Nightshift

by Kate Douglas

  So now he was hungover and covered with spunk, without a clue who the hell Zianne was, where she’d come from, where she’d gone. Well, he was damned well going to find her.

  If only he knew where to start. Groaning, Mac rolled back to a sitting position and shoved himself off the bed. A shower first. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Then he’d search for Zianne.

  “Crap.” Mac slammed the cupboard door and rubbed his pounding head. No coffee. Grabbing his backpack, he headed for the coffee shop across the street. Dink was there, sitting alone in the back, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

  He looked as rough as Mac felt, which, for some reason, made Mac feel better. He dumped his pack on the chair across from Dink. The loud thunk when it landed earned him a curse and a bloodshot glare. Smiling innocently, Mac walked to the counter and bought a cup of French roast and a blueberry muffin.

  Still grinning, he carried his breakfast to the table. “Rough night?”

  Dink still glared at him.

  Feeling better by the minute, Mac sat. “You get that paper printed out? I left the file on a floppy on your desk.” He sipped the coffee, imagining little caffeine soldiers racing into his bloodstream, and wishing they would hurry.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Dink stared at his coffee. “I turned it in first thing. Thank God I don’t have another class until after lunch.” He groaned. “Crap, man. Why do you let me do this to myself?”

  Mac took another swallow. “I’m not your mother.”

  Dink grinned at him. “Fuck. You’d make one ugly mother.”

  Mac popped him a middle-finger salute. It was the best he could come up with, at least until the caffeine did its job. He took another swallow. “Dink? You ever hear me mention a chick named Zianne? Dark hair, violet eyes?”

  “Not the name.” He shook his head. “That sounds like your fantasy woman, remember? We might have been almost sober when we were into that part of the conversation.”

  “‘Almost’ being the descriptive word here.” Mac sighed and took a bite of his muffin.

  Dink didn’t say anything. He just stared into his coffee cup. Finally he raised his head and narrowed his gaze. “You’ve got bigger worries than women. What’re you going to do about Bennett? I saw the bastard again this morning.”

  “I have no idea. The project notes are gone. All of them.” He snorted his disgust. “No way I know of to prove I’m innocent if Dean Johnson won’t let me argue the project in front of the committee. That’s the only way I can possibly prove it’s mine.”

  “That sucks. You know it inside out. I doubt Phil Bennett knows his ass from a hole in the ground. Have you thought of going directly to the grant committee?”

  “It might work, if I could get to them.” Mac leaned back in his chair and stared at Dink. “Any grand ideas, smart guy?”

  “Can’t you just make an appointment?”

  Mac shook his head. “Won’t work. Dean Johnson’s not just on the committee. I could offer to meet with the chairman, but the dean’s got a lot of power in this—he administers the funds, and he’s convinced I’m guilty. I’m screwed.”

  Dink finished his coffee, stood, and tossed the cup in the trash. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask, Mac. Think about it.” He slapped Mac on the shoulder as he left. “This is your entire professional future we’re talking about.”

  Mac watched as Dink left the coffee shop. Times like this he almost wished he were wired like Dink. Wished he could go home with his best friend and fuck until he didn’t care anymore. Dink’s devotion was the one constant in Mac’s life, the one thing he knew he could always count on.

  But he couldn’t be what Dink needed. He could only be who he was, and that was one fucked-up bastard. Mac sat alone, sipping his cooling cup of coffee, thinking of Dink’s comment. “Entire professional future. Fuck.” He stared into his cup and sighed. “Like I have one?” After a moment, he tossed the cup in the trash and headed back to his apartment.

  No scent of vanilla and honey greeted him this time. If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder if he’d imagined the whole scene last night, but there were those long scratches on his ribs and the fact he knew his imagination wasn’t good enough to have conjured up someone like her. Hell, she even had a name. Zianne.

  So much for fantasy, but who the hell was she? Would she ever come back? Like, maybe tonight? “Yeah. Right. Get real.”

  Mac dumped his pack out on the desk and fired up his computer. The small screen flickered to life while he flipped through the lined yellow pages of his legal-sized notepad.

