“As soon as we’re sure Subject A is stabilized, I’m going to need some time off.”
Vonne covered her eyes with one slender hand and shook her head.
Chapter Eight
The television newscaster droned on about border disputes in Western China. Tuesday smiled. There was at least one conflict in the world that didn’t involve her. Snug in ugly wool socks, her feet were propped on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle. She’d soaked in a bath, shampooed her hair and donned her favorite baggy, flannel pajamas. Oversized mice chased bright pink cats across the surface of the fuzzy material. None of it made sense, which was exactly what she loved about the garment.
Reaching for the wine bottle, she refilled her coffee mug.
A person-to-person page interrupted the television. Sydney. Just when she was starting to relax. Bracing herself for an ever frustrating conversation with her sister, Tuesday authorized the transmission.
Sydney’s image faded in over the newscast. She’d changed her hairstyle again. The shoulder-length mass faded from navy at the roots to powder blue at the tips and the color of her eyes now mirrored the gradient.
“So, why have you been avoiding me?” Sydney demanded without preamble. Two years her junior, Sydney was part pest and part prima donna.
“I haven’t been avoiding you, exactly.” She offered a guilty smile. “I’ve been ridiculously busy.”
Sydney crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head at a disapproving angle. “You’ve been ridiculously busy since you were fifteen.”
“Did you want something in particular or did you just call to annoy me?”
“What do you know about PURE? Charming PJs by the way.”
Tuesday’s heart missed a beat. She set her wine mug aside and scooted to the edge of the sofa. “They’re dangerous, Syd. What made you ask?”
“One of their recruiters was at our office today. She hung around in the break room and talked to anyone who’d listen to her. Some of the things she said were pretty interesting.”
“Did she speak to you directly? Did you tell her your name?”
Her cobalt eyebrows drew together over her newly blue eyes. “You sound really paranoid. You know that? Why would she care who I— Oh, for God’s sake. Does everything have to be about you?”
“Listen to me, Sydney. Job has been—”
“The recruiter had no idea I was the pathetic sister of world-renowned Tuesday Fitzpatrick. I’m sure she would have been licking my shoes and kissing my ass if she’d known.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“The hell it wasn’t. I happen to be a True Pure too, you know. Did it ever occur to you that she might have been genuinely interested in me?”
“They are not genuinely interested in anyone. They are a fanatical cult run by a madman. If anyone from PURE comes near you again, promise me you’ll tell me. Don’t talk to them and don’t you dare agree to go anywhere with any of them.”
Sydney shook her head. “I don’t take candy from strangers. You’re acting like I’m ten.”
“These are evil people, Sydney. You have to understand how serious this is.”
“PURE bad. I get it. Go save the world.”
The newscast resumed and Tuesday scrubbed her face with both hands. Had it just been coincidence or had Job made the connection?
Does everything have to be about you? She sighed and picked up her mug of wine. Sydney was probably right. She was being paranoid.
The doorbell chimed.
“If it’s Bettencourt, I’ll kill him,” she muttered, pausing the television with a voice command.
She activated the security screen and her heart lodged squarely in her throat. Even rumpled and fatigued, Marc took her breath away. She blinked several times and looked again. He was really here.
But why? How had he known where she lived?
The second question was self-evident. Marc had been spying on her. Marc, General Bettencourt and maybe even Job. The technician who swept her apartment had been driven to laughter by the number of recording devices he’d found in her humble abode. She hadn’t been amused. She’d felt violated and queasy. Had the technician found them all?
Marc rang the bell again.
Still, Marc’s spymaster tendencies didn’t explain his presence at her apartment.
She splayed her hand against the door, wishing she could reach through the wood and touch him like she did in her fantasies, anywhere she pleased. Her fingers tightened on the handle of the coffee mug. Why was she still holding it?
Rapping his knuckles against the door, he called out, “Tuesday?”
If she ignored him, would he go away?
“I know you’re in there. If you don’t open the door, I’ll let myself in.”
She glanced down at her clothes and groaned. If this wasn’t the height of “dowdy spinster”, nothing was. After sliding the bolt, she opened the door just far enough to reveal her face. “Mr. Sinclair.”
“Ms. Fitzpatrick.” He mimicked her serious tone, then grinned, ruining the effect completely. “Are you going to let me in?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
He laughed. “You’re nothing if not candid. May I please come in for a few minutes? I’d like to finish the conversation we started this morning.”
She eyed the duffle bag tucked under his arm suspiciously. “What’s with the overnight bag?”
“Laura brought me a change of clothes but I was holding out for a shower.”
“Is there something wrong with yours?”
He put his forearm on the doorframe and leaned toward her. “I’m tired and grumpy. All I want is a shower. I’m not here to have my wicked way with you, unless my wicked way is what you want. So, open the door and let me in.”
“My, Grandma, what big teeth you have.” She stepped back, allowing the door to swing inward.
“My shuttle is still at the lodge and my house is across town,” he explained. “I didn’t want to be that far from Elise. If you really mind, I’ll check into a hotel long enough to shower but I’m heading back to the mediplex so I didn’t see the point.”
