The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  "Okay, then." Tripp straightened in his chair. "I trust that you know their MO. And I know you were in the field when Hank caught first contact and the deal with Bow went down. But remind me again what convinced you that his goddaughter knew what was going on?"

  Christian had been back from London for a month now, and the hell of it was, he couldn't pinpoint anything specific tying in Natasha. It was more a case of experience and heeding his unfailing gut instinct that told him a woman that close to the source was not uninvolved.

  During his time away, it had been Hank himself who'd manned the audio surveillance, Julian and Eli who'd then snagged the Spectra front man when he'd entered the States. Once Hank handed down the mission, Christian had spent his prep time eating, breathing, and sleeping Deacon's portfolio and listening to the same recordings he and Tripp were going over now.

  Yet he couldn't put one of his ten fingers on anything spe­cific that had raised his suspicions anymore than he could now find what he needed to clear them.

  "I mean, you of all people know that guilt by association is bullshit," Tripp was saying.

  And, yeah. Christian should know that. He did know that. He was losing perspective, and shit was getting skewed when he should've had his head on straight enough by now to keep that from happening.

  "I hate to say it, Bane. But we could be frying our brains here for no reason."

  Not just no, but hell no. It would never be for no reason. Not when destroying Spectra for good was the endgame. Still, he'd be a fool to discount Tripp's frustration. Frustration and exhaustion made for sloppy work, missed opportunities, too many cases of jumping the gun. Patience was never such a virtue as during surveillance.

  Tripp pushed up Out of his chair and stretched side to side, popping joints and vertebrae until Christian found himself gritting his teeth at his partner's pain.

  "Hell," the other man said, going on and knowing Christ­ian well enough to expect no response. "If she's not a part of the deal, then bring her in and use her. She may know a lot and not even be aware. You know how that works. What she thinks are throwaway tidbits might be the information nail in Bow's coffin."

  Christian knew that, too. He moved beyond the recorded conversations and thought back to the ones he'd had with her, real time. And this time he was the one leaning back and drag­ging his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, hoping the outside pressure would balance the internal that was about to blow.

  "I mean the only reference I've heard to your Ms. Gaudet is Bow telling Deacon she would be available to see to his needs, which sounds pretty kinky to me. I can see why you—"

  "Wait, wait." His heart misfired. His adrenaline popped. He shot up straight in his chair, narrowed his eyes. "She didn't know that."

  Hell, he hadn't even known that until he'd arrived that night. How had he missed that? Stupid shit, going in unaware of a detail so obvious even Tripp in his exhaustion had picked it up. "She didn't know that."

  "What?" Tripp asked, dropping flat out on the floor to stretch his aching back.

  "When Deacon—when I got there, she didn't know that. Bow didn't tell her until later that night."

  "Or so she says."

  "Yeah. But why the pretense? If it was prearranged, why not be up front with it? I mean, she acted like she didn't even know Deacon was coming."

  "Unless she's lying about it all."

  "Again, why would she?" He surged to his feet, paced the floor in front of his desk. "If this deal is that important to Bow, so important that he's handing Natasha to Deacon, then she would've known he was coming. She would've been pre­pared. She would've been waiting for him."

  He stopped, stared down at Tripp. "Right? Right?"

  Tripp simply shrugged.

  "What reason would she have to pretend she didn't know who the hell he was? I was?"

  "I dunno."

  "Give me a reason, Tripp. I need something to chew on here."

  "Bad taste in your mouth?"

  Actually, no. Christian was tasting Natasha along with what seemed like the truth. "Think about it. If she knew she had this deal to do for Bow, why plan tonight's party the same time Deacon would be visiting?"

  "She can't exactly pick and choose birth dates."

  "No, but birthdays aren't always celebrated on the exact calendar day."

  "It's a stretch, Bane."

  Yeah. He knew that. But Natasha knowing who and what Deacon was hadn't worked for him now for seventy-two hours. The tapes were doing nothing more than confirming what his gut had been telling him since he tossed her the keys to the Ferrari.

