MaryJanice Davidson - UC Anthology - Sweet Strangers

by UC Anthology(lit)

  Renee tried to take it back, only to end up fighting off her own security staff and running for her life.

  Renee tried to explain, only to be fired over the phone by Dr. Jekell, who then somehow traced the call and sent other bad men after her.

  So Renee ran, but she didn't know where to go. Because Dr. Jekell was so wildly out of control, perhaps there was more to PaceIC than was commonly known. Because Dr. Jekell wouldn't listen and kept sending other mean men after her, perhaps bringing PaceIC back wasn't such a bright idea.

  But the question remained: What to do with it? And where to go?

  Most of all, why, why, why?

  "You don't know how it got into your bag?"

  "No idea. Shoot, I didn't even know I had it until the shit hit the fan."

  "Well, obviously, someone slipped it into your things."

  She fluttered her eyelashes. "Oh, Eric, you're so strong and smart! Thank you! Because I certainly hadn't figured that out on my own or anything."

  He ignored her. "But why?"

  "Could you get dressed now?"

  "Eh?" Eric ran his hand through his nearly dry hair and blinked at her. "Oh, right. Good idea."

  Damned good idea. If he kept prancing around in that silly little towel, she was afraid she'd start to drool.

  He absently swung the towel away as he marched into the bedroom, and she had a breath-stopping glimpse of his truly amazing ass—rounded, firm buttocks, skin the color of coffee with lots and lots of cream—did the guy, like, live in a tanning salon?

  "Can you think of who would have had access to PaceIC?" he shouted from the next room. "And who would have a motive to give it to you?"

  "Huh? Oh. Right. Um, Thea Foster is the only person I can think of who could check out PaceIC without having to sign a zillion forms and answer a billion questions," she replied, glad he couldn't see she was blushing. Damn, what a fine ass! "She's the head of BioSecurity—the money-making division of Anodyne. But she's such a cold fish—why would she give it to me? I mean, just to cause trouble? It doesn't make any sense."

  Eric walked back in, dressed in dark red boxers—what was it with this guy's silk boxer collection?—and a T-shirt. His hair was loose around his shoulders, and she sat on her hands so she wouldn't get up and run her fingers through it. "Maybe to protect it?"

  "Again, that makes no sense. She works for Anodyne, she's making stuff for Anodyne. So why take it away from Anodyne at the last second?"

  "It might help us figure out a motive if you tell me what PaceIC is."

  "Oh, right Left that part out, huh? Well, you know how a pacemaker works?"

  "Let's pretend I don't."

  "Skipped science in school, huh, pretty boy? OK. As even you must know, some people's hearts don't work exactly right. So this guy, John Hopps—"

  "Does he work for Anodyne?"

  "Uh, no, he died in 1998. He invented the first pacemaker—and a good thing, too, because he ended up needing two of them before he died. Anyway, the pacemaker is a minicomputer that gets implanted in your chest via a surgical procedure, and it regulates your heartbeat with teeny electrical impulses, right?"

  "PaceIC," he prompted.

  "I'm getting to it, Captain Impatient. So anyway, this invention—arguably one of the most important of the twentieth century—"

  "Sure, I see that." Eric was pacing, which was fun to watch, and slightly less distracting than observing him in a towel. He prowled back and forth in front of one of the suite's three televisions, and added, "Both of my uncles needed pacemakers."

  "Hundred and hundreds of thousands of people use them," she nodded. "It's a multibillion-dollar industry. And this really smart gal at work, Dr. Foster—she does The New York Times crossword puzzle in ink, can you believe it? Anyway, she thought up a way to replace the pacemaker. She developed modified cells that they can inject into the heart. The cells do the job of the pacemaker."

  "Say that again. Slower."

  "Which. Word. Didn't. You. Understand? Listen, instead of a dangerous operation and a clunky bit of plastic in your chest, imagine a doctor just giving you a shot and poof. Your heart is all fixed. Forever."

  He stared at her for a long moment. "Holy shit."

  "Right-o."

  "Worth a pretty penny, then?"

  "About a gazillion of them."