“How is Elise? Vonne updated me before leaving for the day, but I haven’t checked her stats yet this hour.”
“You can monitor her vital signs from here?” He set the bag down and rolled his shoulders.
“Not exactly. A summary report is sent to my terminal every ten minutes. It’s not a blip-by-blip transmission. I’m just a spectator at this range.”
“Understood.”
His brows drew together and she followed the direction of his curious gaze. “It’s wine. Would you like some?”
“Do you always drink wine out of a coffee mug?”
She shrugged. “I drink coffee so often I guess I just reached for a mug instinctively. You can have yours in whatever you like.”
“Really?”
Sensual challenge mellowed his tone and gleamed from his gaze. Tuesday shivered and glanced away. “So long as it’s in my cupboard,” she clarified.
“But that takes all the fun out of the offer.”
“How about that shower?”
He retrieved the bag from the floor and followed her to the bathroom. She handed him a towel and left him to his own devices.
Collapsing onto the sofa, she rested her forearm across her eyes. The muted hiss of the shower announced the beginning of her torture. He was naked! She could picture his well-defined, muscular body standing beneath the water’s spray. Rivulets following each rippling contour…
She wanted to be in there with him. She wanted to rub her hands all over that toned body and feel him wrap himself around her. As if summoned by her longing, the image formed within her mind. She saw her soft, round body arching against him, pressing against him. He grasped her hips lifting her…lifting her? Yeah, right. She opened her eyes and sat up.
Better stick to reality, Tuesday. At least while the subject of your fantasies is in the same house. Didn’t the lodge t
each you anything?
The bathroom door opened and condensation rolled out into the hall. She smiled. He liked his showers hot.
Hair slicked back from his angular features, eyes promising trouble, Marc strode out into the hallway wearing only a pair of jeans. He had the towel draped around his neck and held a T-shirt in one hand, but his torso gleamed damp and glorious. Tuesday quickly averted her gaze. It didn’t help. His image was imprinted, in vivid detail, upon her mind.
“Can I see the latest report on Elise?”
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say but that wasn’t it. “Sure.” Her voice squeaked and she wanted to die. She was alone with Marc again and he caught her in flannel pajamas. Shuffling her wool sock-covered feet, she led him to her office. She’d never felt less attractive in her entire life. She brought the current report on screen and moved out from behind her desk.
Without bothering to sit, he scrolled through the report as well as the two before it. “Thanks. Now I can concentrate entirely on our unfinished business.”
Burying her hands in the pockets of her pajama bottoms, she dragged her gaze away from his muscular chest. Her imagination hadn’t done him justice. “If we’re…” She crossed to the doorway, softly clearing her throat. “If we’re going to talk about PURE, I’d appreciate it if you put on your shirt. I’m not accustomed to—”
“Tuesday.”
She looked up in time to see his damp towel come hurling toward her face. She snatched it out of the air and watched as he shrugged into the snug T-shirt. That wasn’t a whole lot better. She could still see every bulge and ripple. Damn, the man had a spectacular body to go with that too perfect face.
“You weren’t scowling while my shirt was off,” he pointed out with a throaty chuckle. “Are you sure you want me dressed?”
“What I want…nothing seems to be about what I want. You wanted a heart for Elise, so you used me to get one. Now the president wants his daughter rescued from Job and again, I’m a means to an end. Tell me what I need to know about PURE. Why do they want you dead?”
He leaned against her desk, his hands resting lightly beside his lean hips. “One has nothing to do with the other. Has any of your contact with Job been interactive?”
“No. He sent me several messages, some video files and other information. I’ve never spoken with him directly.”
Glancing at her workstation, he asked, “Did you save any of his messages?”
“Yes.” She eased around him and slipped onto her desk chair. Accessing the three messages she’d received from Job, she brought them to the screen in chronological order. “Is that really him?”
They looked at the motionless image on her screen. His silvery-blond hair hung to his shoulders, while silvery blue, star-imprinted eyes stared back at them. “That’s the man who calls himself Job, the founder of PURE, yes. Who he really is, I couldn’t say. He’s a phantom, a wraith. He didn’t exist five years ago.”
“Did anyone suspicious disappear at about that same time?”
His gaze clouded and his eyes narrowed on the screen. “Who’s to say? Thousands of people disappear every day and millions were dying when Job first emerged.”
“My sister called just before you got here. A PURE recruiter was at her office. Do you think they’re… How worried should I be?”
“That depends on your sister. Is she liable to be swayed by their song and dance?”
“Sydney has always felt cheated by life in general and me in particular,” she admitted in a hushed, regretful tone. “If I understand how they work, she’s ripe for recruitment.”
He paused, his gaze clouding with speculation. “I’ll have my security team assess the situation.”
“She can’t know I had her assessed. She’d never forgive me.”
“I’ll make sure they understand discretion is the operative word.”
“Thanks.” A moment passed in strained silence as she thought about PURE. “What did Bettencourt mean about Emma’s statement to the press? Did that have something to do with PURE or was the general just rattling your cage?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin. “Do you have a photographic memory?”
“No. It just made you furious. I figured it had to be important.”
