The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  "Besides the fact that I would never have slept through you touching me"—she lifted a hand, adjusted the points of his shirt collar—"I don't believe for a minute that you would ever use a woman while she slept."

  She sounded so certain, she looked so sincere, that a part of him ached to confirm her faith. The rest of him screamed to stick to the plan. It was his only rational choice, his only true salvation.

  The elevator car arrived then. He stepped back, took hold of her waist, his gaze locked with hers as he dragged her in­side. She hit the button for the basement, her chest rising and falling as rapidly as his. So he hit another button and stopped the car between floors.

  He'd started this as Peter Deacon, being as crude and raw and coarse as he knew the man to be. But her trust in his basic decency joined the mental picture he'd painted .. . Well, it was his own erection now straining at his zipper, his own lungs heaving like a bellows. He needed to push her away, to regain the control he'd so obviously lost before they reached the lab.

  He allowed a smile to lift one side of his mouth. "You're right. I am lying. But a thousand dollars says your panties are as wet as my cock is hard."

  That, of course, was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes sparked with anger. She shoved away from the wall on which she was leaning and approached. "Okay, tough guy. We can do this your way. Just be sure that's what you want."

  Either he made for a worse Peter Deacon than he'd real­ized, or she was the most fearless, the most foolish, the most utterly fascinating woman he'd ever met.

  He was rapidly beginning to believe the latter, what with the way he couldn't get his mind off her body long enough to focus on the job. That and the way she seemed to feel exactly the same.

  This time she was the one who leaned up and whispered into his ear, wrapping her fingers around his shaft and squeez­ing as she said, "Keep your thousand dollars. I'll take this in­stead."

  He turned his head, ground his mouth to hers and gathered up the fabric of her skirt until his hands were on her bare bot­tom, his fingers sliding between her legs, pushing inside the strap of her thong to find her soaking wet.

  Just because he no longer bedded women who crossed his path on the job didn't mean he couldn't tell an honest response from a fake. Natasha's body was telling the whole truth about her desire.

  "I want to eat you," he said, because right now he wanted nothing as much as getting between her legs.

  She widened her stance, her feet on either side of his as she rubbed her lower body to his. "I want you in my mouth."

  He groaned, growled. "You can have me anywhere. Just say the word."

  Her hands freed his belt from his buckle, released the but­ton beneath, slid his zipper all the way down. She tugged his pants over his hips, took his shorts down next. But instead of wrapping her lips around his swollen head and sucking him into her mouth, she hiked her skirt up to her waist and pressed her body to the wall.

  He took one look at the offering of her bare ass and stepped in behind her. He bent his knees, spread hers, sent two ringers exploring, and followed with his cock. He drove deep, drove hard, covered her hands on the wall with his palms, and laced their fingers together. She was so tight, so wet, so hot. So incredibly hot. The sounds she made, the panting, the gasps drove him out of his mind.

  And then it was over. Not thirty seconds had passed and she came. Her contractions gripped him, pulled him, squeezed him. He angled his shaft, rubbing upward against her clit as she cried out. She spread her fingers wide.

  He clutched her hands tightly, keeping their fingers meshed. She brought a pair of their joined hands down between her legs and played her clit as she finished, shuddering, trembling. . . and that was all it took.

  He followed her over the edge, spilling himself in waves that threatened to tear him apart. He thrust once, twice, then didn't move, couldn't move, stood tensed and still while she milked him dry. Moments passed, moments of recovery, of coming down from a high he wasn't sure he'd ever reached with another woman, a moment that rapidly brought recrimi­nations.

  What the hell had they just done?

  He stepped back, eased out of her, realized he was caged with a beautiful woman he dared not trust, whose loyalties he had not yet determined. He needed to know, needed to settle this, needed to get out of this fucking goddamn cage. Sweat broke out on his forehead and beaded his upper lip as he tucked himself back into his pants.

  Natasha settled her skirt around her hips, smoothed it into place, then turned. He offered her his handkerchief, held onto her hand as she took it. "Tell me there's not going to be a baby from this."

