The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  When he pulled free from her body, she groaned as she low­ered her leg to the floor of the tub. A second later she smiled. And she sighed. And she cuddled up into his body as if she would never be able to get as close as she wanted.

  Then, as softly as he could, his lips buried in her sweet-smelling wet hair, his hand on her head holding her cheek tightly to the center of his chest, he mouthed the words, "I love you, too."

  * * *

  "Why do you think Wick assumed Julian worked for Spectra?" Natasha asked, sitting cross-legged in the center of Christian's bed watching him dress.

  It was strange to see him putting on his own clothes rather than Peter Deacon's, but she understood that he needed to feel comfortable in his own skin, to shed all restrictions in order to concentrate on what he needed to do.

  "I dunno, but I don't like it."

  "What did Julian say?"

  Christian tugged a black Henley T-shirt over his head, left the neckline snaps undone. "Just told Bow that he'd taken care of the business that had brought him here. And that he'd be back in touch."

  God, but she loved watching him dress, watching his body move, the way he stretched. She shuddered, refocused. "That's got to mean Wick was expecting someone from Spectra to show up here. So"—she considered the implications—"he's been in touch with them again."

  "I'm going to drive to the point, make a call, see what Kelly John found on the hard drive." The T-shirt bunched around Christian's waist as he threaded his belt through the loops on a pair of well broken-in jeans. "And I'm going to kick Tripp's ass if he's sleeping on the job. If your godfather contacted Spectra, I should've known about it long before that elevator door opened up."

  "I can't imagine why he would have." She wrapped the sheet tighter around her body, shivering even though the room wasn't cold. "I would think the only reason for contact at this point would be the delivery of the money."

  "In which case, they would be contacting him." Christian opened the closet door, unzipped his garment bag, pulled out a shoulder holster and gun.

  Natasha watched him strap it on, swallowing the gasp tick­ling the back of her throat. Of course he would be armed. He'd always been armed, as she well knew. But having him draw his gun on her that morning they'd veered off the Palisades Parkway was nothing when she thought now about him needing the firearm for protection. For saving his own life.

  Tears welled and ran down her cheeks before she could blink or wipe them away. The realization that his life was in danger, that it was in danger with every mission he took on . . .

  No. No way. She couldn't sit here crying and being so pas­sively, ridiculously inept. This was her life at stake here, too. Her future, her past.

  Her present.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll check his bank accounts for recent activity. Not that he'd have the amount of money we're talking about wired anywhere I might see it."

  "Still won't hurt to check." Christian pulled a sport coat from the closet, shrugged into it, making sure the gun was concealed before turning toward her. "I won't be gone long. If you find out anything, just hang tight."

  She nodded, hating the thought of him leaving her alone even to make his call. "I'll be fine. Go do what you need to do."

  He crossed the room to prop one hip on the mattress's edge, sitting so that he faced her. "You will be. You're tough and you're strong and you're very, very clever."

  "Right. Clever's going to take me really far."

  "Don't knock it." He toyed with the still damp ends of her hair brushing her shoulders. "It's a trait that comes in handy when you find yourself in hot water."

  Like now, she almost said, then didn't. She was growing tired of analyzing the situation when it was obvious nothing would change without action.

  The information Christian had sent to the Smithson head­quarters for analysis was only half the story. That data re­vealed what. It did not reveal why.

  And the why was the one thing Natasha couldn't leave the estate without knowing.

  Getting the information out of her godfather would require too much in the way of mental machinations.

  She'd start with the other side of the equation—with the ge­nius who had the brains to steal confidential files from the government, but still stumbled over every word whenever she was around.

  Twenty-four

  Woody Jinks swore he'd died and gone to heaven. The empty lab was getting to him, this working underground on his own, no one around but an old geezer with wheels for legs and even then not all of the time.

  He had his tunes, sure. He didn't have his games. He couldn't even risk playing under a new identity. Not when his trade­mark strategies were legendary and pointed too easily to him. Nope. He was stuck like Chuck, nothing to do, nothing but work, nothing but wait. . .

