"There," said Brittany.
"However," countered Shana. "We do know Anja didn't want them to get a hold of these things."
"No, we don't," Brittany shot back.
"Then why didn't the fellas just come up and ask us nicely for the stuff?" Shana mockingly put her index finger to her eyebrow.
Brittany opened her mouth, but didn't have an answer.
"They used us." Shana dropped her mocking finger. "Not one of them came into our lives except to get these pieces of Anja's research."
"Now, I — " Brittany stopped, one hand raised, then subsided. "You're probably right."
"Of course I'm right." Shana's voice was hard and quiet. "Dash, that sweet, little, innocent, little, underhanded son-of-a-bitch manipulated me. He got me believing he actually cared!" She reddened as both women looked over to stare at her. "Well, he did," Shana muttered. "And all he really wanted was Anja's recipe."
Brittany started to chuckle, while shaking her head. "I see what you mean. Peter, the little shit, promised me three months, but he barely made it through three days before he got what he wanted."
Olivia could barely speak, much less move. "And Gideon," she managed to grit out. "He had me believing he was going to be open and honest with me. When through six years of marriage he's been lying to me — about everything!" The scope of her husband's betrayal was beyond comprehension.
The three of them gazed in mutual disgust and helplessness at each other.
"So, uh, what are we going to do now?" Brittany asked.
"Kill them," Shana suggested. "Preferably with torture, yes, a great deal of pain." Her green eyes were snapping. "He told me he cared."
"I concur." A welcome rush of heat warmed Olivia's inner chill. "Torture." You have nothing to worry about, Gideon had told her. Ha!
Brittany regarded her two friends thoughtfully. "While I agree that killing them holds an awful lot of appeal, don't you think it makes sense to get some information out of them first?"
Olivia blinked. "Anja," she breathed.
Brittany nodded. "They appear to have some clue as to what's happened to her."
"So?" Shana was disdainful. "You imagine they would give us any information?"
"Well-l-l-l," Brittany's expression turned dangerous. "Perhaps not on purpose..."
"No." Shana was firm. "I would not be able to pretend anything but fury and disgust when next in the presence of that sneaky little bastard."
"I have to agree." Olivia felt fury and disgust and a crushing disappointment. She'd thought Gideon wanted to reconcile...when he'd never told her the truth, during their whole relationship. Never. Just who the hell was he?
Brittany heaved a deep sigh. "I'm not saying you don't get to kill them, with as much pain as you like. I'm just saying we get the information we want first."
Shana narrowed her eyes. Olivia cocked her head. "How?" they both asked.
Brittany grinned. "Now, I'm glad you asked that."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was a lounge directly off the main lab, the kind of place that caught the cast-off sofa from somebody's redecorated living room, or a refrigerator from a bargain basement discount company. On Thursday afternoon Gideon, Peter, and Dash sat around a circular plastic laminate coffee table, a blatant fashion mistake evicted by some lab tech's wife.
"I don't remember a case that ever got solved with so much bloody damn luck involved," Peter remarked. He was sprawled with a leg stretched straight in front of him and a root beer can in one hand.
"We were quite lucky," Dash agreed. He had an ankle resting on the opposite knee and gave his watch a glance. "Not that the lab techs have given us a definitive answer on the clues we've brought in yet."
"Oh, come on." Peter shot him a reproachful look. "We found something in each of their houses. It's got to be everything."
"Probably," Dash conceded, and glanced at his watch again.
"Chances are high," Gideon weighed in. He was tired from being up all night with the techs, but also with the pleasant lassitude of a job winding down. They'd found the clues that would recreate Anja's vector virus. Sebastian Archibald Hollister, III, was squarely under surveillance, ensconced with an entourage that made him easy to follow. Any minute Hollister would lead them to Anja from his present base in Antigua.
Yes, everything was turning up roses...
Dash looked at his watch yet again, then jumped from his chair. Gideon and Peter both blinked at him.
