by Cathy Pegau
“Single malt, aged twenty years in real oak barrels on Dunedin.” She held her glass out over the desk. “To a job well done.”
I mimicked her toast, gently touching my tumbler to hers. A delicate ring sounded between us.
Talbot sipped, eyes closed, and sank back into her leather chair. Tension eased from her face, softened the stress lines around her mouth as she sighed. How would whisky taste on her lips? The thought caught me by surprise, and my hands trembled in response.
She opened her eyes and our gazes locked. Gesturing with her glass, she said, “Give it a try.”
I willed my hand to steady and took a small sip. The smoky, nutty aroma infused my sinuses before the amber liquid touched my tongue. Tones of honeyed fruit and spices enveloped my mouth and throat as I swallowed. I blinked, surprised at its mellowness, and my muscles relaxed. A warm glow filled my stomach.
“Very nice. Thank you, Miss Talbot.”
“Enough with the ‘Miss Talbot.’ Call me Zia.” There was no trace of the harried edge of the last few days in her voice.
I cocked my head. “Zia? I thought your first name was Regina.”
“My family uses my middle name. Jadzia. When I was little, my sister called me Zia. It stuck.” A nostalgic smile curved her generous mouth as she visualized something beyond the walls of the office. A small shake of her head brought her back. She shrugged when our eyes met again. “Except for my mother, who still uses Jadzia.”
“My mother calls me Olivia, even though everyone else calls me Liv. She never—” Damn. I didn’t need to tell her my mother never bothered to ask what I preferred. I took another sip to wash old bitterness out of my mouth. Now was not the time, and the relationship with my mother was supposed to be on the mend, wasn’t it?
Curiosity about my self-censoring showed on her face, but she didn’t pursue it. I’d let a little too much through and would have to tread carefully.
After a moment she asked, “Would you like me to call you Liv?”
The timbre of her voice seemed to resonate in my chest, and my heart skipped half a beat. Behind those green eyes I knew she was asking for more than my preferred name. She wanted to make the connection I’d been angling for. A connection I wanted to make on more than a professional level. All the good-little-coffee-girl and do-anything-for-the-boss assistance was paying off. Now I just had to let her know I was all for it.
“I prefer Liv,” I said softly, “Zia.”
She held my gaze for several heartbeats as we tried out this new level of our relationship. The intensity of her stare dried my mouth. I licked my lips and watched Zia swallow hard.
She downed the last of her drink and picked up the bottle, her eyes on the glass. “Liv it is, then.”
I finished my whisky in the same manner—suppressing a small gasp as sudden heat spread through my gut—and held my tumbler out for more. Zia smiled, pouring another round. We eased back into our chairs.
“I didn’t know you had a sister,” I said to keep the conversation rolling. Generally speaking, people love to talk about themselves. The key is to find a safe topic. Zia’s mind wandered off-planet when she’d mentioned her sister, some fond memory bringing a smile to her face. Maybe her family wasn’t as maddening as mine.
“And two brothers.” She grinned again, and I knew I was in. “We were all very close until I left for school. Living on a ship will simultaneously bring a family together and make you want to kill one another.”
I eased the conversation along, asking questions that revealed bits about her while carefully controlling what she’d learn about me. Zia did most of the talking; we sipped our drinks and compared growing up with a straight-laced, traditional family on a planet-hopping freighter versus being raised by an impulsive, city-hopping single mother. Whenever I contributed to the conversation, she followed every word and laughed in all the right places. As if what I said were important to her.
With each passing moment my connection to her strengthened. After an hour it felt as if I’d melted into the chair. Not since Tonio and I were together had I been so relaxed, so open with another person. Except for the made-up parts; I kept those simple and to a minimum. Lies may cover your ass, but the truth was easier to remember, especially after a few fingers of whisky.
While we chatted and laughed, I all but forgot why I was there. Beneath the hard R. J. Talbot shell was a woman whose company I enjoyed. Part of me regretted I’d never get the chance to know her outside this two-hundred-story megascraper.
