Calculated Exposure Page 5

  “Smart. I knew your brain would activate eventually.”

  She turned her head toward her monitor and rolled her eyes. It activated the minute I left your sorry ass.

  He dropped a sheet of paper with two names and addresses printed in block lettering onto her keyboard. “One before lunch, one after.”

  “Super.” She unclipped her camera bag’s fasteners, drew out the spare battery, and plugged it in.

  Tate lingered.

  With a sigh, she turned a few degrees to the right and assessed him in her periphery. He had his arms crossed over his chest as if she were the one inconveniencing him. “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Want to have dinner tonight?”

  Is he on drugs? Oh, yeah. Forgot. “Sorry, I’ve got a crap-ton of trip laundry to wash.”

  He squeezed her shoulder and lowered his lips to her right ear to whisper, “See, that’s why you should have stayed home.” Finally, he left.

  “Prick.”

  She flicked her ear, trying to shuck off the psychosomatic tingling his touch had created. She was still rubbing her ear against her shoulder when she woke her computer and pasted Curt’s email address into webmail.

  “Rubio, you better not be fucking with me,” she muttered to the screen.

  Chapter 5

  “She better not be fucking with me,” Curt mumbled as he waited for his suitcase to bob around on the baggage carousel.

  A woman standing nearby edged away, cutting her narrowed gaze to him as if he were a pox carrier.

  He scoffed, then shook his head.

  I bet I look like shit. She probably thinks I’m a vagrant. He’d had a long day of travel and had been feeling downright murderous until that tease phoned him out of the blue. No one had ever tracked him down like that, and he had to admit it was somewhat flattering. Total Grant move, though, using the student directory in that way. That was how he’d kept tabs on Carla before they’d hooked up. Actually, Curt was surprised no one had tried it before on him.

  Most women waited around for him to call, and when he didn’t, he’d run into them and have to make some excuse. He hadn’t planned on calling this time, either, but not because she was forgettable like so many of those other women had been. She certainly wasn’t. No hot-blooded heterosexual man could easily dismiss a woman who smelled like violet mints with hair so silky, one wanted to curl up and sleep in it. And those hips. No, he wouldn’t forget about how she looked in a tight pair of jeans, that’s for sure.

  Again, he’d sworn off distractions. He had PhD requirements to finish, a job to accept–or not–and the Irish press was about to descend on his family at any moment. Just as soon as word got around the Mahon Money Mis-manager was free.

  He blew out a breath and grabbed the handle of his battered suitcase as it struck the bend in the conveyer line.

  “Curt Ryan, is that you?”

  Shit. He cringed. He knew that voice.

  He set his bag on the ground and turned, right as a middle-aged woman in a gray skirt suit, nude pantyhose, and bright white tennis shoes hurried over. She dragged a rolling suitcase with a hard-sided briefcase clipped to the telescoping handle. Traveling for work, he guessed.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he mumbled before his former internship supervisor was in earshot. He pushed his glasses up his nose and stepped out of the way of foot traffic. “How the hell are you, Bridget?”

  “Better now that I’ve seen you!” She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Please explain why you’re giving our poor HR generalist a hard time. She was nearly in tears in the message I checked after getting off my plane. That’s the last thing I want to hear when I’ve just gotten off a plane. I’ve been in Kuwait for the past two weeks.”

  “She cried? You’re bullshitting me.”

  Her lips sputtered as she blew a raspberry. “You’re right. She deals with assholes like you all day.”

  Touche. “I think you’ll find I’m twenty-five percent less assholey than I was five years ago.”

  “Well, thank God for small favors.”

  His semester with Prizm, a for-profit think tank, had been a requirement for his master’s degree. At the end of his internship, he’d been offered a job, which he couldn’t take because he’d been still at work on his studies. He didn’t think he could do both simultaneously. Bridget Rose, however, had kept a thumb on his activities, and now had him by the shorthairs. She was the one who’d pushed that signing bonus through, and she was going to make him work for every penny of it, assuming he signed the contract.

