Mind Games Read online

  Dinner took no time to prepare, and soon he was serving up plates of spaghetti with garlicky pomodoro sauce and freshly shaved parmesan.

  “That smells amazing,” Jane said, shutting down the computer and moving to one of the places she’d set at the other end of the table. He settled opposite her, and they ate in companionable silence. Occasionally, Jane’s eyes would stray to the laptop, and he imagined she spent most of her nights in front of the screen. But when they were done eating, she didn’t insist on going back to her work. Instead, she helped with the dishes, then took a seat on the couch and pulled out some kind of lacy yarn project and a crochet hook.

  “Seriously?”

  She glanced up at him from under her lashes, and it sent a shaft of heat through him. Was she actually flirting with him? No. Impossible.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He shook off the distracting thought. “I mean, you can’t possibly expect me to believe you aren’t itching to get back to whatever’s on that computer.”

  “It’s fine. I can do it in the morning.” But her eyes strayed back to the table.

  “Uh-huh. Why don’t you tell me about it, then?”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Your work. Unless your personality’s undergone a seismic shift, that’s what’s calling you.”

  Her lips twisted into a rueful grin. “That’s the nicest way of calling someone a nerd I’ve ever heard.”

  “Not a nerd. Driven. And damned good at explaining things to people who don’t get them. So explain your work to me. And remember I know nothing about medicine.”

  Her brow wrinkled and she bit her lip. He fought down an utterly inappropriate reaction to the sight. What the hell was the matter with him? He never got distracted on a job.

  “Okay, well, I guess that’s as good a place to start as any,” she said. “When most people hear the word ‘medicine,’ they think of doctors. Physicians. But physicians don’t create drugs; chemists do. The process is long. I’d be here all night even explaining it, all the phases and trials. But to simplify it to the very basics, you start in a lab—chemists, biochemists, cell biologists, people like that—working with tissue and cell cultures, trying to provoke a specific reaction. Sometimes you get what you want, sometimes you get nothing, and sometimes you get a totally unexpected reaction.

  “While getting your expected reaction is good, getting the unexpected can be fantastic. That’s where breakthroughs happen. You’re looking for a cure for one thing and find a cure for something else entirely.” She frowned again. “Have you ever heard of a drug called Phenergan?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “It was developed as an antihistamine. And in the UK, that’s still its primary use. Over the counter. But in the US, it’s virtually never given for allergies. It’s prescribed, often in hospitals, for violent or persistent nausea or to control spasming coughs.”

  “Huh.” He was less interested in the drug than in her mobile face and the fine-boned hands she used to shape her explanation.

  “Anyway, once you have a reaction that you want to investigate, you patent your drug. There are a number of different kinds of patents, and I’m not even going to pretend I understand patent law. You’d have to ask Clive about that, and he’d probably refer you to the lawyer he keeps on retainer.

  “The drug-research-and-development community is a small one. You file a patent application, people will know. But the patent protects you, gives you time to continue your research without fear that another company will steal the compound out from under you. That’s the point at which most people begin to publish.”

  “Most people?”

  “Developing a drug is enormously expensive and time consuming. If you start publishing and speaking at conferences, you can attract investors, get grants, or even find a buyer.”

  “Wait. A buyer. That’s what’s going on with the drug you’re working on, right?”

  “Yes. As I said, all this starts in a lab. And it doesn’t even have to be a particularly big lab. But eventually there will be animal trials, human trials, distribution . . . things one small lab cannot handle. Large pharmaceutical companies don’t develop all their drugs in-house from the ground up. They buy patents at all phases of development.”

  “Thus, the deadline.”

  “Exactly. We meet the deadline or our work, well, it won’t be wasted because it’s a good, solid drug we’re developing, but it may not pay for itself. We may have to sell the patent for less than it cost Clive to develop it. That wouldn’t crush AHI, but it would be a serious blow.”

  “So who would have it in for the company?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine. Surely you asked Clive that.”

  “I did. He gave me a short list of companies doing the same sort of work and a couple of personal enemies. I’ve turned them over to Nash, and he’ll investigate them. I want your take.”

  “No one. Seriously. Clive’s a bit abrasive, but I’m surprised that he could come up with even two personal enemies. He’s all work and no play, or at least that’s been my impression of him.” She took a deep breath. “And besides . . . those men this morning, they wanted to kidnap me. It would have been easier just to kill me. And that would have been more effective in stopping the work on Project Calm as well. So why try to take me instead?”

  Tremors shook the hands holding the wool and hook. Eric put his arm around her and drew her close. It was unprofessional, but professionalism had gone out the window the moment he’d seen her name on the front of Nash’s file. He owed her. The life he lived, the money he sent home to help his family—he’d have none of it without his degree. And he wouldn’t have the degree without her help.

  Of course, there was more to his behavior than gratitude, too. He hadn’t gotten where he was by lying to himself. Jane appealed to him on every level. The way she’d handled herself during and after the attack had impressed the hell out of him. Generally, principals fell into two categories: either they broke down completely when the illusion of safety fragmented, or they expected their safety detail to take care of every little thing. Jane had done neither. She’d fought her attackers, run when he ordered it, and then had gone back to work, scared but determined.

