Wired (5 page)

When I looked behind me, I still couldn't see a thing. In that direction there might as well have been a black curtain an inch in front of my face.

I swiped at my eyes with my forearm, for some reason afraid to let the droplets of sweat beading on my face fall to the floor. I don't know why I assumed something bad was ahead of me, or behind, but what about the things I'd experienced recently could really be described as good?

You've got to get out of here
.

Too late for that. I froze with my hand flat on the wall and stared at the figure of a man sitting casually
in the reception area. He was facing me. And if he could see into the thick black I was standing in, he was also watching me.

Mason would have called out. Mason would have said something. This wasn't Mason's body language, either. I stood there, breathing as shallowly as possible, squinting at the outline of the man's body. One leg was crossed over his opposite knee. He held a cigarette in his hand, in an aristocratic curl of his fingers. He sat there, his face hidden in shadow while the rest of him bloomed in pale gold light.

Definitely not Mason. I barely managed to swallow.

The man stood up. He remained silent for a few moments, just smoking. He exhaled a thin ribbon of gray, and the spicy smoke wafted down the distance between us, curling around my body like a rope sent out to reel me in.

“Leonardo Kaysar,” he finally said. Then he bowed.

Nice suit. Tie. White cuffs. Cuff links. British accent. No question. “Leonardo Kaysar,” I repeated in a whisper.

Then I braced myself for the danger Mason had foretold.

A wave of claustrophobic angst swept over me as I huddled against the wall in the darkness staring at Leonardo. “You've got the wrong girl,” I blurted.

He took a drag, looking at me from under lazy lids. “I don't think so,” he said.

I gauged the distance between him, me, and the door, recognizing that it would be impossible to get out before he'd tackled me to the floor.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, all bravado.

He shrugged. “Your work.”

“What work? Describe it and I'll see if I can think of anything I've done that would fit. There's nothing I've worked on worth my life.”

“I can't describe it in any way that would be meaningful to you, I'm afraid.”

“Why not?”

“Because you haven't written it yet.”

I was taken aback. “I don't consider myself particularly slow, but I don't even begin to fathom whatever
it is you're talking about. If I haven't written it yet, then it doesn't exist.”

Leonardo smiled politely. “I completely agree. It doesn't exist. Yet.”

Really, the only thing to do was laugh hysterically and hope this joker would follow suit. Unfortunately, my hideous horse laugh was met by only an arched eyebrow and complete silence. The guy was serious. As serious as Mason had been when he'd said that odd thing about it being my future Leonardo wanted.

Leonardo Kaysar shrugged, flicking the stub of his cigarette onto the floor. He walked toward me; I stepped back.

“Brilliant,” I said. “So, how about I leave now . . . and you give me a ring sometime later after I've written . . . it.”

He continued moving in on me. I continued moving backward.

“I prefer to take a proactive approach to things,” he said. “Especially when I'm working opposite Mason Merrick.”

“You've worked together before?”

“Not together,” he replied, his voice suddenly clipped and his face shutting out all emotion. “Against. We've met on several other cases.”

“Other cases? Am I a case?” I asked, the last word getting a bit drowned out by the fear clogging my throat.

“Mason spends most of his time trying to thwart me. I run off ahead; he follows.”

But that didn't answer the question I'd just asked. I watched him curiously, but he gave me nothing
more to work with. “What's the point of running when you don't know what you're chasing?” I asked.

He reached out to me and instinctively I turned to bolt, but I was no match. He moved so fast I didn't have time to take a breath. One hand around my waist, he pulled me back, holding me fast against the length of his body.

I pulled fruitlessly at the fingers he'd hooked into one shoulder like metal teeth. Leonardo Kaysar was the quintessential iron fist in a velvet glove. While the fist scared me to death, the velvet ignited my skin. I swallowed hard; he touched my trembling hand and curled his fingers around mine.

The intimacy sent a shiver up my spine. I gasped. Just a tiny sound, but one that exposed my strange attraction to him. Obviously this was nothing more than a carefully crafted seduction; if I was really his and Mason's “case,” Leonardo had undoubtedly researched me. Me, and my weaknesses.

I stood paralyzed as his lips brushed my ear.

“The point of running when you don't know what you're chasing,” he said, “is to be at the destination before everybody else when you finally figure it out.”

He tipped my face back. “Roxanne,” he murmured, and it seemed as if the wheels in his brain were turning, trying to figure out what to do with the moment.

Everything in me screamed danger. I tried to pull away, suddenly frantic to escape. “You're hurting me!”

“Stop struggling and it won't hurt a bit.”

I stilled, and though he was as good as his word and didn't pull or force, he still held me close.

“If I haven't written what you're looking for, why am I important to either of you?” I asked.

“You're on the wire,” he said simply. “You were next in line. And it's finally come down to you. You're the new Major.”

What?

“I have no idea what you're saying,” I said, managing to feel a lot of dread nonetheless. “I'm the new Major? Meaning what?”

“Meaning that what you wrote . . . you simply haven't written yet. Mason will try to prevent you from writing it—or if you do, to prevent you from letting me have it.”

“You've got the wrong girl. I don't work on anything that could possibly be of interest to you. I do things like set up databases or create web templates for boring corporations. That sort of thing. And that's it. This is just an employment agency for freelance geeks.”

“I
don't
have the wrong girl,” Leonardo purred.

I blinked, confused and panting. “You do,” I croaked. “People like me work freelance so we get to pick our own hours and take as many or as few jobs as we like. It's totally low-key. What I'm doing, what I have done or am likely to do, won't come close to changing the world. I mean, it's not like I work for a weapons company or something.”