"Sorry," Dash said, then gave a lopsided smile. "I was just wondering...d'you suppose there's any way I can keep renting that house, Gid, you know the one that's next door to Shana — uh, to Ms. Taylor? On my own dime, that is."
"Oh." Gideon looked up at Dash sleepily. "But — why would you want to do that? Didn't you just buy a condo over in Hillcrest, right near downtown?"
Peter snorted. "But the house next door to Shana Taylor is so much more convenient, don't you know?"
"Convenient? It must be thirty minutes further from headquarters."
Peter stared at Gideon as if he needed his head examined. "But it's a hell of a lot closer to the goods."
"Oh-h-h," sighed Gideon. He was apparently more tired than he'd thought.
Dash's face, meanwhile, turned an interesting shade of red. "There's no cause for you to get crude," he told Peter. Then, to Gideon's fascination, Dash straightened and his embarrassment shifted to confidence. "Not that I'd expect you to grasp the finer points of romance."
The smirk that had been gracing Peter's face dropped. "No," he murmured, "I don't suppose I could."
Gideon waved a mediating hand. "If you want to rent the house, Dash, I'm sure something can be worked out."
Dash grinned and paced to the window that looked out on the lab. He set an elbow on the sill and smiled sappily into the other room.
Peter eyed Gideon. "Well, if you're handing out favors, I have one to ask, too."
In an expansive mood, Gideon leaned back and smiled. "What do you want?"
"Some vacation time."
Gideon raised his eyebrows.
Peter hunched over, setting his forearms on his knees. "I don't want to leave Brittany with her house only half painted."
Gideon's eyebrows stayed up. Dash turned from his contemplation of the lab to regard Peter with equal fascination.
"Hey." Peter straightened with a scowl. "I'm allowed to be responsible, once in a lifetime or so."
"Sure, sure," Gideon soothed. "You're allowed to be responsible. And you can have a week off. That be enough?"
Peter lifted one shoulder. His face took on a strange, confused expression. "How should I know?"
Gideon exchanged a baffled look with Dash.
Peter caught the look and started to scowl, but instead curved his lips into an impish smile. "What about you, Gideon? Think you'll end up working things out with Olivia?"
Gideon's gaze shot back to Peter. "We're close to it." Though he couldn't prevent a deep, unpleasant wiggle of doubt. Olivia was waiting for truth and honesty from him. Would he be able to convince her she already had it — that he had nothing special to tell?
In the meantime, he'd have to make up something to put on a dummy flash drive, something to satisfy Olivia regarding the one they'd found in the pot of her houseplant. Maybe that was the way to handle these things in the future. He should always have a decoy ready, something to placate Olivia's inconvenient curiosity.
The mischievous look Peter had been giving Gideon softened. "Hey, I wish you luck," he said quietly. "I really do."
The idea that Gideon might need luck had him shifting weight and then getting up from his moth-eaten lounger. "I'm going to ask Henry if they've figured it out yet."
"Your head lab tech may murder you if you do," Dash warned mildly.
Gideon planted his hands on his hips. "How long could it take to rebuild the damn virus, especially if they have all the parts of the code?"
"I don't know," Peter said, "But I think Henry may throw you down the
incinerator tube if you ask him one more time."
As if the head lab tech had been listening in to their conversation, the house phone in the lounge rang. Taking two long steps to reach the thing, Gideon jerked it off the receiver. "Yeah," he barked.
It was, indeed, Henry's voice. "Go home," he said gruffly. "We aren't going to know anything before tomorrow — at the earliest."
Recalling Peter and Dash's warning that the tech was none too happy with him, Gideon refrained from demanding why the hell it was taking so long. "Go home?" he asked, as politely as he could. "Are you sure?"
There was an ominous silence over the phone wires. Both Peter and Dash, meanwhile, were watching Gideon with straining eagerness. "Go home," Henry repeated at last, his voice warning.
"All right." Gideon hung up the phone. "I, uh, guess we have our marching orders."
"We can leave?" Dash looked like a retriever on point.
"We can leave," Gideon confirmed.
Peter scooped up his denim jacket as he made for the door. He barely cleared it before Dash shot through.
