Insecure (2 page)

She got that way with anyone she wanted to. “Wasn't happy with the way I set up the shareholder vote registration.”

“The keypads?”

“No, the, ah.” Crap, this is what he needed a cover story for. “The pre-vote polling.” The whole pre-meeting polling was his idea. Nolan was only going to want to own it if it was successful.

“Yes, well that was perhaps a little too innovative.”

Nolan hitched his pants. He wore a suit like it was a sack of cement. He managed to look dusty, and the pockets of his coat stuck out at odd angles. He didn't wear the IT team's usual jeans and shirt look any more sartorially, but he looked less awkward, less like he was his own father.

“But what was her problem with it? She signed off on it.”

Mace scratched his head. Nolan was a buzz kill at the best of times. He could probably blow him off, but that'd take more effort than humouring him. He knew he could do it by simply calling Jacinta a control freak—or a bitch. It's what he'd have done fifteen minutes ago if she hadn't looked him in the eye and told him she wanted totally out of the blue no strings sex that'd lit him up like hot neon. Now that felt wrong. Not that it'd ever been right to slander her, but now there was some kind of honour; the rough deference to a person he was about to one night stand with because she'd had a bad day, it was vaguely possible the world might end, and he was in the right place at the right time.

“She read me the riot act over the permission sign-off.”

Nolan jerked his head and added a sprinkle of dandruff to his shoulders. “Didn't you have legal clear that?”

“She wasn't satisfied I disclosed all the detail.” Nolan had no way of knowing if this was true but it sounded like the kind of cowboy stunt Mace would pull. It had the merit of being entirely bogus should he decide to check up.

“Mason, you can't muck about with legal. They don't like surprises.” Nolan scrubbed his face, his hair was natural electric shock and his five o'clock shadow was contributing to his just slept in look. “How many times have I stressed that? Good planning equals no emergencies.”

Mace rubbed his jaw. He'd snatched a shower and shave after a quick gym session at lunchtime before he'd had to swap into his suit and be at the meeting venue. He'd love to switch the suit for his jeans again but he had less than twenty minutes to ditch Nolan, finish the pack-down and make it to the car park, or he might as well go home and work on Ipseity. He didn't feel like working tonight. He felt like shaking the severe out of the Princess to see if she was just as tense when she was naked and underneath him.

He wondered if she drank. God, he hoped so. He could do with a drink. Or two. It wasn't only that weeks of work had gone to waste, it was why they had.

The shadow shock of the explosion still rang in his ears. He was having trouble processing it. It was like a scene out of a B-grade action flick: an enormous blast they'd felt in their feet, an unearthly quiet, and then the screaming and the sirens.

They said it was an underground gas main. Five killed, seven unaccounted for, scores hurt. According to the early news reports, the fire would wipe out a block of prime real estate before they got it under control. Half the city was cordoned off. It'd taken two hours for the cops to give the hotel the all clear to allow guests to move in and out. Two hours too late for the meeting to take place, too late to meet the takeover deal deadline. They were lucky they weren't in the blast zone. It could've been so much worse. It could've been—yeah, best not to think about it. He needed to call Buster, and Jesus, he needed a drink.

The flashing red and blue lights of the emergency services team were still reflected in the hotel's glass walls. The sirens had stopped but you could smell the smoke. It'd happened right in their change pocket, too close to grasp.

“Are you listening to me, Mason?”

It was an evolutionary miracle Nolan existed.

“Let it go. She was upset about the meeting.” He didn't know how much of Jacinta's career was riding on the success of the takeover, but judging from the way the chairman and the rest of the board reacted, and the way Malcolm tore into her in public, Mace figured it was enough to make you feel like doing something stupid.

Something monumentally stupid—with him.

Nolan flapped an arm. “Do you think it's safe out there? I mean, there's no way the cops would let us leave if it wasn't. Jeez, I still can't believe how close we were.”

Mace snapped the lid shut on the last packing case. The useful thing about Nolan was he excelled at answering his own questions.

