Gideon Chandler sincerely hoped the other two men in the underground room had no idea what a mess his head was in. To prevent such a discovery, he lolled back in the chair behind the old office desk and stroked a Cross pen between his fingers, slowing everything down, doing his best to project an aura of competence and calm.
He was the guy in charge, after all. For the past nine months he'd been head of the Agency for Prevention of Technological Disaster, an elite and top secret government agency that provided security for the highly classified laboratory that sat above his office. No longer merely a section supervisor, he was top dog now, the man in charge.
As such, he had just lost the lab's single most important scientist.
Not that Anja Andropov's disappearance was what was messing up Gideon this morning.
"So you're saying Walter actually saw and spoke with her at 1900 hours yesterday?" The question came from Peter Grenadine, a whipcord of a man who looked deceptively at ease as he leaned forward in his chair, his forearms on his thighs. His eyes were keen, however, and far too perceptive, as they trained on Gideon.
Gideon resisted the urge to clear his throat. "Yes, Walter saw her."
"But how could he have just let her go?" Dashwood, a.k.a. Dash, Gideon's brainiest agent, leaned his lanky form against a bookcase, his eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his wire frame glasses and his lips pursed in thought.
"Walter was supposed to protect Anja, not restrain her," Gideon explained. "She has the highest possible clearance, which means she's not considered a flight risk."
Peter tilted his head. "Could she have been abducted?"
"Possible. But not likely."
"Why not likely?"
Gideon halted the rocking motion of his chair and heaved a deep sigh. "Because I think I'm the one who frightened her into running off."
"You?" Peter sounded incredulous. Gideon was the wonder boy. He never made mistakes, or at least not big ones.
Gideon leaned forward to rest his arms on his big, scarred desk. "I told Anja it was time to take this thing into deep freeze, higher than high security. She appeared okay with the idea, but now that I look back on it — " Gideon paused. "I can see I wasn't reading the signs. She wanted to retain control. And she took it. Everything she was working on — notes, computer files, samples — is gone. There's not a drop of information about her work that's still in our possession."
Peter's brows curled. "Just how dangerous is this drug she's developed?"
"It's not a drug," Dash corrected. He made a point of keeping au courant with what was going on in the lab. "It's a vector."
Peter turned to Dash. "Can you explain that in English?"
Dash looked affronted. "I just did."
Gideon smiled. "It's a man-made virus, specially created to infect human cells with pre-selected DNA."
Peter's brows remained curled. "Which means?"
"Gene therapy. Only Anja's will probably actually work."
Peter still seemed confused. "What's dangerous about that?"
Gideon and Dash exchanged a look. "It hasn't been tested on humans yet," Gideon said, "but Anja's vector looks to be able to give a person any genes you want."
"And that means...?"
Dash took over. "It means if you have some horrible disease because your DNA is faulty, Anja's vector can give you the right DNA and cure your disease."
"Well, that sounds good. Great, in fact."
Dash's straight lips curved at the corners. "It can be. But it also means she can give you some horrible disease by injecting bad DNA."
Peter's brows uncurled and his eyes widened. "Oh." His gaze went to Gideon. "And this woman was living next door to your ex?"
Gideon could feel his teeth start to grind. "Across the backyard, and Olivia is not my 'ex.'"
"Might as well be," Peter muttered under his breath.
Dash ignored this by-play, apparently lost in an interior consideration of the various possible scenarios. He uncrossed his arms. "Do you think Anja went to the other side?"
Gideon tapped a thumb on the desk top. "We can't rule out the possibility, though I think it's dim, personally. She just wanted control." She'd muttered something about safety protocols, Gideon remembered, though he couldn't recall the details. "The fact remains that she's very dangerous, whether or not she intends it. Leaving our protection means she could be taken under the influence of God-knows-who."
"I don't even want to think about it," Peter muttered, and rubbed at a jaw that never seemed quite shaved.
"Obviously," Gideon went on, "we're attempting to track her using the usual methods. I have my entire team on it."
Dash raised an eyebrow. "Except for us."
"Except for you," Gideon agreed. The mess from which he'd temporarily been distracted began to swirl again, now in his gut. He took a moment to stare at the papers piled on his desktop before saying it. "The other way of locating Anja, and the research she took, is by working the inside angle."
That stumped them. Both of Gideon's top agents stared at him blankly.
"What inside angle?" Peter finally asked. "Anja's gone."
Gideon took a deep breath. "Yes, but her three closest friends, her neighbors, are not. They're quite available, in fact."
There was another, less stumped silence.
"Are you thinking — ?"
"She told her neighbors where she was going?"
"Or where she put her notes and samples?"
Gideon had to smile, though it was a tense, tight gesture. "Anja is obsessively private. I doubt she'd trust anyone with her plans. However..." He sucked in his lips. "I can't afford to discard the possibility."
Dash took a step toward the desk. His six-four frame tensed with eagerness, already prepared to pursue the mission. "Do you want us to interrogate the neighbors?"
"Are you kidding?" Peter shot Dash a disgusted look. "These are Anja's best friends we're talking about. Women. We can't find out anything by flashing our badges and interrogating them."
