Night Pleasures. Jule Mcbride
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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.