Tempt Me (11 page)

“Come in out of the cold, Mr. Cooper,” a man invited from the back seat.

The gun bit into his ribs again.

Every profiler or self-defense expert worth their consulting fee would advise him to disobey. To
not
get in the car. To fight—hard—to stay in a public place. His odds of survival would be better being shot at close range for disobeying than they would be if he was transported to a secondary site.

Easy for a profiler to say.

“Please.”

So polite.

The limo was visible and obvious. He tipped his face up to the nearest surveillance camera in case this so-called ten minutes turned into a body dump, then slid onto the limo’s rear-facing seat.

He was immediately cocooned in leather-scented warmth. The door closed solidly behind him, abruptly cutting the street noise to negligible. The car rocked slightly as Frick and Frack climbed into the front seat, and the window separating the front seat from the rear rose with a low-pitched electronic hum.

The door locks thunked, trapping him inside. 

Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he studied the man sitting in the facing seat. He was...round. Round face, chubby cheeks, his round head bald as a cue ball, and wearing circular silver wire-rimmed glasses that picked up the flecks of gray in his fussy handlebar mustache. His suit, though expensive and perfectly tailored, couldn’t disguise an advanced case of middle-aged spread, or the gun he carried in a shoulder holster. Physically, he looked like the Buddha, or a jolly old elf, but the expression in his eyes was flat. Dead.

Dangerous.

“Mr. Cooper. Your phone, if you please,” the man said politely, resting his hand on the holster.

Wyatt reluctantly handed it over, not touching the skin of the man’s soft, pudgy hand. The man quickly broke the phone into components, pocketing the battery and SIM card, then setting the stripped-down carcass on the seat beside him.

Shit.

“Mr. Cooper, I’d like to speak to you about...a mutual interest.”

“I don’t do business with strangers—or with kidnappers, for that matter.”

The man leaned back. “This isn’t business. This is blackmail.”

“What?”

“I believe you heard me the first time,” Buddha said. His benevolent smile sliced like a machete.

He tensed as the man reached into a leather briefcase he hadn’t previously seen. Instead of a weapon, he withdrew a digital tablet protected by the same sleek black leather as his attaché. He flipped it open, flicked with his fingers, and spent the next several minutes reducing the last decade of Wyatt’s extracurricular work history to bullet points, complete with the prison time he’d rack up for each gig should he be arrested, tried, and convicted.

All the way back to grad school.

Panic crashed over him, a giant wave pounding him down and holding him under. It would be utterly worthless for him to brazen it out, to say, “You have nothing on me,” because the man obviously did.

“Several days ago, you came into illegal possession of a computer belonging to—” flick, flick —”Bailey Brown.” Buddha shook his head pityingly. “Still not over our fascination with Dr. Brown, are we?” A wisp of amusement slipped into the limo’s overly-warm air. “Quite understandable. She is a fascinating young woman.”

“You know nothing about my relationship with Bailey,” he snapped.

“Don’t be so sure.” His gaze went distant, and then sharpened again. “I know you launched a failed Denial of Service attack against Sebastiani Labs this morning. Mr. Cooper, please. We have no reason to believe you will ever succeed.”

Wyatt let the slur against his abilities slide. Who was ‘we’?

“So, here’s how this is going to play out,” Buddha continued. “I represent a consortium of people who also have an interest in Sebastiani Labs. Your social engineering skills are exceptionally strong, and have a certain targeted utility. You will use those skills to help us gain access to Sebastiani Labs. You have two weeks.”

Whoever ‘they’ were, they’d tried and failed, too—otherwise they wouldn’t need
him
. Sebastiani Labs was a high-value corporate espionage target, but...two weeks? The place was locked down tight. In the end, it might be easier to break into Fort Knox. “And if I decline?”

The man indicated the tablet. “I’ll randomly choose one of your many crimes”—flick, flick—”and supply some information to the proper authorities.” Buddha smiled benevolently. “Before you decline, you might want to consider how long your mother would be able to stay at that gorgeous assisted living facility in...where is it again?” Flick, flick. “Arizona? Without you footing the bill.”

He wanted to smash the tablet over the guy’s head.

“The first crime I report, of course, would be your role in the hack that led to Bailey Brown’s felony conviction.”

His breathing stopped.

