Zero Day Exploit (Bayou’s End #1.5) (8 page)

“So you’re switching tactics to find another way to get my attention?”

“You’re talking to me.”

Her brows rose, before a fierce scowl darkened her face and she spun her chair away. “Not for long.”

“Zero—wait.” He caught the back of her chair. “You’re going to hate this. You really are. But I have to interview everyone. It’s part of the contract.”

She opened her mouth, then groaned and closed it, tipping her head back against the chair. The soft, cool twist of her neatly-bound hair brushed his hand, and his stomach clenched. She closed her eyes. “I’m not very happy about being part of ‘everyone’ right now.”

“We’ll do your interview over lunch. Your choice, my treat.” When she opened one eye to look at him balefully, he grinned. “I’m trying to sweeten the pot here.”

“Just so you know?” she said as she levered out of her chair. “I really hate work-Evan.”

“Does that mean you like me when I’m off the clock?”

With a disgusted look, she snatched up her graffiti-painted messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

“Of course.” He swept a bow, then straightened to tuck his stack of folders into his briefcase. “After you.”

*     *     *

Zero felt every eye in the room on her as she walked off the floor.

Her ears burned as the elevator doors closed in their wake, locking her in the small space with Evan. Alone. So much for freezing him out. She’d lasted less than five minutes and now everyone on her team had seen her leave with the man the entire floor called the Terminator: because he was slick and shiny as a robot, and likely going to get them all fired.

“You’re blushing,” Evan said, sliding his hand into the pocket of his slacks and watching the lights above the door.

“I’m not
blushing
,” Zero snarled, even as her face grew unbearably hot. God, she could
smell
him, filling the small space with his heat. His arm brushed hers, and she fought to hold her ground and not flinch from his nearness. She didn’t want him. She didn’t even
like
him. Her body was just a damned traitor that didn’t have the sense to know what was good for it.

“Of course you’re not.” His lips twitched, but he had the sense not to smile, at least. She might have slugged him. And she lifted her head high as the door slid open on the first floor and she swept past him, stepping out into the lobby.

And promptly pitching face-forward when the tip of one spike heel wedged in the elevator tracks.

The world rushed past—then jerked to a halt as strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Everything stopped except her racing heart, throbbing and pulsing and squeezing until it felt like it would pop.

“I’ve got you,” Evan murmured, righting her gently, the massive bulk of him too warm against her back. “You okay?”

She was caught by the urge to lean against him. Lean against him and let him envelop her the way he had that night, until her entire world was wrapped up in him and how he made her feel.

That feeling had been a lie, she reminded herself. She pulled away from him quickly, smoothing over her skirt with a forced smile that made her face feel like it was layered in saran wrap.

“Still not used to the heels,” she said a touch breathlessly.

He looked down at her with that same mild, almost bland look, but something simmered in his eyes that forced her to look away. “I hear ballet flats are making a comeback.”

“They make me look stumpy.”

“Heaven forbid.”

With an exasperated sigh, Zero turned away, stalking toward the exit and the revolving doors. “You’re being condescending again.”

“I swear I’m not.” He prowled after her like a jungle cat, completely in command of his environment. “If I tell you what I’m being, you’ll hate me.”

“I hate you already, so it can’t get much worse.”

His laughter trailed in her wake as she led him from the building out onto the busy, snow-smudged New York sidewalk. She wanted
Tapas
—best Latin food she’d ever tasted—but everyone else would be taking their lunch break soon, and she didn’t want to be seen schmoozing with the Terminator over tequila. Instead she took him to a Mediterranean bar-slash-restaurant a few blocks down, brightly lit white walls and an airy design that made her think of the white cliffs of Santorini—yet another place she’d lived, if only for a few short months, on the whirlwind global tour of her childhood.

She followed the waiter to a seat. He left a basket of
psomi
bread and menus, with a promise to return soon. Zero plunked down next to a colorful beach fresco, picked up a menu, and completely avoided looking at Evan. “So. Talk. I get a forty-five minute lunch, so make this quick.”

