by Ann Macela
“Tamara!” Francie whispered back, just as strongly. “Get hold of yourself. This is only our first date.”
Tamara stepped back, gave Francie a once-over, straightened her necklace, opened the door, and whispered, “Go get him, tiger.”
Clay had grinned to himself as he watched a flustered Tamara disappear down the hall. He was obviously not what she had been expecting, but then other women had had similar responses to him before. False modesty aside, he knew what he looked like, and after all, females had been drawn to him ever since puberty. It made for a certain amount of self-confidence even his two sisters had not been able to bedevil out of him. He wondered what Francie’s reaction to him would be when they were alone. She had certainly run through a gamut of emotions during their meeting that morning.
He knew what his reaction had been to her. Attraction, pure and simple. Daria had even noticed. Worse, she had teased him when he took her home after the meeting, suggesting Francie might even be his soul mate.
Yeah, right. Just because she had found hers among nonpractitioners, she was on the lookout for his with every woman she met. She was correct about one thing and one thing only: Francie wasn’t a practitioner. They had both looked her up in the Registry before the meeting.
Lightning in the form of another nonpractitioner soul mate wouldn’t strike the Morgan family twice, Clay calculated. Since warlocks could be the lovers of non-witch women without incurring the soul-mate bond, he had clear sailing where Francie Stevens was concerned. And he intended to be her lover before this hacker mess was over. He put out of his mind Daria’s malicious little-sister grin and her taunt—”Just you wait, big brother, your soul mate will knock you right off your high horse.”
He looked around and idly rubbed the end of his itching breastbone as he waited for his date. Her apartment, full of light, color, and plants, displayed the real Francie, he decided. The pictures and paintings on her walls were brightly impressionistic, and their hues were picked up in the throw pillows on the pale green couch. An overstuffed dark green chair had a book on its seat, and a Tiffany-style lamp sat on the end table next to it. An oak coffee table contained some larger books and a vase with golden mums. No dull, drab colors here. No petite, spindly furniture, either, but that wouldn’t fit her size—or his. He immediately felt comfortable.
Francie walked into the room, and he turned to greet her.
He almost gasped. He’d been correct, those clothes were camouflage, he thought as his eyes roamed over her. This was more like it, with a dress outlining her body. And what a body, he realized, feeling his own responding to her high full breasts, trim waist, flaring hips, and long, long legs. Lord, have mercy, she was gorgeous.
“You look very nice, Francie. Shall we go?” he managed to get past his vocal cords as his eyes came up to meet hers, and he noticed hers grow smokier.
Francie felt tension crackle like lightning between them. His eyes had flared silver and darkened when she appeared. He had affected her senses in Herb’s office, but it was nothing compared to seeing him in her own living room. Suddenly the room was much smaller, and the pull toward him, the urge to touch, much greater.
Just looking at him made her blood course faster through her veins, heated her all the way through, scrambled her brain. She repeated to herself her vow to keep her feet on the ground around this dangerous man. And dangerous was the correct word, she decided—dangerous to her equilibrium, dangerous to her friendship with Tamara, dangerous to her determination not to let a man hurt her again. She had to swallow to say, “I’m ready.”
Tamara preceded them out the door. “Bye, y’all have fun,” the redhead said at the bottom of the stairs, as she turned the other way toward her apartment.
“Thanks, we will,” Clay answered, ushering Francie toward the parking spaces at the front of the building. “So, that was Tamara,” he commented as they stepped out of the gate guarding the apartment complex.
“Yes. I told her we ran into each other in the lobby of my building and you asked me out. I hope it was all right. I didn’t want her to think you were in the Brazos offices because she might tell Kevin.”
“Perfect. I thought we’d go to a restaurant in the Montrose-Westheimer area, if it’s okay.”
“Fine,” she replied.
He helped her into his silver Jeep Grand Cherokee, and they were quickly on their way. Traffic was heavy and took much of Clay’s attention, so they didn’t talk much, just made inconsequential comments about the weather and the idiocy of some drivers.
Lack of conversation gave her the chance to think, to remind herself of her decision to make the best of the situation. Clay was stuck with her as much as she was with him. For all she knew, he could be unhappy with having to play her boyfriend. She resolved to be pleasant company; not only would the time go faster that way, but she’d show him she wasn’t intimidated, either. She had to do a good job for Herb and Brazos Chemical.
It was all strictly business.
They made good time, and soon were seated at a candlelit table in a cozy corner. After they ordered, Francie looked around the restaurant. The décor was a mixture of old and new, with antique-looking chairs at the tables and contemporary art on the walls. The styles somehow melded into an elegant, welcoming atmosphere. “I’ve always wanted to come here,” she confided. “Several people at work have recommended it highly.”
“I’ve always liked the place,” Clay replied with a smile. “It was originally an old house the owners renovated and added several rooms for the restaurant. They serve a great brunch on Sundays.”
His smile caused a tiny shiver to run down Francie’s back. Damn, the man looked good by candlelight. His silver eyes practically gleamed, and she wondered at the spell of attraction he seemed to be casting on her. But, no matter. She’d ask questions to keep him talking. “I enjoyed meeting your sister. What exactly is her specialty? I’ve never heard her name connected with computers.”
