The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  "A man able to resist your inquisitive nature?" Wick chuckled softly. "I'm impressed."

  "And you're making fun of me."

  "Only because I adore you and know I can get away with it."

  Unfortunately, he was right. She adored him equally and al­ways enjoyed their teasing thrust and parry. "So? Are you going to fill me in on why he's here?"

  He wheeled his chair around to face her. "He didn't tell you?"

  She shrugged noncommittally. "Not specifically, though I assume it has to do with Dr. Jinks's project."

  "Why?"

  "Why do I assume it has to do with Dr. Jinks?" she asked, and when Wick nodded she said, "Because Mr. Deacon men­tioned the timing, the project reaching completion."

  "That was all?" Wick's brow went up.

  "About his reason for being here? Yes." She hesitated be­fore saying more, staring briefly at the abstract pattern in the hallway's cream and wine-colored carpet before going on. "Though he did suggest that you've put me at his disposal for the duration of his visit."

  Wick considered her for a long moment before saying, "I hope that's not a problem for you."

  "It's not, as long as neither of you expect me to show him anything of the lab." She adjusted the shawl slipping from her shoulders. "Or at least to do more than a cursory walk­through."

  "I'll handle showing Mr. Deacon the lab. What I'd like you to do"—Wick pressed his lips closed as he searched for the words—"is make him comfortable while he's here, provide him with anything—no, everything he might possibly need."

  Everything? She felt the first stirrings of unease. "What ex­actly are you asking me to do here?"

  "I can't emphasize how important this is to me, Natasha. How imperative it is that he enjoy his stay."

  "Then I'll see that he does," she replied, frowning. She never questioned her godfather's requests, but this one had an added hint of desperation she hadn't previously sensed. A des­peration that had her remembering their guest's comment about her godfather becoming a very wealthy man. Curiouser and curiouser as the night went on.

  "Thank you, my dear." Wick reached out then and pressed the button to signal the elevator. "And I hope you don't mind, but I asked Mr. Deacon to wait for you at the bottom of the staircase. Please escort him to the dining room. I'm sure Mrs. Courtney is beyond ready to serve the four of us."

  "Four?"

  "Yes." The elevator car arrived; the doors opened, and Wick wheeled his chair inside in reverse, adding, just as the door closed, "Dr. Jinks will be joining us as well."

  Christian leaned a shoulder on the wooden ball topping the staircase balustrade, stared at the grandfather clock at the base of the foyer stairs, and waited. He'd always assumed those dealing with Spectra's agent knew he was not a man one kept waiting. Yet all he'd done since arriving this evening was wait.

  Upon returning from the drive with Natasha and checking in on the professor in his office, he'd headed for the suite where he was staying to set up his laptop and wireless connec­tion. He'd had no need yet to contact Smithson and wouldn't do so from this location unless left with no choice, but he went nowhere without the secure and ready access to his files.

  The cost of leaving himself vulnerable was too hefty to pay twice in a lifetime. Now he made sure every angle of his ass was covered all of the time.

  This mission's main saving grace was Spectra's M.O. When Deacon or any of the organization's higher-ups traveled to the States from their headquarters in the islands of the Netherlands Antilles, they flew solo. No contact with the behind-the-scenes machine.

  It was a cardinal rule of the operation, no different than it had been seven years ago when Deacon's predecessor and his team of Thai drug-runners left Christian to rot in the jungle's steaming heat—heat that crawled over skin with centipede feet, that seeped stinging into open and weeping sores.

  Heat that stole a man's breath as it worked to steal his mind, to rob him of his sight until he didn't know if the things he saw were real or hallucination's monsters. If he'd dreamed the sounds he'd heard or dreamed that he'd dreamed them. If the prodding searches of his body, the invasions and assaults, had happened, or if he'd simply gone insane.

  Christian pushed away from the staircase and was halfway across the foyer's marble floor to the front door before he pulled himself to a stop. He was so close, so goddamn close. Another few steps and he'd be out the door and sliding down into the Ferrari's leather bucket. He'd be back at the farm in no time, back to where he could tell Hank in person to take him off all Spectra scenarios, starting now.

