Full Circle Page 8

  Color rushed into her sister's cheeks. "I'd rather not say if you don't mind."

  Malcolm only smiled. "I insist." But he softened that with another, "Please."

  Jessica looked down at her lap, then back up, obviously uncomfortable. "Loosely translated," she began, then she shifted in her seat and looked over at Simon. "I told you your mind is filled with decay and that your words were the mold it breeds."

  Hannah stared. Then she prayed she wouldn't break into laughter. Mold and decay? It was too weird. And so very perfect.

  Silence hung over all of them. Hannah glanced at Malcolm, wondering if this was the point at which he would fire them both.

  Malcolm, however, regarded her sister with a sort of studied speculation. No one in this country, or any other as far as Hannah knew, expressed themselves the way Jessica did. What sort of schools had she attended? Who would have taught her to analogize life with peculiar proverbs?

  Turning her gaze toward Simon, she saw that he, too, appeared to be studying her sister. In fact, his expression looked a little . . . stunned. Then his brow creased and he scowled as though, instead of providing a translation, Jessica had rambled off yet another angry diatribe in a language no one comprehended.

  Continuing to watch him, trying to figure out what he was thinking, she saw his skin suddenly pale. The blood leached from his face as though her sister had just raised her hand and slapped him again. —Because of mold and decay? Then a chill of foreboding ran down her spine. What was that expression in his eyes?

  Glancing quickly back over at Malcolm, she saw that his lids had narrowed. His eyes moved from Jessica to Simon, then to her, and an odd expression glinted in his gaze as well.

  "Indeed," he commented, softly, as though to himself.

  A moment later he cleared his throat, and that quickly, the color returned to Simon's face. Whatever had just transpired blinked away like some eerie reality warp they'd all stepped out of, and Hannah wondered what it was Malcolm had seen.

  "Cantonese or Mandarin?" he asked conversationally, directing his gaze back to Jessica.

  "Mandarin," she replied, folding her hands in her lap.

  "Not an easy language to master."

  "No," her sister said, "it isn't."

  "I don't believe they teach Mandarin in American schools."

  Jessica didn't answer. But she wouldn't have the first idea which languages were commonly taught in the United States.

  Rolling the silver pen between his fingers, Malcolm remained silent for a minute.

  Hannah, however, wasn't fooled. She'd known Malcolm for nearly three years. No one she'd ever met could assess a situation and come up with the correct answer every single time the way he did.

  And sure enough, as though he had some sixth sense, he asked, "How many languages do you speak, Jessica?"

  Her sister squirmed in her seat. She didn't know Malcolm the way Hannah did, but she probably sensed the direction of his questioning.

  "Fourteen," she answered. Then she looked over at the sculpture in front of the windows as though it was far more interesting than the fact that she spoke fourteen languages.

  Malcolm, however, was intrigued now. One dark blond eyebrow went up and Hannah watched him eye her sister thoughtfully.

  "Fourteen," he repeated.

  Jessica said nothing.

  "Yet you choose to work as a server at Urns & Leaves."

  "Yes," she murmured.

  Hannah waited for the next question that would naturally follow. Why would a young woman who spoke fourteen languages want to serve coffee at a café in a sex club?

  And if Jessica answered by informing him that she only planned to stay as long as it took to obtain a blue link, what would he do? Would he fire her on the spot? Doing so would open up a position for someone more inclined to participate in the system.

  Malcolm continued to observe her and Hannah held her breath. But the question she expected to hear wasn't voiced. Instead he asked, "Should we ever find ourselves in need of a translator, would you be willing to help out?"

  Jessica turned away from the statue and smiled immediately. "I'd be happy to."

  Hannah released her breath and relaxed. Her sister wasn't going to be fired for slapping the face of one of the board members. The issue wasn't even raised.

  She looked over at Simon to see his reaction to that, but he merely looked on with the same focused expression.

