The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  Christian snorted. "I'm not so sure I want him anywhere near her."

  "Soundin' a might possessive there, son."

  "Protective, not possessive."

  "And what are you lookin' to protect her from? An opera­tive whose judgment is so far off that no hair of any dog is going to set it right again?"

  Christian shook his head. He'd been in Eli's shoes more times than he wanted to remember. "He come in on his own, or you bring him?"

  "A little of both. He didn't much like the idea of quitting. I reminded him it was better than being dead."

  Christian closed his eyes. "I guess that depends on what it is you're quitting, doesn't it?"

  Hank pushed up out of the chair amid creaks of joints and worn springs. "You listen to me, son. You never quit on those men. You saw them through to the brutal end. And I hear tell that you tried to sell your soul to take their place."

  A lot of good it had done him, too. Offering his life for those of his men. No enemy wanted to kill a leader when he could be imprisoned, mocked, humiliated, and degraded as an example to others. "They got more bang for the buck their way. Though I imagine they'd rethink that strategy if they could see me now. My soul doesn't feel worth more than a bad penny these days."

  "Why?" Hank asked, lifting a hip to the edge of the desk. "Because doing your job means you've had to deceive that girl out there?"

  Christian took a deep breath. "Puts me in the same league as Malena."

  Hank snorted. "I think you need a lesson in rights and wrongs. You went in to rescue a kidnapped scientist. The lies you told were part of saving the life of an innocent man. Or so you thought going in."

  And what a moral contradiction that was. If it was only the lies, Christian would be having a hell of an easier time. Because he hadn't simply glossed over the truth or involved her in a deception he could correct with a quick reveal of the facts.

  No, he'd sucked her fully into the lies. Her body, her mind, her emotions. And he knew too well the way it felt when a lie like that blew up. His psyche was riddled with the shrapnel, and his explosion had happened seven years before.

  He pushed away from the wall and crossed the room. "Yeah, well, it's too bad Natasha's world will end up a pile of shit in the process."

  "Hmm. The girl's done some growing on you, has she?"

  Growing. That wasn't the word he would've used, but hav­ing Hank say it felt right somehow. Hell, Christian reflected. He'd showered with her. He'd taken off his clothes and bared his body in an enclosed space no larger than the cage he'd lived in for months.

  Yeah, having the lights off made it easier to pretend other­wise, pretend that beyond the darkness lay wide open spaces, as did having Natasha there with him. But even one week ago he wouldn't have been able to put himself through that tor­ture. And that said a lot—too much maybe—about her impact on him.

  "I don't like innocent people ending up in the cross fire. That's all." It wasn't all, but this wasn't the time for getting into any more of it.

  Having made his way the width of the room, Hank clapped a hand to Christian's shoulder and squeezed. "I'm thinking it might be in the best interest of that innocence if she has a few more hours to let this sink in. Realizing the truth of what her godfather is doing has to have hit her like a fat ton of bricks."

  "Deception does have that flattening effect."

  "And that's why we have our friends, Christian. To pump us back up again." Hank paused a moment, searching out Christian's gaze while the boy let that stew. When Christian nodded, the older man added, "Good. Now, let's go over what you've got and see if we can figure out the truth behind this sham of a kidnapping."

  Seventeen

  Natasha stood at the split rail fence that circled what appeared to be a racetrack, praying that the food in her stomach stayed put.

  While eating the lunch she'd helped Hank prepare, sitting and listening to him tell her about her godfather's deal with this syndicate, Spectra IT, the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich had tasted like a feast for the desperately starving. Thinking about it now, she was surprised she'd been able to taste it at all.

  A programmed response, more than likely. The same way mourners made their way through a buffet of tuna casserole and carrot salad, dinner rolls and chocolate sheet cake. Eating because the feeling of being full and satisfied was so much more comforting than an empty sense of being abandoned, that hollow sadness that would linger for the rest of one's life.

  How was she going to move on?

