sake she forced a smile.
"So I'm gonna hack around for a while and see if I can figure out who sent that e-mail," Ed said as the computer whirred to life.
"That's great," Gaia said absently. Great was an overstatement, but Ed locked up in George's office was a lot safer than Ed out on the street with some psycho kidnapper running around.
Gaia quickly leafed through files with yuppie titles like "IRS 1994" and "Appliance Warranties." She slammed the drawer so hard a framed certificate fell off the wall and clattered to the floor.
"Gaia, you're scaring me," Ed said.
"This is taking too long," she said, bringing her hand to her forehead and scanning the room for possible hiding places.
How many tests had the kidnappers set up? What if she didn't have time to complete them all? That disk could be anywhere. His briefcase. His underwear drawer. A safe-deposit box at some random bank. It could be with George in the country, for all she knew.
She glanced at the captain's clock on the wall. There was no time.
Gaia slammed her fist into the file cabinet. It didn't hurt nearly enough. But it did knock down a picture of Ella.
The picture clattered facedown on the desk. Gaia studied it for a moment. Pay dirt.
The front part of the frame wasn't sitting flush against the backing. It was bulging slightly, and there was a gap between the two parts. Gaia turned it sideways, gave one good shake, and the next thing she knew, she was holding several floppies, one of which was labeled Scaredy Cat. God, what a lucky break.
"I'm outta here," she said, grabbing her bag.
"Wait!"
But she couldn't wait. If she waited, she might have time to think about the fact that someone out there wanted information on her. Her. Not some secret government stash of anthrax or the plans to the Pentagon.
Her.
Gaia Moore.
And Sam might die because of it.
She wasn't waiting around to think about that.
not a perfect world
You've got a nice ass, for an angel.
One Daydream
CJ LEANED AGAINST THE OUTER wall of the arch that led into the park. He liked that arch. It was this big, beautiful thing -- a knockoff of some bigger one from ... where? France, maybe. He'd probably know if he hadn't quit going to school.
Who cared what it was called, anyway? He just liked it. He liked to look at beautiful things.
Like her.
Weird. He hated her. But man, he had some pretty crazy fantasies about her. She pulled him. All that strength and power wrapped up in all that soft sexiness. It gnawed at something in him.
Sometimes he thought about killing her.
Sometimes he just thought about her.
There was one daydream in particular he returned to over and over. In it, he'd be chasing her through the park, and she'd be totally freaked-out scared, and he'd grab her from behind -- rough, but not enough to do any real damage. Maybe just a small bruise. A lasting ache.
And he'd spin her around and her hair would get all tangled up in his fingers.
Then she'd look up at him with those intense eyes, those sky-colored eyes, and she'd start begging. First just begging him not to kill her, but then it would change.
She'd be begging him to kiss her. And damn, he'd kiss her right. And then . . . then she'd love him. And he'd have the power. All of it.
But CJ knew better. He knew to put hate in front of love every time. That was the way it was with him and his boys. Hate put you in control, but love controlled you. So he let his mind slither back to hating her.
And then, as if he'd conjured her, she was there.
Sun in her hair. And that body. Those lips . . . on his lips.
Shit! Enough of this bullshit. He had to breathe deep. Once. Twice. Steady. He had to remind himself that the one thing he wanted to do more than kiss her was kill her. He
needed
to kill her if he wanted to stay alive himself.
He adjusted the sling on his arm. The other asshole he wanted to kill was whoever the hell had shot at him Saturday night.
The bullet had punctured his biceps, and damn, it had hurt. Still
"So I'm gonna hack around for a while and see if I can figure out who sent that e-mail," Ed said as the computer whirred to life.
"That's great," Gaia said absently. Great was an overstatement, but Ed locked up in George's office was a lot safer than Ed out on the street with some psycho kidnapper running around.
Gaia quickly leafed through files with yuppie titles like "IRS 1994" and "Appliance Warranties." She slammed the drawer so hard a framed certificate fell off the wall and clattered to the floor.
"Gaia, you're scaring me," Ed said.
"This is taking too long," she said, bringing her hand to her forehead and scanning the room for possible hiding places.
How many tests had the kidnappers set up? What if she didn't have time to complete them all? That disk could be anywhere. His briefcase. His underwear drawer. A safe-deposit box at some random bank. It could be with George in the country, for all she knew.
She glanced at the captain's clock on the wall. There was no time.
Gaia slammed her fist into the file cabinet. It didn't hurt nearly enough. But it did knock down a picture of Ella.
The picture clattered facedown on the desk. Gaia studied it for a moment. Pay dirt.
The front part of the frame wasn't sitting flush against the backing. It was bulging slightly, and there was a gap between the two parts. Gaia turned it sideways, gave one good shake, and the next thing she knew, she was holding several floppies, one of which was labeled Scaredy Cat. God, what a lucky break.
"I'm outta here," she said, grabbing her bag.
"Wait!"
But she couldn't wait. If she waited, she might have time to think about the fact that someone out there wanted information on her. Her. Not some secret government stash of anthrax or the plans to the Pentagon.
Her.
Gaia Moore.
And Sam might die because of it.
She wasn't waiting around to think about that.
not a perfect world
You've got a nice ass, for an angel.
One Daydream
CJ LEANED AGAINST THE OUTER wall of the arch that led into the park. He liked that arch. It was this big, beautiful thing -- a knockoff of some bigger one from ... where? France, maybe. He'd probably know if he hadn't quit going to school.
Who cared what it was called, anyway? He just liked it. He liked to look at beautiful things.
Like her.
Weird. He hated her. But man, he had some pretty crazy fantasies about her. She pulled him. All that strength and power wrapped up in all that soft sexiness. It gnawed at something in him.
Sometimes he thought about killing her.
Sometimes he just thought about her.
There was one daydream in particular he returned to over and over. In it, he'd be chasing her through the park, and she'd be totally freaked-out scared, and he'd grab her from behind -- rough, but not enough to do any real damage. Maybe just a small bruise. A lasting ache.
And he'd spin her around and her hair would get all tangled up in his fingers.
Then she'd look up at him with those intense eyes, those sky-colored eyes, and she'd start begging. First just begging him not to kill her, but then it would change.
She'd be begging him to kiss her. And damn, he'd kiss her right. And then . . . then she'd love him. And he'd have the power. All of it.
But CJ knew better. He knew to put hate in front of love every time. That was the way it was with him and his boys. Hate put you in control, but love controlled you. So he let his mind slither back to hating her.
And then, as if he'd conjured her, she was there.
Sun in her hair. And that body. Those lips . . . on his lips.
Shit! Enough of this bullshit. He had to breathe deep. Once. Twice. Steady. He had to remind himself that the one thing he wanted to do more than kiss her was kill her. He
needed
to kill her if he wanted to stay alive himself.
He adjusted the sling on his arm. The other asshole he wanted to kill was whoever the hell had shot at him Saturday night.
The bullet had punctured his biceps, and damn, it had hurt. Still
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