“She’s a human-relations and management-organization consultant. She studies a company’s management system and people and recommends changes for efficiency, competence, and teamwork.” Clay stopped talking, leaned forward, and stared at her intensely.
“What?” she asked, sitting stiffly upright. She felt his scrutiny all the way to her toes.
He reached across the table, removed her glasses, and put them in his coat pocket. “The candlelight reflects off your glasses, and it hides your eyes. You don’t have to hide from me, Francie,” he said gently.
Maybe not, but they certainly helped her maintain the fiction of invulnerability. “I need those. Give them back, please.” She sounded prim and proper and scared, even to herself. She held out her hand for the glasses.
“No, you don’t,” Clay said. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the back of her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers.
Francie snatched her hand back. It tingled as electricity raced all the way up her arm and scattered across her body. “What are you doing?” she whispered while the additional question rattled around in her brain: And why do you suddenly look like you want to eat me up?
His gaze may have been hot enough to melt steel, but his voice was as bland as bread pudding when he answered. “Francie, we’re supposed to appear to the outside world as lovers. We need to get used to each other’s touch.” He suited his action to his words and ran his hand down her arm. She shivered. “If we don’t, when we touch in Tamara and Kevin’s presence—and we have to touch to be convincing, you know—they will know something’s wrong between us.”
“All right,” she acquiesced glumly, but she moved her arm away from his hand. “I get the point. Just don’t push it, okay?” Maintaining equilibrium was going to be harder than she thought. His caress had sent a bolt of heat following his fingertips, and her fingers still tingled from his kiss. She took a sip of her ice water to cool off. It didn’t help.
Clay just grinned as he watched her efforts to distance herself. The waiter’s arri
val with the wine and the appetizer interrupted the need to reply to her request. Which he had no intention of honoring. He had been in a state of semi-arousal since she walked into the living room in her apartment. Now he felt himself responding even more as her eyelids lowered and her eyes grew smoky again. Playing out this charade with her was going to be a combination of pleasure and pain, he could tell already.
It’s no charade, he heard a voice in his head say with utter conviction. The certainty of the statement stampeded through his body and settled in his bones, causing him to catch his breath. Where had the notion come from? No matter, he dismissed the thought to study the way the candlelight showed her luminous skin to great advantage, and he smiled again in appreciation. Yes, there was definitely more to this “mouse” than met the eye.
As he gazed at her, he wondered what had happened in the past to turn her off men. To make her hide under those awful outfits and glasses. It had to have been something like a bad relationship to cause such a beautiful woman to disguise herself as she did. He did not doubt he would discover the reasons, even without his sister’s witchy abilities to draw the truth out of anyone.
But now it was time to settle down and get to know Francie. They had to work together amicably if they were going to catch Brenner. She seemed to be trying to be pleasant. He would be the same. After the waiter left, he asked typical get-to-know-you questions about her family.
She answered readily enough and relaxed as they munched on the fried calamari. “I’m an only child. My parents were older, in their late thirties when I was born. Daddy’s a middle manager in accounting for a company in Dallas, and Mother is a secretary for a lawyer. What about yours? Besides Daria, I mean.”
“Dad’s also an accounting type, a consultant. I don’t know how we ended up with three consultants in the family. Maybe it’s in the genes, because none of us likes taking orders or being in a managerial structure. My younger sister Gloriana’s a botany prof at UT. She and Mother own a plant nursery and herb farm not far from Austin. They’re in the midst of planning a restaurant and cooking school on the property. I’ll have to take you up there sometime.”
She didn’t seem to notice the implications of his last statement, but asked instead, “How did you get involved with computers?”
That led them into a discussion of their mutual interest, stories of disasters, comical encounters with programmers, complaints about department heads who expected miracles from their computers, the Internet, and the computer industry in general.
By dessert, Francie was astonished to realize she was totally beguiled, thoroughly relaxed, and enjoying herself immensely. Clay had surprised her, by listening to and commenting carefully on what she said, by having many of the same interests as she—classical and country music, beaches, science fiction, and more—and by demonstrating a self-deprecating and slightly off-balance sense of humor similar to her own. The man was simply downright fun to talk to.
Furthermore, and most important, his appeal was not forced or phony. She’d become an expert of sorts over the past few years and could spot phoniness across the proverbial crowded room. Even Tamara agreed about Francie’s ability, although it had not stopped the redhead from hooking up with underhanded, two-faced Kevin, something Francie still could not understand.
She shrugged to herself. One way or another, Kevin wouldn’t be around much longer. As for Clay, if this dinner was any indication, they could work together. And it never hurt to have around a little eye candy, because he certainly was nice to look at. Maybe taking part in this deception wouldn’t be as difficult as she feared.
Clay took a sip of his coffee while he watched her daintily demolish dessert, a fudgy cake with chocolate mousse icing and raspberry sauce. Thank goodness she didn’t eat like some of those women who barely touched their food and didn’t enjoy what they did swallow. She’d never get along with his family if she had.