  . . . and, oh boy, nothing to get him excited until now.

  He swallowed hard, reached down and tugged at the fly of his pants, watching Natasha, in a really short skirt and really high heels, walk down the stairs from the lab's platform to the floor. He tried to meet her smile, was sure he came off looking like a fool when he pushed a hand back over the ratty hair he knew he hadn't combed.

  "Hey," he said with a lift of his chin, doing his best to come off as cool when even he knew cool was too far out of his league to master. "What's up?"

  Her answering smile actually caused his stomach to hurt. How could she be so amazingly out of his reach when they were only four years apart in age? Too bad he couldn't have met her after this whole scenario had finished playing out.

  Then he'd have the money chicks dug and no one would care that he was goofier looking than Bill Gates.

  "Good morning, Woody. I thought you might enjoy a bit of company."

  "Uh, why?" Crap. What a stupid thing to say. "I mean, you don't come down here much at all. You must have a lot of work keeping you busy, huh?"

  "I'm caught up for now." She glanced around, grabbed a chair from the workstation across the aisle from his, and wheeled it over. "Wick isn't feeling too well this morning, and I imagine you get rather bored down here by yourself when he's out of pocket."

  Out of pocket. Heh. What a stupid expression, he thought with a snort. And then he shrugged so that Natasha wouldn't think he was making fun of her. He really wasn't. That would be about the lamest thing in the world he could do.

  Thing was, he really kind of enjoyed having the place to himself. Dr. Bow seriously creeped him out these days; his nerves weren't exactly wired for all this secrecy. "I don't mind it much. I like not having the distraction of a lot of people around."

  She'd just started to sit, and stopped. "Would you like me to leave?"

  "Oh, no. No." Not in a gazillion years, no. "I just meant it's hard to work under those conditions all the time. Sometimes quiet is just the thing."

  "I can definitely relate." She scooted the chair even closer to his and sat, leaning on the chair arm toward him, crossing her legs so that when she swung her foot she almost touched his jeans with her toe. "It's why I enjoy the drive back and forth to the city. Lots of quiet time."

  "I guess you'll be staying in the city to work once Dr. Bow is gone, huh?"

  She frowned, blinked, her lashes like paintbrushes against her cheeks. "Gone? I'm not sure what you mean by gone."

  Shoot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I just meant"—he waved his hand around uselessly because that's how he felt, almost giving away the professor's plans—"that he's not going to be around forever and stuff."

  That wasn't what he'd meant, of course, and he sure as hell hoped she bought the cover he'd scrambled to make, because if she started digging he wasn't sure he wouldn't cave.

  "Well," she began, clearing her throat lightly. "Wick's death isn't imminent, so I'd prefer to take things a day at a time."

  "Yeah, sure. Makes sense." Now to switch the conversa­tion to a subject that wasn't going to make her uncomfortable or make him want to crawl into a hole and die.

  Unfortun
ately, that meant bringing up the one thing they had in common that he wished they didn't. "You got any idea what time Mr. Deacon's gonna be around? I figured with Dr. Bow not up to working, me and Mr. Deacon could see about capturing a transmission or two. I was having trouble keeping a connection the other day when he was here, but now it's all good."

  "I see," she said, watching as he brought up a window and typed in the commands that would get him into the CIA feed. "I know he had a few phone calls to make, but I imagine he'll be back shortly."

  Woody frowned. "He left?"

  This time it was Natasha waving a hand. "To get a better connection on his cell."

  "Hmm. He must have some kind of cell. Out here? In the middle of nowhere?" Sheesh. Look who he was talking about. Of course, working for a syndicate like Spectra IT the dude would have the best equipment money could buy. Woody swore he was going to end up in the hottest of hot water if he didn't keep his big mouth shut.

  But Natasha seemed cool about it. "I suppose he has what he needs to do his job. But I'm sure he'll be anxious to check out any transmissions you've been able to capture. It sounds like you've made remarkable progress."

  "Yeah, it's pretty cool how this all worked out." Did she re­ally know what was going on? "I haven't talked to Dr. Bow in years, and he contacts me like he did out of the blue."

