Night Pleasures. Jule McBride
in Eleanor’s liquid blue eyes made Edison regret sleeping with her seven years ago. Chalk it up to a Christmas office party when he’d been young, green and still getting his feet wet at IBI. He’d been wearing the proverbial lampshade on his head, and Eleanor, who’d been an administrator in another division, had looked like a million bucks. Edison never imagined he’d wind up transferred to her division years later, and now he counted himself lucky that she’d recently gotten married.
“You’ve always proved yourself unusually intuitive,” she purred, her marriage doing nothing to curb the seductive tone she used with Edison. “Early on, I learned to trust your instincts. They’re so…animal. Even the president was impressed by how you arrested that Venezuelan last week.”
“I’ve got a feeling a big deal’s about to go down,” Edison said, turning a deaf ear to her flattery. “Can’t you put Tom on this Selena Silverwood thing? Or Steve? Or Gary Hughes? Didn’t Hughes crack the codes that exposed all the new military installations in Syria?”
“Gary’s good,” admitted Eleanor. “But you’re better. And the president was impressed by the laptop case.”
More like the lapdog case. While retrieving data from laptop computers stolen from overseas dignitaries, Edison had caught a Venezuelan official smuggling out information about American spies. When the man and his wife were nabbed, Edison wound up with the wife’s dog.
“Did anyone adopt that puppy dog?” asked Eleanor.
“Puppy. Dog. I think that’s redundant,” remarked Edison.
Eleanor chose to ignore the grammar lesson. “Didn’t you put an ad in the paper?”
“It appeared beside one of the suspicious classifieds I need to research,” Edison lied, raking a hand through thick, tousled raven hair as he redirected the conversation. “And no. Nobody in their right mind would adopt that dog.”
Eleanor softened. “How is Marshmallow?”
“Still alive. And I’m calling him M.”
“Cute,” returned Eleanor. “Like in the James Bond movies.”
A sterling tag dangling from a scarlet collar had identified the dog, which looked like a four-pound marshmallow that had survived a whirlwind trip through a high-speed blender. At the Venezuelan dignitary’s house, before coming home with Edison, the dog had licked Edison’s face and cuddled. Since then he’d urinated on carpets, humped the leg of a Friday night date, gnawed Edison’s favorite moccasins and exhibited dietary habits that excluded everything but filet mignon, cooked rare.
“Edison,” Eleanor continued now, “we value your time and realize you require no supervision. You are your own boss here. However, CIIC alerted us to—”
“CIIC wants me to investigate Selena Silverwood?”
“As I said,” Eleanor assured him, “we’d never waste your time.”
“While at work, Ms. Silverwood’s been writing in a personal diary that CIIC believes could be in code,” added Newton. “She might be using the book to smuggle out information, which is why they need your input.”
Carson tightened the knot of his tie, looking concerned. “What if this potential theft is related to those classified ads about bondage you mentioned?”
Against his better judgment, Edison got interested, rolled out a chair and seated himself. He glanced around the conference table. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Edison noticed Eleanor tried not to look openly victorious as she reached toward a built-in console under the table and dimmed the overhead light. As a wall panel slid back to expose a screen, she lifted a remote control device and began clicking through a series of black-and-white slides, mostly still shots taken from video cameras hidden inside IBI.
“Selena Silverwood,” she said. “Thirty years old. Class B security clearance. Employed eight months at IBI, and previously by civilian companies.”
“You’re kidding,” Edison muttered, squinting at the screen. Any information he’d need would be in Selena Silverwood’s file, right down to her bra and panty sizes, so he ignored Eleanor’s ensuing monologue and attended to his personal impressions. And they were personal, he realized as a swift, unexpected pang claimed his groin. He quickly registered that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, though he couldn’t fathom why he cared, since he was used to the gorgeous, confident, manor-born types who liberally populated the Washington circuit.
Selena Silverwood was as tall as those women—at least five-ten—but the inward curve of her shoulders was calculated to hide her statuesque height, which meant long-boned limbs that could have made her as graceful as a panther seemed to hang from her frame like an oversize suit. She was definitely going out of her way not to be noticed, but was she a spy? Or simply lacking in self-confidence?
Edison shook his head, thinking she wouldn’t be the first assistant to compensate for low wages by stealing. As another slow, inexplicable sensual tug morphed into a dull, heavy ache, he wondered if her hair was red or brown, and how she was really shaped under the loose, flowing dresses she favored. Maybe she intrigued him because she could easily look prettier than she did, he decided. But why didn’t she try? And how would she act with a man? Grateful for the attention, he thought. She’d be easy on him if he was late, or forgot to call, or wasn’t johnny-on-the-spot when it came to sending flowers—something that brought out Edison’s protective instincts. He could easily imagine her being taken in by the kind of guy who took advantage, and there was something so damn vulnerable about her….
“Eleanor, get serious,” he forced himself to say, cutting off his thoughts and tearing his eyes from Selena’s picture. “She’s a natural-born wallflower. She doesn’t look even vaguely criminal.”
“You’ve been fooled before,” his boss reminded him.
“Not often.” But Eleanor was right. Besides, CIIC never concerned itself with the innocent, and Edison hated traitors. Whoever his parents were, they’d abandoned him. Uncle Sam had kept him clothed and fed, and when Edison had shown talents, he’d been educated and given a job. This job. Which meant if the government wanted Selena Silverwood put under surveillance, Edison would gladly oblige.
“We want her checked out,” Eleanor said. “Thoroughly.”
From the looks of it, Selena Silverwood didn’t get thoroughly very often—a thought that was still arousing his curiosity and quickening his blood. “I’ll do my best.”
“She’s here in the IBI. complex. Building Five.”
“Fourth floor,” Newton added. “Sensitive Data Entry. You’ll be her temporary assistant.”
Edison groaned. “This is an undercover job? My typing’s hunt and peck at best.”
“You type ninety,” corrected Eleanor. “Without error.”
“A man’s hard-won skills are supposed to be celebrated, not used against him,” Edison said defensively. “Five minutes ago, I was investigating those classifieds. Now I’m demoted to typist.”
Eleanor passed him a black-bound book. “You’ll live.”
“It’s a copy of her diary,” Carson explained. “She left the original in her desk drawer one night, and it was typed and bound for your convenience.”
Edison frowned. “I work from originals. I can tell a lot from her handwriting.” Or from sleeping with her. As he pushed aside the intrusive, if pleasant, thought, Eleanor plunged into the reasons the diary had been copied, not photographed, none of which made sense to Edison. Glancing down at the book, he wondered about the contents. Probably the usual—crushes on unattainable bosses, nights playing board games with the girls. If the woman had a boyfriend, he’d be an accountant or a stockbroker. Something safe and steady. Definitely not a spy.
Stifling a yawn over the anticipated boredom, Edison fixed his gaze on Selena