Mind Games Page 6

  “Yeah,” he said when he saw her expression, “it’s not exactly to my taste, either. Nash puts these places together, then takes the rent out of our checks if we live in them. Mostly, they’re just crash pads.”

  “Where do you live when you’re not here?”

  He shrugged. “All HSE operatives have specialties. Mine is kidnap and ransom, which means I travel a lot. Nash has a place in Texas I stay at pretty often because my partner Travis and I end up in Mexico with some regularity. When I’m not on duty, I go back to North Carolina to see my mother or spend time here. But if I didn’t work so much, I’d have a place that was a bit more personal.”

  A grin flitted over her lips. “I have to admit, that’s kind of a relief.”

  “And I have to admit, I was going to ask you to knit—or is it crochet?—one of those afghan thingies to liven the place up.”

  “I could do that,” she said. “But I am far from speedy, so it will be a while.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind waiting when I really want something.” And, boy, that had come out wrong. He busied himself with the food. “You hungry yet? I can refrigerate this if you’re not, and we can reheat it later.”

  “I can eat if you want to, though it’s a bit early.”

  “No problem.” He stuffed the food into the fridge and carried her bag into the bedroom, where he dropped it on the bed. Lexie had been there. She’d even changed the sheets, which was way above and beyond the call of duty. Every apartment had stacked washer/dryer units, and there was no such thing as “maid service.” But Lexie obviously pegged him for the kind of idiot who wouldn’t know he had to clean the place up for Jane to be comfortable.

  Having Jane in his space felt strange. He’d never brought a woman here. None of the operatives who stayed at HQ did. Nash never said he couldn’t, but he didn’t have to. Explaining the whole elevator system and the keys . . . It tended to destroy spontaneity and cool ardor.

  Jane had followed him and now stood taking in the oversized bed with its bland tan covers and two meagre pillows.

  “Shall we set up the new computer and put all your data on it?” Time to get away from the personal and back to business. But for once, she wasn’t thinking about work.

  “This is the only bedroom, isn’t it? I didn’t see another door.”

  “It is. Don’t worry, though, I’ll sleep on the couch. I’ve done it plenty of times, and it’s actually very comfortable.” A slight exaggeration, but he’d certainly bedded down in worse spots.

  “What if I don’t want you to?”

  “Wh—” No way had she really said that. He ran it back through his mind once. Then a second time. “What?”

  She came close. Closer. He could feel the heat from her body reaching out to wrap around him. “What if I don’t want you to sleep on the sofa?” Her hazel eyes burned up at him.

  His heart pounded, and every drop of blood in his body drained into his dick, leaving him light-headed and temporarily speechless.

  Her pretty, pink lips twisted. “Never mind.” She spun to go, and he grabbed her wrist, catching her despite his erection-induced clumsiness.

  “Jane.”

  “Look,” she said, jerking her wrist a couple of times, “I understand. I’m sure it’s a rule or something, right? No sleeping with the clients?”

  He tugged her around to face him, but still she kept her chin tucked into her chest. What was going through her mind? He could already tell she was going to take the rejection the way she did everything, burying it inside and immersing herself in work. He could see the pattern a mile off. But what he couldn’t grasp was why she’d propositioned him in the first place. Not that he had trouble finding dates, but the women who picked him up weren’t like Jane. They were abundantly clear about what they wanted, and he made certain they got it. He had no idea what Jane wanted. She’d given him an out, but if he took it, he’d hurt her. And he wasn’t willing to do that. No way, no how.

  He slid his free hand along her face to cup her jaw and tilt her head up. Her eyelids flinched, but she met his gaze at last.

  “You’re right. I don’t sleep with clients. It’s a bad idea in every way and for everyone.”

  “I get it. I told you.”

  “Will you please let me finish?”

  She squeezed those delicious lips closed.

  “Not only do I not sleep with clients, but I’m too old for one-night stands.” He could feel her gearing up to argue and pull away again, so he pressed his thumb over her mouth. “But Jane, you won’t be a client forever.” He watched as his meaning sank in and pink rose on her pale cheekbones. Much better. By then, this mad impulse of hers would have passed. It was . . . transference or something. Like Stockholm syndrome. After all, he wasn’t menacing her, but he had essentially kidnapped her. Taken her entirely out of her regular life.

  “Your deadline for the sale is in eight days. That’s not so long, is it?” The question was as much for himself as for her. He just had to keep their relationship professional for another week, and then she could have her life back. He could do that. Hell, he could do anything for a week.

  She leaned in and slipped her arms around his neck, bringing her body into full contact with is. “Eric?”

  “Yeah?” A frog the size of Montana had settled in his throat, and the word came out a croak.

  “Do you ever kiss your clients?”