Zia glanced at the chrono on her desk and tossed back the last of her fourth glass of whisky. “I need to get you home.”
I set my empty tumbler on the desk. “Um…home?”
Did she mean hers or mine? I wondered what her home was like. Neat and well-organized like her office, or a place her secret inner slob reigned? Utilitarian, slab-like bed, or a decadent expanse of fluff?
She gave me a wicked grin, as if she knew I was thinking of her bed. A flush rose on my cheeks. She put the bottle and glasses back in the drawer. “Yes, Liv. We have a busy day tomorrow and need to be at our best. So home we go. I’ll give you a lift.”
She meant to our own homes. Our own beds. Good, because it was a little too soon to employ that strategy. I blamed the whisky for loosening my thoughts, but luckily not my tongue.
Zia tapped the comm on her desk. “Connor, we’ll be giving Miss Baines a ride home.”
“Yes, Miss Talbot,” came her driver’s reply. “I’m waiting on Parking Level Three.”
“We’ll be right down.” She shut down her SI unit and tidied the desk.
I stood carefully; my feet seemed to be disconnected from the rest of me. “Your driver waited?”
“Rank and privilege and all that.” Zia crossed the room to her coat closet. Her movements were graceful and fluid, as if she’d been drinking mother’s milk.
I went to my desk to gather my things. Zia waited by the door for me, and we left the office. She told the elevator which parking level we wanted when the doors closed. Encased in the smaller space, we descended in silence. Not that it felt uncomfortable, exactly, but despite spending the better part of ninety minutes exchanging life stories we couldn’t seem to find two words to say to one another now. What was it about elevators that tended to kill conversation? The brightness? The risk of someone walking in on you? The security cameras?
I glanced at the innocent-looking plastic bubble in the corner of the ceiling. Chaz was on duty tonight. Was he monitoring us? I suppressed a shiver and dropped my gaze.
When we reached the parking area, Connor had Zia’s red-and-silver ground car waiting. He stood by the rear door and held it open for us. Bland features, medium brown hair and a dark suit made him unremarkable, but was that the bulge of a holster under his jacket? Unlike the CEO and COO, Exeter VPs weren’t assigned bodyguards. Maybe he was a personal expense. But why would Zia feel the need for armed protection?
My brain was too tired and too pickled to come up with a good reason.
“Do you have Miss Baines’s address in the navigator?” Zia asked him.
“Yes, Miss Talbot.” He smiled at me and nodded. “Miss Baines.”
Zia slid into the roomy back seat, and I followed. The black upholstery was soft and warm. Real leather, no doubt. There was enough room for a third person on the seat, but I scooted close to her. If I were to lean over ten centis our shoulders would have touched. Her jasmine scent tickled my nose.
Connor closed the door then settled in the driver’s seat. The interior light winked out, leaving us in hushed shadows as we exited the parking lot. This late at night there was little traffic, and the city lights were subdued through the tinted windows. Or subdued by the amount of whisky in my system. Hard to say.
“Beautiful evening,” I said gazing out the window.
“Yes,” she replied, her alto a little huskier than usual.
That was the depth of our exchanges on the twenty-minute ride to my building. Despite our less-than-
engrossing conversation, our silence was companionable, as if we’d known each other for years. With Connor in the front seat we had less intimacy than in the elevator, but at the same time it was like there was only the two of us. Just me and Zia, alone in our dark, quiet little world.
Every few minutes I stole a glance at her, and caught her looking at me twice. When our eyes met for those split seconds, my mouth dried and my chest tightened. Damn whisky must have been getting to me.
We rounded the corner to my building; Connor slowed the car. Zia and I turned to each other. Her green eyes searched my face, looking for something in the dim light of the back seat. What was she seeing there?
I felt my cheeks flush under her scrutiny. “Here I am,” I said when the car stopped.
