The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  A watch—platinum, she was certain—hugged his left wrist. No ring on that telltale third finger. That she noted right be­fore his hand came up and his car keys came flying. She snagged the silver ring from the air, lifted a brow, and watched as his gaze dropped to the throbbing beat at the base of her throat.

  "She's open," he said, now no more than ten feet away.

  As much as Natasha longed to slide down into that smooth leather seat and get her hands on the wheel, she waited. She waited because no car could spike her pulse like a man. She slipped her index finger through the ring, spun the keys around and into her palm, keeping her gaze steady and losing the battle with a smile.

  "Just like that? No terms? No questions? The keys are mine?" Wow. Not a crack or a waver. She actually pulled it off.

  He grinned. Not broadly, nor with his eyes, which she thought might be a shade of aqua rather than the bright sky blue she'd first thought—oh, why couldn't this be happening in daylight? There was so much of him that she wanted to see.

  And then his grin widened, the right corner of his mouth quirking upward. It was enough. She was in love. No, lust, she corrected, determined never again to confuse the two. Oh, but he was gorgeous.

  "You caught me feeling generous."

  "Generous?" She swung the keys around once, twice, catch­ing them again as they smacked into her palm. He now stood close enough to touch, and having the key ring to hold onto was a very good thing. "I'm thinking more along the lines of insane. You just handed, what? Four hundred thousand dollars to a woman you've never seen before?"

  "The professor asked if I would mind a delay in dinner as he was waiting for his assistant to arrive." The stranger tossed a quick glance toward the mountain of work she'd left stacked on the sidewalk with her jacket and purse. "I'd say those files make you the assistant. That means if you run off with my car, I'll know where to find you."

  "Then run with me," she said without thinking. "Wick will kill me for my lack of punctuality. I might as well be granted a last request before he carries out the sentence."

  "That's a hell of a stiff fine to pay for being late." He grinned again. This time with both sides of his mouth.

  She saw the dimple on the left and was a goner. "For a ride in that car? I'll make the sacrifice."

  He moved his left hand to his hip. The platinum case of his watch caught the moonlight and flickered. He gave a lift of his chin. "You've got the keys."

  She opened her fingers, her gaze caught by his, her palm be­ginning to sweat as she offered up the ring. "You want them back?"

  He didn't move. He simply stared, his gaze even more in­tense with so little distance between them. She wanted to ask what he was looking for, what he expected to find. She had no secrets, yet she kept her mouth closed. Intuition told her the thoughts going on behind his eyes would quickly dispel this two-strangers-and-a-Ferrari fantasy she wasn't finished living.

  When he remained silent, she withdrew her offer, palming the keys. She wanted this ride in a very bad way. "I've never had an accident. I've never been ticketed. I've never been stopped. Not even for a warning."

  This time when he shook his head, she swore he was also shaking off a chuckle. "I suppose you want the top down."

  "Yes, though my stylist will definitely kill me."

  He moved closer still. A flicker in his eyes was her only warning before he reached up to finger a lock of her hair. "Do your decisions always invite this hovering crowd of execution­ers?"

  Her voice. Where was her voice? "What can I say? I enjoy living dangerously."

  His touch as well as his gaze lingered there where he rubbed the strands between forefinger and thumb. "Then it seems we have more than a few things in common."

  Heat lightning arced as the back of his hand hovered close to her neck. She watched as he caught sight of the popping pulse at the base. "Does that mean you trust me to drive?"

  "No." His gaze came up to meet hers, hot and vivid and razor's-edge sharp. "And if you wreck my car, I'll personally escort you to the guillotine."

  She could hardly breathe. And a part of her believed that he literally meant what he said. "Promise to make it swift and painless?"

  He released her hair but he didn't lower his hand. Instead, he traced the line of her collarbone through her red silk shell. "And here I thought you were into danger."

  She'd never been so glad for the shadows as now, feeling her nipples tighten. "So I lied."