  Natasha Gaudet was being screwed by the man pulling the strings of her loyalty. And for too many reasons that he didn't want to examine, because of too many nightmares that he didn't want to relive, that pissed him off more than anything.

  She was an innocent standing in the crossfire of danger. And he had to get her out.

  Eleven

  An hour later, the four women managed to claim a half-moon booth in the quietest corner of the club and collapse.

  Natasha had long since stripped off her sheer black one-shouldered pullover, and still perspiration had her black Lycra tank clinging like a second skin. Her low-rise swing pants were loose enough to be breezy as she danced. Sitting, the bright red rayon swathed her like wet blankets.

  She stretched out her legs beneath the table, her arms along the top of the red and gold striped and padded bench. "Remind me next time we do this to come in nothing but my undies."

  "Strip down now." Leaning into the elbow she'd propped on the circular table hardly big enough for four drinks, Elaine swirled her index finger in her sour apple martini, then lapped the drink from her skin. "It's not like anyone would notice."

  "Tell me about it," Yvonne piped in, fluffing up her bouncy golden brown curls. "I haven't seen this much skin since, well, since ever. Mmm-mmm-mmm. So many chests to ogle, so many fine asses to grope. And no expectations at the end of the night. Could it get any better?"

  "Depends," Elaine said, one dark eyebrow raised over a dark brown eye, her beautifully elfish face belying the workings of her kinky mind. "Are you ogling the men or the women?"

  "Both, actually," the other woman answered before the two­ of-a-kind pair collapsed back against the booth and dissolved into silly drunken giggles.

  Natasha rolled her eyes and glanced around the club where, indeed, a good portion of the women wore next to nothing as they danced, drank, and parried with one another as intimately as did the few who had brought along men—most of whom were quite undressed themselves by now.

  She couldn't help but wonder about those men, if they'd perform as well in bed later, or if the pressure of a one-on-one with a confident successful woman—a woman such as any one of the three sitting with her—would have them running for a dose of Viagra.

  Why were men so challenged by a woman who knew her own mind?

  At times she was certain that all the headway made in the name of women's independence had backfired. After all, here she and her girlfriends were. Accessible. Available. Alone.

  All four of them living in a city where the single women outnumbered the single men, reducing the chances of ever finding that one special man to wake up to, to anticipate see­ing at the end of the work day, to laugh with over dinner, to cuddle with during late night television, to make love with and fall asleep with. . . .

  Sighing, she shook off the ridiculous burst of white picket fence melancholy just as Susan tittered and grabbed her glass of white wine. "I think, actually? That Nat's holding out until she gets home to strip. Just in case her new boyfriend is there waiting."

  Elaine and Yvonne immediately sobered, sat up, and leaned forward to get a better look, as if Natasha were some sort of highway accident and their necks were made of rubber. She narrowed her eyes and glared at Susan's angelically innocent expression as Elaine asked, "Boyfriend?" Yvonne adding, "And we're the last to know?"

  Natasha pulled h
er arms from the back of the booth and tucked both hands beneath her thighs. She bounced her heels, her knees bumping the table, and met each woman's inquisi­tive gaze in turn.

  Her entire body was suddenly rife with a strange energy. Nervous, yes. But more than that.

  Edgy.

  Uneasy.

  She didn't want to explain anything at all about Peter. What they'd shared belonged solely to her. Mentioning him to Susan had been a mistake; the club's atmosphere was hardly conducive to conversation. Not that they'd stopped dancing long enough to talk. .

  Damn it. She needed to talk. Needed her girlfriends' advice. Perhaps discussing him in abstract was the answer. Vague re­sponses. Anonymous queries. No details that could smack of self-betrayal.

  Sighing deeply, she stretched her legs out and stilled. "He's not a boyfriend. I only met him Wednesday night."

  "Wait, wait, wait." Elaine shook a scolding finger, frowned at a passing server who jostled her shoulder. "You've known him three days? And you're already including him in our group?"

  "Sounds like she wanted to get him here and get him out of half of his clothes," Yvonne suggested.