  “What’s the hold-up, Curt?”

  “Uh…I think you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Are you in trouble?” She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her messy curls to reveal bloodshot blue eyes and whispered, “Do you need help acquiring legal representation?”

  He waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t.

  “No, although your cynicism is a bit alarming. I’m sort of worried now I may be engaging with a bunch of ruffians. Let the place go since I was there?”

  She cleared her throat and let her glasses fall back onto her nose.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. There was a text message from Seth.

  YOUR FLIGHT IS IN. TONIGHT, WE CELEBRATE LIFE. ZA VAS!

  Curt snorted and tucked the phone back into his pocket. “Look, I’ll be candid. Shit’s about to blow up. When it does, perhaps you’ll want to withdraw your offer. I’m giving you room to do that.”

  Her lips peeled back and a little growl erupted from her throat. “Curt Ryan, you’re an idiot. If you’re about to engage in extracurricular shenanigans, the best thing you could do is sign that goddamned contract. Did you read it? Did you read the employee handbook?”

  He hadn’t. “I skimmed it.”

  “Fucking mathematicians. What, do words stress you out? If you’d read it, you’d know once you’re hired, even conditionally, very few things you do are going to impact your position. Now, is this an academic or a morality issue we’re talking here? Academic dishonesty we’re not so lenient about, but if you shot someone…”

  He backed up a step. “Jaysus Christ. What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  “Don’t get sanctimonious on me. People hire Prizm to solve their problems because we employ the most diabolical staff we can get our hands on. We think outside of the box because–”

  He put up his hands. “Right, right, the motto. There is no box.”

  “Exactly. So tell me now what it is, so I know what lies to tell my boss.”

  “Uh. It’s just a publicity issue I stirred up back at home. A certain local government and the citizens thereof hate me right about now.”

  “Why?”

  “I uncovered a conspiracy.”

  “Did it involve math?”

  “Um, yes?”

  She gave him punch in the arm and smiled wider than he’d ever seen her manage. “Well, goddamn, then. That’s good news for Prizm, Mr. Notorious. Send the info to my secretary and we’ll put out a press release. And get that contract into HR immediately unless you want a temporary cubicle as your office. Not even joking.”

  “I–”

  She was gone, striding toward the ground transportation bay in her untied sneakers and dragging her wobbling suitcase behind her. The objection he was going to make fell flat with her departure.

  “Well.” He slumped and rolled his suitcase toward the nearest coffee stand. Did he really want to work for a company that would hire him? That required some thought. It had seemed a less complicated decision before.

  While he waited in line, he opened his email and re-read Erica’s message. Friday night, she’d said.

  He didn’t have time for distractions, but he damn sure needed one.

  * * * *

  Promptly at six that Friday, there was a knock on Erica’s apartment door. She eyed the clock on the microwave and flailed her arms, uttering, “Shit, shit, shit!” No one was ever on time. Why’d he have to be anomaly? Maybe
it was just some kid selling candy bars or something.

  She tiptoed to the door and put her eye up to the peephole. “Fuck.” No dice. “Uh, Curt?”

  “You gonna let me in, darlin’?”

  “I’m still in my slip. Just…stay there for a second!”

  Through the fisheye lens she could see him hook one corner of his lips into a smirk. “You sure you’re not trying to get rid of anyone through the back door?”

  “Funny. I don’t have a back door and I’m sure as hell not tossing anyone out a third-story window.” Something in the kitchen popped. The food! She darted back to the stove, flipped over the bobbing croquetas, and shuffled to the door again.

  “Uh…be right back!” she called.

  “Sure, just take your time. Not like it’s thirty-five degrees out here.”

  Thirty-five? She looked out the peephole once more and saw the broody nerd push himself up onto breezeway railing. Oh. Celsius.

