Skin Tight (8 page)

Thus dismissed, Mia went back to work with more questions than answers. That was going to cause no end of trouble, because she’d never been good at leaving things alone.

He read the
e-mail twice.

It was rare anyone could perplex him, but Mia Sauter had succeeded again.
In summer, the song sings itself.
Not code, for it was comprehensible, unless there was another meaning in the letters.
An anagram?

 

He wasted a good five minutes on them, each more nonsensical than the last. Next, he considered alternate languages, before deciding there was nothing to it. Then he tried to put it from his mind.

Failed.

Eventually he gave in to temptation and Googled the phrase, not expecting it to be so simple. But it was: a fragment of a poem by William Carlos Williams. He had no idea what he was meant to extrapolate from it, if anything.

He could hear Mia saying,
Sometimes a poem is just a poem.

He knew he had a tendency to make things complicated, webs inside webs. It came from long years spent living in someone else’s skin. But when he looked at her, something inside him insisted it could be simple, elemental, just a man and a woman.

Before he could rethink the impulse, he replied:
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
Though she would have no idea he meant it as a compliment, she’d find the source faster than he had. Her problem-solving techniques were more direct, but no less effective.

That done, he forced himself to focus. He’d convinced the head of security that he needed access to the logs that said who went where, how long they stayed there, and what time they swiped in and out of the building. He said it was to verify payroll on the hourly employees, but that was a cover for his real interest. Sooner or later, he’d find someone interesting going into the labs, and then—

Oh, it couldn’t be.

Mia’s name practically leapt off the list. On staff a week and she’d already gained access. Dammit, he should’ve gotten a job in IT instead. No point in self-recrimination—he’d simply have to alter his plans. If necessary, he could tell her a portion of the truth. She was the sort of woman who could be inflamed by talk of injustice and cruelty, so a small portion of the truth might suffice.

There was no getting around it. He’d have to make use of her. He just wished the words didn’t summon such a luscious mental picture.

Her e-mail came in a few seconds later.
Sir Francis Bacon. Though I do confess I had to search. Admit it, I stumped you with WCW. And so here’s another: O for a life of sensations rather than thoughts.

More poetry, he thought. The Internet confirmed it. John Keats this time. He found the quotes she chose illuminating, more than she might realize. The last one came from a woman too often bound by her intellect; her cleverness left her on the outside, looking in. He’d often played the role of observer, but for different reasons.

Knowing there would be a record of it, he nevertheless sent the reply with no more than a second’s hesitation.
Keats. I’ll give the next quote in person. Dinner at 7?

The rest of the list offered nothing particularly helpful. He had no contact with anyone else who came and went inside the labs, nor any reason to think they might be open to bribery or coercion. No, Mia was his best bet.

He did find a few people trying to fudge their payroll sheets, however. If it were up to him, he’d let such small crimes go unpunished, but he was playing the role of Thomas Strong, straight arrow. He’d often wondered how Strong had found himself in circumstances that led to him being blown up. Before his trip to Moscow, the man had never done anything remotely interesting, as far as he could tell. He chose his skins well in that regard—nothing of interest, nothing memorable. The few occasions where he’d run into someone who knew the person he was impersonating, their expectations had immediately aligned. Most people had disgustingly weak minds and would accept almost anything, as long as it was plausible and didn’t contravene their understanding of the world.

Though he told himself he wasn’t watching the inbox, he found himself doing precisely that in between tasks that couldn’t wait. It was incredibly annoying to work according to someone else’s requirements.

It took the rest of the afternoon for her to reply.
Seven it is.
She’d also attached a map to a local restaurant. He printed that off and tucked it in his briefcase. How he hated the trappings of this life. The monotony was worse than pretending to be the ruthless, efficient Addison Foster; he’d almost enjoyed that incarnation in comparison.

Just before the end of the day, Todd popped into the doorway of his office. “We’ve wrapped up the evaluations, but I wonder if you could spare Glenna a little longer. I have some special projects I’d like her to work on.”

“As long as she’s willing.”

“She is. She mentioned you were thinking about letting her fill in for Mary?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” He was curious whether Todd would evaluate Glenna honestly or try to keep her trapped beneath him forever.

The bastard hedged. “I don’t know. I haven’t worked closely with her long enough to be sure. Maybe you’d like me to write up my thoughts at the end of next week? Our project should wrap up by then.”

Strong offered a false smile full of bonhomie. “Sounds great! I’ll expect it then. Anything else?”

“Nope. Have a good evening.” The ginger-haired slug slid out into the hallway, no doubt congratulating himself on snagging a personal assistant.

It was a day for visitors. Mary came in next, shy and tentative with a bulging belly. She was a good worker, but she kept to herself most days and put up with more crap from Todd than he thought wise. Officially, he didn’t know about any of it, and he wouldn’t interfere unless somebody forced his hand.

“Have a seat,” he said, propping his elbows on the desk in what he privately called his
confide in me
pose. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if I could split Todd’s time with Glenna,” she mumbled in a rush. “I have a lot to get finished in the next few weeks, and I could really use her help more—”

“Sure.”

“I don’t see—What?”

“I said it’s fine. Fill out the paperwork, and I’ll sign off on it. If Todd gives you any trouble, send him to me. It makes sense for you to work with her anyway, if she’s going to fill in for you while you’re out.”