  Page after page of code and comments, all of it close to but not exactly what he wanted. His vision seemed so clear when he imagined the program—something that would give users a “what you see is what you get” experience working in a simplified graphics program with the ability to create complicated visuals. WYSIWYG that was beyond intuitive. He could almost touch it, but for some reason it wouldn’t come together the way he imagined.

  He flipped to the last page, the most recent set of notes, and stared at the figures covering the yellow lined sheet. Something wasn’t right. He ran his fingers over the neatly written code. Shivers raced up his spine.

  That wasn’t his handwriting, except no one else had access to his notes. The tablet was with him all the time, especially after the mess with Bennett. The stuff he’d tossed last night hadn’t been complete enough to give anyone an inkling of what he was working on, but someone had made notations here that ...

  Mac studied the additions, excitement overriding paranoia. He knew he hadn’t written this. Knew it was someone else’s work, but damn it all, it made sense. He rolled his chair over in front of the computer, opened a DOS window, and typed in the code. It wasn’t all he’d been planning to do, but it was a start. A damned good start, and it was working.

  Working like he’d dreamed it would. Lost in the amazing process of creating something out of nothing but symbols and numbers and hope, Mac’s fingers flew across the keyboard.

  Mac limited himself to one beer. No more. He really didn’t need or want another hangover like the one that had totally wasted him all morning. He munched on a leftover piece of pizza as he wandered through the apartment, checking the lock on the door and even the windows to make sure they were secure.

  No way was anyone getting his notes. Not now. Not when he was so damned close. He pulled the floppies out of the computer and stuck them under the mattress, then pulled them out just as quickly. “Shit. That’s not gonna work.”

  He stared at the floppies in his hand and laughed. Yeah, like a gorgeous woman was suddenly going to appear in his bed again. Well, a guy could hope, and if Zianne came back tonight, he hoped like hell the mattress got another workout like last night. Not good for floppy disks.

  He stuck them in his dresser drawer, under the socks. Damn, but he hoped she came back. He wanted to see her when he was sober, not blinded by booze. He wanted a clear-eyed view of her perfect breasts and sleek, round hips and those amazing violet eyes. Desire sliced through him, a surge of pure animal lust so hot and sweet he almost groaned. Damn. If she didn’t come back tonight, he wasn’t sure how he’d handle it.

  Wasn’t sure he could. One night and she’d become an obsession. He’d thought of her all day. Sniffed the air, searching for honey and vanilla to no avail. He couldn’t get past the fact he’d not gone down on her once last night, and now he wondered if she’d taste as sweet as she smelled. If he’d find the same magic with those intimate feminine lips that he’d found when they kissed.

  Which meant he’d spent the better part of the day hard as a post, which hadn’t helped his concentration. But he’d had those amazing additions to his notes—bits of code that got him closer than ever to his goal. But who? How?

  Zianne? Who else? She was the only one who’d been in his apartment, the only one to have access to his work, and it would have had to be while he was asleep.

  Before or after that amazing sex? But how would she know what the progra
m needed?

  How did she know anything about him? About his work?

  A blinking light caught Mac’s attention. Shoving papers off the answering machine, he wondered how long the message had been waiting. He was forever turning the phone’s ringer off and forgetting to check for messages.

  Mac pressed the button and Dink’s voice came through. He sounded upset. Beyond upset, but at least the message was recent. “Answer your damned phone, Dugan. It’s Thursday. Four o’clock. I’m at Sloan’s. Bennett’s spilling his guts, only it’s his version. He’s saying you stole his research and tried to pass it off as yours. The idiots believe him. Mac, you’re gonna be so screwed if you don’t fight this. Totally screwed. You know how gossip travels. No one will hire you. Not in this town.”

  Mac didn’t remember sitting, but his butt was planted on the edge of the bed and he had his head down, between his knees, hoping like hell he wasn’t going to throw up. Fucking Bennett. That wasn’t the deal. The dean had promised confidentiality if Mac went quietly. Mac had gone. Bennett had no right, especially when it was untrue. Shit.

