by Ann Macela
“Right, right,” Brenner agreed, nodding his head like a bobblehead doll’s.
“By the way, whose system will we be getting into?”
“Brazos Chemical.”
“Francie’s company?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?” He fidgeted as he asked the question.
Clay paused a beat, until Brenner turned pale. “No.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” Brenner let out a huge breath and looked at Clay like he was the answer to the salesman’s prayers.
Clay stood up and picked up the notebook. As he put some money on the table, he leaned down close to Kevin and stated, “Don’t mention this to anybody, especially not your girlfriend or mine.”
“No, no. Not a word.” Brenner held up his oath-taking hand again.
Clay nodded, said, “See you next week,” and walked to the exit. As he opened the door, he glanced back at Brenner. The hacker was grinning like a fool as he swaggered to the bar calling for another round.
Outside, Clay took a deep breath as he walked to the truck where the police were recording the conversation. Even though he himself had done nothing wrong, he had not enjoyed the experience of pretending to be unethical. “How’d I do?” he asked as Childress opened the door for him.
“Just fine. It came through loud and clear. Once we tape the hacking, we should have a strong case.”
Clay took the microphone and transmitter from beneath his shirt and handed them over to the technician running the equipment. “You’ll be at the house to set up on Wednesday?”
“That’s right. Bright and early in case we have any problems.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A message was waiting for Clay when he returned home. It was Francie. She had called about four in the afternoon.
“Hi,” she had said in a perky sort of voice. He could hear the edge in it again. “I’m reporting in, as requested. I’ve had a change of plans. I’m over at Tamara’s shop tonight. We’re looking at her records and deciding what we need to enter into her accounting software on Sunday. Since Kevin is with you, I thought it would be okay.”
“Fine,” he told the machine. Why wouldn’t the woman call his cell so he could talk with her in person? Her avoiding him was really getting on his nerves—not to mention frustrating his libido. His good humor at trapping Brenner dissipated and degenerated into discouragement.
“I’ll see you tomorrow about seven? How about something casual, like Mexican food?” There was a pause. “I hope everything goes all right tonight.” Another pause, like she was trying to think of more to say. “Well, I’ll see you then. Bye.” The machine clicked and told him, “No more messages,” in a firm masculine tone.
Clay replayed the recording a couple of times. Hearing her voice did not lighten his dark mood, but it did cause repercussions elsewhere in his body. He knew a cold shower wouldn’t help, so he simply went to bed and read a sci-fi book until he fell asleep.
Over his coffee the next morning, he thought about their upcoming date. He had to play it light, not spook her or give her any excuse to avoid him. He had reached a decision while shaving. He was going to get everything out in the open. If he accomplished nothing else tonight, he had to talk her into coming over to his house on Saturday, and he knew just the way to do it—by appealing to her programmer curiosity. The lure of learning how he manipulated Brenner would be irresistible to her.
Once she was in his home, they had to talk about practitioners, what it meant to be one, what he could do with his particular talents. Surely he could convince her that magic existed. After she saw what he could do with a computer, she wouldn’t be able to doubt magic or him.
What about telling her about soul mates? How much should he spring on her at once?
No, he’d better concentrate on getting over the first hurdle: changing her mind about the actuality of magic and practitioners.
He could call Daria and Bent and ask for their help, but it seemed a cop-out. Daria had enlisted almost the whole family to explain practitioners to Bent, but she’d had no choice. Daria couldn’t cast a spell on any person or any object, and Bent, as her soul mate, was oblivious to the spells she threw on herself. She’d had to bring in people like their mother, who could demonstrate magic by causing plants to grow or a ball of light to appear.
It was not the case for Clay. While he himself wasn’t so hot on the showy stuff, light balls and candles being his best—well, really his only—”tricks,” he could show Francie solid proof he could cast spells. As a programmer, Francie would be able to see and understand his magic. If he couldn’t make his own case with all of his abilities and especially with the help of the soul-mate imperative pushing them together, he might as well give up.
A sharp pain stabbed through his center with his last notion and left him gasping for breath. “All right, all right,” he said out loud. “I won’t give up.” The pain subsided.
“Why can’t practitioners be like everybody else?” he grumbled as he poured a second cup of coffee. “Nobody else but us has to go through this soul-mate business.”
No one answered his complaints, so he rubbed the spot and left the house for a client’s office. At least the problem there would keep his mind off Francie. But as he drove, he ran through his mind scenarios of how he would tell her and what she would say.
And he reassured himself confidently that everything would come out all right.
It had to.
He was his usual prompt self, knocking on her door at seven, eagerly anticipating the look in her eyes when she saw him—the one she couldn’t hide that told him she was just as excited to see him as he was to see her.
When Tamara opened the door, disappointment hit so hard that he had to work to keep the smile on his face.
“Hi, Clay,” the small redhead said with a big grin. “Come on in.”
He entered the apartment and glanced around. “Hi, yourself. Where’s Francie?”
“She’s on the phone.”
