brought both hands to his head and slammed against the back of his chair. What girlfriend? Were they threatening Jen because of him? Sweat popped over his brow.

  The tone did not sound like Sherry. He opened a Sherry-mail. Dave, you slut. You man whore! I hope you enjoy that little claptrap. I hope you get AIDS.

  He deleted it. Definitely not ‘Sherry M’ style. He added ‘Sherry Monzon’ to his filter and then wildcarded it to ‘Sherry M*.’ He didn’t know or want to know anyone named ‘Sherry.’

  He opened another “Do Not Delete” message. It played the funereal “Dong, dong, dee dong…” Black Friday will be your doom. Code Thief.

  His breath hitched. He couldn’t fail. Not now, not when he was so close. His cell jingled with another text message. The mysterious number. Enjoy boinking older women? How the hell did Sherry M get his phone number? Somehow Jen was mixed up in this. Couldn’t be a coincidence her roommate’s name was Sherry. Another loose end.

  He tipped the chair back and rubbed his temples. It had started to rain. The gutters rattled outside. Another cold, dreary, lonely November. Six years. November 20, 2006 was the day Abby disappeared. Right under the nose of that incompetent nanny. What was her name again? Strange how he had blocked her out completely during his stay at the mental care facility. They told him to forgive her, to let it go.

  His fists clenched. Since he didn’t know who the kidnappers were, he’d shoved all the blame on her. All he remembered was her huge posterior and the stupid bun she wore, her hair pulled back from her acne and her eyebrows tweezed into a pencil line. Stupid barn owl.