  "Thank you," Malcolm said. He pushed away from his desk and stood up. "And now, if you'll excuse us, Jessica, there are other things Simon and I need to discuss with Hannah."

  Jessica's smile disappeared. She became guarded and uncertain and it occurred to Hannah that her sister didn't want to leave her alone to deal with Malcolm and Simon.

  A little surprised and a little embarrassed because both men were watching, she reached over and squeezed Jessica's hand. "We'll talk later."

  Still hesitant, Jessica searched her eyes.

  "It's okay," Hannah assured her, trying to ignore both men. She squeezed her sister's fingers once more, then released them.

  Finally Jessica rose from her seat. Malcolm extended an arm, gesturing her to precede him, then followed behind as she walked to the door.

  When it closed behind her, Hannah felt her stomach tighten. It was her turn now. But she didn't think the outcome would be as pleasant as it had been for her sister.

  Simon, thankfully, didn't take the seat Jessica vacated. He remained standing off to the side of Malcolm's desk, tall, powerful, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers.

  Hannah didn't want to look directly at him, but she felt the force of his gaze on her, so intense, it was as though he was trying to read her thoughts, much the same way she'd looked at him a few minutes earlier.

  When Malcolm turned around, his eyes settled on Simon for long seconds. Then he crossed back to his desk, sat down, and looked at her. The friendly smile he'd had for her sister was now an expression of concern.

  "Hannah, what were you working on at your computer before you went to lunch?"

  The knot in her stomach twisted. Spontaneously she looked up at Simon, then wished she hadn't. He said nothing, his expression didn't change, but his eyes bored into hers.

  Swallowing, she looked away, braced herself, and turned back to Malcolm. "I was working on the bid proposal for the land next to the east wall."

  He nodded, and his concern became grim. "We have six other aggressive bidders competing for that stretch of land."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Don't you use a password protected screen saver?"

  She sighed. "I reset it, temporarily, because I kept getting interruptions.

  "Someone could have entered your office, closed the door, and accessed any one of your files."

  "Yes." She knew how serious her carelessness had been. No one, from Mary out at Reception all the way to Malcolm, left their desks without securing whatever they'd been working on.

  Malcolm was silent for a minute. Reaching forward, he picked up his silver pen and tapped it lightly against his opposite index finger. "You're an exemplary employee, Hannah. One of our best. Elliott gives us only positive feedback on your reviews. All of them. But this is a serious oversight."

  "I know it is, Malcolm. I understand."

  "Then you realize Simon is justified in making note of it in your personnel file."

  "Yes."

  And he was. They both were. She could rationalize that there were extenuating circumstances, that Simon had just finished reprimanding her in front of several other employees and she'd been crying. But the fact remained—she'd left a sensitive document open on her computer for anyone to see. It wouldn't be surprising if there were rival business associates among RUSH's membership and that particular document could have cost the board a prime piece of land they badly wanted.

  And as much as it rankled, Simon would be justified as well if he chose to write her up because of her blouse. True, RUSH was a sex club, and most of the pos
itions filled by women required them to wear provocative uniforms. But a position in which business was conducted—managerial, medical, and administrative positions—had a dress code. It wasn't necessarily conservative, but it was professional. She'd never before had to worry about the fit of a garment her mother sent because she and her mother had exactly the same measurements. But the blouse she presently wore was headed for the trash as soon as she took it off.

  Malcolm's eyes pointedly dropped to her breasts as though his thoughts, too, were focused on her attire. When he lifted his gaze and met her eyes, one stern brow was raised in question. Unsmiling, he didn't have to say a word. His commanding personality was so forceful, he had only to lift that brow for her to feel duly reprimanded.

  "I understand," she said again, trying to ignore the flood of heat that rushed into her face.

  Simon cleared his throat. "Malcolm—"

  "Not this time, Simon," Malcolm cut in.

