Read the book: «Night Pleasures»

1

THAT’S WHAT I LOVE about words, Edison Lone thought ruefully. Unlike women, they came with handbooks of rules and regulations. Dictionaries and grammar books told you how to deal with them. They were dependable. Reliable. Predictable. And because he hated to see words spliced and diced, as he so often did while cracking codes for the government, he was extremely careful when choosing his own. He uttered a long, succinct string of expletives.

His boss, Eleanor Luders, looked vaguely alarmed. “Excuse me?”

“C’mon,” he chided, appalled that anyone would require him to research a low-level assistant such as Selena Silverwood right now. “You don’t really need a professional code cracker for this job, do you?” His deliberate blue-eyed gaze panned the conference table, landing on Eleanor, a tall woman with white-blond, shoulder-length hair, wearing a practical gray suit; then on her boss, Newton Finch, a fifty-year-old ex-New Yorker who was wearing rumpled gray pinstripes; then finally on his boss, Carson Cumberland, who looked like a replica James Bond, the Pierce Brosnan version, also gray-clad. Combined, they seemed about as cheery as the rainy April sky over D.C., and judging from the grim smiles, silver didn’t line the clouds, either.

“Care to sit?” Eleanor asked, ignoring his question.

“Love to.” Instead of dropping his tall, broad-shouldered body into one of the plush chairs around the conference table, Edison continued, “Like I said, I found some suspicious personal ads in one of the free tabloids. The ads are for sexual bondage, but references to getting tied up—with whom, where and when—have convinced me that somebody’s using the ads to negotiate the sale of confidential information, maybe from IBI.”

Newton looked concerned. “Have any proof?”

“If I did, I’d have taken further action.”

Eleanor’s glance reminded him not to antagonize superiors. Glance of censure duly noted, thought Edison. Duly ignored. “I do have a hunch, though,” he added, deciding there was nothing he hated more than wasting American tax dollars haggling with the brass. “So, right now, investigating an assistant would be an inefficient use of my time. Look…” Softening his voice, he tried to sound diplomatic. “Forget Selena Silverwood. My time’s better spent analyzing the classifieds.”

The suddenly flirtatious spark in Eleanor’s liquid blue eyes made Edison regret sleeping with her seven years ago. Chalk it up to a Christmas office party when he’d been young, green and still getting his feet wet at IBI. He’d been wearing the proverbial lampshade on his head, and Eleanor, who’d been an administrator in another division, had looked like a million bucks. Edison never imagined he’d wind up transferred to her division years later, and now he counted himself lucky that she’d recently gotten married.

“You’ve always proved yourself unusually intuitive,” she purred, her marriage doing nothing to curb the seductive tone she used with Edison. “Early on, I learned to trust your instincts. They’re so…animal. Even the president was impressed by how you arrested that Venezuelan last week.”

“I’ve got a feeling a big deal’s about to go down,” Edison said, turning a deaf ear to her flattery. “Can’t you put Tom on this Selena Silverwood thing? Or Steve? Or Gary Hughes? Didn’t Hughes crack the codes that exposed all the new military installations in Syria?”

“Gary’s good,” admitted Eleanor. “But you’re better. And the president was impressed by the laptop case.”

More like the lapdog case. While retrieving data from laptop computers stolen from overseas dignitaries, Edison had caught a Venezuelan official smuggling out information about American spies. When the man and his wife were nabbed, Edison wound up with the wife’s dog.

“Did anyone adopt that puppy dog?” asked Eleanor.

“Puppy. Dog. I think that’s redundant,” remarked Edison.

Eleanor chose to ignore the grammar lesson. “Didn’t you put an ad in the paper?”

“It appeared beside one of the suspicious classifieds I need to research,” Edison lied, raking a hand through thick, tousled raven hair as he redirected the conversation. “And no. Nobody in their right mind would adopt that dog.”

Eleanor softened. “How is Marshmallow?”

“Still alive. And I’m calling him M.”

“Cute,” returned Eleanor. “Like in the James Bond movies.”