  The bastard had been out to get him for the past six months, ever since he’d learned Mac had applied for the same grant money. It was a lot of money, but didn’t he understand the concept of competition? That’s how things worked in academia.

  Fair competition. For whatever reason, Phil Bennett didn’t think the rules applied to him, and he’d used his uncle’s position as dean to back him up. Mac wondered how the hell he’d be able to fight such blatant nepotism, but if he didn’t, Dink was right. Mac was screwed.

  What were his options? Could he bypass the dean? Go directly to the committee?

  Shit. Would it even matter?

  4

  A shower wasn’t the same by himself. There was no reason to expect Zianne, but depression swamped Mac as he toweled off in the empty bathroom. There was no sign of her anywhere. No scent of vanilla and honey, no beautiful woman with violet eyes.

  Nothing but the usual—an empty bed with rumpled sheets. Bone weary and dejected, Mac lay down and tried to relax, but the work he’d done today wouldn’t leave him alone. He was assuming Zianne had added the bits of code to his notes, but what if she hadn’t? She was the only one he knew of who’d had access, but he still knew nothing about her. He wanted to talk about the program with her, find out if she was the one, or if he was just losing it altogether.

  Did it even matter anymore? His reputation was shot. Who’d be interested in working with someone they thought was a liar and a thief?

  Of all the questions haunting him, that was the hardest to ignore. That and the fact he was alone, and he’d much rather think of Zianne. Mac lay there in the darkness, remembering the feel of her lying warm and naked beside him. He recalled her sweet scent and the soft whisper of her breath against his chest when she’d climaxed, those amazing violet eyes and the way they’d gone all hazy and unfocused in the aftermath of orgasm.

  Where was she tonight? Would he ever see her again?

  “I’m here, Mac.”

  “Shit!” He lunged out of bed, ripping the blankets with him. Zianne lay there, her body sleek and naked, her hair all tousled and tangled as if she’d been out in the wind.

  Or making love.

  “How the hell did you get here? I’m still wide awake. Why didn’t I hear you?” He stood there beside the bed, staring at her, wondering if he’d truly lost his mind. His place was locked up tight as Fort Knox. No way she could have gotten in. Not without his knowing.

  She reached for him and ran one long, slim finger across his chest. “You called me and I came. Don’t you remember?”

  Mac stared at her, caught between bliss and the utter shock of Zianne in his bed. How the hell did she sneak in here while he was lying in bed, awake and thinking about her?

  Unless he’d fallen asleep without realizing it? No. He was tired, but not that tired. Mac wrapped his fingers around her hand and stopped her sensual exploration of his chest as he slowly eased back into bed. She curled her fingers around his and tugged, as if she wanted to pull him close. Mac wasn’t about to give in. Not until he had some answers.

  “I didn’t call you, Zianne. My phone’s turned off. Even if it were on, I don’t know your number. So, I’m asking you again. How the hell did you get into my apartment?”

  She blinked. Her huge violet eyes disappeared beneath sooty lashes. Reappeared. Disappeared again. He was fully aware he was falling into the hypnotic rhythm of her thick lashes, her amazing eyes. Her lips. She ran her tongue over her full lower lip and Mac groaned.

  Fully aware, and yet unable to stop, Mac leaned closer, drawn to her as if they were connected by a powerful, yet invisible thread.

  Instead of answering, Zianne shrugged. Even that slight twist of her shoulders turned him on. God, he was such an idiot.

  Zianne pursed her lips. She felt his concentration waver even more when she ran her tongue over the surface of the bottom lip, and then the top. Mentally she pushed harder. His was such a powerful mind and so difficult to control, but she’d quickly figured out the instincts of this body. She used them, used her knowledge to attract him at his most basic level.

  She knew that as powerful as his energy was, Mac’s sexual energy was even stronger. She needed every last bit. Scraping her teeth over her lower lip, she chewed on the fullness, holding his gaze on her mouth. Then she sent the image of her teeth scraping over his dick last night. She felt him waver.