His last thought drifted out of his head as he watched the play of candlelight picking out the golden highlights of her hair, the lick of her lips capturing the last little bit of cake, and her hands cradling the coffee cup. He could easily imagine that hair spread out on his pillow, her tongue tangling with his, her hands on him. Stifling a sigh, he tried with only minimal success to control his body. Think of her intelligence, their common interests, the job they had to do, he told himself.
Then it was time to leave. They made the drive back to her apartment in a companionable silence, listening to country-and-western on the radio.
As they walked up to her stairs, Clay could feel Francie becoming tense again, wary of him, probably because he had tucked her arm in his. To distract her, he said, “Don’t be obvious about looking, but I think we’re being watched.”
“What? Who, where?” She jumped, but he wouldn’t let her get away from him.
“Tamara. I just saw the curtains move in her apartment.”
“Oh, good grief. I know she means well, but really!” She dug in her purse for her keys.
“Invite me in, Francie,” Clay said as he took the keys from her and opened the door. When she looked up at him wide-eyed, he continued with a matter-of-fact tone, “I need to see your computer and show you how to tell if Kevin has been on it.”
She made a jerky nod and led the way into the apartment. Clay followed, took off his coat, and laid it on a chair.
Francie put down her purse on a side table and turned to face him. “I really enjoyed myself tonight, Clay. Thank you for dinner.”
She was nervous, and he almost smiled. It was so nice to know he was having an effect. But when her eyes fell on his lips and her own opened as if waiting for his kiss, the effect was on him, and he had to tell his muscles to relax. Then she clamped her lips back together and defiantly raised her eyes to his. She was certainly not going to let him kiss her.
Or at least not yet. He only said mildly, “You’re welcome,” and raised his eyebrows. “Your computer?”
“Oh. This way.” She quickly led the way to the apartment’s second bedroom, which she had converted into a home office.
“Very nice. Good computer,” Clay said, loosening his tie and glancing around at the filled bookshelves, the comfortable easy chair with ottoman by one window, and the desktop computer by the other. Not as good as his own setup, of course, but certainly adequate.
Francie sat down at the computer and turned it on. Clay pulled up the extra chair from against the far wall to sit at her side and slightly behind her. His placement put him close enough to catch her scent, a light peachy fragrance, and he felt his nostrils flare. To pull his attention back to the computer took more effort than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
“The last time Kevin dialed in to Brazos, a program uploaded to this machine.” He showed her how to find and start the little application. The screen immediately filled with characters and symbols.
“Why, these are the keystrokes and mouse clicks he used, aren’t they?” Francie exclaimed after reading the code for a moment. “This shows exactly how he went about logging on and where he tried to go. Oh, I see what you mean,” she said, scrolling the display down. “He really doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing, does he?”
“Not that we can tell. Do you see anything to help us?” He sat back to better enjoy her enthusiasm. Finally, someone who understood and appreciated his work.
“Give me a minute here. There’s something in his keystrokes . . .” She leaned closer to the screen and studied the displayed data.
“You know,” she said with a hint of victory in her voice, “I’ll bet he’s trying to find sales and order information. Look here and here.” She pointed at three lines on the screen, scrolled it down, and pointed at two more. “If he’s working for Brazos’s competitor and could learn what we charged our customers, he could undercut our prices and steal them right out from under us. I think he hasn’t found the right database or application yet, although he’s come close.”
“Damn,” Clay said. “Herb and I didn’
t talk to someone like you who knows the applications from the user’s point of view. Are you sure?”
“Yes, one of my areas is Order Entry. See, here and here,” she pointed at the screen again. “It looks like he’s trying to open the sales-order program. If you know how to display orders, you can see exactly what sort of deals the salespeople have made with each customer—volume discounts, rush orders, special shipping, all the rest.”
“If I remember correctly from a conversation with one of their IT people at a conference, NatChem uses a different software package from Brazos. It’s obvious Brenner doesn’t know how to navigate in yours or where the data resides. Let’s go over this with Herb on Monday. There should be a way to set a trap for our hacker. Scroll back to the beginning.”
He pointed to the display. “Each time Brenner tries to access Brazos, the program will create another file and put it in this folder. See, here’s the name, number, and date of the file. All you have to do is come to the file and open it to see what he’s been up to. Here’s the time of his access. If you’ll send me a copy by e-mail, I’ll study it for trapping possibilities.”
“I’ll do it right now. How do you think he gained entry into our system?” she asked as she called up her e-mail program.
“Offhand, it looks like he used a hacking program he found on the Internet. God knows they’re out there. Herb is going to upgrade his security and firewall as soon as we’re done.” He gave her his e-mail address, then rose and looked over her library while she sent the message.
“About tomorrow,” he began, but stopped as he spied a title he knew.
“Yes?” She turned to him.
“Do you like this guy?” he asked, pointing to one of her favorite sci-fi authors. “So do I.”
For some reason pleased by his approval, she watched him peruse her shelves for a minute before she shut down the computer. She was surprised to realize that he seemed to fit here in her office, as though it was a natural place for him to be. “Tomorrow? What about it?”