“Not important, damning.” He heaved an irritated sigh and pushed away from the desk. “When Emma took her life, we—my father and I—did everything in our power to minimize the scandal. The Methuselah trials had just begun and the epidemic was at its worst. Everyone was looking for a rock to throw and any reason to throw it.”
“I remember the trials, but I don’t honestly… Wait a minute…”
In a sickening rush, it all came back to her. His wife had intentionally overdosed on Methuselah and recorded her death as a sick sort of suicide note. No one was sure if she intended for the file to be circulated but it ended up on NewsNet. Over and over the revolting images of that poor woman, contorting with seizures and drowning on her own blood as her circulatory system dissolved, had been broadcast for weeks. All the while her voice berated her husband for the evil he had unleashed on the world.
She swiveled to face Marc but he’d left the office.
She found him in the living room, stuffing his dirty clothes into the duffle bag. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Stop calling me that! I’m not your boss.” He jerked the zipper and threw the bag into a nearby chair. “Everyone blamed me for Methuselah Syndrome. How could they not? My team developed the formula. But Emma lashed out in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Her rating was 6.1 but her symptoms could have been controlled with medication. Still, she said she couldn’t watch her baby die. Elise was sentenced to a slow, painful death because of me, and Emma was…she wasn’t strong enough to stick it out.”
Unable to stop herself, Tuesday went to him, wrapping him tightly in her arms. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He pushed her away. “It was my fault; it was all my fault! And I’ve worked damn hard to undo as much of the damage as I can. I don’t make a penny off the SP-64 cocktail. It’s my way of…” He closed his eyes, his hands still on her shoulders. She felt his fingers tighten painfully and then gradually release. “I had nightmares for years, and then you released the SP-64. Guilt was eating me alive, but you gave me hope. You didn’t put one of those crazy things inside my chest, but you may as well have. My heart didn’t start beating again until Methuselah babies stopped dying.”
His eyes opened and Tuesday sank into the intensity of his gaze. Did he really mean it or was this just another—she stopped herself. He had no reason left to manipulate her. She was the one who needed him.
“We’re really close to a treatment. That’s what I thought would save Elise. But she ran out of time before we could perfect the formula.”
“Who else knows about the treatment?”
“No one outside the research team. We don’t want to give anyone false hope. But it will happen. It’s only a matter of time.” He grinned. “I’m doing my best to put you out of business, sweetheart.”
“Could that be why PURE wants you dead? If you eradicate Methuselah Syndrome, Job’s principles lose all appeal.”
“I don’t want to talk about PURE.” He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “In fact, I don’t want to talk at all.” Reaching for the buttons on the front of her pajamas, he started a slow advance.
She backed up, bumping against the wall. He was serious! Despite her frumpy appearance, Marc wanted to make love to her.
His clever fingers had her top unbuttoned before she could accept the reality. His warm hand cupped her breast and heat sank deep into her body, awakening dormant longings, stirring forgotten sensations.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
He smiled into her eyes. “Am I sure? Good Lord, Tuesday. How can you doubt that I want you? I’ve been trying to seduce you since I laid eyes on you.”
She stiffened against the wall. “But that was�
�”
“I want you and I’m about to show you how much.”
Marc left her silly pajama top on, while he reached beneath and unfastened the bottoms. He knew she was self-conscious about her body, so he’d take it a step at a time. Before the night was over she’d be naked and loving it, but he could be patient for a while. Sliding his hands gently along her hips, he rid her of the pajama bottoms.
He bent to one knee and tugged off her socks. “Can’t you afford heating?” he teased, as he tossed the thick wool to one side.
“My feet are always cold.”
“You just need someone warm to rub them on.”
She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Pushing back to his feet, he parted the pajama top, creating an unexpectedly sexy display. Black panties showcased her long, shapely legs and rounded hips, while the top framed her lush breasts. Her thick hair curled about her shoulders, not quite long enough to interfere with his view. “You are so beautiful,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Disbelief flickered in her eyes and anger spiked through Marc. He took her hand and led her down the hall into her bedroom. An eclectic mixture of colors and styles identified the room with its owner, but Marc was looking for something specific. He opened the closet door and smiled. The backside was a full-length mirror.
“Tell me what you see.”
“I see me standing in front of you.”
He laughed. “You’re going to have to do better than that. Start with me. What do you see when you look at me?”
“I don’t want to do this, Marc. Please, just make love to me.”
“I can’t,” he said gently. “You won’t let me. Not really. You won’t let me get close enough to touch you, much less make love to you.” A shiver shook her. He rested his chin lightly on top of her head. “Then, I’ll start. Your hair is amazing. Wild, soft, and it always smells so sweet.”
“I like my eyes,” she admitted. “They aren’t as bright as yours, but mine are natural.”
He laughed at her subtle slur. He was trying to seduce her and she insulted him. Very Tuesdayish of her. “I’ve always thought you look like a woodland sprite. When you get angry your eyes light up and your cheeks turn pink. That day in the conference room, I wanted to throw you down on the table and ravish you right then and there.”
Tainted Hearts Page 10