"Peter is right." Though privately Gideon wondered how Peter happened to know the gender of Anja's neighbors. Just how deeply had Peter delved into Gideon's personal business? "You'll have to work undercover, gaining the confidence of your targets without them ever knowing what you're after."
Peter was giving Gideon a very odd look. Gideon tried to forestall what was behind that look by handing each of the men a manila file folder. "Dash, we're putting you next door to Shana Taylor. The house is for sale and, though we're only renting it, you can act like you're moving in for good."
Dash opened his file on Ms. Taylor and frowned at the contents. "How am I supposed to get close to her?"
Gideon bit the inside of his cheek. Dash had the look of a confirmed monk, spiritual and ascetic. If his notes on Shana Taylor had any validity, his agent would have no problem gaining her attention. "She's a consultant, owns her own business," Gideon said aloud. "Just...hang out in the front yard. Since she works from home, going in and out all day, it shouldn't be a problem for you to strike up a conversation. You know, neighbor stuff."
Studying the file, Dash nodded solemnly. And seemed to take Gideon seriously, God help him.
"Brittany Wells looks like a tough nut," Peter remarked, scanning the slim contents of his own file. "Divorced, two kids, no custody for Dad. Any suggestions?"
"According to Walter, her house needs a coat of paint in the worst way."
"Say no more." Peter looked up, grinning. "House painter, plumber, electrician — you name it, I can fake it."
He could do better than faking, Gideon knew. Peter had worked his way through college doing all, and more, than he'd just named.
Dash looked up from his notes. "But how do you intend to go from house painter to confidante?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "Please."
"Oh, that's right." Dash snickered. "The woman hasn't been born who's immune to your charms."
Peter pointed his closed file at Dash in a 'you got it' gesture.
Dash shook his head, and then looked at Gideon. "But who's going to take the third neighbor, this — this — " He opened up his file and looked at the name. Gideon could tell when Dash's fine mind finally registered the obvious. "Olivia Chandler?" he choked.
"My wife," Gideon confirmed.
"Sort of," Peter amended.
Gideon shot Peter the darkest look in his repertoire. "We are still very married."
"Even though she lives twenty miles away from you and you haven't talked to each other in half a year?"
Gideon spoke from between clenched teeth. "She's still my wife."
Dash looked from one of them to the other with undisguised fascination. "I didn't even know you were married, Gideon."
"That's because you live in outer space," Peter commented.
"Oh, only part of the time," Dash replied with a smile. He turned to Gideon. "So, explain. If you're estranged from your wife, then how do you even intend to talk to her, let alone gain her confidence?"
Ah, but wasn't that the heart of the matter? Gideon could feel the eyes of both men trained intently upon him. He could feel his face start to burn traitorously. "I'll think of something."
Yes, if only he could think of something, something that wouldn't involve betraying the principles that had let him watch Olivia walk out on him in the first place. His principles had made him stand there, passive, even while another part of himself had been screaming to hang onto her, to hang on at any cost.
But dammit, the woman was supposed to trust him. She was supposed to believe in him. That's what marriage was all about, wasn't it?
Trust?
Gideon picked up and squeezed his Cross pen. Yes, he had his principles, but on the other hand, he was damn sick of living without her. He was sick of waking up by himself in the morning, sick of having no company but his own over the dinner table. And he was definitely sick of climbing into his cold bed at the end of the day with no Olivia to wrap her lush, warm curves about him.
"I'll think of something," Gideon said again, and shifted his gaze from the interested stares of the other two men. Yes, he'd think of something, even if all he could come up with was eating humble pie. He stifled a sigh.
At this point, it just might be worth it.
~~~
Shana braked her car and gazed out the side window as she drove up to her house on Friday afternoon.
Oh, my.
She'd just met with one of her more demanding clients, but now the tension from that conversation rolled off her shoulders. She eased her sunglasses down her nose and slowed the car so she could enjoy the view that much longer. Oh, my, my, my.
There was an extremely early Christmas present standing by the curb of the house next door to hers. He was six foot something of grown-up teenager; the bookish, soulful type, with a mousy-brown crew cut, wire frame glasses, and a well-laundered sweatshirt that said "Yale" across the front of it. With careful strokes, he was painting a name on the wooden mailbox planted amid the flowers growing just inside the curb line.
"Dee-licious," Shana murmured as she turned into her driveway. Only to avoid colliding with her garage did she switch her gaze forward. Once inside the garage, she started to grin as she slammed the gearshift into park and turned off the motor. "This might turn out to be a better day than I'd given it credit for."
She dug a tube of lipstick out of her gold lamé purse and pulled the rear view mirror down so she could re-apply her trademark petal pink. She sucked in her lips, rubbed them together, and came out smiling. This might turn out to be a much better day than she'd thought it would, and an even better night. Lord, it was about time she broke this dry spell.
Leaving her briefcase behind, Shana got out of her Lexus, straightened her body-hugging skirt, and clicked her three-inch heels in the direction of her mailbox, which just so happened to be set right next to the Christmas present's.