  In her bedroom, she hastily yanked out her hot rollers before shimmying into the wrap dress she’d left on the bed. She’d fretted long and hard about what to wear. On one hand, she didn’t want to be too dressy for a man whose shoes had probably cost less than twenty bucks. On the other hand, she wanted to get laid. The dress had the right balance of causal sexiness, or at least she hoped.

  Back in the kitchen, she fished a slotted spoon from the drawer and drained the last of the appetizers. One more trip to the bedroom to fluff her already-limp hair, and slick on sexy red lipstick, and she was done. “Good enough.”

  Two fingers of rum fortified her as she passed the kitchen. Before opening the door, finally, she grabbed a cocktail from the kitchen bar and held it ready for him. Deep breath. She tried for a sexy grin as the door swung inward, but feared the twitching of the corners would give her away. “Come in.”

  “Just when I’ve gotten comfortable? Darlin’, that’s cruel.”

  And he did look comfortable, leaned back against the column with his feet up on the railing. She shrugged and swirled his drink.

  “Yeah, that’ll make me move. Think you’ve got me pegged already, huh?” He offered her a knavish smile before jumping down from his perch.

  “You’re a man. You’re easy,” she said.

  “We’ll see about that. Something smells wonderful.”

  A lot of somethings, actually. She’d been cooking all afternoon, planning all week. Maybe she’d even gone a little overboard, but she couldn’t decide on just a couple of things and kept adding items to the menu. Back when she was a kid, she’d thought her mother had some sort of sickness when it came to food. There’d be pot after pot on the stove, each bearing some complex delight she’d been fussing with all day. Erica had thought it was excessive back then, given how poor they were.

  Now, with this kind-of-skinny man on her threshold, she understood it.

  He accepted the mojito blackmail and paused, his gaze flitting down from the collar of her dress down to her feet. “Nice shoes.”

  She looked down and groaned. Oscar the Grouch slippers probably killed the look she was going for.

  When she looked up again, he was staring at her over the rim of his drink as he sipped.

  “What?” Suddenly, she felt very bashful, and decided the best thing for it was to escape his orbit. In the kitchen, she pulled down plates and checked the entree.

  He followed at a respectful distance, and leaned against the opposite counter once she’d settled in one place. “Nothing. You look gorgeous. I’m feeling a bit underdressed. Typical for me, though. My slovenliness is legendary. I even had a grunge phase you should be happy you missed.”

  “You look fine,” she lied with a shrug. He looked better than fine. Stylish, even, in spite of the obvious lack of care he’d given to assembling his attire: a cerulean ringer tee, jeans slung low on his hips, and the abused Chucks he’d donned in Ireland. He looked as if some designer had made geek a trend. “I dressed up a little because I felt like a slob the last time you saw me.”

  “That’s funny, I don’t remember what you were wearing.”

  She scoffed and thrust a plate bearing two croquetas out to him. “Thanks a lot. Nice to know I’m not memorable.”

  “Oh, you’re plenty memorable, darlin’,” he said with that grin. “I remember the shape of you, but not necessarily the packaging beyond the jeans. Lucky fucking jeans.” He set down his drink and took a bite of one fried fritter.

  She froze, holding her breath as he chewed.

  “Jesus Christ, what is that?”

  Maybe they were too much. I should have kept it simple. “Don’t like it?”

  “Are you crazy? It’s delicious, but God, it’s rich.” Rich or not, he rolled several more onto his plate and walked away as if he feared she’d take them back.

  “Well, these are ham ones. Croquetas, they’re called. A Cuban thing. They’ve got some onion and all kinds of nice stuff, all patted together and rolled in cracker meal.”

  “God bless you Cubans.”

  Her pulse, which had ratcheted up at his first bite, came down to a healthful level and her head felt less swimmy. Was she really trying to get this guy’s approval of her cooking? Hadn’t that been one of the things she’d told her mother she didn’t need or want?

  “Glad you like ’em. Don’t fill up, though. That’s just the appetizer.”

  “Why’d you make so many?”

