by Lauren Dane
I closed the file and kept looking until I located his calendar. Scrolling through it, I could see he was out of town for the remainder of the week. Then he had meetings across the Bay at snooty banks with security so tight even I couldn’t hack into their system. Later, a haircut at an exclusive salon. I could go all scissor hands and scare the hell out of him until he gave me my job back. Not a good career move.
Wait. Next Thursday he had a luncheon appointment at a place called The Mermaid’s Tale.
A sushi restaurant.
Cool.
I knew just the person who could help me snag a gig there.
Cindy Ball.
Former prom queen. Do-gooder. And all-round girl-gone-wild.
Better yet, she owed me one.
Chapter Three
“I can’t do it, Pepper,” Cindy said, glossing her lips so red she looked like a fire hydrant eager for a hot firefighter to push her buttons. “I could get fired.”
“You’ve got to help me, Cindy,” I pleaded, “my life depends on it.”
“That’s what you said when Mr. Ambrose found out you were doing my French homework and he threatened to fail us both.” She kept glancing down at her phone. She was waiting for a text from her agent about an important audition.
“He didn’t, did he?”
“No, because you discovered he was sleeping with the girls’ tennis coach.” She raised a finely drawn brow. “You always were a snoop, Pepper.”
Thanks, Cindy.
Still, it was Cindy who came to my rescue when the foster family I was living with tossed me out after I checked their computer and found out they were bilking the system. Her parents were squeamish about having a high school tech whiz with a questionable past under their roof until I showed her dad how to use his new computer software to maximize his tax deductions. Without their support, I would have fallen through the cracks and ended up on the streets. Instead, I went to college and dragged Cindy along with me, much to her family’s relief. We were best pals, though we had different goals. I wanted to be a spy, which made Cindy roll her eyes. She wanted to be a reality TV star. I put up with her dreams and she put up with mine. No questions asked. It was an unbreakable bond between us.
“You wouldn’t have passed his class without me, would you?” I shot back.
“No, but—”
“I so need this favor, Cindy.” I said, poking around her cramped bedroom. Her Barbie doll collection with their sparkly gowns and tiaras grinned at me from every corner. As if they knew my ass was on the line.
“The restaurant owner has strict rules about anyone taking my place at the table,” she insisted. She bit down on her lip anxious-like when she heard a text come in.
“Just this once,” I begged. As long as I didn’t spill sake all over Mr. Briggs, I didn’t see what the big deal was. “I’ll give you the tips, too.”
Cindy looked at me funny, which I didn’t understand. Last I heard she was a waitress at The Mermaid’s Tale in between acting gigs. If you could call being a pair of dancing legs in a commercial an acting job.
“I’m not allowed to accept tips,” she said, reading the text.
“Why not? The Mermaid’s Tale is a hot spot for business luncheons. Are these guys that tight with their money?” I asked. When the one-percenters stopped tipping the pretty waitresses, you knew the economy was bad.
She blushed. “I got promoted at the restaurant.”
“Are you a cook?” I asked, imagining myself chopping up raw fish and cutting off a finger.
“I’m a sushi model.”
“A what?”
“Men eat raw sushi off my naked body.”
“Jesus fricking Christ.” I flipped out at the thought of having to take off my clothes to get my job back.
“You may be in luck after all, Pepper,” Cindy said, tapping a message on her phone. “I just got word the hair show audition is next Thursday.”
“So?” Why did I ever come up with this dumb idea?
“The manager is cool about letting me go on auditions since he’s an actor, too. He won’t say anything.” Her face lit up. “I’ll do it.”
“Hold on, Cindy, I wouldn’t want you to lose your job,” I said, stalling. Suddenly my bright idea didn’t seem so bright. This was so not in my line of work. I was a programmer, not a supermodel.
“Where’s your James Bond spirit, Pepper?”
“You don’t wear anything?” I had to ask. The idea of my body as the sushi blue-plate special of the day made me cringe. I got goose bumps thinking about the icy cold fish wiggling between my thighs, even if they were dead fish.
“A banana leaf covers me here.” She pointed to her crotch. “And big chrysanthemums cover my breasts.”
“How big?”
“Big enough. Since I got my implants, we’re about the same size.”
I still wasn’t convinced. I’d been hiding my body under red flannel tent city so long, I wasn’t sure I’d pass the hot bod test. Sure, I was thin because I often forgot to eat when I was working, but I didn’t have a tan. Cindy assured me I could wear body makeup. It was like having a thin sheet over your bare skin, she said.
A sheet over my face was a better idea.
I’d die of embarrassment if anyone I knew saw me lying spread-eagled with raw fish all over me.
Then I recalled Ms. Sims snarling at me to pack up and leave, waving her broomstick if she’d had one. A surge of daring rose up in me. This was my only chance to confront Mr. Briggs and find out why I was terminated and wiped off the face of the employment roll like an outdated floppy disk drive.
The question was: How bad did I want my old job back?
Enough to take off my clothes?
