The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  Christian glanced down to where he now held her hand in her lap and let go of the thought. Natasha boldly picked it up. This one thing she wanted to know. She'd heard much of it from Hank. She wanted to hear it from the source.

  She laced her fingers through his. "What haven't you told me about Thailand, Christian?"

  He shook his head. "Not now."

  "When?" she persisted.

  "Later. Maybe. I don't know."

  "Okay, then. Tell me this. Why me? Why break your rules for me?" She wanted to know because she had never had the feeling that what they'd done together had been anything he'd gone into unwillingly, anything he'd forced himself to go through with.

  Yet when he pulled his hand from hers, she knew she wasn't going to like what he had to say. And she was right. She didn't.

  "Because it's what you should've expected from Peter Deacon," he said, his tone of voice as telling as his words. "Deacon's reputation is no secret to anyone running in the same circles."

  She let that sink in—a sinking that didn't take long. Her stomach rolled up into a hard ball of disgust. "So, Wick gave me to you knowing the sort of man you were?"

  "Not me, Natasha. Deacon."

  "But Wick didn't know that."

  "No, but it's important that you do."

  Oh no. Oh no. She couldn't take this, couldn't deal with it. She pushed to her feet, wrapped her arms around her middle to keep what little food she'd eaten today from coming up. It was no use. She was going to be sick.

  "I can't believe this. That he knew the sort of man you were and he still gave me to you to use." She laughed as hysteria rose in waves. "And I was right there, ready to do his bidding. Ready to do yours. God, I took one look at you and was more than ready."

  "Natasha, listen to me."

  Christian was there now, standing beside her on the walk­way, the water in the pond gurgling, the boughs sighing over­head. She'd loved this place once, but nothing about it soothed her now.

  She turned to flee; Christian stepped into her path.

  "Hey. I need you to listen to me." He gripped both of her shoulders. "You cannot beat yourself up over this. You need to have your head on straight now more than ever."

  Oh, but she hated practical, bossy men. Especially this one she feared she had fallen in love with. She was so screwed. Loving a man who she knew was using her. Had used her. Who harbored more secrets, told more lies—justified or not—than any man she had ever known.

  She pulled in a deep shuddering breath and thrust out her chin. "I know what I have to do. I don't need you telling me. I know how I need to behave, the act I'm required to put on. That doesn't make it any easier to face the fact that I am little more here than a whore."

  Christian bit off a harsh curse. "Don't say that. Do not ever say that."

  He held her so tightly she swore he would leave her shoul­ders bruised. If her girlfriends could see her predicament now. . . . "Why not? I've prostituted myself just as Wick planned the night you arrived."

  Christian released her, moved one hand to his waist, rubbed at his temples with the other. "He actually planned it long before that. It's on the tapes we have of his discussions with Spectra IT."

  The ground opened up to swallow her whole. "I didn't hear him say anything about me."

  "I asked Hank not to play that one."

  "Why? Why would it matter?" She was losing it. Losing it. "I was going to find out anyway."

  "I was hoping you might not have to."

  "So why tell me now?"

  "Because I want you angry. I want you to know the full scope of Bow's treachery."

  "So I can hurt even more?" Or so she could hurt the same as he did from whatever had happened in Thailand? So she could pay for what had gone wrong?

  "No. So you won't soften. Won't feel sorry for him."

  "So I won't screw up your mission, is that it?"

  "No. Fuck. No. I want you to be tough. You need to be tough. To be strong. Stronger perhaps than you've ever had to be in your life." He got in her face then, moved to block her from escaping or turning away. "We've got to stop him. To shut him down and do it now. I'm going down to the lab. I need you to keep an eye on Jinks and Bow."

  What? He wasn't making any sense. "Why would finding you in the lab make them suspicious? That's why you're here."

  "I'm not here to dig into their files when they're not looking. Do what you can to keep them out of the base­ment."

  She couldn't believe he was going to leave her like this; she had too many questions left unanswered. She crossed her arms over her chest, backed a step away. "Go. Do whatever you need to do. I'll make sure you're not bothered."

