Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
The light on the HPA was solid red.
Alena unplugged the firewire cable from the HPA, tucking the end under her leg as she knelt on the floor. Grabbing the laparoscope, she pulled her phone from her pocket and propped it up so she’d be able to see the camera feed one last time.
She could have unplugged the wire on her end and let it drop through the hole and hope there was no scheduled maintenance on the server farm in the next several days.
If she did that, the cord would eventually be discovered, and then, if they hired a good enough white hat to assess their IDS—which she’d blown by, thanks to pre-programed coding in the HPA—they’d figure out someone had accessed their data.
New, more secure protocols would be put in place, and if what she was looking for wasn’t in the current data, the evidence she’d left behind and their reaction to it would all but guarantee there would be no way to repeat tonight’s activities.
Coming back would mean spending another night with Alexander.
Alena wasn’t paying enough attention, lost in thoughts of the man sleeping somewhere above her head. She pulled the trigger to retract the clamp, but neglected to make sure the clamp had a good grip on the wire.
The laparoscope retracted, sans wire.
“Damn it,” she hissed.
* * *
Alexander stood, frozen, in the entrance to the second floor gallery parlor.
He watched as Alena manipulated a long stick-like thing which seemed to be stuck into the floor.
Not into, through, straight through the floor to…
That area of the parlor was situated was right above the server farm on the floor below. Those servers contained complete copies of all his Wagner Global data, from customer information to the proprietary tracking system they used.
He was so stupid that even when he’d seen her open the parlor door—which should have been locked—he’d assumed someone had forgotten to close the door. Assumed she was still sleepwalking.
Even when he’d tried the door she’d closed behind her, found it locked, and had to enter his master code to open it, he’d still been stupidly hoping this wasn’t really happening.
Willful stupidity, because he’d fallen in love with her.
He watched her, shock freezing him in place, as if he’d turned to ice.
She was a spy—maybe on behalf of the US government. Was she really American, or was that another lie?
That she was some American 007 was possible, though it was far more likely that this was corporate espionage.
One of his competitors had hired her to steal his secrets.
Not a spy, a thief.
Did that make it better or worse? A spy could at least claim patriotic duty.
A thief then. And apparently a very good one. She’d manipulated him, had sex with him, and given him no reason to doubt or question her identity.
She’d been at the Orchid Club for him. But he’d been the one to approach her. It had been his idea to invite her into his home.
For one moment hope rose, and he was sure he was wrong.
There were none so blind as those who would not see.
Icy shock melted under the heat of a new emotion—rage. Pure, blinding rage.
Alexander stalked into the room, his anger burning a hole in his broken heart.
* * *
She was so focused on trying to get the pincher to grab hold of the cable that she didn’t notice the sound of the door open.
But there was no way to miss the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps.
Alena released the laparoscope, and swiveled around, still on her knees.
Alexander.
Alexander was stalking towards her, his face twisted by anger.
Adrenaline flooded her system, even as her heart cried out in desolation.
It wasn’t until that moment that she admitted to herself that she’d hoped to see him again, to submit for him again. With the data she now had there would probably be no reason for her to contact him again, but the possibilities—either that she’d need to find her way back into his home, or that she could keep being Alena Moore long enough to see him at next month’s event—were what had kept her from mourning the fact that she had to leave him today.
As he closed in, her emotional anguish was quickly shoved aside in favor of panic.
Alena grabbed the HPA and jumped to her feet.
“Alexander—”
This isn’t what it looks like? It was.
I can explain? She couldn’t.
Alena stood her ground, waited until he was only a meter away then darted to her left.
She raced past him. Alexander was quicker than she expected. His hand caught the fabric of her shirt, but didn’t get a good enough hold.
She zig-zagged between the pedestals of art, her thoughts racing. With her passport and a credit card safe in the pack strapped around her waist she could run and just keep running.
If she fled into the night, she’d be abandoning things—tools, her Alena Moore identification—that she would rather hold onto.