Tempt Me (12 page)

She...really, really wanted to.

His slow, expectant smile curled her toes.

“Rafe? Bailey?” Claudette called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

Taking a deep breath, Rafe stepped back. “Be right there,” he called back. “Quick. Dinner plans. Have you ever been to Haute Dish?” His voice was a low rumble, stroking her without touching.

“How about Chadden’s?” she countered. He scowled slightly, as if going to one of the best restaurants in the Twin Cities was a chore rather than a pleasure. “I think it makes sense for us to go to a restaurant we’re both familiar with.”

“Okay,” he grudgingly agreed. “I’ll pick you up here—”

“Better make that at work.” She had a Friday afternoon meeting that had a distinct possibility of going long. Then she had to get ready for their date, and most of her clothes were at Sebastiani Security, downstairs in the locker room.

What the hell was she going to wear?

“I’ll call for a table.”

“A Friday night reservation, on such short notice? You’d better let me. Chadden might tell you he’s booked until May just to yank your chain.”

He nodded. “Please bring whatever you need to stay overnight.” His slightly rough fingertip stroked along her cheekbone. “If you want to.”

She inclined her chin, acknowledging his invitation but not committing one way or the other. She wanted to, all right, but she probably shouldn’t get used to cozy overnights with Rafe Sebastiani. “Anything else I should bring? For
your
work, I mean?”

He winked. “Just your skin. Let’s go eat.”

––––––––

I
t was barely 5:30 a.m., but Crack House Coffee was doing its usual brisk business. From his position near a parking lot pillar across the street, Wyatt had a clear view of the readers, the writers, the insomniacs, and the club-going hipsters who’d closed down Underbelly a couple of hours ago and simply moved the party next door rather than brave the elements. Now, the first day-shifters and corporate drones were arriving, anxious for the hit of caffeine that would power them through a long commute and an even longer workday.

Twin lights sliced through the darkness as a black SUV pulled to the curb half a block away. There she was, right on schedule.

Hitching his black canvas messenger bag onto his shoulder, he stepped off the curb, wincing as the icy wind slapped his cheeks. A car horn beeped at him as he jaywalked. Holding up an apologetic hand, he trotted across the street to the brightly lit oasis, just in time to hold the door for the trim werewolf female. He stepped into line behind her, studying her from the rear. She wore business-like dress pants and black boots, but her Pocahontas hair spilled luxuriously over her turquoise down coat. She carried a heavy leather computer bag and one of those weekender-sized purses on one shoulder, seemingly unaware of the weight.

The guy searching her SUV right now wouldn’t find her computer in the car, but he hadn’t expected to snag such a huge a prize this early in the game. No, Cheyenne Winterbourne, network architect and the woman he’d pegged as his most promising vector into Sebastiani Labs, was
way
too smart to make such a rookie security mistake—but on the other hand, he’d been following her for well over a day and she hadn’t made him yet. He usually outsourced physical surveillance tasks, but not on this job. He couldn’t trust this one to anyone but himself.

“Your regular, Chey?” asked the barista, a burly guy with flame tattoos licking at his wrists.

“Yes, please.”

The barista turned to prepare Cheyenne’s drink, a large, non-fat caramel macchiato. He’d watched her order the same thing yesterday, from the overstuffed chair in the corner.

“Excellent taste,” he said.

She turned her head. “Sorry?”

Dusky skin, snapping dark brown eyes, slashing cheekbones. None of the pictures he’d seen came close to doing her justice. His appreciative smile was genuine. “I said, excellent taste.”

“Hi, Wyatt,” said the female barista who’d served him yesterday. “What can I get for you today?”

He pointed to Cheyenne’s drink. “I’ll have what she’s having.” As the woman flashed two fingers at the tattooed guy, Cheyenne Winterbourne looked him up and down, taking in his khaki pants, leather belt, pressed cotton oxford worn open at the neck with no tie, his slightly chunky shoes, and the faux employee badge hanging from his right pants pocket by a zip clip. Upwardly mobile technology worker, male division. She’d assess the entire package subliminally, in a split second. He’d left nothing to chance, right down to the touch of keyboard monkey slouch in his posture.

He gave her a friendly smile, interested yet not threatening. “I’m Wyatt.”