  "And what a person-to-be-named planted in your bag—"

  "A vial of PaceIC cells."

  "Holy shit!"

  "You keep saying that." She had to grin. It was great good fun to see him rattled. He was so maddeningly cool most of the time. "But yeah, it's huge. And I've got it. And damned if I know what to do with it."

  "And you think this Foster person maybe planted it on you?"

  "She's one of two people in the whole company who could do it."

  "The other being Dr. Jekell."

  "Right."

  "But why?"

  "Right. What's she up to? If it's even her. If it's not, what's he up to? And why is he going batshit trying to get me back? I mean, there's got to be backup info."

  "Sure."

  "I mean, you can't tell me there's no other trace of Foster's research—notes, computer files… hell, the backup server!"

  "You're right about all of that. Which makes the question—the why question—even more interesting."

  "No shit. Is it safe in your bag? The PaceIC stuff?"

  "Sure, it can be cool, and it can drop to room temperature. It just can't get hot."

  "Are there other vials of PaceIC in the lab?"

  She shrugged. "I'm security, not inventory. I mean, I was security."

  "The reason I'm asking—Foster could always make more, right? So why go after you so hard and so fast?"

  "One more time: I have no idea. I'm not brains, I'm muscle. Unless Jekell doesn't want PaceIC to get into the marketplace anytime soon. But that's crazy. He can't make money off it unless people can get it. The FDA is probably going to approve it any day."

  "Assuming the FDA even has it."

  "Well, sure they do," she said, confused. "They must. The whole company knows they're looking PaceIC over."

  "The whole company knows this how?"

  "Well, Dr. Jekell—oh."

  They sat in silence for a moment, broken when Renee jumped up in response to a knock on the door.

  "Calm down," Eric said. "You look like you're about to leap out the window. Again. It's either room service or your clothes." He walked through the door, peeked through the hole, and swung the door wide open. "Lunch is served! Again."

  After the waitress had been tipped and left—not without, Renee noticed, flirting with Eric so hard she practically shook his dick instead of his hand—Renee made short work of the hamburger and fries. Eric paced.

  "That could get annoying," she commented, watching him.

  "Helps me think. You have ketchup on your lip." He stopped pacing, bent down, and kissed it away. "PaceIC, PaceIC…"

  "Look, I've gotta get a shower." She wiped the burger grease from her lips—mmmm, rare burgers!—and stood. "I can still smell the Bernaise in my hair. And my clothes aren't here yet. Would you mind getting dressed and running down to see what the holdup is?"

  "Sure. Don't go away," he said with mock sternness.

  "No worries. Nothing is getting me back into those clothes; I've been wearing them for two days."

  "Which reminds me, where have you been sleeping since Wednesday?"

  "Who said"—she sighed—"I've been sleeping?"

  "Poor baby," he said sympathetically. He dropped a kiss to the top of her head, and went to get dressed.

  She snuggled into the complimentary robe—she could get used to suite living—and plopped down in front of one of the televisions. Eric was taking his sweet time getting her clothes. Maybe he was stocking up on condoms. The thought made her laugh out loud.

  She could hear the tinny sound of a cell phone ringing, and looked around the room. Eric had left his cell phone on the bedside table, next t
o his money clip. She dropped his wallet beside the money clip and picked up the phone.

  "Hel—" She bent over in a sudden coughing fit—damned throat tickles! They never came along at a convenient time.

  "Jesus, Axelrod, you sound like shit. You catch a cold, or what?"

  She nearly dropped the phone. Pete Random! She ought to know the voice—she'd hired him. He was a completely unscrupulous private investigator who did all of Anodyne's background checks.

  She said, "Mmmph," in as low a grunt as she could manage.

  "Listen, when are you dropping off Renee? The boss and I have been waiting all damned day."

  "Mmmmph?"

  "Shit, we know you got her. In your hotel room, no less." An oily snicker. "I mean, jeez. How much time do you need?"

  "Mmm-hmmm?"