  When he stepped toward her, she warded him off with one raised hand. "I'm fine. I need to see if Mrs. Courtney needs any help."

  "Natasha—"

  "Here's what I don't get, Christian." Why couldn't she let this go? "When we were at Hank's place, you told me what we'd done was as real as it gets. But you haven't even wanted anything to do with me since."

  "It's complicated," was all he said after several moments of hesitation. "And that's not exactly true."

  "Complicated because I know who you are? Because you're afraid my knowing means I'm going to expect something of you?" She feared she was going to push him even further away if she didn't get a grip. And the fact that she was worried about that very thing . . .

  "I'm sorry. Forget I said that." She forged past him and headed for the house.

  She didn't get far, brought up short by one very large hand coming down on her shoulder. She didn't turn, she couldn't. Right now she was certain looking at him would cause her to crumble like a rose petal crushed in a fist.

  "You've got it all wrong, Natasha. It's what I expect from myself keeping me out of your bed. I'm not sure I can deliver what either of us wants. And I don't want to disappoint you more than I already have."

  He wasn't talking about sex. She knew that without having to think twice. What he was talking about went deeper. To a place neither one of them would be ready to visit until they were done here, until her godfather had been put away and justice served.

  Until the woman she had been all these years no longer ex­isted, her foundation, her belief system destroyed at Wick's hands. Exploring anything with Christian would have to wait. Perhaps they would reach the perfect time and the perfect place once hell had frozen over, once pigs had flown.

  "I understand," she finally said, though she doubted the dust of the last week and a half would ever clear. "I've got to go."

  She ducked away, changed direction, headed for the terrace instead of the house. She needed air and time to let the events of the evening settle. Checking on her godfather was suddenly the last thing she wanted to do. She'd start with Woodrow Jinks.

  Twenty-two

  She said hello to the few clusters of people still remaining out­side, forcing herself to smile as she inquired after their evening. By the time she made it to the far corner of the ter­race, having stopped to gather two champagne flutes and a plate of discarded hors d'oeuvres, her only company was a passed-out Dr. Jinks, who Mrs. Courtney told her earlier had stolen a bottle of very expensive champagne, mind you, from the kitchen and disappeared.

  The man obviously knew to make himself scarce, and was just as obviously no threat to Christian or anyone in his cur­rent condition. She set the flutes on the end of the half-moon bench where he lay on his back snoring, and crossed to the waist-high iron fencing. She tossed the food into the woods and stared at the lake beyond, trying to dredge up some emo­tion, any emotion, but all she felt was numb.

  She supposed in this case numbness was a good thing. Numb would get her through the next few days while Christian worked his Smithson magic. Numb would even ease the transition of packing the things she kept here, of looking for employment elsewhere. . . .

  "Miss Gaudet?"

  Hand to her heart, she turned, smiled falsely again. "Yes?"

  "If we could talk privately for a m
oment?" the man asked, a man she'd never seen before but who immediately raised her suspicions. She'd obviously been hanging around Christian too long.

  This one was tall, as tall as Christian, though a bit broader in build, filling out the designer suit he wore as if it had been custom-made. It probably had. He stood with his hands in his pockets, an unthreatening stance, she supposed, the tails of his jacket flaring behind him like bat wings.

  Unthreatening or not, he still presented an intim-idating presence, and she was suddenly aware of how alone they were here away from the crowd. She stepped away from the fencing and started back along the terrace. He moved into her path.

  That was when her heart started to race, her fingers to shake, the hair at her nape to rise. "Mr.—"

  "Samms. Julian Samms."

  Julian. Christian had mentioned a Julian. Still . . . "I'm not sure we have anything to talk about."

  "I need to find Christian."

  Natasha pulled in a huge breath and glanced up. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

  His mouth quirked into a grin that seemed to be more a test of his patience than anything. "Protective of Bane, aren't you?"

  She shrugged. "I'll answer your questions after you answer mine."

  "I really don't have time to waste with your games, Miss Gaudet."