“Given today’s hypersensitive cyber-security climate, you’d never see daylight again.” The casually lobbed threat lay between them like an unexploded grenade. “I’ll contact you for a progress report in three days, Mr. Cooper.”

The limo braked to a stop. When the door opened, he blinked against the sudden brightness. “Who are you?” he blurted.

“Mr. Cooper?” Frack said from the sidewalk.

“How do I contact you?”

“Mr. Cooper,” Frack repeated with more muscle in his voice. He shifted his trench coat, revealing his holstered gun.

He stumbled out of the limo and onto the curb. Frack got back into the limo, and Wyatt stared at its tail lights as they disappeared into the stream of traffic, until a honking horn and a splash of cold slush against his pants legs captured his attention. He was in Dinkytown, near the U of M. For all the driving they’d done, at least they hadn’t left him at the ass end of nowhere. Hailing a cab, he collapsed into the back seat for the short ride home.

Trying to figure out what the hell to do next. 

***

“D
o you get to do that all the time? Like, every day?” Antonia asked as they rode the elevator to the penthouse.

Uh oh. Maybe that practice hack hadn’t been a very good idea after all.

After Cheyenne had finished cleaning up after the failed denial of service attempt, Bailey had opened up a video chat between Sebastiani Labs and The Bunker, and she and Cheyenne had spent some time with Antonia, explaining why their security architecture had withstood the particular attack vector Wyatt had used. Finally, to blow off some steam and to reinforce the lesson, they’d done a targeted hack, with Cheyenne on defense, protecting a cache of documents, and Antonia on offense, trying to access them. Though she’d planned on observing from the sidelines, she hadn’t been able to resist jumping in, pushing Cheyenne to the limit. Finally, with some help from her, Antonia had penetrated, successfully stealing the documents and crashing Cheyenne’s computer.

Good times.

Her wrist was throbbing, but the diabolical questions Antonia had asked during their debrief made Bailey think of an enhancement she should make to the security suite sooner rather than later. A quick meal, some ice for her wrist, and she’d be ready to work again.

When they reached the top floor, the elevator doors opened with a quiet ding. Straight ahead, on a long, narrow table, a Tiffany lamp spilled light on sorted stacks of mail, one for each of the penthouse’s residents. The scent of oregano, garlic and onions made her stomach rumble.

“Dad’s making lasagna,” Antonia breathed.

The door to the girls’ unit opened, and Sasha came out, wearing black yoga pants, a baggy dance studio sweatshirt, and slippers. “Hey, Dad and Claudette invited us to their place for dinner.”

Slinging her heavy backpack under the table, Antonia veered to her father’s door without another word.

Bailey hesitated. One glass of wine from Elliott’s excellent cellar, and she might be too tired to log back on and finish her work.

“Come on.”

“Okay.” She followed Sasha, carrying her computer bag with her out of long habit. No way would she ever leave her computers unattended in the foyer, no matter how good the security was. Sometime before dinner was over, she’d swipe and hide Antonia’s backpack. Let her sweat about its location for a couple of days.

Better she learn this lesson now rather than later.

Setting her bag inside the door and placing her dripping boots on a mat next to Antonia’s, she looked around without trying to be too obvious about it. Though she’d worked with both Elliott and Claudette for over a year, she’d never been in their home before. Sasha had told her that Elliott’s unit was a mirror image of hers, but any resemblance stopped with the layout. Where Sasha’s sense of décor leaned toward Scandinavian modern, with bright colors and more than a dollop of kitsch and quirk, Elliott’s home, with its rich colors and textures, communicated a relaxed sort of elegance. The money was obvious—in the thick carpets, the framed paintings, the no-doubt-priceless antiques and
objets d’art
—but the latest Stephen King paperback lay on the soft sectional couch that dominated the sunken living room, with a pair of funky red reading glasses folded atop. Even with her responsibilities as the Siren First and the President’s bondmate, Claudette somehow managed to keep up on her recreational reading.

Sheer curtains were drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows, but during the day, sunlight must pour into the room like lemonade. When was the last time she’d seen the sun? She lived like a mole rat.

Male voices murmured from the kitchen. “Rafe’s here,” Sasha said.

Of course he was. She took a fortifying breath, and then followed Sasha through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Antonia was in Rafe’s arms, gleefully messing up his hair.