  Hannah glanced back and forth between them. Some sort of silent communication was being exchanged and she had the odd feeling Simon had been about to let her off with only a verbal reprimand. But that didn't make sense, so she had to be wrong.

  "There's more to this than you realize," Simon said meaningfully. Expression set, his dark mahogany eyes regarded Malcolm steadily.

  "I know there is," Malcolm answered, equally as serious and meaningfully.

  At a loss, Hannah watched them. Simon appeared as though he wanted to say more, but he clamped his jaw until a muscle ticked at his temple. Finally, with a nod, he relented.

  Malcolm nodded as well, then faced her again. "Hannah, I'm certain nothing like this will happen again."

  "No, it won't," she readily agreed. Because she planned to start looking for another job right away. She didn't have to work at RUSH while waiting for a blue link. She could maintain her membership independently Still, she hoped someone had already received her blue icon and was considering accepting it. She'd applied for it just before leaving on Friday, so there was a chance it had shown up in someone's file this morning. Meanwhile, she could be looking for another job . . . while she could still get a good reference.

  * * *

  Simon stared at Hannah as she reached for the doorknob. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves to her shoulder blades. It had been longer last year, but she'd had a couple of inches cut off. He hoped she didn't do so again.

  "Hannah," he called to her.

  She turned, her expression calm and professional. Withdrawn. He preferred the passion, even if it was anger.

  "I locked your door," he told her. "You'll need to see Darlene unless you've got your keys with you."

  She gave him a businesslike nod, then opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind her. It occurred to him that he'd never been on the receiving end of one of her smiles. It also occurred to him that he'd alienated her sister—Jessica—before he'd even met her. And he was pretty sure the younger Breckenridge sister was his. As much as he lusted after Hannah, had wanted her for nearly three years, chances were better than good that the computer had linked him with her sister. Because the moment Jessica Breckenridge opened her mouth, everything had turned to chaos. And that was exactly the sort of woman RUSH's linking system tended to pair him with, analyzing both their files to conclude she was just the type who would make him blissfully happy for the rest of his days. Christ. Was he condemned to spend his life with a woman who shouted at him in fourteen different languages? That was supposed to transport him to some plateau of ecstasy?

  "What is it about Hannah that provokes your temper?"

  He turned back to Malcolm and realized no one had thought to ask him that question before now. Mason had taken him aside once, telling him in politically correct legalese to back off and leave Hannah alone. Even Oliver had commented on it once. And Elliott had raked him over the coals last month, not bothering with tact and diplomacy at all. Hannah was his secretary, and a damned good one, and if it was a punching bag Simon wanted, then he should take his shit over to the gym and get rid of it there. But no one had asked him why Hannah rubbed him on the raw.

  For a long time after RUSH had opened for business, he'd avoided her. He'd known the first time he saw her that he needed to keep some distance between them. It hadn't been difficult. She worked at one end of the building with Elliott, RUSH's in-house architect, while he worked at the other. But a year and a half ago construction on the new mall started up and suddenly Hannah was everywhere he turned. She was either tracking down Elliott or talking with the electricians. She kept permits, inspections, schedules, and everything else lined up and in order.

  But if Simon decided to eat lunch outside by the fountain, nine times out of ten he'd see Hannah, breasts lightly jiggling as she cut across the food court on her way back and forth between Admin and the construction site. He'd indulge himself and watch, maintaining that distance, but every single time, he'd had to sit there and wait for the hard-on behind his zipper to subside. She had the body of an R-link without the surgery to make it so, and that knowledge preyed on his mind as he ogled her breasts. Then he'd watch the sway of her hips after she passed, the flutter of her skirt against her thighs, and hope that a breeze would toss her long hair about because when she lifted her hand to smooth its length away from her face, a greater expanse of smooth creamy thigh was exposed to view.

  Eventually he realized he purposely chose to eat outside on the likely possibility of seeing her. So he began eating inside or had lunch delivered to his office. The more he saw her, the more he wanted her, and the more Elliott sang her praises, the more he wanted to get to know her.

