Mallory Kane - A Father's Sacrifice

“Fine. I’ll contact NSA.”

“No need. My boss can have it here sometime early tomorrow by jet courier.”

“Good. Do it.”

She began to breathe easier. He’d been satisfied with her answer about the hacker’s ID. There was no way she was going to tell anyone of her suspicion that the hacker was Tom. Not until she was sure, and maybe not even then. She told herself no one needed to know she’d been so desperate for money to pay for college that she’d performed hacking jobs for the same man who might be attacking Dylan’s system—who might even be responsible for the death of his wife and the crippling of his young son.

A sickening dread spread through her, and her gut clenched.

Dylan propped a hip on the edge of her desk, way too close for comfort. His eyes blazed.

“Well, Agent Rudolph, you are good. I assume you’re old enough to be an FBI agent. What are you—twenty-five? Twenty-six.”

“I’m twenty-seven, and my name is Natasha.”

“How did you get to be the government’s best hacker-buster?”

She smiled wryly. “So you’re still not sure about me?”

His cheeks turned faintly pink. “It’s not that I question your ability—”

“You just question my ability,” she tossed back at him.

His long black lashes floated down for an instant, giving her his answer.

Normally, she couldn’t care less if some military type or stiff-necked suit doubted her expertise. But the fact that Dylan had reservations about her made her feel as if she had something to prove. She pushed that notion aside. She wasn’t here to impress him, just to do her job and get out as soon as possible.

“Let’s just say I had a lot of incentive,” she said wryly. Incentive. That was an understatement. Mitch Decker had saved her from going to prison for hacking into classified files. No matter that she’d been framed. Prison was prison. She owed a big debt to the U.S. government.

Dylan’s dark brows went up. “Incentive?”

She gnawed on her lower lip. His intensity was mesmerizing and a little frightening. When he looked at her, she felt as if she were the only person in his world. She dropped her gaze to her hands. She wasn’t answering any more questions.

“I need to contact Mitch and give him my equipment list. Until it gets here there’s not much I can do, unless you give me access to your program files.”

Dylan shook his head and stood.

“Look, Dr. Stryker. If I’m going to do my job—”

He broke in. “It’s almost midnight. You should be in bed.”

She tilted her head at him. “As you just pointed out, I’m well over twenty-one, all grown-up. I usually make my own decisions about bed.”

She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. To her dismay, she felt a flush rising from her neck to her cheeks.

The corner of his mouth turned up. He took a step backward and leaned against the door facing.

“Campbell’s working on the programming code right now. You should get a good night’s sleep and get started in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she snapped, and came to her feet.

Even slouched wearily against the door facing, he commanded attention. His shirt strained over his biceps and lay gently against his well-defined abs.

He exuded strength, competence, and yes—obsession. Not to mention undeniable sexuality. She’d never been in the presence of anyone so physically compelling.

He gave her a quick nod, straightened and turned on his heel. “I assume you can find your way to your room, being so grown-up and all,” he said over his shoulder.

JERRY CAMPBELL yawned loudly and twisted his stringy hair back into its ponytail. He’d stared at screen after screen of computer code until he was cross-eyed. It was almost midnight. Dr. Stryker had told him to go to bed an hour ago. He was about ready to take that advice.

But first—he glanced through the glass walls of the virtual surgery lab, searching the halls and other offices, making sure no one was around. Typing briskly, he opened his e-mail account and composed a message, quickly attached a file and pressed Send. Then he began to shut down the computer.

THE WALLS WERE CLOSING IN. Little Tasha pushed against the car seat that pinned her. But she couldn’t move. She tried not to think about the blood, or why her mama and daddy wouldn’t talk to her.

A big boom shook the car. She shrieked. That one was louder than the first, the one that had smashed the front of the car.

She saw a flash of light, and then another boom rumbled through her. She couldn’t see! Couldn’t breathe!

Daddy!

Natasha sat up, gasping for air.

Her chest heaved as spasms racked her rigid muscles. Her mind crashed back into her body. She’d been dreaming. Again.

Where was she? Not in the car where her parents had died. Not buried under mountains of debris in a burned-out building.

She was inside Dylan Stryker’s secluded estate—in the windowless pitch-dark room. No wonder she’d dreamed of being trapped.

Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

She kicked at the tangled sheets. She had to get out of there. She’d go sit under the skylight.

As she stood up, she heard something. It sounded as if it was just outside her door. Silently, she slipped her Glock from under her pillow and slid out of bed, gliding silently along the wall, listening. As she neared the door, she saw the knob slowly turn. The door swung open a few inches, until a pale night-light from the hall sent a long shadow across the floor near the foot of her bed.

Natasha flattened herself against the wall, her eyes glued to the hand on the knob. She braced herself, then grabbed the wrist with her left hand and yanked, aiming her weapon at the intruder’s neck.

“Don’t move,” she hissed, her heart hammering.

A deafening screech split the air. Natasha jerked and almost dropped her gun.

Sirens.

Shaking her head, gripping her gun until her hand ached, she shoved the intruder back through the door and against the wall of the hallway.

A small, feminine grunt reached her ears, almost drowned out by the earsplitting screech.

It was Charlene. Natasha flipped her around to face her, but she didn’t lower her gun. “What were you doing?”

Charlene’s eyes were wide with panic. “The sirens. I knew you wouldn’t know what they were. The first time I heard them I nearly jumped out of my skin.” She laughed nervously.

Natasha stared at the woman for a beat, and frowned. Had the sirens awoken her?

Just then, Ben’s door opened. Dylan came out, his hair tousled and his trousers wrinkled. He was shirtless and barefoot. He clutched his polo shirt in one hand and his loafers in the other. His sleepy eyes were too bright, burning with azure fire.

“Charlene, get in there with Ben. Natasha, go back to your room.” He dropped his shoes to the floor and slipped into them.

Charlene scooted around Natasha, past Dylan and through the door to Ben’s room.

“What’s happening?” Natasha yelled over the siren’s screech.

Dylan glared at her. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak. She darted back inside her room for her gear. She grabbed her hiking boots, a black pullover and her leather fanny pack.

As she stepped back into the hall, the sirens finally decreased in volume and faded.

Dylan hadn’t bothered to wait for her. He’d already reached the end of the hall.

She stuffed her weapon into the fanny pack along with her badge and the pass code generator, then hopped on one foot at a time as she pulled on her boots. She caught up to him when he paused to put on his shirt.

His bare, shadowed shoulders rippled and gleamed in the low light as he tugged the polo shirt over his head.