  She had no idea what Wick could possibly have been think­ing. She'd listened for years to him expound eloquently on not only morality in a global dynamic, but on personal choices, rights and wrongs, codes of ethics. If what he was being ac­cused of doing was true—and obviously it was; she'd been shown the proof—he had betrayed not only her.

  He had betrayed himself, had in one fell swoop destroyed the reputation he'd spent a lifetime building. That of a man with quirks like any other, but a good man, a man to count on, to never doubt. A man who, along with her father, had pro­vided the education that had made her childhood one of defin­ing beliefs as much as dodgeball and baby dolls.

  She hugged herself tighter and sniffed, leaning her chest into the fence railing and staring down at the dying grass on the other side. The tufts seem to be struggling with their own disastrous truth, the fact that winter was coming and their blissful days of basking innocently in the sun were gone. Innocence. Bah humbug crock of fucked-up shit.

  The sound of steps scraping over the gravel behind her wasn't enough to make her look up. It was easier to let gravity take care of her tears when she didn't have a tissue. If she'd had a change of clothes, she would have blotted her face with her sleeve, but her overnighter was still in the Ferrari that was still MIA. . . .

  "I'll leave if you prefer not to have company."

  What the hell did it matter now? she mused. And why did that deep male voice ring with a song so familiar, so comfort­ing that she wanted to weep again? Instead, she drew in a deep breath and shrugged. "Stay. Go. I don't care."

  It was a lie, of course. As perverted a reality as it was, Christian was the only thing here that was even halfway famil­iar. Not soothing. Not welcome. But the only thing to which she had a connection. Basically, he was better than nothing. Certainly better than being alone.

  "I want to apologize but I'm not sure where or how to start." He placed a boot on the bottom rail of the fence, propped his forearms on the top and laced his hands together. He didn't look at her, though. He didn't touch her.

  And she wasn't sure if she was happy or sad. "Starting with 'I'm sorry' is always a good bet."

  "I'm sorry, Natasha."

  "Okay," was all she could think to say because she didn't know if she was ready to forgive him anything yet—or if she wanted to wait until the grass was once again green.

  He went on, no acknowledgement of her response, nothing. "It's funny, but every time I come here I'm almost able to for­get what it is I do the rest of the time. This is about the only place I can breathe and think."

  He was silent then, staring off in the direction of the woods beyond the track and stables, and she wondered what it was he actually saw. She curled her fingers over the fence railing, rested her cheek on top of her hands, and studied his profile. "What do you think about?"

  He shook his head evasively.

  "No. Tell me. I want to know." It was better than sinking any deeper into the quicksand of self-pity sucking her down. Besides, she still was who she was, which meant a man who would do what he did still intrigued her.

  "Stupid shit. What kind of life I'd have if I really was an en­gineer." He shrugged.

  "What? You don't enjoy chasing people down and jumping them?"

  "Some are more fun to jump than others." He glanced in her direction then and frowned, straightening to dig into his pocket for a handkerchief. "Here. You've got. . . your face is .. ."

  She sighed, cleaned the tracks of her tears,
continued to stare at him. The setting sun cast rays of light at such an angle that he was left in silhouette. Strange how she saw him so clearly, no matter. "In another lifetime, I suppose I would have laughed at that."

  "It really wasn't that funny."

  "Sure it was," she said, uncertain why she had this need to soothe. "I just have a compromised sense of humor today."

  He turned fully toward her, his eyes so bright and so clear, but most of all sad. "I hate to say this, but I don't see it im­proving much the next few days."

  "Yeah. I pretty much came to the same conclusion after talking to Hank." Strangely, she longed to stay here and never go home again. Or click her heels three times and end up someplace even better.

  "I wish I could make this easier for you." He started to reach for her, one hand moving toward her cheek, but seemed to consider the wisdom of second thoughts and tucked his fin­gers into his pocket instead. "Hell, I wish I could make it go away."

  "That would be nice, thanks." And then she couldn't help it. As hard as it was to say, she admitted the truth. "Having you there with me when I return will make it easier, Pet—uh, sorry. Christian."