  She smiled as she peeked inside her picadillo pot. She knew it then. It was because she had the care-for-you sickness like her mother. Fucking genetics. “Don’t know. Maybe I thought you were kind of skinny and needed fattening up.”

  “You trying to plump me up for the slaughter or just trying to get me through the long winter? Either way, good luck. I’ve got the metabolism of a racehorse. Besides, I’m fat where it matters.”

  It took a moment for the innuendo to settle in. Yes, he was. She giggled and turned down the flame under the food. What the hell is wrong with you? Get it together. He’s just a geek. She cleared her throat. “Uh, anything you won’t eat?”

  “I’ll try anything once, assuming it’s not being recommended by Seth. Never eat anything that man has been holding, by the way. You’ll regret it. His adventurous streak is wider than his sense of self-preservation.”

  “Yikes. I’ll remember that. Uh…” What now?

  She was way out of her league. She’d never done much entertaining of men aside from Tate. He’d gotten to her when she was so young; there hadn’t been time for anyone else. Whenever he’d come over she’d beg him to take her out, because if they stayed home, his hands would be all over her. A few years into their so-called relationship, which was only exclusive on one end, she started feeling a lot like a blow-up doll. There was no substance, which made sense given how they’d met. Somehow, though, she’d thought their superficial early connection would become deeper.

  It hadn’t. Although they’d broken up seven years ago, he’d still show up on her doorstep late nights looking for a thrill. And sometimes she was weak enough to let him in. She’d never felt so at peace until she’d taken sabbatical. Being away from him was the ultimate vacation, one she was trying to make permanent. But right now, her concern was with her pleasure, for once. Not deep things. Deep was an unreasonable expectation.

  “You want to sit at the table? I’ll bring you a little bit of everything.”

  Curt pushed his glasses up and shrugged. “Sure.” He heaved himself up from the sofa, seeming very tired with the way he rolled his shoulders, and started for the table.

  “Oh, uh…Curt?”

  “Yeah?”

  She willed her tone to be nonchalant and somehow managed. “I should have asked before so I’d know what to do about breakfast. Are you spending the night?”

  He raised both eyebrows, a reaction that informed her unequivocally that he had given it absolutely no thought.

  Backpedal! “It’s a long drive back, and I guess I didn’t think about how late you’d be here. It’s okay if you w
ant to crash on my sofa–”

  “Or in your bed?” he asked, voice flat, expression blase.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it without saying a word. He hadn’t done anything beyond saying aloud what she’d been thinking. “If you want,” she managed.

  “Only if you’re going to be in it with me, or have you forgotten you owe me certain carnal favors?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I just didn’t want to push you too fast. Wouldn’t do for you to wake up feeling like a slut tomorrow.”

  Now he laughed so hard his shoulders shook and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.

  How old is he? Suddenly, her guess seemed off.

  “You gonna make me a slut, darlin’? Can’t wait to see what that involves.”

  Air cleared, she relaxed a bit and continued loading plates, not that she thought she could eat a single bite.

  “That looks wonderful,” he said as she set a plate in front of him. “Do you cook this way often?”

  She shook her head and pushed her food across her plate rather than lifting it to her mouth. “Every now and then I get in the mood for some comfort food and I cook and cook and cook, then there’s so much waste. It’s nice to have someone to feed.”

  “No family in the area?”

  “No. Most of my US family is in Miami. Out of all my siblings, I really only talk to one of my sisters and even that’s dependent on how the stars are aligned. She likes to run her mouth to my parents, and frankly it’s none of their business what I…”

  Are his eyes glazing? Shut up.

  “I ramble. Sorry.”

  He stared wordlessly as he chewed, then set his fork down.

  She held her breath, knowing down to her guts he was going to ask something she didn’t have the words to answer. Perhaps some follow-up about her isolation or a query about what wasn’t her sister’s business to spread around. He seemed to think better of it, though, because he raked his hair back from his eyes and retrieved his fork without comment.

  Huh. She took his silence as a blessing, and changed the subject. “So, uh…math, huh? What do people do with that besides accounting?”