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  He was very, very, pretty, she thought, even more so now, his shirt hanging off him, the deep blue with its metallic shine puddled like water beneath him, his silver pants open wide and framing what had turned out to be a rather nice package.

  She could see his dark eyes were barely focused as he stared over his head, at the wrists she’d tied with her scarf when he wouldn’t listen, couldn’t control the reach of his hands. She was pretty sure she’d just fucking blown his mind, was certain that had been the first time he’d ever come like that, body choked, the sensation bursting backward.

  The momentary high of watching him struggle for control over himself even as she took it from him, the sharp burst of an almost grim satisfaction, was already fast fading into the familiar dullness, mingled with a faint—

  She turned her mind from it.

  Maybe… She considered it as dispassionately as she would choose a fork or open a soda; it was simple analysis, it carried no emotion and therefore meant absolutely nothing. Maybe she’d make him come again.

  She could see it so clearly, the way to play it, the way to play him. Such a nice body had to have a nice back and if she flipped him, hands spread and tied, she’d get to see it, maybe she’d even enjoy watching those muscles really work and flex as first she took away his reservations, then leaned along his spine while she pressed against his boundaries, eased past them—then took him for a ride he’d never forget, probably spend years dreaming about. It would be so easy, he would be so easy to—

  It was the chiming that brought her away from her contemplation of Kevin as he lay breathing hard beneath her.

  She leaned back to reach for and into her bag, fingers unerringly closing around her PDA. Dammit! she thought as she read the screen. Franko. She knew if her second shift admin was calling, no, paging, it meant nothing good, and the one word that scrolled repeatedly across her LCD confirmed that. “Shift your right hand to the left and you can untie yourself,” she told Kevin, dismissing him to the periphery as she snapped on the earpiece. “Go.”

  She got off the bed and then slung her bag over her shoulder as she listened to Franko’s terse report. Panic. She could hear the panic behind his words as she straightened the skirt of the silver halter dress she wore, the material deceptively light despite its metallic mix weave. She hadn’t even bothered to undress; she looked almost exactly as she had not quite an hour ago. The only difference was in her eyes. A honeyed calm contemplation had been cleared to a fiery amber that snapped with focus as her feet easily found one shoe, then another. Her body was on autopilot as she slipped a finger between the upper and her heel to make sure it fit properly, her complete focus on the data she received. She absorbed it, her mind racing with plans.

  “So what do you want done?” Franko asked.

  “Isolate the LANs and freeze every remote ID—if they shot off a packet maybe we can contain it. Snapshot IDs on every LAN to WAN—no, all of them, all the remote ones, too—and I want that list by the time I get there in…” She did a quick calculation. “Twenty minutes. I want to catch the—”

  The second chime that rang through her PDA made her skin go cold, and the muttered expletive under her breath matched the one the sys admin shouted in her ear. The system, the network that carried sensitive data, information that made or broke fortunes in numbers seemingly fantastical, that transferred currency in the same outrageous amounts, in numbers that were larger than the gross domestic product of some nations, had shut down—internally, and equally important, externally. “Go through the entire calling tree. I want heads and hands and I want them in forty-five minutes.”

  Another chime cut through. The system was back up. “Yes,” she spoke over Franko’s squawk of protest, “I know we’re up again, and I know it’s three fucking thirty. You’re up, I’m up. Get them—tell ’em to call a car if they have to, jobs are riding.”

  She spoke into his silence. “Franko, consider it job grooming—you want my post, I want to head Ops, you need to get used to this. Besides,” she reminded him, “it’s the second time. I’ll make the call to Pendleton.”

  “Aw, fuck—you’re right,” he conceded, and cursed lightly under his breath.

  “Of course,” Charli answered lightly, even while anger, pure and simple, rode down her spine in cold waves. “Make the calls—I’ll see you soon.”