Gideon sighed. He still had a false flash drive to fill before he dared set eyes on Olivia.
~~~
A pleasant hum of anticipation buzzed through Dash on Thursday evening as he pulled into the driveway of the rented house next door to Shana's. He made himself sit in his car a minute after shutting off the motor. He was determined to keep control, both of himself and of this relationship. So far he'd been doing great. In fact, he was goddamned amazed at himself.
And now he was going to be able to move in next door for real. Dash released a deep and satisfied breath. All sorts of marvelous things were on the way.
Before opening the car door, he grabbed the bag of potpourri he'd brought along as this visit's offering. It wasn't that he thought he had to ply Shana with material things. It was more that he wanted her to understand he wasn't taking her for granted.
If Peter wanted to call Dash a romantic, that was just fine with Dash. In fact, everything in the world was just fine with Dash as he sauntered across the lawn to Shana's door and pressed the doorbell.
Shana took her time getting to the door, but when she did open it, it was in one grand, sweeping rush. Dash rocked back on his heels. She was wearing a brilliant red sheath and her hair was swept up in an elegant, if not regal, style. Most stunning of all, however, was her manner. The poise of her body, the expression on her face — all made this a Shana he had never met before. Hardly a sex-kitten now, she looked like the queen of some country, totally in control and definitely above it all.
"Why, Mr. Dashwood," she hummed.
"Uh, Shana?" Dash croaked.
She stepped back from the door. "Do come in."
Surreptitiously sticking the potpourri into his jacket pocket, Dash stepped inside. Meanwhile he felt adrenaline rush through him. Something was going on. What, he was not yet sure. He only knew he wasn't about to risk offering anything to this Shana.
"I think we'll be most comfortable in the living room this evening," Shana purred, and led the way.
"Uh, great," Dash mumbled, following. There was nothing visible to tell him what was up. The place looked as nice and well-appointed as ever. He turned back to Shana, who stood in the center of the room contemplating him through haughty-lidded eyes. "So?" he tried, tilting his head. "How are you?"
She continued her haughty contemplation a moment more, then said, "I can't do it."
Dash gave her a warily inquisitive look. "Excuse me?"
"What Brittany suggested," she told him. "I simply can't do it." With that cryptic statement, she whirled and strode toward the wet bar that stood across the room from the sofa. "I'm afraid my indignation and outrage are just too overwhelming," Shana went on, but in a cool, controlled tone. She then lifted a clear crystal bottle of what looked to be Scotch. If Dash's childhood background was any judge, the bottle was Waterford crystal.
Dash assumed she meant to pour herself a drink, solace for whatever was bothering her. It was only reflex, reflex honed by years of training — and necessary for the second time in this woman's house — that saved him from a serious bashing. The precious Waterford decanter went flying with stunning accuracy, barely missing Dash's temple as he ducked. It crashed with an explosion of crystal against the wall behind the sofa.
"Uh, Shana?" Dash's voice betrayed nothing of the rush of readiness pouring into every muscle of his body. He went into a semi-crouch, with one hand out to block. "Want to tell me what's wrong?"
For answer she hurled another priceless Waterford decanter in his direction. This one, seen coming, was easier to dodge. It smashed against the floor at the foot of the sofa.
"This is not a particularly constructive conversation," Dash remarked.
"No," Shana agreed, and having run out of precious crystal, hefted the ice bucket. Dash did not properly account for the much lighter weight of the thing and the increased speed with which Shana could toss it. It actually caught him on the shoulder.
That, he decided was enough, especially when he saw her move toward a heavy vase of flowers. Apprehensive measures were going to have to be taken. Before Shana could get her hands around the vase, Dash had her in his arms, her own arms pinned to her sides and her back pressed immobilizingly against his chest.
"Let me go," she demanded, from between clenched teeth.
"Not until you explain what's going on here." Dash was amazed at the calm sound of his voice. Shana's reception of him this evening felt like the emotional equivalent of getting dumped in boiling oil. He'd thought they were going to do some necking!