This was just the kind of thing he enjoyed. He’d created a tiny pocket of tension, opposing factions, and the prize at the center. Glenna might even appreciate being considered such. Now he could sit back and watch to see who wanted her the most. It would also probably boost Glenna’s self-esteem. It meant answering his own phone for a little longer, but he was enjoying the respite from her relentless efficiency.

To his dismay, her eyes filled. “Thank you so much. I’m so tired lately, and even though my doctor said I should be over the nausea by now, I still can’t keep anything down.” She gulped audibly, making him think she might upchuck on his desk if she didn’t calm down.

He withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket and passed it to her. “Try saltines and ginger ale before you get out of bed in the morning.”

That had been the only thing that righted his wife’s persnickety digestive system. Too clearly, he remembered bringing them to her in bed. How her wan face lit up and she’d whisper, “Thank you, James.”

James, the man she thought she’d married. Time after time, it broke his heart, until the pieces became too small even to be called dust. He’d thought everything worthwhile, though, when she gave him Lexie.

When he held his daughter for the first time, or when she called him “Dada” and she knew who she was talking to, nothing had ever been so precious.

He listened to Mary’s distress with impassive kindness, because that was the sort of thing Thomas Strong would do. And then he offered to let her take tomorrow off, make it a long weekend, and come back refreshed on Monday.

“You’re the best,” she said, brightening. “This won’t happen again, I swear.”

By the time he got rid of Mary Thompson, his mood had dropped into the abyss, drowning in memories. Regardless, he couldn’t let it slow him down; he had a “date.”

He shook his head at the absurdity of it and went to make himself ready.

Mia was ridiculously
nervous.

She shouldn’t have played his e-mail games or responded to his dinner invitation. He’d already taught her he couldn’t be trusted, but if nothing else, she was, at least, prepared for his tricks this time. She’d always been too curious for her own good, and she needed to figure out what he wanted from her.

There was no point fooling herself. This wasn’t a date; he was going to try to use her. Once she figured out his intentions, then she’d decide how to proceed. It might be possible for her to get some value out of him as well.

Taking a deep breath, Mia stepped out of her rented Ford Focus and ran a hand through her hair. She hoped he didn’t read too much into the way it spilled around her shoulders. Her outfit was casual but attractive: black skirt paired with a red sweater. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard.

The Village Inn was a popular eatery, according to the area guidebook. The number of vehicles seemed to bear out the claim. This was an old tavern, modernized discreetly so it retained its charm. She liked the pale stone and the small brass sign, as opposed to neon.

She scanned the parking lot, but she didn’t see his car. No point in waiting around—it was getting dark. It made more sense to head inside and grab a table.

Within, the Village Inn was even more inviting, reminiscent of an Irish pub with its gleaming woodwork and whimsical sketches on the walls. A fresh-faced young woman greeted her with a smile. “Hi there, how many tonight?”

“Two. I’m meeting someone—” She broke off when a man rose in the next room, beckoning her. “Never mind, he’s already here.”

The hostess grinned. “Oh, him. He’s
cute
.”

Mia would use many adjectives in describing the man she’d known as Addison Foster, and knew now as Thomas Strong, but cute was not one of them. For the first time, she wondered what other people saw when they looked at him. If he ever committed a crime, trying to get a description witnesses agreed on might prove difficult.

Attempting to look confident, she crossed the dining room and slid into the booth opposite him. She couldn’t help but note that he’d changed after work. He wore a dark blue dress shirt, open at the throat, and a pair of dove gray trousers. No jewelry, but he’d put on a touch of cologne, something with notes of cedar and citrus, and it was so good, her toes curled inside her shoes.

“I didn’t think you were here yet,” she said by way of greeting.

“New car. I upgrade whenever I . . . relocate.” His explanation sounded innocuous enough—only she would catch the nuances.

“What are you driving now, then?” Knowing that would come in handy.

He pointed out the tinted window. “See the platinum Infiniti?”

“You’ve a G37? It’s gorgeous.”

His lips curved slightly. “You like it? Maybe I’ll take you for a ride.”

“I priced them. They’re not as expensive as they look.” The car
looked
sinfully luxurious, something a rich playboy might drive. Mia supposed the vehicle went along with his role in upper management, a car carefully chosen to augment his status.

The waitress, a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, stopped by their table with two menus. She wore a pair of jeans and a yellow polo shirt that said “Village Inn” on the front. “Our specials tonight are cream of potato soup, chicken kiev, and stuffed mushrooms. Can I start you off with some drinks or an appetizer, or both?”

“You like mushrooms?” At Mia’s nod, he told the girl, “We’ll start with the stuffed mushrooms and a good bottle of Pinot Noir.”

After jotting down the order, the waitress hurried toward the kitchen. The place was nearly full, making Mia glad he’d arrived early enough to get a booth. It was a quirk, but she hated sitting out in the center where she felt like everyone was staring. There was no reason they would anymore, of course. In her current life, she wasn’t a freak with a 160 IQ, whose mother couldn’t afford decent clothing. These days, she dressed well, and she didn’t attract untoward attention, but she still preferred the quiet, cozy comfort of a booth.

Mia arched a brow. “What if I don’t drink?”

“Then I’ll have the whole bottle, and you must drive me home.” His slight smile curved a bit wider. “But please don’t take advantage of me.”

All right, this wasn’t going at all as she’d expected. He’d discarded the razor edge she associated with him and become someone she didn’t recognize. Tonight he seemed . . . playful, and it unnerved her.