“Come for a drink, Mason.”

“Let me stow this gear.” He'd stow the gear for courier pick-up Monday, but he wouldn't see Nolan again till he had to, and by the time he did, he'd have earned firefighter status of a whole new kind.

Or need a new job.

Jacinta leant on the hood of the roadster. She didn't look up from her phone screen till Mace was in front of her. Without a word she pointed the fob at the car and the doors unlocked.

He lifted both hands; he needed the boot opened for somewhere to put his laptop and bag. She had the car started before he got in the passenger seat. It was a sweet ride, worth a hundred times what he had in the bank. And for that you got two seats, and not enough leg room for someone who scraped up against six two.

At the car park entrance, he got another look at the street. A kind of organised anarchy bathed in an orange glow, uniforms everywhere, police tape and barricades, foam, those flashing lights casting carnival colours. A cop in riot gear stopped them for no discernible reason then waved them on.

Beyond the blast zone, the streets were deserted; though it was early, the usual Friday night crowds had disappeared as the smoke clouds rolled in. He took his tie off, pocketed it and opened his collar. She pressed a button on the dash and the car roof folded down, it took less than twenty seconds and they were part of the eerie glow of the night. He might've been in the Batmobile. She drove it like it was a heap of shit, throwing it around corners, gunning it too fast. He'd have asked her where the fire was except that was idiotic.

She was headed towards the harbour. More people about this end of the city, but still the usual Friday crowds were thinned out. Eerie. The explosion, of course, and then he remembered the marathon tomorrow. That made another police barricade in front of them more about procedure than panic. This street, this end of the city would be locked down for the fun run, residents only in and out.

She pulled over and the purr of the engine was the sound of privilege. The cop eyed the roadster. He hated it; hated them for being in it, while he stood in the street and got a sore back taking rollcall, missing the real action at the other end of the city. You could see it in the lift at the edge of his lips, disapproval. He held his hand out for Jacinta's licence.

“You live here, Ms Wentworth?” He jerked his head to indicate the building in front of them. A converted warehouse, swanky, like the car, like her.

“Yes.”

“Will you be leaving again?”

“Will it be a problem if I do?”

He didn't respond. Made some note on his tablet. Officious bastard.

“Officer, is there a problem?”

He ignored her, lifted his chin to Mace. “And you are?”

She jumped in. “My evening's entertainment.”

Shit
.

The cop snickered. Fucking snickered, like Mace was a rent boy, well thanks for that. Was she worth it? He could be out of the car and gone in seconds. Screw his duffel bag. He shifted, fingers to the door latch, but he wasn't going anywhere without his laptop.

Her hand went to his thigh. “I'm so sorry.” She dropped her head as though she might be.

The cop had someone looking under the car with mirrors on long poles. The breeze off the foreshore was cool, funky with brine and the foggy, oily smell of the ferry; better than the smoke. It stirred the fine hairs that had come out of her bun. He surprised himself by putting his hand to the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and sighed. She'd a crap day. The failure was all on her despite the circumstance. No one was going to excuse that. Millions were lost today on her watch. He wasn't going anywhere yet.

The cop tapped the windshield and waved them on. She turned into the next driveway, swiped an access card for a security door. She parked in a wide bay and left the roof down. They got out.

“I plan on getting drunk. I assume you'll join me. There's a bar we can walk to around the corner.”

That suited him and a few drinks would hopefully take the starch out of her. He followed her up a flight of fire escape stairs and out onto the street. She undid her jacket and took it off. Underneath was a dress, not a skirt. Fitted like a sheath; utterly demure and fucking lethal, the way it outlined her body. If he wasn't already thirsty, the sight of her would've curled his tongue.

She walked slightly ahead of him and had to turn back to be heard. “It's so hot. The runners are going to feel it tomorrow if it doesn't cool down.”