  Ah, Christ. He was going to regret this, but he couldn’t stop himself. He buried his hands in her hair and pulled it from its knot, then held her in place while he brought his mouth down on hers. She met him kiss for kiss, ragged breath for ragged breath, and he drew away first. “Jesus, woman,” he said, tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

  She snuggled closer for a moment, and he allowed himself to imagine meaning more to her than a life-affirming fuck. Which, okay, he’d been a couple of times on assignment despite his avowal that he never slept with clients. But those women were strangers. When Jane worked her magic and solved Clive’s problem, AHI sold the drug for a ridiculous sum of money, and Jane’s life went back to normal, she’d wonder what she ever saw in a long-haired, tattooed, glorified security guard. She might be grateful, but he didn’t want that, either. No, he’d fade away and let her move on.

  “Hey, Eric? I’m only a client until we sell the drug, right, even if we do that tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  She pulled away. “Then let’s get that computer set up.”

  Chapter 4

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Jake once again picked them up to drive back to the farm. Jane would rather have stayed in the city—even with Eric refusing to share a bed, the cocoon of privacy had brought with it a comforting illusion of intimacy. Revealing her mother’s condition had sucked the life from her. She’d hidden it for so long. All through college, all through grad school. Schizophrenia ran in families, and she was still within the range of onset. If she’d told her classmates about her mother, they’d never have quit watching for signs. The first person she’d revealed her mother’s disorder to was Dani, and even then she hadn’t dared use the word “suicide.” She’d merely said that her mother, now dead, had suffered from the illness, which was what motivated her own studies. The revelation about her mother had served its purpose—she’d put a face to the disorder, personalized a fight that had been purely abstract to that point. But it had left her feeling naked, stripped of all her usual defenses. Now they could all see her. Judge her.

  But it also left her freer than she ever remembered feeling. She wasn’t naïve. Her degree in clinical psych had come with years of therapy. She’d pushed Eric sexually the night before as a result of that freedom. She’d wanted him, so she’d reached for him. No considering repercussions, just riding the wave of emotion released by the dropping of her guard.

  The research, and
Eric, had saved her from any awkwardness. Pretending the whole incident had never happened, he’d helped her set up the new computer and, at dinner, had asked questions about what her colleagues had been doing in the lab.

  She had followed his lead, but the desire still tugged at her, and sitting in the car she was excruciatingly aware of him next to her.

  The sun had not yet set when they pulled up to the house, and she could see both the dogs who ran to the fence to greet Jake and the kids who followed them. There had to be a dozen mutts of all shapes and sizes, and Jane counted all seven of the children Tara had told her about. They ranged in age from Ricky and Micky at the top down to a young girl of about five or six with a dirty face and dirtier hands. When she pushed the dogs out of the way and tried to climb the fence, Jake leaned over and picked her up.

  “Selena, what have you been doing?” he asked as Jane and Eric joined him.

  “Blackie found bunnies, and I helped rescue them.”

  A round blonde walked over. “Hard life lesson today about bunnies and puppies,” she said. “Luckily, some of the bunnies survived.” She held out a hand only slightly cleaner than Selena’s. “I’m Lizzie. I help out around here. Like with getting the kids ready for dinner.” She turned a look that might as well have been a shout on Micky and Ricky, and they set about rounding up all the other children and ushering them toward the house. Jane followed behind, peeling off when they reached the house and the kids walked around to a back wing instead of using the front door.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” Tara said the minute Jane stepped into the kitchen. “I am so behind. The kids will be in any minute, and dinner’s not close to ready.” She looked up from the vegetables she was chopping and tossing into a giant salad bowl, and her eyes rounded. “Oops. Thought you were Jake.”

  “Nope. Just me, but I am happy to help. What can I do?”

  “The water should be boiling. If you could toss in two of the boxes of spaghetti out of the cupboard above you, that would be great. I let the day get away from me today.”

  “I’m just amazed with all you do that doesn’t happen every day!”

  “No. I swear. I am usually better than this.” Tara’s left hand clenched into a fist, and Jane saw her rubbing her thumb over her fingernails. How odd that after only a couple of days, she knew that meant the woman was upset or nervous. Jane took a minute to break the massive piles of spaghetti from the

  industrial-sized boxes in half and drop them into the huge pot, then stepped over to Tara and laid a hand on her arm.

  “Better for who? Better against what standard? I think you’re amazing, and so does Eric. And obviously your fiancé can’t imagine you being ‘better.’ And neither can those kids. You can say they only miss the animals, but you know it’s not true.”

  Tara smiled, a little shakily. “I have some self-esteem issues.”

  “Don’t we all? But I’m dead serious. I can’t imagine doing what you do and making it all seem so . . . normal.”

  At that, Tara actually laughed. “You have a mighty strange idea of normal.”

  “I probably do,” Jane admitted, “but this is how I always imagined it.”

  “Imagined?” Tara started to say more, but a clatter sounded outside the kitchen door. “Here comes the stampede.”

  The kitchen door burst open, and Micky and Ricky flung themselves through it, arguing.

  “It’s my turn!”

  “Nuh-uh. You tossed yesterday.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did, too.”

  “Boys,” Tara said. “Enough.” She turned to Jane. “Micky and Ricky are going to be chefs when they get older. The only reason I did the cooking tonight without them is that the only thing more appealing than food is baby bunnies. But tossing a salad this size without making a mess is beyond my powers, so they take turns doing that for me.