“No, I’m not,” Francie answered from the kitchen. “It was another telemarketer.” She walked into the living room shaking her head. “I’m on the no-call list, but get them just the same,” she said with a frown, but she smiled when she saw him. “Hi, Clay.”
“Hello to you, too.” Her eyes definitely lit up, he was certain. A small flame kindled in the smoky brown. Knowing she couldn’t protest with Tamara there, he took a step toward her and gave her a hello kiss. When she made a little gasp, he kissed her again. Tamara didn’t have a monopoly on “zing.” He felt the effect of the touch of their lips all the way to his toes.
He looked Francie up and down. She had on a denim skirt, a Western-style blue shirt with pearl buttons, and a light tan jacket. Her hair was down around her shoulders. Gold hoop earrings peeked out from under the blond curls. And, wonder of wonder, no glasses.
“You look great,” he said.
“See, Francie, I told you so,” Tamara said. “What we dug out of the back of your closet works fine.”
“All right, you two,” Francie scolded. “Enough talk about my clothes. Let’s go, Clay. I’m hungry.”
“Y’all have fun,” Tamara said as she walked out the door ahead of them.
“You, too,” Francie said. “Let me know what you think of the new club.”
“Yeah,” the redhead answered with a shrug. “It’ll be just like all the rest, I’m sure. Bye, Clay. It was good to see you again.”
“Bye, Tamara,” he answered as he and Francie walked toward the parking lot. “What’s going on with her?” he asked once they were out of earshot.
“She’s not particularly looking forward to going out with Kevin tonight. He groused at her on the phone last night about her choosing me to help her with the computer. She also said she’s getting tired of the club scene. It’s all they ever seem to do. Or go to baseball or football games if he can get tickets as part of his sales pitch. Then they have to sit with his clients, who are always men, no women, and a couple of them
have treated her like his bimbo.”
Clay opened the Jeep door for her, closed it after her, and came around to get behind the wheel. As he closed his own door, he asked, “Do you know if he mentioned seeing me at the bar?”
“No, or rather, she didn’t say anything about it. Mostly she complained. I really think she’s going to dump him. All the usual signs are there in her attitude and conversation about him. She’s really bummed because he’s not even taking her out to dinner tonight.”
Clay stopped in the act of turning the key in the ignition. “Do you want to ask her to come with us?” He would rather have Francie all to himself, but he knew how much she cared for her friend.
“Clay, that’s sweet of you, but I already did and she turned me down.”
“Okay.” He started the car and turned to her. “Where would you like to go?”
“My favorite Mexican place is on Westheimer, close to Hillcroft.”
“I know the one. They have excellent carne asada and tacos al carbon.” He pulled out of the lot and into the street.
At the restaurant, Clay felt like they were both working on avoiding the topic of the hacker and all it entailed. Instead they talked about everything else—his clients, the gamesters and Conundrum, their basketball leagues, the latest cell phone enhancements, current events and the economic outlook. As a result, he had relaxed and so, he thought, had she. She hadn’t shown any of the hesitance or reluctance evident when they spoke on the phone. It felt like a real date, two people enjoying themselves and being together.
After chips and hot salsa, succulent carne asada for him and spicy chile rellenos for her, accompanying side dishes of rice, refried beans, and guacamole, and two margaritas each, Francie leaned back from the table and looked around the gaily decorated restaurant. “I couldn’t hold another bite,” she told him.
“What? No flan for dessert?” he teased. He himself was stuffed. He signaled for the waiter.
“No, thank you. That was delicious. I had a craving for Mexican food.”
“I know what you mean. Once you said the words, I could almost taste the salsa.” The waiter brought the check, Clay paid, and they left.
In the car, he asked, “Would you like to go to a movie or a club? We’re dressed for something country-and-western.” He really wanted to take her home and kiss her silly. He still had to ask her over for tomorrow, he reminded himself.
Francie looked over at his jeans, black shirt, leather jacket, and boots. He did have something of the look of a gunfighter. She hadn’t paid much attention to his clothes up to now, caught up instead in the look in his silver eyes smiling into hers, the touch of his large hand helping her in and out of the car or guiding her to and from the restaurant. And in the struggle to maintain a level head when he was around.
The thought of dancing with him, being in his arms again, brought her back to reality. She had to resist this man’s charms or risk losing herself again. But she didn’t want to get into an argument, so she answered nonchalantly, “No, not really, I’m not much for clubs. And you never told me in detail how it went with Kevin. I do want a complete account of the meeting.”
“Okay. Let’s go back to your place.”
As they were walking up the stairs toward Francie’s apartment, Tamara and Kevin came out of the door across the courtyard. The two pairs exchanged hellos and a wave, but did not stop to speak.
Francie watched them leave the courtyard and shuddered. “That man just gives me the creeps. I didn’t like him before this mess, and now, I don’t want to be in his presence.” She unlocked her door and let them into the apartment. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked as they both took off their jackets. She hung hers in the closet by the door, and he laid his over the back of a chair.