Zia leaned forward and placed her warm hand over mine where it rested on my thigh. Her skin was soft and smooth, and a little hum of pleasure danced through my limbs. A deep inhalation infused my senses with her jasmine perfume and an underlying musk that made my mouth water.
“Thanks for all your help, Liv.” She gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The sudden desire to close the gap between us and kiss her, to tell her what she could do with me, zinged through my brain and body like a pulser shot. I imagined what her hands, her fingers would feel like caressing me. Supple, yet strong and sure. She was an attractive woman, and I admired good-looking specimens of either sex, but never before had another female elicited so strong a reaction so often. A reaction I had a hard time controlling.
Damn it. The whisky had affected more than my ability to feel my feet.
I gave myself a mental shake and smiled. “Let’s not find out.”
Zia’s eyes were on my mouth. She moistened her lips. What would they feel like on mine? “Liv, I’d like—”
Connor chose that moment to open the rear door. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or if I should have told him to shut it and take a long walk. But as he stood there waiting, letting in the chilled night air, the moment passed. Whatever Zia had been about to say was gone.
She shifted back against the seat, taking the warmth of her hand from mine. Fists clenched in her lap, she said, “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”
Heat still shined in her eyes, and part of me wanted to ask her what she’d like. Another part remembered this was for the job, not a date. Plus, another employee was standing there.
“Good night.”
I exited the car, thanked Connor and headed toward the building. I glanced over my shoulder and could just make out Zia watching me through the tinted glass.
Smiling, I went inside. I congratulated myself on accomplishing another phase of the job. And ignored the tingle on the back of my hand and the buzz running through my body from the thought of her. It was the whisky, I told myself. It was all part of the scheme of getting to Zia Talbot. Nothing more.
The next morning it was back to business. Zia was already in when I arrived at the office, and the way she barked into the comm at some poor bastard on the other end told me now was not the time to continue where we’d left off last night. I’d have to choose my moments carefully. If I pushed too hard and too fast, I might lose her. Then the Greys would lose me. Permanently.
All went well during the shareholders meeting except for my hope to grab a few minutes on Zia’s computer. The upper-level admins were on standby status in case their suits needed them, which required us to loiter outside the conference room. We ended up chatting nonsense or ignoring each other. I managed to get some of my Exeter work done, but not the job Willem hired me for. Once we were back in the office, Zia came and went with little warning or acknowledgement of how long she’d be gone.
Along with my regular duties, the big party scheduled for the following evening was high on my to-do list and kept me hopping. Last-minute changes and problems arose out of nowhere, making me long for the simpler days of planning a heist. I commed and re-commed assistants to confirm ever-changing attendance numbers, made last-minute special requests of the caterers and discovered I had a knack for juggling ninety-seven tasks at once.
Yay, me.
I commed Diego at Humberto’s to finalize the menu. His gratuity neared the high hundreds, and he was earning every demi-credit. Checking the lists on my screen for the zillionth time, I said, “I have one hundred twenty-seven bay shrimp entrées, one hundred fifteen roasted veggie protein and a sodium-free animal-product-free cellulose-free. Sound right to you?”
Diego tapped keys. We were still on audio only; I think we both enjoyed the mystery of only hearing the other’s voice. “One-twenty-seven shrimp, one-fifteen veggie and a why bother.”
I chuckled at his remark.
“Anything else, Liv?”
“Might as well go over the beverage list,” I said, “and desserts.”
As he started down the list of wines and liqueurs, Zia came in from the hall with Craig, the research integrity VP, and Pritchard, the Chief Engineer, behind her. I hadn’t realized she’d left the office. Damn, I was slipping. But if Craig and Pritchard were scurrying after her, they might discuss the file I wanted to see so badly.
I looked up at Zia as Diego said something about pastries. She mouthed, “Coffee, please,” then disappeared into her office with the others. She started firing questions at them even before the door swung shut. As quietly as I could I sprang from my chair and placed my palm against the panel, easing the door to an almost closed position. Hopefully no one would notice.