  At that, he laughed. And he stepped closer, reaching behind her to open the driver's side door. She felt the brush of his chest to her shoulder, caught a much closer glimpse of the hard line of his jaw where golden brown beard stubble glinted. And his scent. Yum. Very warm and very woodsy, and oh, but she was in such big trouble here.

  He gestured for her to get in, which she did before he shut her door and circled around to the passenger side. He slid down into the seat, taking up a whole lot of space in the inti­mately close interior. Only the console between them kept their thighs from touching.

  She buckled her seat belt; he did the same, and then she turned the key. The car rumbled to life beneath her, behind her. The power of the engine tickled her legs where bare skin met luxurious Connolly leather. She moved her hand to the gearshift.

  He draped his coat across his lap, settled back like a man without a worry in the world. Then he turned to face her, his grin having finally reached his eyes. "Let's see what you've got."

  She was close to melting into the seat. Instead, she winked, kicked off her shoes, and tossed them into his lap. "Hang on."

  Wickham Bow maneuvered his motorized wheelchair away from his desk and out into the foyer, certain that he hadn't missed Natasha's arrival, curious as to what could be keeping her. Her routine never varied, a habit he favored—one that al­lowed him the uncommon luxury of positive reinforcement as a controlling technique rather than being forced as he was by so many others to wield an iron fist.

  Upon her arrival, Natasha would stop in her office to drop off the documents she'd couriered from the university requir­ing his attention. In the morning, she would organize them by priority before presenting them to him during their breakfast meeting. It was important to him that appearances and sched­ules were always maintained. She knew that, knew he valued consistency, dependability, and loyalty above all else.

  Her tardiness tonight angered him.

  He had watched the Black Forest clock above his fireplace for thirty minutes; he now checked the grand-father clock posi­tioned at the base of the foyer staircase as well as the pocket watch he pulled from his vest. Intercepting Natasha upon her arrival was paramount. He had postponed the dinner hour, al­lowing for the time all females required to dress for a special occasion.

  Tonight's dinner was a very special occasion. One vital to his future, yet one with an importance he could never explain. Using his goddaughter to further his cause was hardly a sin. She was quite dispensable. He had no trouble with any end justifying any means. The fact that she was late when he ex­pected promptness left him at the mercy of his ulcer and vexed that his guest was having to wait.

  Because Peter Deacon was not a man one kept waiting.

  Two

  Those unfortunate enough to work with the man behind the public mask knew Peter Deacon as a womanizing asshole. He was slick. He was a player. He brokered arms sales and drug deals, sold stolen bonds and human beings, excelled in extor­tion, forgery, and laundered money.

  Interpol knew it. The Feds knew it. The Smithson Group knew it, as well. The rest of the world knew only the legiti­mate persona of the Spectra IT spokesman, that of a business­man: straightforward, scrupulous, as squeaky clean as any businessman got.

  Christian Bane could think of no one he wanted to imper­sonate less, though right now he was hardly in a position to complain. Later, maybe. When the smells of the jungle blind-sided him again. When he woke to the sensation of mud ooz­ing between his toes.

  When he licked his lips and tasted rank
insect bodies that provided the protein rice gruel did not. Then he'd remember exactly what he'd suffered at the hands of Spectra IT and com­plain about this time spent living in Peter Deacon's skin.

  It was hard to think of anything outside of the present when he was riding in a Ferrari 360 Spider with a pair of ridiculously sharp stilettos in his lap, the bare-footed wild woman at his side clocking close to one hundred ten miles per hour. At the moment, impersonation required less thought than breathing.

  He didn't know a man alive who wouldn't pay him to trade places. Including Peter Deacon, though the other man would no doubt be holding more than the woman's shoes. By now, he'd have talked her out of her panties—a thought that had Christian cursing Hank Smithson for not the first time.

  The hows and whys of the older man's logic for assigning team members to missions was a mystery not one of the group had solved. They joked about Hank's magic lotto balls but collectively owed him their lives. Each man did as he was asked to do because Hank had yet to be proven wrong. Just as he wouldn't be proven wrong this time.