  The flash of hurt in her eyes stung more than a slap to the face. Her chin lifted with a haughty indignation. "A little late to be thinking of that, wouldn't you agree?"

  He deserved the how-dare-you but repeated his demand just the same. "Tell me."

  "No. There will not be a baby. Now, you tell me you didn't give me anything I don't want." And this time it wasn't indig­nation but fear he saw in her expression. Fear and regret and, yes, there it was, the shame he'd wondered if she'd feel. The shame that told him he'd managed to make her feel used.

  The shame that shamed him to the core for using her. He suffered the cut of that emotion more deeply than he'd thought possible, and Peter Deacon or not, on this he had to set her mind at ease.

  He raised his free hand to caress her cheek. Her skin was so smooth and so soft. "The only thing I gave you, Natasha Gaudet, was a very good time. Like giving you the keys to my Ferrari." He tweaked her nose. "Only this ride was a whole lot better."

  As intended, his teasing did the trick. She rolled her eyes be­fore offering him a weak smile and gesturing with his hand­kerchief. "Do you mind turning around so I can . . . ?"

  He turned before she finished the request. There was that ladylike decorum again, the class he found so irresistible in such a sensual package. No, this woman was not one who sold her body for any cause.

  Which left him wondering what in the hell she was doing here sleeping with Peter Deacon.

  Eight

  The elevator opened directly into the underground lab. Praying that her skirt was less rumpled than her composure, which she swore had fallen to her feet, Natasha stepped out onto the white tiles of the raised platform built against two walls of the room.

  Peter followed, moving immediately to the safety railing along the platform's edge and taking hold of it with both hands. He leaned forward, arms bracing his weight, indomitable will mark­ing his territory as surely as he'd claimed her body just minutes ago.

  Natasha watched his gaze slowly canvass the room of com­puter stations, servers, and monitor banks. He was all busi­ness, playing it cool. Masking the passionate—and equally compassionate—nature he'd just demonstrated so fully. .Fine. She'd go along for now, though she couldn't help but wonder what he was covering up with the distancing act that was as annoying as his habit of walking away.

  Looking around, she tried to view the lab through objective eyes. To the right of where they stood, the platform slanted down into the room, creating a wheelchair-accessible ramp onto the main floor. To the far left was the corner Wick had claimed as his own, the elevated stagelike setting giving him a bird's-eye view of the lab's activity—appropriate, since his workstation resembled a predator's nest perched strategically above a field of. . . rats.

  None of it was anything she hadn't seen before, and so she returned her attention to the man at her side, wonder­ing if he was seeing what he'd expected to see. Glancing now at his face, she could hardly believe how they had spent the last five minutes. He looked like a man who had room for nothing on his mind but the deal he'd made with her godfather.

  Yet she wondered . . . and so she stepped up beside him, not touching him, just close enough to hear that his breathing hadn't quite settled, to see the lingering sheen of sweat on the backs of his hands where his fingers curled around the railing, to feel the heat pouring off his body in waves.

  G
ood, she mused wryly, more than a little bit pleased to confirm her instincts. She'd hate to think that she was the only one here who wasn't so quick to recover, who'd been caught off guard by an attraction that seemed to defy such a simple definition.

  Most of all, however, she'd hate to find out that his mask of cold indifference was no mask at all. She wasn't sure she could bear that.

  Except for Dr. Jinks, wearing a "Got Milk" visor and head­phones, his head banging side to side to his own private beat, the lab was empty. She gestured expansively to encompass the whole of the room and broke the silence first. "I'm sorry, but there's really not much here to see. Wick isn't feeling well this morning, and there haven't been any of his grad students up here to work since Dr. Jinks arrived."

  "Why is that?" Peter asked, lifting a hand when the other man caught sight of them and hesitantly did the same.