“Mm.” With a thoughtful rumble Evan settled across from her, set his briefcase down, and thumbed through his own menu with a light clicking flick of the edge of his thumbnail against laminate. “So we’re only talking about work, are we?”

“I don’t think we have anything else to talk about.”

“I think we do.”

“No.” She slammed her menu down hard enough to make the water glasses jump. “We
don’t
.” Her breath seized; her stomach lurched. “You have a job to do. I don’t want to talk about anything else.”

He just looked at her, pale green eyes so very stark. Open. Capturing her in their soft liquid hue, and nearly drowning her in their depths. “Not even if I say I’m sorry?” he asked softly.

“Wh-what?”

“I’m sorry. For what I said. For all of it.” He twisted the corner of his napkin into a knot, eyes fixed on his fingers. “I told you I don’t open up to people. Doing that, with you…I guess I needed to protect myself from getting hurt. I lashed out. I said cruel things I didn’t mean. I belittled you, and that wasn’t fair.”

Confusion turned her stomach upside down. “You’re afraid I’ll hurt you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged just a little too diffidently.

“I don’t see how
I’m
the one who could hurt
you
.”

Once more pale jade eyes caught her. Held her. Consumed her. “Then you have no idea what an impression you made on me the other night.”

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest crushed in with the weight of his gaze, and she had to look away before she couldn’t stand it anymore. He had no right to look at her that way. Not after what he’d done. She was supposed to be keeping this
professional
.

“It was just sex,” she said stiffly.

“Was it?”

Grudgingly, she admitted, “…really good sex.”

He laughed. “I’m flattered.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“I’m trying to be serious here.” He reached across the table and tucked an errant lock of hair back; the tips of his fingers grazed the curve of her ear, and a thousand pinpricks of fire pattered over her skin. “I shouldn’t have said any of the things I said.”

With a rough gasp, she jerked back sharply enough to make her chair rock back on its legs. She wasn’t going there with him again. He was supposed to be the mistake she’d regret in the morning, not the mistake she regretted for the rest of her career.

The conversation. Right. Focus on the conversation. She swallowed hard. “No…you’re right. I need to drop the whole special snowflake thing. This is what having a job and supporting myself is about.” With a faint smile, she forced herself to look at him. “We’re both kind of screwed up. Have you noticed that?”

“Just a little.” He answered her smile with a pensive one of his own, eyes clouding. “You shouldn’t have to grow up. Growing up is a miserable thing. It means losing the ability to see a lot of beauty in the world.”

How could he say that, when he was so jaded he didn’t even believe the lines he sold for a living? Then again, he was probably selling her another line right now.

“Beauty doesn’t pay the bills,” she said neutrally.

“There’s a difference between being responsible and being cynical.”

Yeah. Like he would know. “I guess.” She trailed off as the waiter arrived to take their orders. She ordered an arugula, feta, and dill frittata, while Evan ordered broiled lamb skewers in lemon vinaigrette. As she handed over her menu, Zero asked, “Truce, then?”

“As much as we can manage.” One dark brow rose. “You have to admit, you and I set each other off. We spark each other off in bed—and when you take it out of the bedroom, it turns into this. Challenging each other. Frustrating each other. Pushing each other’s buttons.”

“Driving each other to homicide.”

“That too.” He grinned wide. “But I’m only here until the job’s done, or until you find a place to hide my body. We’ll do our best to get along. Sound good?”

“Define ‘get along.’”

“I won’t try to get in your pants again.” That grin turned downright vulpine. “Unless you want me to.”

“Overconfident.”

He leaned across the table, voice dropping to an intimate murmur, a secret between them. “Not after the way you whispered my name.”

Oh
God
. Zero sucked in a sharp breath, shrinking across the table. Had the restaurant turned up the heater? “I didn’t!”

“You did,” he growled.

“Oh my God.” She buried her face in her hands. He just couldn’t quit, could he? “I thought you wanted to talk about my performance,” she mumbled against her palms.

“I thought we were.”

“Evan!” She gasped—and kicked him under the table, suddenly
quite
happy to be wearing heels.