“No, nothing for me, thanks.” He looked at her as she wandered around the room, straightening the items on a table, fluffing a pillow. It was time to take control, or she’d sit down in that overstuffed chair and be out of reach. Even though she’d said “no kisses, no touching,” that didn’t mean they had to act like adversaries and speak across the coffee table. He sat on the left end of the couch and patted the cushion to his right. “Come sit down here, and I’ll tell you all about the meeting.”
She actually did as requested, and he waited until she made herself comfortable. Good, just where he wanted her. Hiking his knee up on the seat, he turned so that he faced her. Her position mirrored his, except she kept her legs together.
Stretching his arm along the back of the couch but controlling the urge to touch her, he began talking. He told her everything from the beginning, about being wired for sound, impatiently waiting with Bill Childress for Kevin to show, dropping sledgehammer hints to the hacker, making the deal, setting the appointment for Wednesday.
“So?” he asked when he had finished. She hadn’t interrupted him at all. “What do you think?”
She made a face. “I think he’s a disgusting slimeball. And you’re certain he’s not in collusion with anybody else?”
“It doesn’t look like it. I think he was telling the truth about that. Unless the managers over at NatChem are crazy, and they’d have to be to assume Brenner could pull off a hacking job, I can’t see them authorizing criminal activity.”
Francie looked at her hands clasped in her lap, then up at him. The worry in her eyes was almost palpable. “What about Tamara? Could he have been using her all along as a ploy to get to me?”
“No. Don’t start thinking any of this is your fault. How could he have known beforehand you two were friends? From what you said, they went out for a couple of months before he started using your computer to hack. If Brenner’s goal all along had been you or your machine, he’d have been pushing it long before. This was probably a crime of opportunity precipitated by his troubles at work. He saw the chance and took it. Did you ever dial into Brazos while he was present?”
She frowned in remembrance. “Yes, there was once when they came over to use my computer to surf the Web, and I was online with Brazos.”
“See.” He nodded; her comment clinched his hypothesis. “Brenner lucked out. His girlfriend had a friend who worked for the competition. He had a lagging sales team and wanted inside information about her company. He could use a machine that already had access, he knew when you wouldn’t be home, and he thought it would be easy. I’ll bet he tried at least once to get in using your password, and when he couldn’t figure it out, he took the hacker’s route. You and Tamara are innocent bystanders.”
Francie sighed and slumped against the sofa back. “Tamara. She’s going to be so angry at Kevin when she finds out what he’s done. I only hope she won’t be too upset with me for not telling her. I still feel like I’m deceiving her. At least it looks like they’re breaking up.”
“If she gives you too hard a time, let me talk to her.” Clay reached out his arm on the couch and put his hand on her shoulder, partly to show support and partly because he couldn’t resist the need to touch her any longer.
She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Thanks, but I couldn’t ask you to do that. We’ll work it out. We’ve been friends too long not to.”
“Atta girl.” He gave her shoulder a little shake of encouragement before moving his hand back to the sofa. It was time to change the subject. He knew he didn’t want to talk about Tamara or deception, and Francie was looking pretty dejected. He smiled and tapped her clasped fists with his free hand. “In the meantime, I’ve got an idea.”
“What?” she asked in a listless voice, but she raised her eyes to his.
“Tomorrow afternoon, why don’t you come over to my house and I’ll show you how I foiled Brenner’s hacking attempts.”
The idea seemed to perk her up. She gave herself a little shake, as if she were casting off her worrisome thoughts, and she smiled again, this time in delight. “How you detoured him when he was heading straight for the customer files?”
“Yep.”
“How the application on my
machine works to track him?”
“Sure. We wouldn’t exactly be getting away from our problem, but it would give us something to do. I have a couple of other programs you might like to see, as well.”
A skeptical look crossed her face, but she was still smiling. “Is this the computer version of luring me over to ‘see your etchings’, as the lotharios say in the old stories?”
“Of course not,” he replied in fake indignation and went on with a lecherous leer. “Or would you like to see my etchings?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
“Just the programs will be fine,” she answered primly, and they laughed together.
“No, seriously,” he continued, pleased that she seemed relaxed enough to joke. Maybe he was making progress. “You’re one of the few people I know to whom I can show off and who will understand what I’m doing. Afterward we can broil some steaks on the grill. Suppose I pick you up about two o’clock.”
She shook her head. “No, I have a hair appointment at one. I’ll come to you.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to get a haircut.” He couldn’t resist; he had to touch her. Raising his hand and fingering the blond curls, he wrapped a silky strand around his fingers. He could feel the connection between them, energy flowing as if his touching her hair had completed a circuit. He bent toward her. She was so close. Maybe just one little kiss wouldn’t hurt or cause her to reject him again.
The energy flow became stronger. He looked into those smoky brown eyes and leaned closer, close enough to see himself reflected in them.
She went still for a second, and when she shivered, he knew she also felt the current.
“N-no. Not much of one. J-just a little trim,” she stuttered, her gaze moving from his down to his lips. Her own lips parted.
“Good,” he whispered as he completed that circuit, too.