  "Oh, is she right there? Got it. Listen, just get her out to the street. I'll handle the rest. I mean, I know she's into all that chop-socky bullshit, but we can wear her out with sheer numbers. Assuming you haven't already worn her out." She could actually feel Random leering into the receiver, and shuddered all over. "But it's important that you bring the vial, got that? Bring PaceIC, bring the bim, and the boss has a check waiting with your name on it. Tell ya, I never seen so many zeros on one check."

  "Mmmmmmm."

  "And don't be a greedy fuck and hold out for more money," Random snapped. "Jeez, you been on the job—what? A day? And you nabbed her already? You'll get paid."

  "Hmmph."

  "Right, then. See you in a few."

  She slapped the phone shut Then she gathered up his money clip and wallet and carried them, along with the phone, to the bathroom.

  She didn't flush the toilet Let him fish for them, if he wanted them that badly.

  She dressed as quickly as she could with fingers gone numb. Everything was numb. He had lied. Lied and used her and gotten everything out of her. Everything. And she'd believed him. Had let him put his hands on her—had welcomed his hands.

  Jekell had hired Eric Axelrod to find her. And so he had. And like a true moron, like some dumb-ass sitcom heroine, she'd jumped into his arms and forgotten all of her training. All for a pretty face.

  She was so furious, her eyes were leaking.

  Eric was waiting patiently for the clerk to bag Renee's new clothes when his gaze caught the beautiful nightgown hanging in the far window. He slowly walked over to it.

  It really was something, and it was just Renee's color—the dark red would set off her big brown eyes superbly. The long skirt would practically float around her shapely legs. The gown was high-necked, but most of the bodice was made of lace. He stroked the material, pretending Renee was already wearing it, then gave himself a mental shake.

  He had to decide what to do, and quickly. Never mind the problem of being in love—and lust!—with someone he'd just met. She was in trouble, and he had to help. He didn't trust that skunk Jekell as far as he could throw him—though since he'd started lifting weights again, he could probably toss the guy pretty far.

  Never mind. The money wasn't worth it. Starting his own business with a million dollars—the bounty Jekell had put on her pretty head—wasn't worth it. Renee was an innocent. He believed her story completely, and he had to help her figure out what to do. She needed her life back—and he needed her.

  Ridiculous, really. He'd known the woman half a day. But she was so ruthlessly charming, so adorably funny, and so sweet beneath that tough-girl exterior. And so adventurous! When she wasn't jumping out of windows, she was giving him the finest pleasure he'd ever known—and he'd kept most of his clothes on! If he closed his eyes he could see it again: the way she rocked against him, her eyes slitted with pleasure, the way her pale breasts bobbed in front of him, the nipples begging to be sucked—

  He gave himself a mental shake. Well. There was more, much more, to Renee than a good fuck. He could easily see himself spending the rest of his life with her, and if that wasn't the miracle of the ages, then what was?

  "I'll take this, too," he said abruptly, and the clerk hurried over to lift the gown out of the window.

  He'd talk her into spending the night and delay his report to Jekell. In the morning they would see things clearly and would come up with a plan. As long as Random didn't know where they were, things could be delayed at least twelve hours. And he'd order ice cream sundaes from room service. Sundaes with lots of whipped cream. And she'd tease him and call him a pervert and then gasp when he licked all the cream off her—

  "Sir? Your purchases?" The clerk handed him the extra bag and, humming under his breath, Eric walked to the elevators. He had bought quite a few outfits for Renee; who knew when she could safely return home?

  Well, that wasn't exactly the truth. He hoped to convince her to come back to Washington with him. She deserved a vacation after the week she'd had. Once they put this whole mess to bed—

  Ahhhh, bed. There's a word. Or, more important, a place.

  —they could take off somewhere. Anywhere she wanted. For at least two weeks. Possibly longer.

  He opened the door with his key card. "Got your clothes, sweetheart," he called out.

  Silence. Not even the shower. He felt a tingle of alarm and impatiently dismissed it. She wouldn't They had agreed. They would stick together and make a plan. She wouldn't just take off. Besides, he'd taken the precaution of having the adjoining door bolted.

  Why would she need the other suite when she could just walk out the door?