I looked down at my own Barbie cleavage peeking through my flannel shirt missing two buttons. The idea of taking down that superstud who had me bare-assed over the copier was also a big incentive. Once I got his attention, I’d fill Mr. Briggs in on the burglary and give him a detailed description of the thief, though I’d leave out his dick size.
There were some things they didn’t show you in a police lineup.
Besides, he came and I didn’t.
It was payback time.
* * *
Mary Dolores O’Malley, Steve read, peering at the data from the secure site popping up on his computer screen. Date of birth unknown. Place of birth unknown. Parents unknown.
He tossed his empty foam cup into the trash can next to his desk. That was a heavy load to carry. No trace of who you were or where you came from. His problem was just the opposite. He knew all too well where he came from.
His mother was a decent sort, but she’d gotten knocked up by the local bad boy and had then produced Steve’s older brother. Tom knew his way in and out of trouble better than any comic book hero. When Steve was a kid, Tom was his hero after his old man took off. He looked up to him. Tom taught him how to hot-wire cars and jimmy open locks and every other ruse in a thief’s bag of tricks. He could con a con man. Steve wanted to be just like him.
Until a bullet stopped Tom cold.
A bullet meant for Steve.
Tom had tried to go straight, but it didn’t work. He fell in with a bad crowd and pulled his kid brother in with him. He died in the dirty street surrounded by a rival gang, kicking and beating his broken body.
No hero’s death for him.
Before he died, he begged Steve to get out of the old neighborhood and not to end up like him. Only through the intervention of the local priest did Steve escape the streets and his past. The clergyman helped him sign up for the army. Afterward, he went to college and then joined the Bureau. There, while taking down the bad guys, Steve could use the special “talents” he’d learned from his brother.
He was about the close the fi
le, when—
Hey, what’s this?
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Pepper had applied to various government agencies, including the CIA and ATF.
And the FBI?
She’d filled out the paperwork, taken the Phase I entrance exam and scored quite high. She’d been invited to take Phase II, but she never followed through. She got cold feet.
Why? he’d like to know.
As if he ever would. No reason to keep her on his radar. Mary Dolores—Pepper—was clean. He was convinced her playacting with him in the copy room was harmless. Thank God, she hadn’t done his case much damage. He’d found another way to get to Briggs and he intended to put that plan into action right away.
Meanwhile, Pepper had no idea who he was. He had to keep it that way.
Steve grinned. He wondered how she had explained their rendezvous and the out-of-control copy machine to the woman he’d brushed by in the dark hallway. He imagined her embellishing the story and turning it into a wild tale. Most likely, she made him out to be her boyfriend needing a little late night nooky.
He sighed deeply. Too bad it wasn’t true.
Steve looked at his watch. It was almost twelve. He had a meeting with Briggs and he couldn’t be late.
He clicked off his computer and watched her file disappear into a cyber never—never land. He had to get Pepper O’Malley off his mind. The last thing he needed was a sexy computer geek with a great bod tangled up in his life.
* * *
He’s here. Coming closer to the table filled with sushi where I lay spread out like a topless mermaid on a giant half shell. I recognized his gruff voice.
Seymour T. Briggs.
My ex-boss.
I drew in my breath and squinted through my fake eyelashes, twisting my head and moving my shoulders, nearly shaking loose the yellow pom-poms glued to my breasts. Petals flew though the air, landing on my nose. I blew them off to get a better view.
Damn, who was he talking to?
Tall, dark-haired, well dressed. Moving through the restaurant with the assurance of a man who knew women wanted him. He kept his eyes straight ahead; his shoulders were broad and powerful, propelling him forward like a sleek jet fighter ripping through the skies. A trip to the moon and back.
And he’d taken me with him.
Damn. It was him.
The stud from the copy room.
What the hell was he doing here?
He sat down at the table with Mr. Briggs and barely glanced at me.
But I recognized him, even without my specs. My throat was dry, my heartbeat went wild, and I swore my honey juices drizzled down between my legs. Talk about embarrassing, since I already had a customer sitting at my table. The man sniffed, smiled and then picked up a piece of fish on my leg with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.
I hardly noticed. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Mr. Stud.
My, he cleaned up nicely.
Gone was the rugged biker look. He was a GQ ad in the flesh. He looked smokin’ hot in a pinstriped dark suit with a cool-blue shirt and midnight-blue tie. Professional, but I knew that an air of wildness existed under that polished exterior. His dark hair was cut sleek on the sides with just enough length on the top to give him that bad-boy look I loved.
That didn’t explain his covert activities copying Mr. Briggs’s file.
Who was he?
A sudden rush of fear made me shiver, and cool perspiration dripped down the sides of my face, my nerves attacking my courage. A sudden twitch in my leg made me jerk wildly as if I were a puppet and someone yanked on my string. My gyrations made the sushi rolls sitting on my thighs bounce up and down, giving the customer sitting within striking distance the opportunity to grab one with his chopsticks. He pinched me, but I felt no pain. I was distanced from what was happening to me, as if I existed in a parallel dimension.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart. It wasn’t like I could get up and leave. I had to stay. Or Cindy would lose her job. And I wouldn’t get my job back.