  Fury warred with frustration as she cut their connection. Not only had she warned about the real threat of total system failure in repeated meetings and reports, she’d also just turned down an offer for what would have been potentially unpredictable, probably mind-blowing, and definitely mutually damned good sex from her counterpart, the other Second VP-Ops, about two hours ago. And now she had to call her in for an all-hands fucking fire drill.

  Oh man, this is so gonna suck! Charli thought while she took firm strides through the apartment and scrolled through the information on her screen for the next number she needed. She plucked her coat from the back of the sofa and shrugged the fine black wool over her shoulders.

  “Hey, problem?” Kevin asked as he followed her to the door.

  She hit a key that would dial the corporate car service her company used. “This is account TX-427,” she told the receptionist. “I need an immediate pickup. We’re making two stops.” She glanced up at Kevin as she waited for confirmation.

  “Got to head into the office,” she explained, then gave the pickup address to the operator. She’d stop at her apartment to quickly shower and change first.

  “Firewall breach?” he hazarded. He folded the scarf nervously in his hands.

  “Something like that,” she answered, quirking her lips in what might have been a smile before she returned her attention to her PDA. She brought up her itinerary for the next day and the file she’d finally been sent for the interview she’d have at nine. She wanted to bring in new systems, and that required new blood. She’d had her admin hound Human Resources to get the information they held on the candidate. As for the rest, well, she’d hired Laura for her resourcefulness, and Laura knew exactly how much Charli hated to walk into a meeting or an interview without as much intel as possible. She’d even included a graphic with a note that said she’d sent the rest of the info to her space on the server. Laura, she decided as she opened the file, deserves a raise.

  Hmph. She smirked to herself when she saw the picture that accompanied the file, then glanced back at Kevin. Oh, perfect. Just bloody motherfucking perfect. His shirt still hung open and loose, displaying a nicely toned upper body and defined abs, and while he’d zipped his pants, he hadn’t buttoned them.

  She hit another key and in the nanosecond it took for the wireless link to engage, she typed in a quick query. Bingo. Everything.

  “Yeah…I hate those,” he said and held out the gauzy material to her.

  “Keep it,” she said with a slight wave as she put her other hand on the door latch. The door swung wide. “Good luck with your interview tomorrow.”

  “Oh man, thanks. It’s the last of four fucking interviews. I’m meeting with Charlie Riven, the lead architect for the team, a VP-Ops or something like that. Everyone says get by Charlie and… Wait a minute.” He eyed her a bit warily as she stepped into the hallway. “How’d you—”

  On second thought, she took the scarf from his hands. He wasn’t quite as bright as she’d hoped, and besides, she rather liked that one. It had a pretty silver shimmer that had been hard to find, and she’d lost too many of them the same way. “Kevin Nguyen, top three MIT, aka Dragon Zero and master of the Holidaze worm?” she asked with a smile.

  This, she thought, is so very lose-lose for you, guy. He hadn’t hooked up with her because he knew who she was business-wise, which was much to his credit, but then again, as an applicant and potential employee, he should have read the company’s Web site, should have known. Her photo, along with the ones of the rest of the IT heads, was on it.

  She now knew everything about him, from his
birthplace to his blood type, including—she mentally shook her head—that he dressed left.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, “but how, I mean, when…?”

  She stared at him for a long moment, surprised at what she read. Kind. His eyes were kind. Well, she considered, perhaps he simply didn’t know how to play the game. His coding and administration skills were supposedly superb or he would have never made it through the screening process to her office, but she’d find out in a few hours for certain. “You’re a nice guy, Kevin,” she said with a little sigh, surprised again at what she found herself about to say. “Here’s a hint. Nine a.m. is considered late for Whitestone in general, and in my book particularly. Show up for eight forty-five if you want to impress me.” She kissed his cheek. “You probably should have asked me earlier, I would have told you.” The sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation hit her. Considering that she knew exactly how he’d spent the night, his early arrival might not truly impress her, but she would certainly respect the feat if he could accomplish it. She couldn’t help grinning at him as he walked with her to the elevator.