  Bristling, Natasha pulled herself up. "And I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Samms. I'm sure you can find your way off my godfather's property. Good night."

  She only made it three steps before his hand came down on her shoulder. She jerked away, angered, and turn to stare him down. But she wasn't prepared for the menace hovering above her, the dark eyes glittering down.

  "Spectra is looking for Deacon," he said in a voice that froze her blood in her veins. "I need to find Christian now."

  * * *

  In his next life, Christian swore he was going to come back speaking and writing binary, living and breathing DOS. He re­ally could've used K.J.'s help right about now, Kelly John being SG-5's computer expert, though the other operative had been pretty clear in his instructions.

  Load the CD into Jinks's computer. Connect the external drive via USB. Reboot into Linux and he was good to go. Good to grep, anyway. Grep around and find Jinks's files of captured CIA feeds, copy them to his own hardware, and get it all back to the ops center ASAR

  His own specialty often seemed to be no more than staying alive, Christian mused as he watched the machine boot up in the new operating system. And since survival was a big part of every mission, he supposed it was a good thing on which to be an expert.

  He also supposed it had been that particular skill Hank had talked about seeing in Christian's eyes when they'd first made contact in Chiang Rai.

  That seemed so long ago, even while it seemed like yester­day. Strangely enough, however, having talked to Natasha about some of what happened in Thailand had helped ease the hold of his past.

  As if sharing even those small bits and pieces had loosened the constriction that kept him from drawing a full cleansing breath.

  He wouldn't have thought it possible. He'd never been one for saying much about what he was thinking or feeling, figur­ing he only had himself to rely on, preferring not to burden anyone else. Which was why he'd had such a time getting used to Hank demanding he open up.

  He was surprised doing so had come so easily with Natasha.

  It was a damn good feeling being able to breathe.

  He typed a series of search commands and listened to the hard drive cook, flexing his fingers, waiting, waiting, wishing he was done here and able to whisk Natasha away. To where, he didn't know.

  Just away from here, away from Bow. . . .

  His head came up sharply as the machine's clicks and whirs were drowned out by the sound of the elevator coming down. Shit. He dropped the external drive into the seat of Jinks's chair, pushed it up beneath the workstation, and shut off the monitor.

  He headed for the platform's stairs, took all four in two quick leaping steps, hit the switch for the overhead lights. The room plunged into an eerie darkness, the white floor reflecting a rainbow of colored beams glowing from the room's equip­ment.

  His back to the wall beside the elevator, his hand on the gun at his hip, he waited, praying that when the doors opened Natasha stepped out. Yes, he had every legitimate reason to be down here, but he did not have reason to be ripping off data— a fact both Jinks and Bow would know.

  Staying out of sight was the goal here. Keeping his visitor in the dark while he slipped into the elevator for the return trip up. Praying he didn't have to use his gun. The car stopped. The doors opened. A man stepped out, stopped, crouched and whipped to his left in one smooth movement, gun drawn and barrel inches from Christian's own.

  Seconds ticked by. Half seconds. Less. And then, "God­dammit, Bane." Julian grumbled, scrambled, getting to his feet and holstering his gun. "Leave a light on for a guy, would you?"

  "Julian. Sweet Jesus Christ." Christian tucked away his own gun and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Looking for your sorry ass."

  Christian hung his head, took a minute to remember how to breathe, then made his way back to Jinks's workstation. Julian followed, hands at his hips as Christian picked up the hard drive and sank down into the chair. "I have a phone. Learn to use it."

  "Hank didn't want me to call."

  At that, Christian looked away from the monitor to the man sent to deliver the blow requiring face-to-face contact. The very bad news Hank hadn't wanted Christian to be alone to hear. And when Hank got that worried . . .

  Christian's heart thundered. "C'mon, Samms. Don't pull this dramatic shit on me. I'm all drama'd out."

  Julian met Christian's gaze directly, solemnly. "Spectra's try­ing to reach Deacon."