  He looked off beyond the track again. "Deacon really is a bastard."

  "Then you're a terrible impersonator because you haven't been a bastard at all," she said, and didn't bother to hide the slight smile that appeared.

  His smile was even wider, his eyes twinkling as he said, "I'll remind you of that next time you cuss me out for lying to you."

  She wanted to be angry—at him, at Wick, at the world—but anger required too much energy and she was so very, very tired. Too tired to trust anything she felt. Too numb to feel much of anything at all.

  She'd gone to his bed willingly. She'd enjoyed herself im­mensely while there. She only wished she knew who it was she'd slept with, how much of the sex had been business and how much pleasure.

  She toyed with the soiled handkerchief. "Did you lie to me about everything?"

  "No." This time he allowed himself to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear. "Making love with you was never a lie."

  She swallowed hard at the gentleness of his touch, fought to breathe at the tenderness in his expression, the break in his voice. "You don't think it's a lie to call it making love? When there was no love involved?"

  "The first time?" He shook his head. "The first time was . . . complicated." Christian paused, continued. "On the terrace? I still wasn't sure of your loyalties."

  "What about on the balcony?"

  He took a deep breath. "That one's tough. I couldn't deal with what seducing you as Deacon would mean. But seducing you as myself. . ."

  "What about last night?" she asked when he left the thought unfinished.

  He hadn't wanted to talk about it this morning before they'd left the city. He'd tried to bring it up during the flight, before she'd been handed the indisputable evidence of Wick's betrayal.

  Yet she couldn't help but wonder if last night's intimacy hadn't been more dream than reality, if yet again she'd been so overwhelmed physically that she'd lost all perspective on what had happened in bed.

  So it surprised her when Christian moved his hand from her ear to cup her jaw, stroking her cheekbone before rubbing his thumb across her lips, staring down as he did, his pulse beating visibly at his temple. "For a long time now I've made sure sex was only about the physical act. I've kept my head out of the equation."

  "Because of your work, you mean?"

  He shook his head. "Because it's been the only way to stay sane."

  "And now?" she asked breathlessly because the look in his eyes said the state of affairs had changed.

  "Now all I know is being with you has been more than I ever expected."

  She wasn't sure how she felt about his use of has been. Or what it was he'd been expecting. Right now, she wasn't sure how she felt about anything, and that was probably for the best.

  She was in no shape for any sort of rational thought and wouldn't be until sleep cleared her head. She sighed heavily, leaned into the fence instead of succumbing to temptation and leaning into him.

  He stepped away as if he realized he'd said too much. As if he, too, needed the distance. "If you want to come back to the house, I'll show you where you're going to stay. And you can call Susan and Dr. Bow."

  "Okay." She straightened, shook back her hair, cleaned her face one last time before returning his handkerchief. "I wasn't sure if you and Hank decided we would stay here tonight after all."

  "It was my decision, actually," he said, stuffing the hand­kerchief into his pocket. "You haven't slept much this week­end, and I'm speaking from experience when I say that being rested up makes for a much more believable liar."

  She shook her head, rubbed at her temples. "I don't know how I'm going to pull this off. To go back to Wick's place and act like everything's normal? Like nothing has changed?" She rubbed harder. It didn't help. Her head verged on exploding. "How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

  "With a little help from your friends," Christian said, hooking an arm around her shoulders and guiding her back to the house.

  Walking numbly beside him, she blinked back the threat of tears. Friends, huh? She supposed she could live with that—es­pecially considering the mess she was in.

  Keeping their relationship to friendship might be her best chance to stay alive.

  Wickham Bow was not happy with this newest delay. Natasha should have been here hours ago, yet she had only just thought to call.

  Though he had been pleased with her previous attention to Mr. Deacon, this jaunt to the city she'd taken with the Spectra representative had pushed Wickham's patience to the edge. Dr. Jinks had been working all night and was ready to give Mr. Deacon a live demonstration of what he had achieved.