  It was the memory of the crude guerilla prison that had his jaw grinding, though his feet stood still. The prison, and how it had been Hank who'd freed him, Hank who'd left the barely recognizable Spectra agent in Christian's place, wearing what remained of Christian's clothing. Left the man behind his own bars to die of bullet wounds from his own men.

  And that was why Christian would stay. His loyalty to the leader of the Smithson Group demanded no less.

  He shoved his fists into his pockets. Making sure Spectra didn't get their hands on whatever it was they were forcing Jinks to do, while freeing the man at the center of their plan, was nothing. A walk in the park.

  All he had to do was remember that he was taking that walk in upstate New York and not in the jungles of Chiang Rai.

  At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he swallowed his adrenaline-hyped heart, turned slowly, and watched Natasha descend. Earlier, she'd looked like the epitome of a corporate professional—or that had been his impression, seeing her climb down from her SUV before she'd been hit with Ferrari fever.

  But now . . . Now she was all woman. Soft and flowing and female, the hem of her dress swinging around her knees and giving him a nice long look up her skirt at her bare thighs as she made her way down.

  He walked toward her, toward the base of the staircase, set­tling one hand against the balustrade's finial as he waited for her, this nine-lived chameleon who was to be his guide. The heavy flow of his blood through his veins told him how clearly he was anticipating time spent in her company.

  And he'd be lying to himself if he denied the source of the tingling buzz at the base of his spine.

  He wanted to take her to bed.

  She smiled down at him, skirt flaring, hair swinging, and the tingle took on an electric heat.

  "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

  Just long enough to regain his bearings, he mused as he shook his head. "It's been worth it."

  "It's been worth what?" she queried, coming to a stop two steps from the bottom of the staircase.

  Two steps that put him eye level with her chest. She was breathing as hard as he was, and she wasn't wearing a bra.

  "Watching you." He waited a moment then gave a small nod. "Nice dress."

  Her cheeks bloomed a soft pink; she tucked her wrap tighter around her arms and shoulders. If she was trying to blame her body's response on the room's temperature, he wasn't buying it. He'd followed her approach and knew exactly when her nipples had tightened.

  "Thank you. Wick enjoys a more formal dinner hour. Or two." She canted her head and considered him. "You look quite dashing yourself."

  He'd changed his shirt, added a tie, still wore the black pin­striped Armani and the boots. He hadn't bothered to shave. "Dashing. Hmm."

  "You don't think so?" she asked, her grin getting to him.

  "I don't think a lot about how I look." Aw, shit. Character, Bane. Play the part. Who knew how much her godfather had told her about Deacon's obsession with fashion and style? He moved up onto the step that separated them, ran a hand along the railing until his fingers touched hers. "Why waste the time when I can enjoy looking at you?"

  She left her hand where it was, even as he waited for her to back away. She didn't, and in the next second she lifted two of her fingers, the first and the second, so that the tips brushed the vee between his forefinger and thumb.

  "What's that they say about flattery?"
she asked with a gently teasing lilt to her voice.

  "That it's going to take me where I want to go?" Boldly, he moved his free hand beneath her wrap and settled it on the swell of her hip. She was soft; she was strong. He felt both in the long lean curve of her body. He felt her tremble, as well, and the tingling at his spine bored inward.

  She cleared her throat, her eyes glowing brightly. "It might. Eventually. But right now, Wick is expecting us."

  "And what Dr. Bow wants, he gets." Wasn't that what she'd said?

  "Something like that," she responded, though she didn't move.

  Christian did, raising his hand at the same time he lowered his gaze. He measured her ribs with his fingers, her ribs that expanded around her lungs and her deep labored breaths. When he reached the plump side of her breast, he stopped, his thumb resting beneath the full lower curve, stroking in a downward motion when what he wanted to do was stroke up.

  "We could skip dinner," he suggested, his gaze returning to hers at half-mast as she leaned into the motion of his hand.