  Brains, beauty, guts—the woman had it all. The years had only made her better, stronger, and he would personally rip the lungs out of anyone who tried to hurt her, even if he weren’t being paid to do so.

  He gave her a little squeeze. “I wish I had an answer for you. A lot of people—even ruthless ones—draw the line at murder. The only thing we know is that whoever is after you doesn’t want to kill you. That’s excellent news.” But it bothered him. Yes, the guys who’d attacked her had been wearing hats pulled low, and bulky clothes that hid their true shapes, and that was good. If they hadn’t there would have been no doubt they meant to kill her. But New York City was a city of cameras; there was a chance the disguises were merely precautionary.

  “Was Dani working on anything else, or just assisting you?”

  “Since we ran up against the issue with the deadline, she’s been with me. Maybe six weeks. Before that, she was on a team developing a phobia medication.”

  “But Handler didn’t think she was taken because of that. Phobias aren’t profitable?”

  “Oh no, that’s not it at all. If they can create a compound that works the way Clive hopes, it could be generalized to many other kinds of distress. Imagine if you had a drug that helped patients get over crippling social anxiety. Or reduced PTSD-induced fears. Not a general antianxiety medication that would leave a patient’s senses dulled and their reaction times slowed, but one that targeted precise triggers. There’s nothing like that on the market. It has the potential to be enormous.”

  “So how did Handler know, before this morning’s events, that they’d come after you?”

  “You suspe
ct Clive? But he hired you.”

  “I suspect everyone. No, he’s not at the top of my list, but the timing seems strange.”

  “I guess it was the combination of Dani being on my team for the last six weeks and the looming deadline. Plus, they haven’t talked to anyone about the phobia drug yet. As I said, the R&D community is a small one. If you don’t have a patent yet, you don’t want anyone to know what theory you’re working on. If they take your theory, they might get to a drug before you. So right now, Project Phobos is completely under wraps while Project Calm is recognized in the community. So it would have to be Calm that attracted someone to her.”

  Eric grunted. “Indeed.”

  • • •

  JANE ROLLED OVER and flipped her pillow for the hundredth time. How could she have imagined having Eric in her space wouldn’t disrupt every single part of her life? Of course, the morning’s incident wasn’t helping her insomnia, either. Whenever she remembered the grip of those hands on her body, cold sweat prickled over her skin. But the memory of Eric’s hands . . . That brought a completely different—if just as unsettling—emotion. He’d spend the day entirely focused on her. No one had ever looked at her quite that way. He hadn’t lost interest when she talked about her research, even the research that wasn’t related to her current predicament.

  It had been ten years since they’d seen each other, but instead of crowing over his accomplishments in that time—and from the look of him and the self-confidence that oozed from every pore, there must have been many—he encouraged her to ramble on about what grad school had been like. And then med school. And when she ran out of stories, he’d stroked her hair away from her face and told her to go to bed.

  He hadn’t come upstairs. She’d left him watching a documentary about World War II in the living room, but when she stepped out of the shower, she could no longer hear the television. She sat up and looked to the crack under the bedroom door and could see the distinctive blue and white flicker of light that indicated the television was still on. So he was sitting down there watching with no sound? Did he plan to sleep at all?

  Somewhere, glass broke. Odd. It sounded as if it had come from down the hall. An instant later, an explosion rocked the house, echoing into footsteps pounding up the stairs. Her window broke—the dim light revealing a pipelike canister—just as her door crashed inward.

  “Down!” Eric shouted. He landed on her, knocking her flat. She fought back instinctively as he pulled a pillow over her face and yelled at her to hold her breath. And then the world shook a second time, this time the explosion much closer, much louder despite the muffling of the pillow.

  “Come on!” Eric grabbed her hand and pulled her from the bed before the sound fully faded. He dragged her down the hall to the guest bedroom, then over to the window, where she saw a chain-sided emergency ladder piled. Using the rungs to clear the broken glass from the window, he peered outside, then tossed the ladder over, hooking it to the sill.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and Jane didn’t hesitate. She slipped one foot over the sill and felt for the first rung, then scampered down it as fast as she could while he slid down right on top of her.

  They hit the ground almost simultaneously, and Eric pressed her flat up against the wall, his big body between her and any possible danger, while he scouted both directions before hustling her through the low hedge that separated her yard from her neighbor’s. They dashed across the Martins’ lawn and around the corner of their house. The Atwells across the street had a large weeping willow surrounded on three sides by dense shrubs, and, one hand low on her back, Eric urged her into that corner of the yard, where the shadows and greenery protected them from view. Voices sounded in the street, and she wanted to stick her head up to look, but he held her back.

  “Your neighbors, your alarm will have alerted the police. In a minute, those guys will have to take off.”

  As he predicted, moments later she heard an engine rumble to life and tires squeal away. Still, Eric wouldn’t let her up. “Not before the police arrive.”