  She reached over and patted his thigh. "Honestly, I haven't seen him this excited over a project in forever. It's been good for him to have you here. And to have something this consum­ing to engage his mind."

  "It's definitely been consuming." And it was definitely hard to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head when he thought of her touching him again. Touching him higher on his thigh. Touching him there. "But I did a lot of the prep work years ago. Who knew it would come in so handy, huh?"

  Natasha turned her chair to face him better, the foot of her crossed leg slipping behind his calf. "I'll bet you knew it would come in handy. Otherwise, you wouldn't have thought to go to the original effort."

  Oh yeah. He was the man. He was the man. "I've never let anything out of my hands without leaving myself a way back in. I'm kinda a control freak that way."

  "Well, it certainly paid off."

  "I'm still reeling over that." He shook his head. "I mean, I've always known I'd eventually be making millions. But I never figured it would come in one big fat whopping lump like this."

  She nodded, gave him a wink that was like a secret hand­shake, like she knew exactly how cool it was what he'd done. "If you're so close to being finished here, I guess Peter won't have to stay much longer."

  If the dude would show up and hang out long enough to get a full demonstration . . . "Uh, I thought you liked having him here."

  "Oh, I do. But it's always a relief when visitors leave." She paused for a second, then quickly hurried on to add, "Not that I think of you as a visitor at all. You've been much more like one of the family."

  He could be a whole lot more if he had a way to lock down the elevator and she would pull up her skirt and bend over. He thought of her doing just that, wished for half a second she wasn't in the room so he could adjust the goods and relieve the building pressure down there.

  But then the blinking cursor he'd been watching vanished, the window filled with scrolling code, and that was all that mattered.

  "Here we go," he said, pointing her attention toward the monitor. "This is what it's all about. The stuff Spectra can't get from anyone else. Hell, it's worth double what they're paying. But then putting it out there on the open market would draw too much attention. Word would get back to the Agency, and there goes the master plan, you know?"

  "Right." Her voice was tight, almost a squeak. "All that work for nothing."

  "Not to mention I like keeping my name out of the equa­tion. Sorta makes me the one with the highest level of intelli­gence." He chuckled at the joke he'd been waiting to make. "Get it? The Agency? Central Intelligence?"

  "I do believe she got it without your prodding, Dr. Jinks."

  Woody's gaze shot to the wheelchair ramp. He watched Dr. Bow roll his way down to the lab's floor, wondering how the professor had gotten into the room without making any noise because Natasha seemed just as surprised to see him.

  "Wick. Good morning." She pushed her chair away from the workstation and got to her feet.

  She was smiling, her chin was up, but Woody swore her knees were shaking. He swore that because she kept bumping into the chair.

  "I'm surprised to see you," she said. "I thought you were staying in your quarters today."

  "Or are you surprised to see me because you and Dr. Jinks here were too intimately involved in conversation to hear the elevator arrive?"

  "It wasn't really that intimate," Woody mumbled.

  Bow rolled further into the room. "As if you would know the meaning of the word. You obviously don't know the mean­ing of many words common to the English language. Such as secrecy and silence."

  "Uh, sure I do." Woody glanced nervously from Dr. Bow to Natasha and back.

  "Then why were you talking to my goddaughter about things that are none of her business?" Bow asked, his voice ris­ing.

  "I didn't know—"

  "Of course you knew. You've known for months now not to talk to anyone at all." "Well, I thought—"

  "You did not think. You did not think at all." He stopped his chair where neither one of them could get around him eas­ily. "And now I am forced to take action I was hoping to avoid."

  "Listen, Wick. Woody's not at fault here. I came down to keep him company while he waited for Peter."

  "Yeah. That's all that was happening," Woody added, feel­ing sweat break out in his pits.

  Bow looked from one to the other. "My dear, Natasha. I do wish it were so simply explained away. But your inquisitive nature leaves me no choice."

  "Wick, let me call Mrs. Courtney." Natasha gestured to­ward the elevator. "You know she doesn't like seeing you this agitated."