  She hated the subterfuge. Hated the fact she manipulated him, in essence, lied to him. He was a good man. Not only was his mind the strongest she’d ever touched, he had an inner core of honor and integrity that made her ruse more painful.

  She’d discussed it with the others before returning. If not for the fate of her people, she would tell him everything, but they’d all agreed, the truth could easily turn him away. She couldn’t afford the risk. As her people’s emissary, she had to gain his trust first. That meant she needed his love.

  Zianne pushed harder. Silently she begged Mac’s forgiveness the moment she knew she’d won this round.

  Mac felt his defenses fall. “I can’t,” he whispered. “But why?” Whenever he tried to question her, it felt as if something held him back. His emotions were all tied in to his need to question her, and yet he hardly knew her. He had no idea who she was, where she came from, how she got here. How had she taken control of such a huge slice of his heart, of his life?

  She’d spent one night in his bed—just one amazing night. That was all. Why did he feel a connection with Zianne he’d never felt with another person?

  The closest friend he had was Dink. Mac loved him, but it was the love a man felt for a friend. Enough for Mac, but not what Nils Dinkemann wanted. He needed more than Mac could give.

  Mac loved him enough that he’d tried. A kiss. Jerking each other off. Curiosity on Mac’s part, blind need on Dink’s. Mac had definitely been aroused and he might have followed through, but something was missing. Something important. That connection that tied heart and mind and soul into a perfect package.

  How, after only one night with Zianne, did he feel as if he held that package in his hands? It made no sense. None at all.

  “Tell me about your day, Mac. Did your work go well?”

  Ignoring his questions, she trailed her fingertip across his chest. He caught her hand and kissed her fingers, but then he tightened his grasp, locking her hand to his. Had this same hand written those perfect and precise notes? “How do you know anything about my work?”

  Her smile blossomed. “But I know these things. I see them.” She leaned close and pressed her lips against his forehead. “I know that you are brilliant. That your mind struggles to create new programs for your computer. I know that you have a vision of what can be and the ability to follow it.”

  He felt his eyes growing wider with each word Zianne spoke. She’d not nailed anything specific, and yet she spoke as if she read his mind. He shivered, caught in that perfect
violet gaze. Who was this woman?

  A loud thump against the apartment door ripped him away from his questions. “What the hell?” He turned so quickly he almost tumbled out of the bed, grabbed a pair of sweatpants off the floor, and slipped them on. “Wait here. I’ll see who it is.”

  He ran into the front room and glanced through the small peephole in the door. “Holy shit. Dink?” Ripping the door open, he caught his friend as he stumbled into the room. Blood poured from a gash in his forehead. His lip was split, one eye almost swollen shut. His clothing was torn and bloodied. “What the fuck happened?”

  Dink’s legs went out from under him, and Mac stumbled to the floor with his buddy wrapped in his arms. Zianne was suddenly at his side, wearing his old robe and holding a stack of clean towels.

  “What happened to him? Who did this terrible thing?”

  Dink raised his head and stared out of his one functioning eye. “It was Bennett,” he said. At least that’s what Mac thought he said, but Dink’s lips were swelling even as Mac watched. Zianne spun away and went into the kitchen. A moment later she was back with a plastic bag filled with ice cubes. She wrapped it in a towel and held it against the side of Dink’s face.

  “Let’s get him to the couch,” she said, and it seemed perfectly right to follow Zianne’s lead and half carry, half walk Dink over to the sagging couch and help him sit.

  “Bennett’s a little squirt,” Mac said. He had to make a joke out of something. If he didn’t, he wasn’t sure he could handle this, handle Dink beaten to a bloody pulp. “Don’t tell me he did this to you by himself.”

  Dink squinted and focused on Mac with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “He had help. A lot of it, and they’re not students. They worked me over like professionals. Something else has to be going on besides that damned grant and your project.”

  Mac sat back on his heels. “What do you mean?”

  Zianne handed him a glass of water. Dink took it, and for the first time seemed to notice she was even in the room. “Who are you?” He swung his head around and stared at Mac. “Who is she? She’s the one you were talking about, right? The one with the violet—”