  She shivered as the cool night air cut through her pajamas—thank God she wasn’t the silk-nightgown type—and rubbed her hands over her arms. Eric wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his body, and instantly heat surrounded her. How could he be so warm in a T-shirt? He felt like an electric blanket. Or like a generator with his steady, thumping heart beating against her back.

  What would he think if she turned and buried her face in his neck? Suddenly, she wanted to know if he smelled as good as he felt. She’d never had the faintest desire to do such a thing in the past, and a hot blush crept over her skin as she imagined doing so now. But, God, he was so warm. So solid. So utterly in control. And she was totally out of control—of her life, and, apparently, her body, which wanted to run from the danger, but only if he came, too.

  Sirens sounded in the night, and two police cars screeched to a halt in front of her house.

  “Stand up slowly,” Eric said, his warm breath tickling her ear and setting off disconcerting and inappropriate fireworks. “And don’t move. They’ll be on full alert, and you don’t need to get shot because you startled them.”

  Sure enough, as soon as they were visible above the low hedges, the officer standing outside the house talking on his radio called out to them.

  “Tell him it’s your house, but stay put until he tells you to move.”

  She did.

  “Come over here,” said the cop. “Both of you. But slowly, and keep your hands in sight.”

  The moment Eric stepped away from her, Jane felt his loss like a physical blow as the cold night air bit into her once more. The cop asked them for identification, and she told him hers was inside.

  “Wallet’s in my back pocket,” Eric said, hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You can get it or I can.”

  “She can,” the cop answered. “Slowly, Miss.”

  Jane twitched. She hated being referred to as “Miss” in that faintly derogatory tone. Not that she insisted on “Doctor,” but even “ma’am” showed a fine amount of respect. Or, since they’d obviously checked ownership of the house, he could have gone ahead and called her by name.

  Gritting her teeth, she reached into Eric’s back pocket and drew out a black leather wallet, warm from his heat and curved by years next to his body.

  “Cards on the right will tell you what you need to know,” Eric said as she passed the wallet over to the cop.

  Another officer came out of the house just then and pointed a flashlight at Jane and Eric while the first guy examined Eric’s ID. He pulled out not only Eric’s New York State driver’s license, but also another card she didn’t recognize.

  He frowned. “You carrying?”

  “Not at the moment,” Eric replied.

  “Gun in the house?”

  “Yes. Upstairs. Duffel bag in the second bedroom.”

  “Not a real useful place for it,” the second cop observed.

  Jane bristled, but Eric just shrugged. “Wasn’t supposed to be that kind of job. And as you can see, I didn’t need it to keep Dr. Evans safe.”

  “That’s your job? Personal security?”

  “You saw my ID.”

  “Harp Security does more than personal security.”

  “Well, in this case, yes. I am Dr. Evans’s bodyguard. And I would appreciate it if we could get inside, out of the street.”

  “All right, then.”

  They walked up the three steps to Jane’s front door, then into the house, where the other two officers were standing in the living room.

  “I still need to see your identification,” the first cop told her. Jane grabbed her handbag off the coffee table, took out her license, and handed it over. He examined it carefully, then passed it back to her.

  “I don’t think there’s any need for all of us to stay,” said one of the men who’d
been inside. “I was just telling Billy you guys can take off. We’ve got it from here.”

  Billy—Cop Two, who’d come outside while they were talking to Cop One—muttered something under his breath, but he and his partner took their leave.

  “Shall we sit?” asked the one who’d dismissed Cop One and Cop Two. “The detectives will be here shortly, and I know it’s frustrating because they’ll want you to go over everything again, but I need to get some information for the initial report.”

  “I don’t want to sit in here,” Eric said. “Too many windows. How about the dining room?”

  “Sure thing.” The cop led the way, and Jane took three whole steps before she realized her computer was missing from the table.

  “My computer!”

  “You had a computer here?”

  “Yes. A laptop. With attached hard drives. Oh, fuck, everything’s on there.” Her stomach roiled. Sure, all her data was at work, too, and the computer backed up to the cloud constantly so she wouldn’t lose anything, but she had no idea how to actually set up a new computer from her cloud backup or how long such an operation would take. Eric settled his hands on her shoulders, and she leaned back against the solid bulwark of his chest. How had her life gone so wrong so quickly?

  “Financial data? You need to change passwords or anything? We can wait while you do that on a smartphone or something if you need.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” She looked at Eric. “All the research, random thoughts and ideas, stuff that doesn’t mean anything to anyone but me. Why would anyone want it?”

  “That’s a damned good question,” he replied, hands smoothing down her arms.

  “The detectives are on their way,” the officer said, “but let’s do a quick walkthrough before they get here, and you can see whether anything else is gone.”

  By the time Jane had ascertained that the thieves had taken nothing but her computer, the detectives had arrived. Her nose was cold, her throat clogged with inexplicable tears, and exhaustion dogged her. Her answers to their questions were undeniably snippy, and at one point Eric slipped from the room and took her favorite thick gray and pink crocheted shawl from the back of the couch. He tucked it around her as he had his jacket earlier. This time, however, as he sat down he took her hand and chafed it lightly between his before lacing their fingers together.