  Susan snickered again. "Why bother with half? Why not the full monty?"

  Natasha remained mum on the question of Peter's nudity, picked up her wineglass, and said, "I don't think he's the party type anyway. I'm really not all that surprised he didn't show up."

  Ever helpful, Yvonne offered, "Or else he likes to keep his parties private."

  "And what about that full monty business?" Elaine asked. "Are you getting busy with him already? Because, if you are? I'm seriously going to have to kick your ass. You know better, Nat. Really."

  Natasha swirled the last of her wine in the bowl of her glass, signaling to the server for another. "Does that really sound like something you can see me doing?"

  "I don't want to see you doing it, no." Elaine turned down the offer for a refill. "But I can imagine it."

  "Especially since it's happened before." Yvonne handed the server a twenty to cover her and Natasha's drinks.

  "Pet—uh, this guy," she quickly corrected, "isn't like Keith at all."

  "Keith, who was going to be"—Susan clasped her hands beneath her chin and took on a dreamy-eyed expression—"the one."

  "The one you connected with like no man before," Yvonne added, lifting her glass in a toast.

  "I did. I still do." Ugh. This was not going well, Natasha grumbled to herself, rubbing at the strap of tension binding her temples. "Just not on a level that works in the bedroom."

  Elaine snorted. "Well, it might work there if he didn't have a wife."

  God, did Peter have a wife? One he left at home while visit­ing lovers in every port?

  Nice time for her curiosity to take a vacation; the thought had never even crossed her mind. "Okay. I realize that I tend to jump first and ask questions later—"

  "That's putting it mildly." This from Elaine.

  "—but I have a sort of sixth sense about this guy. That he's worth jumping for."

  "Jumping into bed?" This from Yvonne.

  "Maybe, yes. But not just bed." This wasn't exactly easy to explain, to the girls or to herself. Making such a judgment after only three days? No wonder they all stared at her as if she were daft. "I know. It sounds loony. I'm not even sure I can make it make sense."

  Shaking her head, Elaine helped herself to Susan's untouched cosmopolitan. "Let me guess. You felt an instant connection."

  Natasha gave into a spontaneous smile as she thought back. "Even before he tossed me the keys to his Ferrari."

  Three pairs of eyes made up in glittery metallic shadow widened. It was Susan who finally squeaked out, "A Ferrari? He drives a Ferrari?", and Elaine who interrupted with, "Wait. He let you drive his Ferrari?"

  Yvonne simply pressed the backs of her fingers beneath her chin to close her slack jaw.

  "It's not about the money," Natasha insisted to a round of rolled eyes and shaking heads. "It was every single moment to­gether being about me."

  "Oh, now there's a surprise," Yvonne teased.

  "No. He made it about me. He walked up and saw me drooling over his car and let me take it for a drive. When we stopped at Overlook Point, he gave me his jacket the second he noticed I was cold. And we're talking quality. Gorgeous Armani that smelled so fine."

  Even now Natasha found herself breathing deeply and re­membering the warmth of Peter's scent. "He asked questions and talked about me. For the first time in forever, instead of a man feeding me line after line—or lie after lie—all about him­self," she corrected to nodding heads and knowing laughter, "he was interested in me. Which means, unfortunately, I know almost nothing about him."

  "Including whether or not he's married." Yvonne's em­phatic statement required no response. So Natasha didn't give one, turning instead to Susan, who asked, "So you met him upstate, not here in the city?"

  "He's doing business with Wick and has an office here, but I get the impression he lives abroad."

  "Well, that explains it," Elaine said. "He's not caught up in this ridiculous competition that's corrupted every man I've met lately. It's all about out-climbing, out-witting, out-maneuvering, out-spending, and out-fucking the rest of the male population."

  Yvonne turned her gaze on Elaine. "Bitter much?"

  Elaine snorted, finished off the rest of Susan's drink, and drilled Natasha with a gaze that was surprisingly sharp for the amount of alcohol she'd downed. "Just do me a favor, Nat. Do yourself a favor. Find out if the bastard is married before you tumble head over heels."