  "I don't think that would be a good idea," she murmured.

  "Why? Because you don't want to disappoint your god­father?"

  She gave a noncommittal shake of her head. "That's part of it."

  Christian's hand stilled. "Are you afraid of him?"

  "Not at all," she said, her voice low and breathy. "Why would you ask that?"

  He wanted to know what hold Bow had over her, the ex­tent of her loyalty. How far she would go. He wanted to know if she was playing a part even now, or if what she was feeling was real, because that raw tingling buzz was now poker hot and flaring toward his groin.

  He captured her gaze as he moved his thumb, this time in an upward sweep, over the firm swell of her breast to the cen­ter, where her nipple stood beaded and taut. His own breath­ing uneven, he said, "Does he punish you if you disobey?"

  She laughed at that, then pulled in a harsh breath when he moved his thumb in a circle. "Wick doesn't punish me. He would reprimand me if he felt he had reason. But I don't give him reason."

  And there was Christian's answer to the question of Natasha's loyalty, though the flush to her face, the glassy brightness of her eyes, told the truth of her conflicted desires. "I think you should give him one. Tonight. With me."

  "I would never have taken you for the type to enjoy pun­ishment, Mr. Deacon."

  "Peter," he said, and tightened his hold on her ribs. The fire in his belly burned like coals from hell. "Call me Peter."

  "Peter, then," she said, sliding her hand from the banister to rest on the back of his. "We should be going."

  "After dinner, then," he pressed. He wasn't through with her yet. Not halfway through. But the break would give his blood time to return to the head where he needed to be think­ing. "You are at my disposal?"

  "Absolutely."

  Her husky affirmation even more than her smile nearly sent him to his knees. What the hell was he doing? What the hell was going on? Play the part, Bane. Play her and play the part. This game wasn't about getting laid. Yet even as he served up the reminder, he slipped his hand around to the small of her back and pulled her flush to his body.

  To Peter Deacon's body.

  His mouth was but inches from hers when he said, "After you."

  She took a deep breath and blew it out with a light shudder as she made her way to the foyer floor and stopped. "I'm sure by now Wick and Dr. Jinks are wondering where we are."

  Christian stopped beside her, saw her mouth move, saw the sweep of her long dark lashes, saw the tiny flare of her nos­trils—and saw all of it in slow motion.

  What had she just said? "Dr. Jinks will be joining us?"

  She frowned up at him. "Wick invited him, yes. I assume that won't be a problem? It is his project you're here for, isn't it?"

  "You know about Dr. Jinks's project?" Christian swore his heart was seconds from bursting in his chest.

  At his side, Natasha shook her head, confusion creasing her brow. "Not the details, no. I do know that he's finishing up the beta testing of what he's been working on. The timing is why I made the connection between the two of you."

  The timing. Right. Not that she had been aware before­hand. Not that she knew the details. Not that she was up to her eyeballs in this scheme along with her godfather.

  And no admission that Dr. Jinks was being held against his will.

  Christian tightened his hold on her waist, determined to get to the truth. He turned toward her, one hand slipping around to her back and pulling her close, the other moving up to cup her jaw, her cheek, his fingers sliding into her hair. Her gaze grew sleepy, sexy. Her lashes fluttered down, then back up.

  When she smiled, he felt it in the palm of his hand as deeply as in his gut, and swore her pleasure at the physical contact was only part of it.

  Her enjoyment of the secrets she kept was the rest.

  He touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth. "I hope I'm responsible for this."

  "Oh, you are." Her smile widened.

  "But?" he asked, since he sensed it coming.

  "But I'm afraid it's not what you think."

  He stroked the line of her jaw. "You know what I'm thinking?"

  She nodded, briefly catching the lower edge of her lip with her teeth. "You're thinking that my working for Wick means I know all about his business."

  "And you don't," he said, moving his hand to her neck to measure her pulse, which beat hard and fast. Not with the sure, steady pace of a consummate liar.