  Natasha waved as well, watching as Woody's attention was snagged again by his monitor. He grabbed a CD from a stack on the desk behind him, snagged the pencil stuck behind his ear in the visor's band. Though Peter's question triggered a vague unease, she gave a small shrug. "I assume because of the project that brought you here. That Wick wanted to give Dr. Jinks the full run of the lab without the distraction of having the rest of the rats underfoot."

  Peter let that digest, remaining pensive several seconds longer before asking, "Where do the grad students stay when they're here?"

  "They bunk at the carriage house. Wick had it converted into a dormitory during the summer semester. But a few al­ways seem to be underfoot at the main house around dinner­time . . ." She trailed off and frowned. Now that he'd brought it up, her subconscious recalled the almost eerie quiet of the last two months with no one else around.

  "Having them underfoot is a problem?" Peter prompted.

  She forced a smile that she didn't feel. "They forget that Wick's strength is limited. They can't resist the chance to pick his brain. He's a world-renowned scientist, not your average professor, which translates into your not so average learning experience."

  Peter straightened then and turned to face her, one hand braced at the waist of pin-striped navy pants, the other still gripping the rail. He was so amazingly sexy as he stood there, the epitome of masculinity, doing nothing more than looking at her, that her spit dried in a flash of heat. His expression gave away nothing of what he was thinking. It certainly didn't hint that he was having the same trouble she was having focusing on the here and now.

  Then again, he wasn't the one with a trickle of semen run­ning down his thigh.

  "Tell me about him." He lifted his chin to indicate Wick's corner workstation. "Tell me about Wickham Bow."

  She crossed her arms over her chest, settled her weight into one hip, and returned the pinpoint directness of his very business-intensive gaze. "You've worked with him now long enough to form your own impression. I don't see that I have anything signi­ficant to add."

  "Perhaps. But I'd like your opinion. You know him better than anyone." His voice gentled along with his gaze, and just like that, his mask lifted. "I'd appreciate your input, Natasha."

  This was the man in the elevator whose eyes had been filled with teasing tenderness. This was the man who'd handed her his handkerchief to use and then turned his back with a gentle­man's respect. This was a man whose every question she found herself compelled to answer—yet one who disappeared again before she drew her next breath.

  His eyes flickered dangerously, a deep sea blue where she thought she might drown. "How did he come to be based way up here? Why not closer to the city, what with the university in the Bronx?"

  On this she didn't hesitate. With her godfather's emphasis on the importance, of this deal with Peter, anything that was public knowledge was fair game. "I mentioned last night that he inherited the property. The accompanying trust has paid the taxes and the maintenance as well as allowed him the lux­ury of the live-in staff. When he was still in the city, having the Courtneys on the place meant he didn't have to involve him­self except to approve their expenses."

  "That doesn't answer my question," he said rather brusquely.

  She frowned up at him, biting down on her tongue when she would have reminded him who he was talking to—right before she reminded herself who she was talking to and her charge to see to his needs. "Renovating his apartment to make it wheelchair-accessible would have been impractical. The cost was beyond prohibitive."

  He seemed to let that settle in, moving along the railing until she had to back up or be run down. "Tell me about his illness."

  She took a breath, willed a calm to replace the tightness in her middle brought on at the thought of Wick's future, and glanced back toward the near empty lab. "He has good days and bad."

  "Get more specific, Natasha. I'd like to know how his health is going to impact our dealings."

  Was it her imagination, or were dark secrets creeping back into the mask he'd pulled down? "I don't talk about Wick's private life with anyone." On this, she wasn't going to budge. Wick could damn well fire her if he chose. "If he wishes to share the details, that's up to him."

  Peter let that sink in, waited a moment, and asked, "How long has he known Dr. Jinks?"

  She took a deep breath. "Wick actually mentored him dur­ing Dr. Jinks's years at Polytechnic. He was only sixteen when he enrolled—"

  "Jinks was Dr. Bow's student?" Peter interrupted forcefully.

  She frowned. "His protégé, yes."

  "Have they kept in touch in the years since?"

  Noting his expression that seemed to harden even further, she sighed.

  "Is that a yes or a no?" he demanded.