Yet all I could think about was—
The stud wouldn’t recognize me without my glasses and my clothes, would he?
Only a foolish girl would think that.
It wasn’t as if our shoulders merely touched when we bumped into each other in the copy room.
We had sex. Him thrusting, me pushing.
I breathed him in, filled with the warm, evocative memory of that night. Heady musk mixed with the rich smell of office leather, cool AC blowing in my face. I loved it. Sexy encounters like that rarely happened to me. It wasn’t like I had this prejudice against intimacy. I was afraid of where it would lead me. Someplace I didn’t want to go, where I would have to face who I was, where I came from. So I went for the cheap thrill, the quickie sex.
This was the first time it had backfired on me.
Or had it?
What was I afraid of? He was the thief, not me.
I licked my lips, a new plan orchestrating itself in my analytical brain.
All I had to do was convince Mr. Briggs this man was a burglar. A denizen of the night with criminal intentions that went way beyond seducing an innocent victim. Me, of course. Then I’d have my old job back in spite of his office manager firing me during one of her Queen Bee moments.
I wiggled my pink-tipped pedicure with the red rose petals stuck between my toes and smiled. I was all set to show my ex-boss he couldn’t mess with Pepper O’Malley—and get even with Mr. Stud. You know what they say.
Revenge was sweet.
Even when it tasted like sushi.
* * *
“Mr. Briggs...Mr. Briggs,” I whispered, trying to get his attention. He couldn’t hear me. The creepy customer at the end of the table was making slurping noises. I motioned for him to back off, but he was intent on scoring another sushi roll off my thigh.
“I’ve been trying to crack the Japanese market for two years with no luck,” I heard Mr. Briggs say to the stud from the copy room. “What guarantee can you give me your company can do better?”
“We have experience in the Asian market, Mr. Briggs,” he said, choosing his words and his sushi with care as he plucked a sliver of toro off my leg.
I winced and my mouth dropped open. Experience? He had experience all right. He knew how to fuck. So what was he doing here with Mr. Briggs?
“A Japanese manager won’t research new software on his own,” he continued, “but ask a colleague for a recommendation.”
“And your company can provide me with such recommendations?” Mr. Briggs asked, curious.
“Yes. Our strategy is to partner with Japanese insiders familiar with what we call ‘the hidden market.’ My company prides itself on having a strong network of well-informed personal contacts familiar with Japanese business strategies.”
Listen to that bullshit he was feeding Mr. Briggs. Where did he get off acting like a big shot?
I’d grant him one thing, though. Up close and personal fit him. The burning in my belly reminded me how personal.
“It will take more than lunch in a Japanese restaurant to convince me you’ve got these contacts,” Mr. Briggs said, picking up his chopsticks and grabbing a wiggly piece of octopus off my stomach. Yuk. “Though I admit using the body of a beautiful woman to please the eye is innovative.”
“Very beautiful,” the stud said, surprising me.
Beautiful? Me?
Nah. He didn’t mean it. He was cozying up to Mr. Briggs. That was all.
They chattered on for endless minutes. Another businessman sat down at our table and ordered a beer. I paid him no mind. I was waiting for the right moment to get Mr. Briggs’s attention. My sixty-minute gig was almost over. Another model would be here soon to replace me.
Finally,
the moment came when I saw the stud from the copy room turn around to order drinks from the kimono-clad waitress.
“Hey, Mr. Briggs,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. “It’s me.”
“Who?” he asked, choking on the octopus.
“Pepper O’Malley. I used to work for you.” I rushed my words. “I’m a software programmer. Video games, commercials. I’m the whiz kid who rewrote all the codes for the Dragon Beware game after the last guy screwed them up.”
“I—I have no idea what you’re talking about, young lady.” My ex-boss looked flustered, pulling at his collar, his walruslike double chin tripling in size. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do. Your office manager fired me after this bozo sitting next to you cornered me in the copy room—”
Mr. Briggs glared at the customer dribbling soy sauce on my thigh.
“No, not him,” I sputtered, giving the jerk a dirty look when he smeared the salty mixture on my leg. “The guy ordering drinks.”
“How did you know I was here?” Mr. Briggs whispered, the angry look in his eyes telling me he did recognize me.
“That’s not important. I want my job back—” I clammed up when the stud turned back around and handed Mr. Briggs an Echigo beer.
“Imported from Japan,” the stud said.
I rolled my eyes. Mr. Briggs was not a Miller-time kind of guy. Expensive champagne was more his style, according to the accounts I saw on his computer. Very expensive. And here I thought he was a cheapskate. The company was doing better than I imagined.
Not Mr. Briggs. He looked like he was about to throw up. I wasn’t sure if he looked sick because of what I’d said to him or the ice-cold beer staring him in the face.
“How come the model can flirt with you and not with me?” said the jealous customer, sticking his chopsticks straight up in his rice bowl. Bad manners in a Japanese restaurant.
“She’s not flirting with me.” Mr. Briggs put down the beer and wiped the sweat off his face with his monogrammed napkin. “She—she used to work for me.”