  "Trust me. I'm no more involved with the lab work than Wick is with balancing his accounts." She took a deep breath and a distancing step away. "I hope that doesn't disappoint you."

  "On the contrary," he said, returning his fists to his pock­ets. "It will make it much easier for us to separate business from pleasure."

  Four

  Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.

  Never bite off more than you can chew. Never cross a bridge until you come to it. Never try to out-con a con man.

  His tie a choking hazard worse than any toy with small parts, Woody Jinks stuck a finger in his shirt collar and tugged, tuning out the voices in his head. It was like hearing his mother's child-rearing proverbs blasted in Dolby Digital Surround EX. Except the last one. The con man part.

  That one was all his. It was also the very reason he found himself eyeball-deep in the worst crap he'd ever thought to see in his life.

  "Natasha is on her way downstairs," Dr. Bow was saying as they made their way from his office into the dining room, where the table was set with a lacy tablecloth, tall skinny can­dles, napkins folded into fans, and as many forks and spoons as Woody had chucked into the trash during the years he'd eaten in Polytechnic's commons.

  The floor here wasn't the same industrial-strength tile but a chessboard of slick wooden squares, and the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked like farts when he walked. He was ner­vous enough to laugh, but he doubted Dr. Bow would think it was funny. The old man had, like, zero sense of humor any­more—a truth Woody had discovered when he'd hacked the lab's intranet firewall just to prove it could be done.

  "Cool. It'll be good to see her again." He said it automati­cally, then realized he totally meant it. He hadn't seen her much since he'd been here. A real fuckin' shame, because Natasha Gaudet was amazingly hot.

  "I'm sorry you haven't had time to enjoy more of her com­pany." Dr. Bow wheeled his chair to the head of the table. "She's been quite busy these last two months at the university, as well as tied up with a personal matter she is helping to or­ganize for me."

  "No worries. It's not like I've had a lot of time to party any­way, right?"

  "Well, soon you should have time to socialize to your heart's content." Hands laced over his puffy-looking gut, Dr. Bow offered up a fatherly sort of look. "And the money to enjoy all the women you want, yes?"

  Woody nodded, saying nothing about their deal, which seemed to be the best way to make sure he didn't
say anything he shouldn't. He'd never been good at keeping secrets, and this one was killing him in a very bad way.

  He cast his gaze the length of the table and back. "Am I supposed to sit anywhere in particular?"

  "To my left will be fine. Natasha always sits to my right." The older man gestured from side to side, and nodded toward the table's other end. "And Mr. Deacon can sit across from me."

  At the mention of the Spectra IT rep, Woody swallowed and swore he was going to puke up his guts. If he made it through these next two weeks, he promised himself he would never again confuse reality with playing Counter-Strike. "Yeah, I'm looking forward to meeting him."

  "And now you shall." Dr. Bow nodded toward the dining room's door.

  Bouncing from the toe of one sneaker to the other, Woody turned. But he saw only Natasha. And either she was freezing cold or was really turned on because her dress had, like, these huge headlights.

  She walked right up to him, her smile mystical and magical. He coughed once, twice, tugged again at the knot of his tie.

  "It's good to see you again, Dr. Jinks," she was saying, and all he could do was nod because for a minute there he couldn't even breathe.

  "You, too," he finally got out, shaking the hand she of­fered. It felt so tiny and so warm, and her smile was going to kill him even before lack of 02.

  "I don't believe you've met Mr. Deacon yet."

  "Uh, no. I haven't." He released her hand, though not her gaze, because looking at her was like seeing Zatanna Zatara come to life, and the guys on the comic book boards were so not going to believe it.

  Too bad he wouldn't be able to post there ever again. Not as himself, anyway. Once he got hooked up through Iridium's satellite service, he'd have to come up with a new e-mail ad­dress and use an anonymous proxy for the IP.

  "Dr. Woodrow Jinks? Peter Deacon. Peter, Woodrow Jinks."

  Okay. He could do this. He could do this. As long as he didn't get stupid and start asking about the perks that came with a career in organized crime.