  The day he ran a statistical search to determine the number of virginal women at RUSH, he'd been astounded to discover there were seventeen when he hadn't expected to come up with a single one. On a mission to uncover as much information as possible, knowing he was violating privacy issues, he'd been able to identify three, one of those three being Hannah Breckenridge.

  The knowledge sat forever in the corner of his mind, brewing and enticing him until he couldn't pass her in the lobby without his zipper becoming uncomfortable. It irritated him and gradually his irritation segued to anger. He'd accepted a blue link with Nina yet he lusted after Hannah. It seemed he couldn't leave his office without catching a glimpse of pale blonde hair, couldn't walk across the lobby or stop by Malcolm's office, no matter which corridor he took to get there, without hearing the jingle of her bracelets.

  He began taunting her, wishing like hell she'd activate her file. If some faceless male would put her on her back and take her virginity, that look of innocence would disappear from her eyes and Simon could stop fantasizing about taking it himself.

  But Hannah had been with RUSH for two and a half years without applying for a link, and as the weeks and months wore on, she showed no interest in activating her file.

  Simon had resorted to reprimands in an effort to push her into avoiding him. If they both worked at it, if she began taking alternate routes to steer clear of him, maybe they'd both get some peace. She didn't have to walk through the lobby every day at five o'clock to exit the building. There was a side exit she could use, closer to her office, that led to the parking garage. And she didn't have to walk through the food court ten times a day. Using a circuitous route along the main promenade wouldn't involve that many more steps to take her to and from the construction site.

  Instead of avoiding him, however, she'd done just the opposite, waylaying him in the corridor outside his office. She'd wanted to speak to him in private and for that minute in time, standing so close, he'd had to forcibly stop himself from backing her up against the wall and trapping her there with his body.

  So he'd deliberately lowered his eyes to her full, gorgeous breasts, snugly encased in a form-fitting stretchy top, and told her to wear clothing less provocative if she didn't want men to stare. Then he'd turned on his heel and walked away. He didn't think he'd ever been as teased by a woman's mere presence as he was by hers. And now it
had become habit to look for any reason he could find to reprimand her. Today he'd come up with several.

  Not once, however, had he written her up. And the truth was, he wouldn't have done so this time either. But Malcolm had taken the matter out of his hands. And now he wanted to know what it was about Hannah that provoked his anger, though Simon suspected he already knew.

  Releasing a weary sigh, he ran a hand along the back of his neck and met Malcolm's eyes. "It's called self-preservation," he said. He shook his head. "I've wanted her since the day I saw her three years ago." And finally saying it felt damned good.

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair and studied him thoughtfully. "You took it too far today."

  Simon grunted his agreement.

  "It's got to stop, Simon."

  "I know." He lowered his hand. "Look, about writing her up—"

  But Malcolm was shaking his head. "Too many people saw and heard. We have no choice in the matter now."

  Which was entirely Simon's fault.

  "And the fact remains . . . she did leave classified information unprotected."

  Simon exhaled. "I lectured her—harshly—just before she went to lunch. She was on the verge of tears and probably forgot her computer was vulnerable. Hell, Malcolm, I know those two buttons slipped open by themselves. I was watching when she reached up to straighten that lacy thing in Mary's hair and when she lowered her arms, the buttons were open. It wasn't provocation. Hannah's not the type."

  "No, she isn't."

  "She's never been negligent before," Simon went on. "We've never had any reason to question her loyalty."

  "I agree with that as well. In fact, Elliott told me he's planning to talk to us about giving her another rise." He tapped two fingers together. "But we're about to lose her."

  Simon went still. "What makes you say that?"

  "Observation. Gut instinct. She's not happy here."

  Simon was aware of that. He'd known it for a while and he knew the reason why. "I'll take care of it," he said.

  "Good." Malcolm smiled then. "Her young sister believes your brain cells are decaying."