  Irritation descended in a tsunami wave. "That's an 'I don't know,' damn it. If they kept in touch, it wasn't so regularly that I took notice." She turned on him then, arms crossed, stance wide, prepared for battle. "What is this? Twenty ques­tions? The Dr. Peter Show?"

  He lifted his chin toward Jinks. "I need to know what makes him tick."

  An evasive answer if she had ever heard one, she mused, following the direction of his gaze toward Woody. "Why?"

  "He seems nervous. A little unstable." A pause, and Peter's voice dropped. "A lot is riding on the kid's shoulders, Natasha. I need to know if I can trust him."

  She shook her head, glanced up again in time to catch a flash of what she swore was calculated concern. Curiouser and curiouser yet again. "So you didn't include him when you had Wick and I investigated? You know. The way you investigate everyone with whom you consider doing business."

  He'd told her that less than twenty-four hours ago and now she waited for him to react, wishing they'd had more time to­gether so she might be somewhat clued in as to what he was thinking, why he was asking about Woody's relationship with Wick, what it was he really wanted to know.

  He reached out, circled the gold button between her breasts with one finger. "Perhaps I wasn't as thorough as I should have been, no. But there were a few players involved who in­terested me more than the others. One in particular who in­trigued me enough to sidetrack my attention."

  "You're full of crap," she said, removing his hand from her clothing. "You're hiding something and distracting me with sex whenever I get too close."

  "Distracting you?" His gaze crawled up to hers. "Tame words for what I make you feel. And that scares you to death, doesn't it?"

  "Your ego is monumental."

  "Just answer the question."

  "Hey, Mr. Deacon." Woody's call from across the room was an interruption Natasha had never thought to welcome. "I've got something here you really ought to see."

  Peter waited a moment before retreating, looking down into her eyes that she was certain hid nothing of her store of insecurities, the fears she wasn't ready to confront, the sticky and sordid truths that sent her too soon and too often into a man's bed.

  It was so easy to bare her body, to pretend that was enough, that she needn't bare anything more . . . oh god, what was she doing? What was she thinking? She to
ok a deep breath, then a step in reverse, seeking out the solid ground that had seemed to drop away.

  Hell yes, he scared her! There, she admitted it. He was an enigma, and he had her thoughts racing in directions she'd never wanted to run, had her heart racing, as well.

  He turned his attention to Dr. Jinks then, backing away and leaving her shaking in her shoes. She watched him hop down the four steps from the center of the platform to the lab's floor, watched as he rolled up a chair to Woody's workstation and devoted one hundred percent of his attention to the other man as if she wasn't even standing in the room.

  "Who are you, Peter Deacon?" she whispered to herself.

  Whoever he was, whatever he was hiding, she vowed to find out even if it killed her.

  "Good afternoon, Dr. Jinks."

  Woody looked up from his monitor as Dr. Bow wheeled his way down the ramp along the side of the room instead of to his workstation in the room's raised corner. Smiling at his partner in crime wasn't coming easy for Woody today. Not after what he'd witnessed last night or even this afternoon. But he gave it his best shot.

  "You don't look so hot, Professor." And the older man didn't. His face was pale, making his stubbly black and white whiskers look like crap. The dude really should've shaved, Woody thought, rubbing his own face that produced little more than scraggly fuzz.

  "A restless night and a bit of an uncomfortable morning. That's all." Dr. Bow pulled off his glasses, cleaned the lenses on the tail of his shirt left untucked on one side. "I'll get to bed early tonight."

  "Yeah, you should." And hopefully no one would be fuck­ing their brains out on their bedroom balcony and Woody could get the sleep he'd missed out on, too. He reached down, tugged on the fly of his pants. "Making this deal with Spectra isn't going to do you much good if you're not around to get what you want out of it."

  The older man's mouth grew grim and tight, making his whole face look like it belonged to a cadaver. "Lest you forget, I won't be the only one getting what I want out of this deal. Your percentage will be substantial, allowing you to start your new life wherever your heart desires."