"Why, hello!" she called, and aimed for an attitude somewhere between friendly neighbor, and answer to a man's wildest sex fantasies.
He glanced up from his painting with a casual expression that instantly froze. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
"It seems we're going to be neighbors." Shana tilted her head toward the mailboxes while extending a hand. Adoring his expression of bewilderment, she bumped her smile a few degrees further toward the sex fantasy. "I'm Shana Taylor. How do you do?"
"Uh...Great. Ahem. You can call me Dash." He started to reach out a hand to shake hers, then noticed he was still holding the paintbrush. He did a hasty transfer of the paintbrush to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his sweatshirt and then extended it for the neighborly shake. The clear blue eyes behind his glasses blinked several times.
Shana felt a shimmer of sheer pleasure. Oh, how she adored the shy ones, awkward clumsiness and all. She loved to coax them out of their shells. She loved to experience what happened when they dropped their restraints. Meanwhile, she took hold of his hand and her eyes widened. There was pure steel beneath his gentle grip.
Oh, my, indeed.
"Dash?" she asked and nodded toward the mailbox. "As in 'Dashwood'?" Though she didn't really want to, she released his hand.
"That's right." He'd recovered enough equanimity to smile at her, and even crack a joke. "We won't talk about my actual first name. And I have to admit I'm not quite your neighbor yet. I haven't closed escrow. The owner's letting me rent in the meantime."
"Details," Shana said, and sidled closer. She wanted to give him a chance to peek down her blouse. It was silk, from Neiman Marcus, and designed for just such maneuvers. And he'd said 'I haven't closed escrow,' not 'we.' There didn't appear to be a Mrs. Dashwood. "Neighbors are neighbors, renters or not." And single, cute, male neighbors were better than any. "We really ought to get acquainted," Shana told him, leaning forward a little.
Thus invited, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to oblige by peering down her blouse — making the thing worth every penny.
Shana wanted to lick her lips. "Dinner?" she asked, in a voice that went a touch huskier than she'd intended.
His gaze shot back up to her face. "D-dinner?"
"That is the time-honored custom between new neighbors, isn't it?" Shana did her very best to tone her smile down. She didn't want to spook the fellow at this critical juncture. "Something home-cooked and hospitable. When can you make it?"
He blinked at her while opening and closing his mouth. For one terrible moment Shana feared she'd misjudged. He wasn't straight. But then he appeared to collect his scattered wits. He stopped blinking and cleared his throat. "Why, that would be...wonderful, Ms. Taylor — "
"Shana."
"Shana." He smiled, a crooked, nervous affair that made Shana's heart do a funny somersault in her chest. "And as for when..." Something strange flickered across his face, something Shana would have called calculating if she didn't know better. "Um... Would tomorrow be too soon?" he asked.
Too soon? Shana nearly barked a laugh. Tomorrow was eons away. She wanted to unwrap this present now, tonight. However. She straightened and bestowed on him her very warmest smile. The best things were worth waiting for, right? "Tomorrow," she said. "Seven o'clock."
"I'll be looking forward to it." And his gaze slipped once more, as if despite himself, to her artfully presented breasts.
You won't be the only one, doll. Shana could practically feel the fellow's long, deft-looking fingers exploring the breasts he was even then admiring.
Shana was so lost in happy anticipation that she would have forgotten to take the mail out of her mailbox. Fortunately, she was snapped out of her daze by catching sight of a dog, that dog, slinking down the sidewalk.
"Damn it!" she exclaimed.
"Pardon me?" Her new neighbor was, understandably, baffled.
Shana whirled and pointed. "There it is. There!"
"Where?" Dash, who couldn't possibly know what she was talking about, nevertheless obliged by craning his neck. But the ugly dog had already slipped into Mrs. McGillicuddy's bushes.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it," Shana muttered. "That dog was skulking around this morning, too, looking pit-bull-ish and abandoned."
Dash continued staring at Mrs. McGillicudy's bushes although the dog was nowhere to be seen. "That sounds dangerous," he murmured.
"Oh." Belatedly, Shana realized she didn't want her soon-to-be-conquest worried about moving into the neighborhood. She flapped a hand dismissively. "I'm sure it's nothing. He'll probably find his way home soon."
"Hm," Dash said, and continued gazing concernedly at the bushes.
It was time, Shana decided, for him to return his attention to her. "Dash," she said, and put a hand on his arm.
His arm. Shana caught her breath. Just like his hand, there was pure steel underneath that sweater.
Meanwhile Dash, attention duly caught, swiveled his head to stare at her. Oh, his reaction to her was...so satisfying.
Shana cleared her throat. "Then we're on for tomorrow?" She made so bold as to give his amazing arm a little squeeze.
He cleared his throat. "Oh, yes. Certainly. We're on."
"Good." She managed to remember her mail, which was still in the box, presented him one last smile, and waggled her fingers before starting toward her house.
She didn't look, but was fairly certain he took a gander at her backside as she made her way up the front walk. Shana's smile was beatific as she unlocked her front door and walked inside.
Next Wednesday she'd be able to tell the girls she'd succeeded in unloading her burden of celibacy, but good.