  “Now. Which one of you really did it yesterday?”

  Two pairs of brown eyes slid sideways as the boys regarded each other. Then Micky sighed. “I did.”

  “Fine. Ricky, you’re up.” Tara handed him a pair of tongs, then shifted over to check the texture of the spaghetti. “Almost done. Micky, grab a colander for me and put it in the sink.”

  A minute later, as Tara poured the pasta into the colander, the kitchen exploded with a riot of children, all talking a mile a minute. They all took places at the big trestle table, nudging and poking each other in a good-natured wrestle that brought a lump to Jane’s throat. Jake followed them in, gave Tara a quick squeeze, then raised his hands. Immediately, all movement ceased and the kitchen went quiet.

  “Everyone washed up?” he asked. Seven heads bobbed in unison.

  “Okay, moment of silence.”

  Some of the children, Jane noticed, dropped their heads as if in prayer. Others just sat. A minute later, Tara plunked the salad down at one end of the table and a big bowl of spaghetti and sauce down at the other, and the table noise and motion erupted once again as food was dished up and passed around. The older kids, Jane noticed, took responsibility for making sure the younger ones got their fair share.

  “Nice setup,” Jane said to Tara when the children were all stuffing their faces.

  “It works for us.”

  “And the moment of silence?”

  “A few of them are used to saying grace before meals, most are not. We didn’t want to enforce any particular religion or way of life. Same thing with bedtime prayers. They all have to spend a few minutes reflecting, but they don’t have to say anything.”

  “Your parents must have been great. You have such a talent for this.”

  Tara shook her head. “Oh, honey, no. Anything but. They were the worst. Whenever I am trying to make a decision, I think to myself, ‘What would Daddy have done?’ and then I do the opposite.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, I suppose that’s one form of role model.”

  “It is. And I grew up stronger because of it.” Her thumb made a pass over her fingers, and she assessed Jane. “I could be wrong, but my guess is you know exactly what I mean.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as particularly strong.”

  “Take it from me. You are.”

  Jane wanted to ask why she thought so, but one of the children knocked over a glass of water and Tara dashed away to help clean up.

  • • •

  THEY FOUND THE solution to the chemical-reaction issue on Friday afternoon. As she stared through the microscope at the fourth sample proving that they could, indeed, prevent the two reactions from interfering with one another, then annotated the finding and the time—3:26 p.m.—a rush of tears clogged Jane’s throat. Where was the excitement, the triumph? Stella stood at her elbow, practically bouncing on the tips of her toes, waiting for the final confirmation that they’d created the foundation for a life-changing drug, and Jane had to swallow several times before giving it to her.

  “Holy crow, I didn’t think we’d actually get it in time,” Rashid said when Jane pronounced the final sample clear. “I thought . . . wow.”

  Clive filed the patent, prepared weeks ahead of time, then joined them in the lab with a bottle of Dom Pérignon. For both Rashid and Stella, this was a first, but Jane and Sam had been through successes with Clive in the past. He never stinted when it came to celebrations. Still, the mood in the lab was somber: there had been no word on Dani’s whereabouts.

  “I’ll call John over at Sundeman Pharmaceuticals and see if we can’t move up the press conference to Monday,” Clive said as they sipped premium champagne from laboratory beakers. “That way you’ll be safe.”

  “No, don’t.” She glanced at Eric as she spoke and saw a muscle jump in his jaw. “I mean, call Sundeman, of course. But Eric can take care of me. And if we leave the press conference until Wednesday, that gives HSE a couple extra days to find Dani. After the press conference, whoeve
r took her won’t have any reason . . . They . . .”

  “Of course,” Clive said. “I should have considered that. I’ll ask John to be sure our findings stay private until the conference, too. If they’re dealing with another lab, they can put off cutting them loose for a few more days.”

  Stella studied them over her beaker. “This is such a small community, though. The minute we filed the patent application, what we’d learned, the mechanism of treatment and everything became public knowledge.”

  Silence descended, broken awkwardly by Sam, who asked, “Where are we being reassigned?”

  Clive cleared his throat. “You and Stella will transition to Adrian’s team. They need the extra hands because the police have asked for help processing a massive amount of evidence from a high-profile homicide. Rashid will go to Alan to work on Project Phobos. Monday, Jane will clean up the reports and work with Ruth on the press release. Tuesday she’ll start catching up with the phobia work so she and Alan can lead that team together.” He poured another slug of champagne into his beaker, tossed it back in a single gulp, and placed the beaker in a large plastic tub in the corner. “Great work, guys. Take off whenever you like, and I will see you Monday.” With a wave, he was gone.

  Jane took a sip of her champagne. This one’s for you, Mom. Thanks for fighting the good fight as long as you did. Then she poured the rest of her drink down the sink, put the beaker into the tub for sterilization, and began to straighten up the lab.

  “Hey, Jane, can I talk to you, um, privately?” Stella asked as they catalogued slides.

  Behind her, Jane felt Eric perk up. But this was Stella for crying out loud. What could he possibly be worried about? “Sure,” she said. “Staff room okay?”