Instead of answering, Shana stiffened in his arms and then tried to jerk free. It did her no good. Dash had quite a few pounds on her, and a lot more muscle. He held on grimly.
"Okay," she finally hissed. "I'll tell you what's wrong — if you'll let me go."
"Not on your life."
Shana heaved a deeply sardonic sigh. "I won't attack you any more — physically. Okay? Just friggin' get your hands off me."
The disgust in her tone had Dash releasing her as if his arms had been burned. But he kept his cool exterior, taking a careful step back and then asking, once again, "What is the problem here?"
She turned around and glared at him. "You don't know?"
Dash started to shake his head, then stopped. His stomach took a sudden, dramatic drop. She knew. Meeting her angry, cynical eyes, he knew that she knew. But just in case... "I think," Dash said slowly, "you'd better spell it out."
She laughed, nerve-strippingly. "Just in case I actually have it wrong, huh?" Thus echoing Dash's thoughts, she swiveled and paced away from him. "All right, I'll spell it out for you. Anja."
Somehow, Dash's stomach managed to drop even further. She knew that much? That he was in law enforcement he could understand. There was the shooting of the dog to explain, after all, but how the hell did she know he was connected to Anja?
Dash's head was spinning. It didn't help that the odor of properly aged Scotch and good brandy were wafting up from where they'd spilled, making him feel unpleasantly buzzed. "Tell me what you know," he demanded.
She whirled back, regarding him as if he were last night's dinner. "I know enough. Anja entrusted me with some kind of code, something to do with the drug she was working on, something she didn't want you to have. But you stole it."
The blood was pounding noisily in Dash's ears. She'd figured out a lot, practically everything. For God's sake, how?
"I did steal it," he decided to admit, frankly not knowing what else to do.
Shana tilted her head, her gaze imperious. "Why?"
"Because it was my job. Besides, somebody had to. Anja took the code, together with every scrap of her research, and disappeared. We have been, understandably, concerned."
"'We?'" Shana's lashes lowered. "Who is 'we?'"
"The Agency." He was violating all sorts of protocols, even mentioning the Agency, but he was flying on a jet propelled by adrenaline and a shocking amoun
t of emotion.
Her brows drew toward each other. "You work for the CIA?"
"Not that agency. We're a small group operating under the NSA. We protect cutting-edge technology, whatever might have potential for...global implications." More protocols down the drain, but she knew way too much. Surely it was better to tell her than to have her charge off and try to find out on her own. Dash started to tremble as he imagined the trouble she could get into that way.
Shana's nostrils flared. "So that's what you really are, some sort of secret agent?"
"That's right."
She took her time, glaring at him, while she processed this. Meeting her eyes, in the midst of broken glass and the smell of expensive alcohol, Dash felt a flash of hope. What if she accepted what he'd just said, and understood? His fantasy gained fuel when the tension in her body appeared to relax.
"Being a secret agent would explain the way you were able to handle the dog," she mused.
"I've trained in martial arts since I was ten," Dash told her, but left out how his father had mocked him every step of the way. "As of the last training assessment, I'm the best shot in the Agency."
"Hmm, yes." Shana spoke slowly, consideringly, and took a step toward him. "Your aim is very good, isn't it?"
"Uh." Dash took a step back. A more pragmatic wariness overrode his fantasy of reconciliation.
"Mr. Secret Agent. You knew exactly how to play me, didn't you?"
"What? Now, wait a minute — "
"First, you made me feel sorry for you." Shana was close enough to give Dash a scolding tap on the chin. "Softened up this old bird, right? Melted my defenses. Very clever. Then — " She poked Dash in the center of his chest.
He stumbled back a step, dread now fully pushing aside his silly fantasy. She wasn't understanding. She was still wildly, dangerously furious.
"And then," Shana went on, an edge to her cool tone as she prowled after him. "Then because stealing my friend's secrets wasn't enough for you, you went and tried to make me believe you had feelings for me. You lured me into thinking you actually cared."
Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way Page 18