  “It’s Charli with an i, and not an ie or a y,” she told him and pressed the call button. The number of shocks he could take for the night had probably been reached, she thought, as he shook his head and gave her a questioning look. “Charlotte Riven.”

  Two taps brought up the contact for her counterpart, the Second VP-Ops, and knowing that she too kept her electronic leash on and nearby at all times, Charli text-paged a breakdown of what she knew as she rode down to the waiting car.

  * * *

  Tell her to take a number, stud—need you now—complete breach and failure (we’re up). Calling tree activated (thank Franko). Headed in—see you in 20.

  C

  * * *

  The program is running. Exit anyway? (y or n)

  Chasing Rabbits

  “If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port…”

  The singsong light words and the rich tone they were delivered in made Charli glance up from her desk to mark the entrance of Anna Pendleton, her counterpart and co-lead. Anna had already been part of the team, another employee at the now-defunct dot-com Charli herself and many of their subordinates had worked for, back in the days before the group had gained the contract, then been bought outright to be absorbed into Whitestone’s corporate entity.

  Glancing up from the reports that spilled before her and across her desk, Charli arched a sculpted eyebrow at her, took in and appreciated the lovely shape of the body that leaned against her office doorway, the teasing twist to the curve of her mouth. She knew quite well both the angle and the smile were for her benefit.

  “…and the bus is interrupted as a very last resort?” she returned sardonically as she returned her focus to her work.

  Anna laughed as she entered, and her hair, a skim-above-the-shoulder light brown, with golden highlights strung through it, waved about her face.

  Charli knew she came by that color honestly, a lasting kiss from the sun, and she also didn’t have to watch Anna walk to know her hips would sway just so, or that the finely cut black slacks covered an almost perfect pair of legs, legs sculpted from years of surfing every American shore and quite a few foreign ones. Changing almost to definitely meant legs that could have been wrapped around Charli’s waist, or better yet, her neck, the night before.

  Not that it couldn’t happen, not that it hadn’t already, and not that it wouldn’t have been better, Charli admitted to herself, it was simply that there was an acuteness, a connect, and it left Charli distinctly uncomfortable. The last time it had been that intense had been right before the company buyout, the last good surfing weekend in October. She and Raven had finally parted ways several weeks earlier after nearly two years together, two years that started out nicely enough and ended with an unnamable and therefore unspoken mutual frustration. The dissolution had been amicable enough, and they even ran into each other from time to time, but still…

  Charli had finally begun to feel free, the imprint of the ring she’d worn fading, no longer the faint noose that ringed her neck, the vague guilt of feeling like she was with someone when she wasn’t.

  What a weekend it had been, though. The water had begun to truly chill, the waves had been perfect, and between the bonfire and the beers it had been so easy to continue what had already started on the sand back at the shore house the company had rented for the crew. It had been easier still, muscles sore, body achingly alive from the total saltwater immersion, the skimming liquid high from riding the waves, to dive the same way into what had happened between them, already familiar with each other from weeks spent working together into the early morning hours, the only two in the office, hundreds of hours spent intent on work, on play, and the “I really like you” physical focus of the night before.

  Away from work and the silent reminders at home or in the local and not-so-local social places she occasionally frequented, loosened by water and heightened by the flame on the sand, knowing they felt mutual respect and admiration and followed the blazed trail of an already acknowledged if heretofore unspoken attraction, Charli hadn’t been too surprised that the first time had been good—really good. No. What stunned her, had really thrown her off guard was the second time—not that it happened, but what had happened. The second time had been even better.

  She was jolted awake afterward by impulses she could barely understand; snatches of images and shadows of emotions kicked through her mind, punched a frantic quick start to hammering in her chest with frightening and wakeful demand. Charli sat up and opened her eyes as she caught and controlled her breath, forced her body down from its fight-or-flight status. As she breathed, she listened to the surf beat its siren song outside the window. It sang with a soul-cleansing clarity.