  What the hell? Thunder and lightning both this time. He wasn't even sure he could draw a breath to speak. "What do you mean, trying to reach Deacon? Spectra doesn't contact their field reps." He paused, then bit off, "Ever."

  Julian raised a brow at Christian's tone then leaned further over Jinks's chair to get a look at what had pulled up on the screen. "They're sending Benny Rivers to find him. That's all Tripp picked up."

  Spectra looking for Deacon meant something nasty was going down. Something ugly. Something deadly. Sweat gath­ered between Christian's shoulder blades. If Rivers picked up Deacon's trail. ..

  He slammed a fist on the table. "Fuck it. Bring him on. I'm not coming in. I'm not leaving this unfinished. Not when I'm this close to taking these bastards down."

  "What have you got?" Julian nodded towards the twenty-inch flat panel monitor.

  "I won't know for sure until K.J. takes a look at this, but the scientist I came here to rescue? Woodrow Jinks? The kid has managed to crack the encryption on some feed from, get this," Christian added with a huff, "the CIA."

  Julian cursed more often and more creatively than anyone Christian knew and did so now, muttering about donkeys and apes and higher powers. "You get this to K.J. and then what's the plan? How much more time here do you need?"

  "Less than I'd planned for if Rivers is on his way." Christian shook his head. He removed the hard drive, handed it to Julian, pocketed the CD and USB cable. "Get that back to the ops cen­ter. If the information is viable, then we figure a way to get it into the right hands. A day. Two, tops."

  "And then what?"

  Christian checked that Jinks's workstation was put back to rights then headed for the exit, gesturing for Julian to follow. "Then what what?"

  "Eli said you hooked up with Bow's goddaughter."

  Christian swore to kick McKenzie's ass the minute he got back to the farm. "The shape he's in and you believe anything coming out of his mouth?"

  "Knowing you, no. I didn't believe him." Julian paused. "Until I met her."

  He would have to have met her to know to find Christian in the basement. "Yeah, well. You know how it is."

  "Act
ually, I don't." Julian's dark brow winged upward; Christian saw it even in the minimal light. Saw as well the other man's mixture of disbelief and disappointment.

  Julian went on. "I figured if you hadn't learned your lesson in Thailand, you would've at least picked up on the fact that none of us ever hook up with women we deal with in the field. Bed 'em, yeah. But that's it."

  "That's all this is," Christian lied.

  Julian's expletive proved that a lie told to another operative was no more believable than one told to oneself.

  "I need to get back up to the party," was all Christian said. He wasn't admitting anything to Julian about what he had with Natasha until he settled it with himself.

  Julian bit down on what was no doubt another lecture and patted his pocket instead. "I'll get this to K.J. tonight. Hank will be in touch later."

  "Tell him to make it sooner if he has to. Whether it's what's in those files or news on Rivers. I need to know." Christian hit the button. The elevator door opened.

  Both men stepped inside, Julian clearing his throat. "Look, Bane. The woman is none of my business. That's your call. Just don't flush the last seven years down the drain for what might be no more than a nice fringe benefit."

  Christian bit down before saying a lot of things he knew he'd regret. He met Julian's gaze squarely. "I'll keep that in mind."

  Julian nodded, appeared ready to say more, but then the el­evator reached the first floor and the door opened.

  "Mr. Deacon. I was wondering where you had gone." Dr. Wickham Bow's gaze moved from Christian to Julian. "And this must be your associate. Mr. Rivers, I believe it is?"

  Natasha knocked softly on Christian's door but didn't wait for him to answer, turning the knob instead to let herself into his room. As expected, the suite was dark, the curtains over the balcony doors letting in but minimal light.

  The bed was made, his suit jacket and tie tossed across the spread. She went further inside, found his shoes kicked off, one here, one there, his pants where he'd stepped out of them discarded in front of the bathroom door he'd left cracked open, the shower running behind it.

  It was then that it hit her, how often he showered, and how he always left the curtain open or the door ajar. Even the night they'd stood under the spray in her apartment's miniscule en­closure, he'd shut the bathroom door but hadn't touched the sliding glass panel.