She extended her hand. “Cheyenne.”

She’d initiated a physical touch. It was a good start.

As they shook hands, he saw her give his computer bag a second look. It bore a discreet logo from The Wiretappers Ball, a surveillance technology conference he knew she’d attended last year. Between the ID badge and the bag, his pretext of working as an internet security professional should hold.

“I recently moved here. Work transfer.” He’d learned over the years not to provide too many specific details to his targets—fewer things for him to forget, and people tended to mentally fill in the blanks anyway. He gestured to the plate-glass window, to where a man walked down the sidewalk backwards, his back to the snow-spiked wind. “Have you lived here long? Maybe you can tell me what people do for fun during the months people can’t stand to go outside.” Minnesotans loved talking about their irascible weather. The way she answered his question would tell him a lot about her thought patterns, and help him adjust his vocabulary for maximum effect.

“I’ve lived here all my life. You get used to it,” she replied with a laugh, confirming what he already knew. She lived about ten blocks away, in a funky, upscale condo complex just off Hennepin Avenue that catered to single professionals. Every weekday morning, she stopped here to pick up a cup of coffee, which she drank during her long commute to Sebastiani Labs’ corporate campus in Chanhassen.

“Have you checked out the St. Paul Winter Carnival yet?”

He shook his head no. He’d lived in the Twin Cities off and on throughout his adult life, but the annual winter festival celebrating all things ice and snow simply didn’t appeal.

“Oh, it’s a blast.” Raising her voice to be heard over the hissing espresso machines, she told him about the ice sculpture contest that drew artists from all over the world, the medallion hunt with its $10,000 prize, about the legendary enmity between King Boreas and Vulcanus Rex. Her vocabulary crackled with texture and movement.

Probably a kinesthetic thinker.

They continued chatting until the tattooed guy called their names. As they picked up their drinks, she admired his scarf. “It looks so soft, and it’s almost the same color as my coat.”

More texture language. “Thanks. It
is
the same color, isn’t it?” He’d noticed her striking coat yesterday, and had bought the scarf to match. Every little connection helped.

She took a half step closer to him, probably without realizing it. Within five short minutes, he’d blown through her subconscious protective barricades at top speed, but despite his tight timeline, he knew better than to get greedy. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of the customers peering at an open laptop across the restaurant wasn’t reporting his every move to the big man in the limo. He glanced out the window with a sigh. “Well, this weather isn’t going away. I’d better get going.”

“Tough commute today, with all the ice on the roads.”

He inhaled subtly but deeply. Curiosity and sexual attraction, both were there, and the combination bubbled into him like a froth of champagne. He’d have to be careful about the curiosity; Cheyenne Winterbourne hadn’t achieved her current position of responsibility because of her stunning good looks. Despite the attraction, her expression was neutral and pleasant. There wasn’t a whiff of desperation about the prospect of never seeing him again. She had a great game face—and her nose had clearly been broken a time or two in the past, and never surgically repaired. Scrappy. He filed this away for future reference.

“Have far to drive?” she asked.

“No, not really.”

Neither of them moved. Finally, with a slightly awkward laugh, he reached into his computer bag and withdrew a fake business card. “Here,” he said. “In case you find yourself at loose ends some night, and in the mood to take pity on someone new to town.”

She shot him a deadpan look and took the card. “Oh, I doubt you’ll be lonely for long.” She tucked the card into her computer bag without looking at it. After rooting around for a couple of seconds, she found a card of her own, but instead of handing it to him, she tucked it in his jacket’s chest pocket. “See you around, Wyatt.”

She walked to the door without a backwards glance. 

He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew her card, the card she’d touched his body to give him. Cheyenne Winterbourne, Network Architect, Sebastiani Labs. There was Sebastiani Labs’ stylized globe logo, slightly raised and glinting with blue and gold. Underneath, in a smaller version of the same architectural font, were her corporate email address and three phone numbers: desk, work mobile and personal mobile.

He grinned like a kid opening presents on Christmas morning.

He had his ‘in.’

***

“I
don’t see our tail,” Rafe said to Bailey as they followed the maitre d’ past the busy bar and into Chadden’s restaurant. 

“You’re not supposed to.”