A sterling tag dangling from a scarlet collar had identified the dog, which looked like a four-pound marshmallow that had survived a whirlwind trip through a high-speed blender. At the Venezuelan dignitary’s house, before coming home with Edison, the dog had licked Edison’s face and cuddled. Since then he’d urinated on carpets, humped the leg of a Friday night date, gnawed Edison’s favorite moccasins and exhibited dietary habits that excluded everything but filet mignon, cooked rare.

“Edison,” Eleanor continued now, “we value your time and realize you require no supervision. You are your own boss here. However, CIIC alerted us to—”

“CIIC wants me to investigate Selena Silverwood?”

“As I said,” Eleanor assured him, “we’d never waste your time.”

“While at work, Ms. Silverwood’s been writing in a personal diary that CIIC believes could be in code,” added Newton. “She might be using the book to smuggle out information, which is why they need your input.”

Carson tightened the knot of his tie, looking concerned. “What if this potential theft is related to those classified ads about bondage you mentioned?”

Against his better judgment, Edison got interested, rolled out a chair and seated himself. He glanced around the conference table. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Edison noticed Eleanor tried not to look openly victorious as she reached toward a built-in console under the table and dimmed the overhead light. As a wall panel slid back to expose a screen, she lifted a remote control device and began clicking through a series of black-and-white slides, mostly still shots taken from video cameras hidden inside IBI.

“Selena Silverwood,” she said. “Thirty years old. Class B security clearance. Employed eight months at IBI, and previously by civilian companies.”

“You’re kidding,” Edison muttered, squinting at the screen. Any information he’d need would be in Selena Silverwood’s file, right down to her bra and panty sizes, so he ignored Eleanor’s ensuing monologue and attended to his personal impressions. And they were personal, he realized as a swift, unexpected pang claimed his groin. He quickly registered that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, though he couldn’t fathom why he cared, since he was used to the gorgeous, confident, manor-born types who liberally populated the Washington circuit.

Selena Silverwood was as tall as those women—at least five-ten—but the inward curve of her shoulders was calculated to hide her statuesque height, which meant long-boned limbs that could have made her as graceful as a panther seemed to hang from her frame like an oversize suit. She was definitely going out of her way not to be noticed, but was she a spy? Or simply lacking in self-confidence?

Edison shook his head, thinking she wouldn’t be the first assistant to compensate for low wages by stealing. As another slow, inexplicable sensual tug morphed into a dull, heavy ache, he wondered if her hair was red or brown, and how she was really shaped under the loose, flowing dresses she favored. Maybe she intrigued him because she could easily look prettier than she did, he decided. But why didn’t she try? And how would she act with a man? Grateful for the attention, he thought. She’d be easy on him if he was late, or forgot to call, or wasn’t johnny-on-the-spot when it came to sending flowers—something that brought out Edison’s protective instincts. He could easily imagine her being taken in by the kind of guy who took advantage, and there was something so damn vulnerable about her….

“Eleanor, get serious,” he forced himself to say, cutting off his thoughts and tearing his eyes from Selena’s picture. “She’s a natural-born wallflower. She doesn’t look even vaguely criminal.”

“You’ve been fooled before,” his boss reminded him.

“Not often.” But Eleanor was right. Besides, CIIC never concerned itself with the innocent, and Edison hated traitors. Whoever his parents were, they’d abandoned him. Uncle Sam had kept him clothed and fed, and when Edison had shown talents, he’d been educated and given a job. This job. Which meant if the government wanted Selena Silverwood put under surveillance, Edison would gladly oblige.

“We want her checked out,” Eleanor said. “Thoroughly.”

From the looks of it, Selena Silverwood didn’t get thoroughly very often—a thought that was still arousing his curiosity and quickening his blood. “I’ll do my best.”

“She’s here in the IBI. complex. Building Five.”

“Fourth floor,” Newton added. “Sensitive Data Entry. You’ll be her temporary assistant.”

Edison groaned. “This is an undercover job? My typing’s hunt and peck at best.”

“You type ninety,” corrected Eleanor. “Without error.”

“A man’s hard-won skills are supposed to be celebrated, not used against him,” Edison said defensively. “Five minutes ago, I was investigating those classifieds. Now I’m demoted to typist.”

Eleanor passed him a black-bound book. “You’ll live.”

“It’s a copy of her diary,” Carson explained. “She left the original in her desk drawer one night, and it was typed and bound for your convenience.”