“That’s all I have,” Diego said into my earpiece.
Realizing I’d missed the last few items he’d mentioned but not really caring, I dashed back to my desk. “Great. Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
I stabbed the disconnect and returned to the inner office door to listen.
“This was supposed to be fixed months ago, Emily,” Zia said. Her voice was deceptively soft, but her anger and concern were unmistakable.
Pritchard didn’t respond right away, and I could feel the tension in the room thicken like a blood clot. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t making any of them happy. “I know,” she finally said. She sounded apologetic, but not in an obsequious way. “We’ve refit a dozen filters already, but they keep getting gummed up. We’re working as fast as we can, R.J.”
Pritchard called Zia by her official first name, whereas I was given permission to call her by her family nickname. In private, at least. Something warm and satisfying flickered in my chest.
“Are emissions from deeper keracite that different from the deposits closer to the surface?” Craig asked.
“Of course they are,” Pritchard said sharply, as if he should know. “But we’ve compensated for that. You can see here that the numbers are going down.”
“Too slowly, and only with total replacement,” Zia said with sad resignation.
What was so terrible about replacement? Were the K-73s so costly that Exeter was losing money? No wonder they weren’t sharing with the other companies—their filters still had bugs to work out. But if that were the case, why were we trying to blackmail them? There was no harm in withholding technology that didn’t work.
“More new units?” Craig spoke with an incredulity in his voice you’d expect from a Neanderthal seeing an air car for the first time. “R.J., we’re already risking so much—”
“I realize that, Mike.” Frustration colored her words. After a few moments she spoke again, softer this time. “I don’t like it either, but we have no choice. Do it.”
“But—” Craig cut himself off, likely due to one of Zia’s famous glares.
“I know. Clemens refuses to kill the project, and I agreed to explore every avenue to fix the filters. But I won’t allow this to continue much longer. I want a final report in four weeks. And I mean final. Then we’ll see if he wants to fight me on it.” There was another stretch of tense silence then harder-than-necessary tapping on Zia’s SI. “What’s happening with the transport beacons?”
&
nbsp; Her tone had changed to more matter-of-fact, business as usual, but after weeks at her side I heard the underlying stress. Zia and Clemens didn’t agree with how the K-73 project was being handled, even if she was going along with him for now. What would happen if she didn’t like what she saw in that final report? If they scrapped the program, the blackmail job would become moot. Which meant I had to move faster to get the files I needed.
The engineer started droning about transponder frequencies; it was safe for me to resume my duties. I hurried to the kitchen to prepare a tray then returned to Zia’s office. I knocked a couple of times and went in, giving my oblivious-office-girl smile.
Pritchard was still rambling about beacons as I set the tray down on the desk. I poured out three cups and glanced at Zia. She wasn’t looking at Pritchard, but nodded at what the engineer was saying as she read something on the computer screen. Strain showed in faint lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. It could have been from the hectic week we’d had, but even when we were running amok before the shareholders presentation Zia hadn’t looked so stressed. In a way, she thrived on the frenetic pace of her position. Whatever she was conspiring with Clemens, Pritchard and Craig was taking its toll.
Her attention still on the screen, Zia reached for her coffee cup as I moved it toward her. I hesitated, leaving my hand on the smooth china, and she covered my hand with hers. An electric pulse spasmed up my arm, and I suppressed a shiver of delight. Her head snapped around, her gaze jumping from our hands to my face. As our eyes held my heartbeat quickened. God, she was a beautiful woman.
“Thank you, Liv.” To someone who didn’t know her, Zia’s voice might sound normal, but I heard the slight tremor in her usually controlled alto.
“My pleasure,” I said, and meant it.
Zia’s hand twitched over mine, tightening for a split second before she took it away. Slowly I moved my hand from the cup. She watched as I covered it with my other hand and gently traced where she’d touched me with my fingertips. I could still feel her skin on mine.