  The elemental melody soothed her, called her—she had to answer. Charli dressed with rapid quiet, her fingers certain and sure in the dark, and as she passed the boards that leaned up against the wall off the deck, she hesitated. Fuck it, she decided, I’m going for the pure body rush. She headed straight for the shore.

  She watched. She waited. The first set had been perfect. Just barely able to see the darker loom of the rises and troughs, she grabbed a few in just the right spot, caught, directed, cutting and steering through the pure power that sluiced her toward the shore. The second set had been even better, the low, low light of the coming day a distant gleam in her eyes as she stroked out, casting even deeper shadows on the shore.

  It was the third set. The third set had started out nice and clean, straight-up lines to the horizon and almost double overhang, or approximately twice human height. Beautiful. She’d already decided it would be the last go for now—there’d hopefully be more nice rides later. Apparently the ocean had agreed because as Charli hooked to angle into the wave, there was the moment of catch and then—just as she caught her breath—it let her go.

  She fell through, no longer buoyant, as heavy as the silent weight in her head and the water as insubstantial as air for an eternal panic-inducing half-second before she was caught again, trapped now by the dreaded “washing machine,” the powerful cycling churn that propelled the wave above it, gave it both its speed and strength.

  It had happened before, a hazard of the sport, and she usually pulled through just fine, but this time—she mentally shook herself, she didn’t want to think about, or remember, that, the places her mind had gone, events that still haunted in its darkened corners only to be fully relived when all she could do was force herself not to panic.

  It was a double overhang, not a triple—no one as far as she’d known had ever survived a pin-down by a triple, but a double… Every wave flows to the shore, Charli reminded herself, the mantra forcing her brain to calm, to remember that no matter what happened during the churn, as soon as the force that slammed her into the rocks and sand hidden below the double overhang was done working her over, she’d float up, that much closer to the shoreline.

  Battered
by the surf, shaken by the way she’d been tossed, body and mind, by the ocean, she took measured steps back to the house. She spat out the sand between her teeth, felt the coarse, chill wet sand give way to dry. She was cold, so damned cold, and she was aching in ways she didn’t want, aching to forget—everything. She ran into Anna in the kitchen.

  She’d had to leave almost as soon as she’d woken up, half an hour, maybe even a full one, later. They’d been too close, it was all too much: the gentle rock between them that had gone from soothing to deeply satisfying, the instinctive response Anna had had to her, every right move, every right word, as if she knew her. But Charli knew Anna didn’t, not really, and that she’d come so close, too close, to believing that maybe, just maybe, just this once she could trust herself, trust what she felt and what she knew.

  She fell asleep on the train, knowing that would have been a grave mistake.

  Anna had been her normal self, the Anna that Charli knew, when they’d seen each other at work the following day, nothing different in her tone or touch, no allusions whatsoever to the weekend other than to agree with the general office commentary that the surf had been “happening.” The fact was that it was Charli who had been wary, leery even, that Anna would ask her something, anything from why she’d left (and admittedly, Charli acknowledged, a bit more than rather abruptly) to asking her out, but none of that had happened.

  It had never even come up, not in word, gesture, or tone, leaving Charli enormously relieved, and while she and Anna still occasionally spent social time together outside of work, she’d never allowed it—correction: she’d never allowed herself—to go there again. She wasn’t certain if there was the slightest hint of regret under the relief she felt that Anna had never questioned or pursued it beyond what it had been: a couple of great nights after some really good surfing days.

  What they had together was a good mix of workplace respect and camaraderie joined to a mutual admiration, as well as acknowledged attraction. There was that, Charli concluded, and probably one more reason why they got along so well: Anna always seemed to know when to leave something alone and, Charli admitted grudgingly to herself, when not to, as well.