“Ow!” Laughing, he leaned down and rubbed his calf, looking far too satisfied with himself. Jerk. “All right. I’ll be good, since we’re on a countdown.” He reached for the basket of psomi and picked up a roll, idly turning it over in his broad, rough fingers before tearing off a bite. “You’re not happy with your job,” he said, then popped the bite into his mouth.

“No one’s happy with their job. If people were happy, it wouldn’t be work.”

“You have a point. But it’s more than that. Management’s noticed pretty much everyone’s unhappy, and it gets worse the lower down you go.”

“Well, that’s part of the problem.”

“Oh?”

“We’re segregated by floor.” Zero bit the inside of her cheek and leaned back in her seat; picking up a roll, she eyed it before putting it back down, her appetite gone. “The higher you go, the more important you are. The better your job is. Management hardly ever interacts with the second-floor plebes. It’s ivory tower syndrome.”

“At least it’s not the first floor.”

She eyed him. “First floor is the receptionist.”

“Who’s also not particularly happy with his job.” He leaned over and fiddled with the clasps on his briefcase. “So lack of management interaction. What else?”

“I don’t know. I don’t sit there all day and make itemized lists of everything I hate about my job.” She blinked as he took out a tablet and stylus, swiped a few times, then started scribbling with quick, sharp dashes. “Are you writing all this down?”

“Like you said, I have a job to do.” He frowned at the screen. “You said it’s not the dress code making you so unhappy, Z. So what is it?”

She shrugged. She couldn’t tell him about Rick; it wouldn’t help. She didn’t need someone fixing her problems for her. “It’s just a miserable job.”

“So find another job.”

“Have you seen the economy lately?”

“Good point.” With a sigh, he set the stylus down. “Look. You work for a company, you abide by their rules. If you don’t like it, either start your own or do something when someone gives you an opportunity to change things. I’m giving you the chance to tell me what you’d like to change.” When she said nothing, he spread his hands. “Come on. You’re holding out on me.”

“I don’t know, okay?” She started to rake her hands through her hair—then stopped when she remembered she couldn’t. Right. She had to look
nice
, and couldn’t muss her hair. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t really care if I have to wear a frumpy pants suit and dye the color out of my hair. Just…I feel stuck. I’ve felt stuck way before you came stomping in like Godzilla. Do you know how many junior programmers are on my team alone?”

“Too many, but I’d like some numbers.”

“Nineteen. And thirty-two programmers, twelve senior programmers, six project managers. I keep trying to prove myself, but I get lost in the crowd. I know—” She held up a hand to forestall the inevitable snarky-yet-annoyingly-sensible comment. “I know, two years out of college is too soon to expect a promotion to senior program director or something insane like that. But my team lead can’t even remember my name. He takes credit for everything I do. When I can even do anything, because with your implementation plan I now have to get approval from six people before I can even deploy a minor UI fix. I feel locked in place, buried, and as long as I have bills I don’t know how I’m going to dig myself out.”

“What do you mean, your team lead takes credit for everything?” Pale eyes drilled into her. “You mean Rick?” He dug in his briefcase again, then pulled out a folder with a photo of Rick clipped inside. Dull-eyed, grinning Rick, looking up at her from the pages Evan plopped down in front of her. “This guy. Didn’t he just become your team lead last week?”

Zero ground her teeth. She wanted to rip the photo to shreds, but made herself look away. “Maybe.”

“It’s not a maybe, Z. It’s a yes or no.”

“Except it’s not.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I say no, it looks like I’m afraid to stand up for myself,” she hissed. “If I say yes then you’ll tell management, and suddenly I’m the girl who has to run tattle because she can’t play the game.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. He leaned back, lacing his hands together over his stomach. “No one should play the game. Maybe backstabbing and lying are normal in a corporate environment, but they shouldn’t be.”

“Says the master liar himself.”

“You’ve got me there, but I don’t advocate it in the workplace. I’m not here to fuck
everything
up. Just the fun part. I’m actually trying to make the work environment better.”

“I know. I do.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her head was starting to throb, and this conversation was only reminding her just how dismal her corporate future was. “I just don’t need a white knight, Evan.”