  Now, however, they would all be waiting another day. No, Wickham was not the least bit happy with this newest delay.

  At a knock on his open office door, he looked up. "Yes, Dr. Jinks?"

  "You got a minute, uh, sir?"

  No, he did not have a minute. He did not have a second. He had no time to spare, no time to waste at all. "Of course. Come in."

  "Uh, thanks." Dr. Jinks entered the office, lollygagged around in front of the bookcases along the front wall, touching the em­bossed spines with his unkempt fingers, nails chewed to the quick, cuticles ragged and raw.

  Wickham found himself cursing his body, which kept him bound to this chair when he wanted to snatch the valuable volumes away from this . . . this boy who had no appreciation for life's finer moments. Who took for granted his brilliance, and was throwing it away for money.

  A true conundrum, hating the very man he needed for his plan to work. The very man whose genius was providing the tech­nology—and therefore the funds—which would buy the year of institutional care, the experimental treatment and unsanc­tioned clinical trials guaranteed to return Wickham's life to rights.

  He laced his hands together atop his desk blotter. "What can I help you with, Dr. Jinks?"

  The boy continued to wander. "I was just wondering what was up with giving Mr. Deacon a show of the busted encryp­tion tonight."

  "It appears Natasha and Mr. Deacon have been delayed and will be returning tomorrow rather than this evening."

  Dr. Jinks snorted his response, scuffed his athletic shoes over the polished wood floor.

  Wickham found himself grinding his jaw and breathed deeply to relax. "What's the matter, Dr. Jinks? You seem rather impatient, less than your usual jovial self."

  "I dunno. I'm just ready for this to be over and done with. It's been two months now. I thought—"

  "You thought what? That our agreement was on a strict time schedule? That you would have your money in hand and immediately be on your way to a new life?"

  "Two months isn't immediately. Two weeks maybe."

  The younger man hadn't once looked Wickham in the eye. He had to admit to a bit of creeping unease at this change in Dr. Jinks's demeanor. A change that
was not for the better, and would now require a lighter hand to manage. "I forget how young you are, Woodrow. Once you are my age, months do seem to pass like weeks."

  "Yeah, well, right now these months are passing like years." More scuffing. More fingerprints left on the leather bindings.

  More disquiet with this turn of events. "Are you perhaps homesick?"

  Woodrow was uncomfortably slow to respond. "Not so much homesick as bored. Ready to get this over with."

  Get this over with? What sort of a comment was that when this would never be over? "I predict tomorrow will be a very productive day for both of us. Once Mr. Deacon is shown the extent of what you've accomplished, once he has seen a suc­cessful test of your capabilities, we will be one step closer to our goal."

  "Yeah, I guess."

  Wickham understood for the first time the purpose of rolling one's eyes. "I am sorry circumstances don't allow you to slip away for a night on the town. But it would hardly be wise for you to show your face and risk being recognized, however unlikely the possibility."

  "I gotta say it's been pretty weird having free run of the place with everyone thinking I'm missing. I wonder if anyone is still waiting for a ransom note," Woodrow said with a bit of a laugh, then quickly quieted. "You sure the Courtneys haven't talked?"

  "My dear boy. The Courtneys run in no circles where your name would come up. And your kidnapping has been kept out of the press per our—per your—instructions." As incommodi­ous as the younger man's obsession with role-playing games was, Wickham had to admit Woodrow knew how to strate-gize. He had done a remarkable job arranging his own disap­pearance.

  "I hope so, 'cause I'd really hate for this whole thing to blow up after all this time and effort."

  Wincing, Wickham watched Woodrow pick up and shake the jade abacus dating from the early Qing Dynasty which Michael Gaudet had presented him years ago. The boy's disre­spectful handling of a gift with incalculable sentimental value was too much. He motored his wheelchair away from his desk.

  "I'd thank you not to touch that, please." He kept his voice toneless, even, not wishing to startle Dr. Jinks. "It was given to me by a dear friend."