“How can you be sure what you do?” he whispered. “This isn't so bad, is it, Roxanne? You've been dying for a little excitement in your world. Dying for it and fearing it all at once. You don't have to be afraid anymore.”

I turned my head away, drawn against my will. My
skin burned everywhere. I swallowed, trying to close myself off from the implication that his spy act somehow aroused me. “You and Mason. What makes you think I'll give either of you want you want?”

He eased up and let me slip away. I slowly turned around, making an effort to look like I still had all my shit together.

He chuckled softly. “I appreciate your moxie. Really, I do. I find it very appealing. A very American characteristic, moxie.”

“You like my moxie, do you? Well, then how about this—tell me what the fuck is going on here or you're not getting a goddamn thing from me.” Of course, even as I said my piece, I was completely terrified. The fact that this man turned me on hardly made him less dangerous. Maybe more so.

Way to go, Rox
. I closed my eyes and waited for him to get violent. He took handfuls of my jacket and pulled me tightly against him. Then, in a voice dripping with contempt, he said: “Did Mason explain anything to you?”

“No. And let me guess; you won't either.”

“Of course I will,” he said. “Since the time of the altercation, you've been experiencing quite a lot of confusion, jumbles, mismatched memories, and blind spots.”

Yes
. I found myself shuddering. I nodded.
Oh, God, please tell me there's a reasonable explanation
.

“What it is, is entirely natural and to be expected. Until this . . . situation is resolved, you will, indeed, experience memories that seem out of place or that don't match up with your expectations or current understanding. You will also find yourself in places you
don't expect, or perhaps you will think you remember something that happened long ago but doesn't seem possible with what you now know to be true. My advice to you is to just try to accept—accept, and simply let things happen.”

“You mean keep an open mind?” I asked sarcastically, recalling Mason's seemingly cryptic words.

“Precisely. Everything will smooth out eventually. Regardless of how confusing things seem.”

I waited for more information. There wasn't any.

“That's it?” My voice sank to a faint tremble. “This . . . all this is crazy. I mean, you don't think this all sounds crazy and impossible? And you haven't explained anything!”

“I can see how you might think recent events are crazy. But everything that happens is entirely possible. And entirely true.”

I found myself suspicious, even if—or maybe because—he was acting so helpful. “Mason didn't try to stuff any crap down my throat,” I said, taking a step sideways. “Maybe he didn't tell me this because
this
isn't a reasonable explanation.”

Leo shrugged. “Mason does two things. He either says nothing or he lies. Be careful what information you accept from him. And remember: There are two sides to every story. At least.”

“And your side is . . . ?” I asked.

“The truth. Doesn't it make you wonder that Mason has been keeping tabs on you for a matter of years?”

“Some people would call it flattering,” I hedged. It
did
bother me.

“Some people would call that stalking.”

Stalking. Mason warned me this guy would go there. But what if Mason knew that because it was true?

“How could he be stalking me if I haven't seen him in all this time?” I asked, unaccountably angered by my fears.

“What makes you think he hasn't seen
you
?”

“Look, the way I understand it, you tried to mug me and Mason saved me.”

“I wasn't attempting to mug you,” Leonardo said, clearly annoyed.

“Then what were you attempting?”

He opened his mouth, apparently thought better of his first answer, and ended up saying, “It was more an issue of . . . possession.”

My skin suddenly crawled. I guess the look on my face showed it.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so by now,” he said. “I don't even plan to do anything here.”

“It doesn't add up. You fight over me, grab me . . . then you find yourself in the perfect position to take me with you and you're just going to walk away? Not that I would go anywhere with you,” I added abruptly.

“It's not to my advantage,” he admitted. “I don't have a move at the moment.” Leonardo adjusted his suit jacket, shaking out several wrinkles. “So I must manufacture one. After which, I'll be back.”

I moved forward this time and grabbed his sleeve, suddenly afraid that if he left I'd never get another chance at answers. “Where is everybody . . . everything?” I waved my hand around at the empty agency.
“Did this happen because you ‘made a move'? Is that what this was?”

I followed his curious look to where I clutched his sleeve. He seemed surprised that I'd dare to touch him. Then he looked up at me, saying with a polite smile, “It was a small adjustment to counteract a rather anemic beginning on Mr. Merrick's part.”

“That says nothing and you know it.”

He stared into my eyes in response. His were very green. He stepped closer and exhaled a soft breath, and the release of air was strangely seductive against my cheek.

“Ah . . . um . . .”

He unhooked my hand and took it in his, bending down to kiss the back.
This doesn't happen in real life. Men like this don't happen in real life
. When his lips left my skin and he looked into my eyes, I felt like the most important, fascinating person in the world. That it felt so good made me want to cringe.

I found my voice, just barely. “I don't know people like you,” I gasped.

“Do you want to?”

It was a strange question to ask, and I honestly didn't know the answer. Would it be odd if I said yes? My brain might be totally scrambled here, but it wasn't so scrambled that I couldn't see and admit the truth about myself. I had no life. I had no friends. I had no family. I just had work, which lately I'd even had trouble remembering. And it had had trouble remembering me. On the face of things, Leonardo Kaysar represented the kind of something—the kind of someone—I'd fantasized about after falling asleep
in the early morning in front of movies chronicling lives I'd never lead and adventures I'd never have.

“Mason was right when he said you were a dangerous man.”

“Yes, he was,” Leonardo said with a smile. His hand fell away. “I'm dangerous to
him
.”

“Why do you guys hate each other so much?” I asked.

He turned away, then back to me. “My father was a great man,” he said incongruously. “He was intelligent and successful and all of that, but he also lived for his family.”

I swallowed hard, realizing that as much as Kaysar knew about my inner life, it shouldn't surprise me that he knew my personal history. Did he know what I would give for a father who sounded like his?