Edison frowned. “I work from originals. I can tell a lot from her handwriting.” Or from sleeping with her. As he pushed aside the intrusive, if pleasant, thought, Eleanor plunged into the reasons the diary had been copied, not photographed, none of which made sense to Edison. Glancing down at the book, he wondered about the contents. Probably the usual—crushes on unattainable bosses, nights playing board games with the girls. If the woman had a boyfriend, he’d be an accountant or a stockbroker. Something safe and steady. Definitely not a spy.

Stifling a yawn over the anticipated boredom, Edison fixed his gaze on Selena Silverwood’s picture again. She was exiting Building Five through automatic glass doors, swinging her hair over a shoulder and peering at a security camera through oversize rectangular glasses. She was hugging the original diary—a dainty, letter-size book—to a chest swallowed by a bulky blazer. Given the fact that this was his job, Edison was definitely more curious about that chest than he should have been. “She works in Building Five,” he suddenly said. “What if she recognizes me? Knows I’m a code cracker?”

“Unlikely,” countered Eleanor. “You’ve been working out of the country most of the time she’s been with IBI. Besides, if she’s seen you around the IBI complex, she’ll think you’re what you say you are—one of our floating temporaries. And CIIC is adamant. I’m under time pressure from them.” Eleanor paused significantly. “There could be a promotion.”

Edison couldn’t help but ask, “For whom?”

Eleanor sighed. “You. But only if you watch this woman closely. See if she behaves suspiciously, in a way we haven’t noticed on the cameras. And, of course, decipher her diary, if it’s in code.”

Big if. He’d have to research and analyze those classified ads on his own time, since, obviously, no one around here cared about catching real criminals. It was nearly impossible to imagine Selena Silverwood smuggling sensitive information out of the office, but she did bother him. As a woman. Glancing at the boss he’d been foolish enough to sleep with years ago, Edison reminded himself to maintain objectivity. He’d just have to ignore how his latest research subject had already gotten under his skin and into his blood.

OBJECTIVITY WAS impossible, Edison admitted an hour later, putting down his briefcase, his eyes riveting where the hem of a silk, navy-and-tan-checked dress swirled against Selena’s delicate ankles. Looking unsettled by the curious male attention Edison wasn’t bothering to hide, she leaned against a copy machine in the hallway and said, “Well, I believe I’ve shown you everything, Mr. Lone.”

Not everything. One look and he’d felt sure there was more to her than met the eye. Oh, she probably wasn’t a spy—he figured CIIC had just gotten overly cautious—but she was even more intriguing in the flesh. He just wished the black-and-white slides had provided some warning about how the low, honeyed quality of her voice would affect his heartbeat. A slow, suggestive smile curled his lips. “Shown me—” he arched an eyebrow “—everything?”

“Well…” Remarkable eyes that were outlined by unattractive, bookish, black-framed glasses drifted over him, as if drawn downward against their will, compelled to survey the fit of his tan slacks and black V-neck sweater. When those eyes found his again, they glinted darkly as if she were steeling herself against him, determined to ignore his flirtation at all costs. Before he could ask why, she continued, “Well, I’ve shown you the coffee machine and your personal shelf in the refrigerator. And—” Now she patted the copy machine lid affectionately “—our copier. After you’ve read the employee manual for our division, you’ll want to further familiarize yourself with this machine. Because people call from all over the world for copies, our billing system’s a little complex….”

What was complex was his reaction to this woman. As it turned out, she had skin that flushed the color of dusky-orange roses; hair that was probably technically termed auburn—pure autumn, all glorious golden sunbeams shooting through dark-brown chestnuts and rust-red leaves. Steady topaz eyes peered from behind those ugly glasses he was itching to remove. She had charm, intelligence and a compelling gangly grace, as if she’d recently experienced an unwanted growth spurt and hadn’t quite caught up to it yet.

Realizing his eyes had settled once more where the dress brushed her ankles, Edison lifted his gaze, his body tightening when he noted how the silk brushed—and revealed—other parts of her: full sloping breasts, a nipped waist and lush backside. Just like color, movement did wonders. Still photographs hadn’t captured the roll of her hips, the gentle sway of her breasts.