  It only felt that way to Christian, stuck impersonating a scumbag Don Juan whose conquests were legendary.

  Here he'd been handed a beautiful woman to use at will, to exploit until she revealed all that he needed to know. A beauti­ful woman employed by a man whose dealings with Spectra had him holding a scientist hostage.

  Christian's initial pause about taking her to bed hadn't been any misplaced sense of decency. Women who toyed with the wrong side of the law rarely had qualms about sex being used as a bargaining tool. And with Deacon's reputation pre­ceding him, Natasha would be expecting no less than seduc­tion.

  No, it was simply that out of all the SG-5 operatives, Christian Bane was the least likely to score. Kelly John was the one with the notched bedpost. Julian left the string of broken hearts. Eli and Tripp both bagged their trophies when and where they could, considering sex a well-deserved perk of the job.

  Christian preferred assignments that kept him under the radar. Just his luck he was the one who most closely resembled the Spectra spokesman. Not to mention the one who kept the organization's dossier tattooed like a rap sheet on the inside of his skull.

  At least Peter Deacon wasn't having an easier time of it. Christian wondered if the bastard had a clue where he was being held, or if the self-contained vault beneath MaddyB's stable had instilled the fear of God he was sorely lacking. He'd need it where he was going. And it felt damn good to be taking him down at last.

  Natasha downshifted through the next corner, then floored the Spider and punched up into gear. Natasha Gaudet. The name had been one of several he'd memorized from the mis­sion's portfolio. It fit her well. Exotic, as were her looks. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin as ivory as a pearl. Her photo had in­trigued him; in the flesh, she blew him away.

  Strange, because he'd given up his attraction to two-faced, gypsy-gorgeous whores.

  She let go a loud "Whoo-hoo!" at the top of her lungs, the sound swallowed by the starry night sky. He shifted in his seat to watch her, figuring since she hadn't yet sent them skidding off the road and crashing down the wooded slope beyond, it was a safe bet she knew what she was doing.

  Hell, the position she was in? Working for Wickham Bow? The professor might be her godfather rather than related by blood, but she obviously shared Bow's calculating mind, or so hinted the Smithson intel. And with the two of them now making deals with Spectra?

  Who said pretty white girls couldn't be bad guys, too?

  Natasha's cover was damn convincing and clever, going back as many verifiable years as it did. And Christian was going to enjoy blowing it. Taking her to bed in the meantime . . . Well, hell, he mused, unable to deny the jolt of fire to his gut, one he hadn't felt for a very long time.

  Wasn't that exactly what Peter Deacon would do?

  She hit the brakes, spun the wheel, took the car off the road; it fishtailed to a hard stop right where she'd no doubt in­tended. Christian swallowed his fast-beating heart and glanced up to see the low stone wall of the estate's private lake look­out point inches from the car's front grill. Then he looked at Natasha.

  "Scared ya, didn't I?" she asked with a wink.

  The move had been too skillfully maneuvered to be fright­ening, but he wasn't going to deny the rush of blood through his veins. Fast cars and fast women. A deadly combination.

  "Not a chance," he said, hooking her slingbacks over one finger and offering them up as a bribe. She reached for the shoes. He held on, forcing her across the console and into his space. Her face was but a foot away when he growled, "But you lied about lying about loving to live dangerously."

  "Why do you say that?" Her face was flushed, her voice breathless, her pupils dilated to the whites of her eyes. Her chest beneath her silky red top rose and fell. A thrill junkie through and through.

  Talking her out of her panties was going to be a piece of cake. Now to find her weak spot and talk her out of the info he needed to locate the kidnapped Woodrow Jinks. "Your face." When she frowned, he added, "Take a look," and an­gled down the rearview mirror.

  She glanced up. Her eyes went wide. Releasing the shoes, she sent her fingers combing into her hair. "I am such dead meat. Wick is going to have my hide. Not only am I late, now I look like cat draggings."

  Christian played along. "Dr. Bow doesn't approve of cat draggings?"