It was a normal conversational sentence. It required a normal conversational response. It's just that Mace didn't do normal conversation. The stuff they'd said earlier, that was his quota of wit for the year. He hoped she knew that about him already, but maybe not. She was looking at him expectantly. If he was Dillon, he'd have had something useful to say to fill the silence, some plausible race stat he'd made up, some quip about the weather that might not make sense but would lubricate the situation. But he was an IT geek, he didn't do clever banter, he didn't do social. As a rule, he didn't do conversation either. Mostly that didn't appear to matter and when alcohol was involved people were happy enough to talk at you.

He all purposed it. “Yeah.”

She laughed in his face.

He'd never heard her laugh before, never seen what it did to her. Opened her up like a treasure chest, all the wealth of her glittered in her eyes, across her cheeks, off her lips. Those riches could make any man lose the power of speech. He grinned at her.

“You're dumb but cute, Mace.”

He found some words and strung them in a line. They were an echo from their conversation in the hotel, nothing original about them. “Do you usually seduce with compliments?”

She grabbed him by the shirt front, pulled their bodies together and kissed him. That shocked a grunt out of him. He might be dumb, but he wasn't stupid. He palmed the back of her head and returned the kiss, his other hand wrapping around her, holding her length hard against him. She let go of his shirt and circled his neck. She tasted of coffee and breath mint and a night of rare, strange appeal.

Someone catcalled and he let go of her.

She leaned against him. “I liked that.”

It was out there. “I liked it too.”

She laughed. “That's useful.”

She took his hand and led him down the street to the bar, crowded, thankfully loud. The kind of place you had to shout to be heard or shut up. His kind of place because he could pull the strong silent type shit and get away with it. He found them a corner. They drank shots. He had to admire that. She was going to get drunk quickly. So was he if he tried to keep up. He was out of practice.

The place was full of talk about the explosion. It was as good a reason as any to let Jacinta press against him, run her hands over him. It was the best kind of talk and not hard to pay attention. Now she tasted of liquorice and Jagermeister and her body had lost its steel-edged stiffening. He pulled her out of there before either of them found it too difficult to get motivated.

Outside it had cooled down and she wobbled on her heels and laughed at herself. He caught her arm and righted her. “How drunk are you?”

“Enough.”

“Enough to want me to take you home and stay, or just take you home?”

“I can't make you want to stay.”

Yeah. She. Could. Like this, loose, relaxed, laughing at herself, her hair falling out of its twist; she could make him do just about anything. They went back in through the fire stairs and he retrieved his bags from the car. She took her shoes off, suddenly so much shorter, younger. He might've picked her up so she didn't ruin her stockings, but he was loaded up, and drunk enough dropping her was a real possibility.

They kissed in the elevator, a little sloppy, a lot of tongue. She giggled, actually giggled and dropped her keys twice at her front door. Swank, so much swank in just the corridor, the brass railings and distressed concrete, the old polished marble and tile, and glass walls clean as air, floating in space.

When he finally got inside it sobered him up some. “Fuck.” Serious money was laid down on this place. There was the harbour spread out, watching them, huge open plan room, ceiling way up there, red pipes and metal beams.

“Something wrong?” she said.

“Nope.”

“I live alone.”

Good to know. That eliminated awkwardness in the morning, awkwardness now, because this would make him feel out of place if he wasn't juiced. That was some kitchen, all smooth surfaces, the inner workings hidden behind glossy fascias. Beyond it a dining room, a table you could seat a football team at. The TV was a kind of wall of its own and the furniture leather, lustrous, designer chic and retro fabulous. There was a chair hanging from the ceiling. There was a piano with its lid open.

It wasn't unusual that the homes of women he slept with were nicer than Buster's bungalow, but they'd never been this. This was a magazine layout—lifestyles of the rich and famous.

He put his bags down, took his coat off and laughed.

“You're so easily amused.”

“You own this place?”

“The company does.” She gave a wobbly curtsy. “I'm here by the good graces of the great Malcolm Wentworth.”