  He ignored the inner taunt and put down the bags. He poked his head in the bathroom and nearly screamed. It looked like someone had been killed in there. His toiletries were scattered and broken, all over the floor. Only his shaving kit had been left alone, but it had been liberally decorated with mouthwash. The toilet was full of—argh! There was his money clip… his wallet… and his cell phone!

  Bastard was written on the mirror in shaving cream.

  "Oh, shit," he said aloud. What could have happened? Had she found out he'd bought six boxes of condoms? Ribbed for her pleasure? Did—

  The phone rang and he jumped for it "Hello? Renee?"

  "Cripes, Axelrod, I'm waitin' all day down here," Pete Random growled. "Where the hell are you two?"

  "Pete." Jekell's right-hand sleaze. A nice enough guy, if you didn't mind the fact that he'd break your arm on a bet. "Did you call earlier?"

  "What are you, crazy? like we didn't just talk on your cell phone twenty minutes ago? You sound a lot better, by the way."

  "Twenty minutes ago?" He felt his head spin.

  "Look, we're coming in. Get the bim, get your shit, we're going down to Anodyne and finishing this once and for—"

  "Stay away from Renee!"

  "What the hell's gotten into you?" Random demanded.

  "Stay. Away. From her."

  He slammed the cell phone shut and galloped out the door. Twenty minutes. And she'd taken the time to trash his bathroom. She couldn't be that far ahead of him.

  He had to get to her to explain. More important, he had to get to her before that conscienceless fuck, Random, did.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  « ^ »

  Renee watched the street She had a perfect perch—the library was catercorner from the Grand Hotel. The spanking new building had beautiful windows that were quite tall. She could see what was going on outside, and if she was spotted, she had plenty of time to get gone before they could get to the second floor.

  She had spotted Peter Random's car the moment she looked out the window—thank God for back exits and back entrances!—and was waiting to see which direction he went.

  Seeing his car gave her a nasty jolt, one almost as bad as the one she got when she talked to him on the phone.

  It brought it all home to her. How stupid she had been, and how weak. Her coworker, Laurie, read fifteen romance novels a month, and had once told her there was a phrase readers used to describe heroines who made boneheaded moves.

  "T.S.T.L., that's me," she
sighed, resting her forehead on the window.

  "Too Stupid to Live," the reader in the next row said absently, her nose buried in Love's Flaming Fury.

  Despite the day—the week!—she'd had, Renee bit back a laugh. Too Stupid to live was just about right And, in one of life's weird coincidences, she was standing beside the romance section. "Exactly," she said, and resumed watching.

  She saw Eric burst through the doors of the Grand Hotel, almost knocking over the surprised bellhop. Instantly, Random was out of his car and on the sidewalk. The two men squared off like something from the Nature channel, chest to chest and nose to nose, arms waving. It was warm in the library, but despite the temperature, Renee found herself rubbing the goose bumps on her arms.

  It wasn't that Peter Random was a blackhearted villain. He just had a conscience of tremendous elasticity. She had argued against his hiring from the moment his application crossed her desk. And had been overruled, for one of the few times in her career, by Dr. Jekell.

  "He's got a criminal record," she'd said for the fifth time. She tapped the fax that had just come from Stillwater State Prison. "Multiple counts of assault. The guy can't pass a bar without getting drunk and picking a fight, for God's sake."

  "Good," Jekell had replied absently, not even looking up from his P&L sheets. "Then he knows how crooks think."

  "He's a snake."

  "Mm-hmm."

  "He'll do anything if you pay him enough," she added.

  "Hey, blondie—"

  "I'm not blonde, Dr. Jekell." If you ever looked anywhere but my boobs, she remembered thinking, you'd know that.

  "—I'm sold already. You don't have to keep pitching. Hire him already. And go away."

  "You hired me, "she said, trying one more time, "to look out for your company's security interests. I don't think giving Peter Random access to all our sensitive material is the way—"

  "Bye."

  Dismissed. And she'd hired him. And Peter, despite her misgivings, had proven to be a good employee. Scarily good, in fact. No matter whom they needed info on, Random always came up with the goods.