“Any questions about the copier?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she squinted, raising eyebrows the same autumnal color as her thick, shoulder-length hair. “Mr. Lone?”

“Uh, no. Copier seems fine.” He smiled. “You, however, are an original, Selena.” Before she could respond, he absently murmured in afterthought, “Selena. Pretty name. And please call me Edison.”

She shot him a glance of censure that was one part surprised annoyance, two parts female pleasure, and then her gaze softened as if she’d finally decided he might be worthy of consideration. “Original?” She tossed the word over her shoulder as she motioned for him to follow her down the hallway. “You don’t even know me.” After a pause, she added, “Edison.”

Enjoying the slow, easy sway of her backside, he murmured, “I’m beginning to think I’d like to.”

Blowing out a soft, disapproving sigh, she led him into an open-concept work area. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the perimeter, encasing forty or so identical glassed-in cubicles, the partitions of which muted sounds of humming printers and swiftly clicking computer keys. “Cozy,” he pronounced dryly.

She shrugged. “Martha Stewart wasn’t available.”

“This office looks like it was decorated by The Terminator.”

“Futuristic,” she agreed, then pointed. “Voilà. Welcome to your work station.”

A shiny steel desk topped by a computer, faced an identical computer on an identical shiny steel desk. He motioned a thumb toward the other computer. “And that?”

“Is my work space.”

“So…” Seating himself in the regulation chair provided, he set his briefcase beside the desk and shot her a playful glance, realizing that somewhere during the introductions, he’d decided to seduce the truth out of her. The woman couldn’t be a spy. No way. “This could get dangerous,” he began. “Am I really supposed to face you all day, with nothing between us but a thin partition of glass?”

“Plexiglas,” she corrected mildly, circling it. “And don’t get any ideas. Big Brother is always watching.”

“Ah…” His throat went dry as he surveyed her. “You have a sense of humor.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Her lip-glossed mouth suddenly came to life, twitching with amusement, making him realize how unusually full it was, how kissable. “As you know,” she continued, “everything here at IBI is top secret.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “You included?”

She shrugged, the lift of her inward-curving shoulders correcting her posture, making him notice the enticing tilt of her breasts once again. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to feel left out.”

For a second, he almost forgot she was a suspect he’d been sent to investigate. “I’d ask you on a date,” he said, surprised by and enjoying their banter, “but I’m afraid we’re being taped.”

“And photographed.” Selena nodded easily at a ceiling-mounted camera. “Say cheese.”

“Cheese,” he repeated, wishing she wasn’t quite so obviously aware of IBI’s security system. Playing the part of a temporary worker, he added, “The last division where I was sent had cameras everywhere. Do you mind being watched all day?”

Her alluring eyes suddenly seemed too sharp, too intelligent. She surveyed him a long moment, then finally shrugged. “Depends who’s doing the watching.”

Everything about her bespoke the tension of contradictions, he decided. She wasn’t noticeably pretty, but she was sexy as hell. Her eyes had remained unconsciously seductive, even as her obviously intelligent mind assessed him. He said, “What if I’m doing the watching?”

She smirked, those tantalizing lips twisting again, almost petulantly. “Then cameras would make me feel safer.”

“You don’t like men to provide your feelings of safety?”

“Men are hardly safe,” she retorted. In the wake of a revealing blush that followed, she quickly added, “What? Do women always ask you to play the role of Great Protector?”

“Do you distrust men in general,” he pressed trying not to sound too curious, “or did some specific male hurt you?”

Now she didn’t look the least perturbed. “I asked first.”

“Do woman ask me to protect them?” he repeated. “Never. I think they find me too dangerous.”

“Or commitment shy.”

Hearing the truth from her tasty-looking lips was more annoying than it should have been. This was supposed to be his game. His turf. His rules. He was here to watch her, and decipher her diary, which he felt more sure than ever wasn’t in secret code. He fought the urge to tell her their sparring was getting a little too personal. Mostly because he had a suspicion that everything about him and Selena Silverwood was about to get personal. “I commit to plenty of things,” he said, running a palm over his jet hair, loosening the waves as he brushed them back. “I’ve made a fledgling commitment to a dog named M, for instance.”