  "I know. I will." The matter of discovering Peter's matri­monial state was first on Natasha's "to do" list.

  "I'm serious, Natasha. We're here for you. We'll always be here for you." Elaine went on, both Susan and Yvonne nod­ding their agreement. "But after the shit you went through with Keith? Don't expect us to be quite so gentle the next time we have to shovel you up off the floor."

  "Trust me. There won't be a next time." And there wouldn't be. She was done falling in love at the drop of a hat—or a pair of Armani pants. She lifted her wineglass to seal her own per­sonal relationship bargain. "No more confusing lust with love for this girl."

  "Good. Because we're going to hold you to that," Elaine said, as she and the other two women hooked their pinky fin­gers in a show of solidarity that had Natasha on the verge of tears—partly because she loved her friends so dearly.

  But also because they looked so damn silly. "C'mon, you guys. Enough about me. This is Susan's party and she needs to dance!"

  Wickham Bow sat in the far corner of the terrace that edged his property's landscaped yard.

  Natasha had insisted last year on renovations to make the area wheelchair accessible. He'd argued at the time that the expense would never see a return as he seldom felt the desire to spend time out of doors.

  Now, however, he had to admit a bit of a grudging—and ironic—pleasure in her efforts. Being able to access the terrace gave him a choice view of the guest suite's balcony and the op­portunity to imagine the intimate assignation Dr. Jinks had witnessed.

  It pleased Wickham to no end that Natasha had followed his instructions so implicitly in regards to seeing to Mr. Deacon's every need. She had even, it seemed, gone above and beyond. His goddaughter's judgment had always been impec­cable; he expected no less from the lessons she'd learned sit­ting at his own feet and those of her father.

  A gust of wind swept over him, and he turned up the lapels on his suit coat. Michael Gaudet had been a true friend, and Wickham missed the other man sorely, the way he would miss a brother, the way he missed his good health. The sort of friend who would no doubt advise him to seek psychological help or don a straightjacket were his plans discovered.

  But Michael was no longer here, and Wickham was facing a crisis unlike any he had known in his life. A life that was growing more painful to live. That he refused to live with no hope beyond his current prognosis.

  To be confined t
o a body that no longer functioned. To be unable to voice his theories. To be forced to communicate by blinking his eyes. And how long he'd be able to do that much . . . he didn't even want to think that far ahead.

  "Desperate times call for desperate measures, my friend," he said, wishing Michael were here to respond. A rousing good argument was what he needed right now.

  A challenging debate on the federal policy regulating re­search involving human participants. A heated discussion of a man's theological right to determine his own fate, to use and abuse his own body at will.

  He could just see Michael's face when he argued that Christian apologist C.S. Lewis had been out of his mind to claim that pain allowed one to see joy more clearly. Wickham had been blinded to joy now for months.

  He'd been following the advancements in research on his neurodegenerative disease since being diagnosed, but time was not on his side.

  Yet now . . . Now he had been given an opportunity that he had to take, an opportunity that he knew he would regret not embracing. The possibility that he would die?

  Die as a result of a procedure that, no matter its promising results in unsanctioned clinical trials, would never receive gov­ernmental approval and was costing him more money than he'd see in his lifetime?

  He laughed to himself, huddled deeper into his suit coat as the wind from the woods cut across the terrace, whistling in the boughs above his head. He would die regardless, as was man's destiny. Yet because he was slated to die sooner than his time, reflecting on his past had become a near daily and prolif­erative waste of time he could be devoting to work.

  It was that reflection that had brought to mind the years he had spent mentoring Woodrow Jinks. A great fortune, when combined with Wickham's own recent work and resulting pa­pers published on data encryption. Work that kept his name on the inter-national radar as an expert in his field. A radar seen by both friend and foe alike.

  What wasn't on any radar but his own was the fact that the encryption work Jinks had done while under his tutelage was now in federal hands. The software had been purchased by the government along with that of other developers, and was part of the package protecting the transmission feeds sent by the CIA's data analysts to their agents in the field.