  "Something like that," she said with a laugh as she finished with her hair, grabbed her shoes before he thought to stop her, and opened her door. "Wick's my employer, yes. But he's also my godfather. He's quite stern about appearance and punctu­ality, not to mention being way overprotective. He treats me at times as if I'm still twelve years old."

  "Instead of twenty-eight?"

  Her legs out the door as she slipped on her shoes, she cast him a curious glance from over her shoulder, her eyes bright, a brow arched. "Nice guess."

  He shook his head, watching for her reaction as he, too, pushed out of his seat. "It's not a guess. I investigate everyone with whom I consider doing business."

  He climbed from the car, and she did the same, shaking her head as she walked toward the stone perimeter and keeping the car's width between them. Once he reached the knee-high wall, he glanced briefly at the lake beyond before turning to face her, struck with the strangest sensation of seeing a crea­ture of the night.

  He couldn't imagine the sun glinting any more brightly off of her hair than did the light from the moon, and he forced himself to harden his heart, reminding himself of what she was capable, what she had done, what he had come here to stop her and her godfather from doing to anyone ever again.

  She stood in profile, staring off toward the distant water, the surface of which rippled with the same breeze that lifted the strands of her hair and tugged her clothing tightly to her very fine body. "I had hoped you were a friend come to visit, though the car should have tipped me off." Her mouth pulled into a wry grin. "Wick doesn't have many friends who can af­ford Ferraris."

  Now this was interesting, Christian thought, his intelli­gence radar blipping. The professor keeping his appointments from his assistant? Especially the timing of Deacon's arrival? "You prefer he conduct his business from the university?"

  "I prefer he conduct no business at all except for his distance-education lectures. But he's hardheaded and refuses to take my advice." She crossed her arms over her chest as if chilled. "He certainly refuses to listen to his doctors."

  Yeah, Christian knew about the arrangements Polytechnic had made for Dr. Bow to conduct his lectures via satellite. Unusual, but so was the man and his international reputation. The university wasn't about to lose a professor of Bow's re­gard. No matter the provisions they had to make to ensure he remained on faculty.

  Christian stayed silent, waiting her out, gauging her reac­tion against what he'd learned of her in the Smithson portfo­lio. She was sharp and well-spoken; both qualities he'd seen for himself. She was loyal to her godfather, and protective, as well. I
t didn't surprise him to see either in action.

  He was surprised, however, that she seemed so convinc­ingly unaware of Deacon's scheduled visit or the identity of the man himself. Almost as surprised as he was to feel the sharply humming and purely sexual sensation centered at the base of his spine.

  She turned to sit on the low stone wall, crossed her legs, and tucked windblown strands of hair behind her ear. "I'm Natasha, by the way. Natasha Gaudet, though if you know my age then I'm certain you know my name."

  He did. What he wasn't certain about was if she was a bet­ter actor than he was. "Peter Deacon." Christian walked to­ward her, held out his hand, and lied again. "And I wasn't aware Dr. Bow was in poor health."

  She shook his hand, her fingers lingering in his as she met his gaze. "His health should remain stable as long as he doesn't accept any more consulting projects."

  Christian took in her pointedly arched brow and her de­nial; his thigh brushed her knee as he sat on the wall beside her, and he stayed where he was. Let her break the physical contact, he decided, waiting for her to scoot forward, to turn away, neither of which she did.

  "Then we're good to go," he finally said, hedging with a vague, "This project has been in the works for awhile now. I haven't brought him anything new to take on."

  He watched her eyes, looking for a hint of recognition. Surely she knew what Bow and Spectra wanted from the work Jinks was doing. Had been doing for a global technology firm until he vanished two months ago, turning up unexpectedly on Smithson's radar.

  If Christian didn't have equipment monitoring Spectra twenty-four/seven from SG-5's ops center in the city, the refer­ence to Woodrow Jinks might've been missed. What the crime syndicate and the good doctor wanted from the kidnapped sci­entist would be sorted out later. This mission was solely about setting the other man free.

  "You came for a tour of the facilities, then?" Natasha asked him at last.