“You annoying little gnat.” Rafe batted at her hands. “Stop it. I’ll drop you right on your ass, don’t think I won’t.” Antonia squealed in delight as he tipped her backwards, faux-staggering and seeming to lose his balance before righting them again.

She glanced at Elliott, busy by the oven. Sasha walked over to help Claudette gather plates and glasses. No one seemed at all concerned by the sibling roughhousing.

Rafe, despite his mussed hair, looked delicious in a pair of well-worn jeans that clung in all the right places, and a cream cable-knit fisherman’s sweater that made his shoulders look a mile wide. He wore his clothes so elegantly, and his body was so perfectly proportioned, that he didn’t give an impression of size—especially compared to Lukas and Jack. But he handled Antonia’s leggy weight with ease, like she was as light as the gnat he’d called her. Watching his leg muscles tense and flex as he held his sister caused some essential internal muscles of her own to do the same.

Grabbing Antonia around both knees with one arm, Rafe let go with the other. Bailey gasped as Antonia fell backwards with a gleeful shriek, her body pivoting on Rafe’s arm like a pendulum. Rafe took a few steps, swinging Antonia back and forth so her long, black hair swooshed against the spotless hardwood floor like a mop. “This floor could really use some cleaning.”

“Eww, gross!” Antonia kicked her feet, narrowly avoiding Rafe’s groin.

“Okay, enough.” Elliott picked up hot pads, opened the oven, and pulled out a pan of garlic cheese bread.

“Hey, cheesy bread.” Rafe lowered Antonia until she supported her own body weight, then unceremoniously dropped her, leaving her sprawled on the floor. He walked to the butcher block table, snatched two pieces of bread, and came over to her. “How’s the wrist?”

She hid it behind her back.

“That good, huh?”

“It’s been a long day, and yeah, it’s a little sore.”

Rafe frowned. “Maybe you should get some X-rays after all.”

“No need.”

He set the bread on the nearby counter, and gently pulled her hand out from behind her back. Cradling it between his, he gently poked and probed, checking the slightly swollen injury site, moving her fingers this way and that. Her breath caught as his fingertips stroked her sensitive inner wrist.

The fingers paused. “Hurt?”

“No.” Her response was more breath than sound.
This
was why she’d put her hand behind her back. His touch made her melt like chocolate, made her blood flash to steam. Her bones were softening, not providing their usual support, and all he’d done was touch her hand.

What would happen when they were finally alone, when they had nothing but skin and sheets between them? 

“Tomorrow night.”

“What?” It was like he’d read her mind. When she glanced across the kitchen, she saw that Elliott, Claudette, Sasha and Antonia were busy setting the table, studiously ignoring them—not that they were missing a thing.

Rafe cleared his throat. “Can we work tomorrow night?”

Antonia snorted with laughter. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Shut up,” Rafe replied without looking at Antonia. No, he kept looking at her, and his pupils were so dilated that she could barely see his tawny irises.

Her stomach flopped like a fish in a landing net. When had ‘work’ become such a loaded word? “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner out first, to see if Cooper tips his hand,” Rafe said. Did he realize he was still holding her wrist? “Then, back to my place? To my studio, I mean?”

“To see his etchings,” Antonia whispered loudly to her sister. Sasha elbowed her so hard she stumbled into Elliott, who almost dropped a water glass.

“Girls, that’s enough,” Claudette said, trying to hide a grin with little success.

Rafe tugged her out of the kitchen by her good hand, setting the doors swinging. He stopped next to the windows, as far away as he could get from the kitchen without going into a bedroom or bathroom. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said with a smile. “I have a younger sister. Being a pest is just part of the job. She’s—”

“Right. She’s right.”

Her stomach jumped. “So you don’t want to work?”

Glancing at the kitchen, he stepped closer, until a mere hand width separated their bodies. “Yeah, I do. But after we finish working, I’d like to...play. For a very long time.”

She let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding. Finally. Finally, there would be an end to this endless, aching need. “Yes.” He raised a questioning brow. “To everything—but I can’t shake free until Friday night.” She and Cheyenne had made plans to roll out a firewall and encryption layer enhancement over the next couple of nights. It was important work that she couldn’t blow off, no matter how much she might want to.