That didn’t stop him from wondering which of the many sets of eyes currently watching them might belong to operatives from Sebastiani Security. He was used to drawing a certain amount of attention—his family was high-profile, and he wasn’t stupid enough to deny that women found him attractive—but tonight, the attention felt creepy.

He’d felt creeped out ever since Bailey’s apartment had been broken into, and damn it, it was justified. It wasn’t normal to have one’s car tagged by a GPS device, or have your home swept for surveillance devices. Chico’s work had been professional and thorough, and he’d upgraded his security system on the spot. On the positive side, the subdivided building’s shared walls had passed inspection, with no signs of infiltration.

Infiltration? Such a prospect had never entered his mind, but now that it had, it wouldn’t leave. The stories that Chico had regaled him with during the long hours of work had him looking up to the corners and over his shoulder more often than he wanted to admit.

Sure, given his family’s prominent position in their culture, he took reasonable precautions, but he’d opted out of Underworld Council matters a long time ago—and the one and only time he’d gotten involved in a Sebastiani Security operation had been the night of Scarlett’s homecoming concert, a little over a year ago.

The night he’d taken advantage of Bailey.

“Relax. They’ve got us,” Bailey said, reaching back for his hand as the maitre d’ took them on a winding route through the packed restaurant.

Part of the act or not? He’d take it, either way. She’d reached back with her injured hand, and she didn’t seem to be favoring it anymore. Clasping it carefully, his eyes couldn’t help but stray to the subtle shift and sway of her slim hips under a pair of forest green wool dress pants. She was wearing heels tonight, a pair of stiletto boots that had been worthless in the snow, but did amazing things for her posture, tilting her hips forward—

“Here we are,” the maitre d’ said.

Bailey had made the reservation, and whether by choice or by chance, they were being seated at his favorite table—the cozy back table for two, close to the fireplace, and tucked away behind a partial wall of reeds, cat tails and pussy willows jutting upright from a base of brushed steel.

He held Bailey’s chair as she sat.

“Thank you.” When she crossed one leg over the other, her pants leg rose slightly, exposing the fetish-worthy arrangement of straps and buckles adorning her boot. Clearing his throat, he quickly sat down. There was no tablecloth, but the table itself would disguise his body’s reaction better than his trim, flat-front dress pants would.

“Enjoy your evening,” the maitre d’ said, withdrawing with a tiny bow.

He hadn’t had a chance to even open the wine list when a smiling waiter appeared at their table carrying two leather-backed menus tucked under his arm, two wine glasses in one hand, and a bottle in the other. “Bailey, so nice to see you tonight! And you too, Mr. Sebastiani,” he said with a respectful nod. “Welcome.”

The waiter held a bottle of the Sonoma Coast pinot noir Jack had told him was Bailey’s favorite. Chadden obviously knew they’d arrived.

“Hi, Wade.” Bailey grinned up at the waiter. “Have you gotten any email from your grandma lately?”

The waiter rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he set down the bottle and wine glasses, and handed each of them a menu. “Almost every day. Dozens of pictures of puppies and kittens. The emoticons! And the animated GIFs! Oh, the humanity.”

As Wade withdrew the cork from the bottle with deft twists of his wrist, Bailey explained to him that Wade’s grandma had recently bought her very first computer. “She’s in that phase where she emails everyone everything she thinks is cute.”

“Well, thank you for the laptop recommendation,” Wade said. Not bothering with the tasting ritual, he poured her wine.

“Glad to help.”

“Mr. Sebastiani, would you like a glass, or would you prefer to make another selection?”

“Share, by all means.” He watched the waiter pour, feeling slightly out of sorts. No, he was feeling...downright emasculated. Romantic tête-à-têtes were his forte, but tonight? Almost every aspect of the evening, other than his choice of clothing, had been completely out of his control. Bailey had chosen the night and made the reservation, scoring the best table in the house. Here was her favorite wine, delivered to the table before he could order it for her, impressing her with his knowledge. It had taken some fast talking on his part to convince her that they should drive to the restaurant together rather than simply meet there. And now, instead of holding her hand, twining their fingers together, and murmuring over the appetizer selection, Bailey was talking to their waiter about his grandma, her eyes occasionally straying to the mini-comp lying on the table next to her salad fork.