  "Then why would I let you call her?"

  Woody slowly pushed his chair farther into the horseshoe of his workstation, praying his sneakers wouldn't squeak on the floor mat and draw the professor's attention. All he had to do was scramble beneath the table behind him, hop the railing onto the ramp, and beat it up to the elevator.

  "Why would I let you do that when Mrs. Courtney will in­sist that I return to my room and rest?" The professor stacked his hands on the bulge of his stomach. "I will have plenty of time to rest later."

  "You'll never live to see later if you don't listen to your body now," Natasha said, then pressed her lips tightly together.

  The air in the room suddenly became impossible to breathe. Woody held on for dear life to the arms of his chair, his palms sweating like crazy, ready to bolt, waiting for the perfect mo­ment and watching Bow shake his head.

  "You are so very wrong, my dear. I will be living for a very long time to come."

  Natasha began inching closer to the wedge of space be­tween the workstation's corner and Bow's chair. Her chest heaved like she couldn't breathe either. "I don't understand. Your prognosis—"

  Bow interrupted her, lifting one arm and weakly waving his wrist. "There's no need for you to understand. Just close your mouth and do as I say."

  She gasped. "Wick—"

  "Close your mouth, Natasha." Bow lifted his other hand. And he had a gun.

  Oh God, please, no. Woody shot to his feet, stopped, froze. The gun was aimed his way, held in very shaky hands.

  "Wick, what are you doing?" Natasha cried. She took a step forward and Bow fired. She gasped, pressed her fingers to her mouth.

  Woody simply wet his pants. The bullet had zinged by his right ear and exploded behind him. It had been too close . . . he'd almost turned that way to make his getaway . . . he hadn't signed on for this crazy crap . . . he was too young to die a vir­gin. . .

  "Dr. Jinks. Come here, please."

  He inched his way toward the professor. "Uh, I really need to go
to the bathroom."

  "I'd say you already have." The gun was still wobbling like Woody's knees. Bow gestured with it toward the back of the lab. "Please retrieve a roll of duct tape from the storeroom. Natasha, you will accompany Dr. Jinks."

  "You go to hell."

  The gun went off again. Natasha yelped. Woody didn't even look back but hurried to find the tape. He turned on the light in the small room, scanned the shelves of replacement hardware and sticky notes, found the tape, and hurried back.

  Natasha's eyes were wide; tears ran down her cheeks and blood ran from her shoulder down her arm. Woody turned on Bow. "You shot her? You freakin' shot her?"

  "I can shoot you just as easily."

  "You are out of your mind," Natasha whispered gruffly, one hand holding the bicep of the other arm, blood tunneling between her fingers. "Whatever you're doing, you won't get away with it."

  "So far as I can tell, I am getting away with it." Bow's face was pale, his eyes wicked bright and scary. "Woodrow, please tape my goddaughter's wrists together behind her."

  "How can you do this to me?" she asked, moving her hands to the small of her back when Woody shrugged and held up the tape. "You've been as much a father to me as my own. You've told me countless times that you think of me as a daughter."

  She yelped.

  "Sorry, sorry," Woody mumbled, winding the tape again, keeping it loose enough that she might be able to wiggle out once Bow left her alone.

  "Wick, please tell me what's going on. Make me under­stand."

  "Thank you, Woodrow. Now, please escort this . . . liability to the storeroom and lock her in." "You bastard. You fucking bastard."

  "Tsk, tsk, Natasha." Bow inclined his head, turned his chair to follow as Woody guided Natasha forward. "Obviously I wasn't much of a father figure to you at all if you can talk to me like that."

  "Uh, what about her shoulder?" Woody asked, his hand on the open door. He couldn't do this. He couldn't lock her up and leave her in pain.

  "A flesh wound that will be no more than a nuisance."

  Natasha sobbed. Woody met her gaze, felt the tears stream­ing down his own cheeks, caught a breath and hiccuped as he wiped the moisture away. He tried to give her a look that said he'd be back to get her, but he didn't know what sort of look that would be.