Her door was wide open, her tiny, pretty office beckoning beyond it.
She turned her stunned gaze to Sam Reston, who was straightening and moving away from her door. “How did youdothat? Did you just pick the lock?” Surely picking a lock required some kind of effort? Some time? In the movies, the thief jiggled at the lock forever.
He wasn’t looking smug or even proud of himself. In fact, he was scowling. “You haven’t improved on the building security at all,” he said, his deep voice making it an accusation.
“Um, no.” Nicole felt like she’d fallen into a rabbit hole. The real-estate agent had stressed the excellent building security and had dwelled lovingly on the quality of the office locks. “Was I supposed to?”
“Well, sure. When it’s as crappy as this.” His scowl deepened as he pocketed something. Though she’d love to see if it was a lockpick, she didn’t have time to waste.
Another glance at her watch and she hurried into her office. She was just barely going to make the videoconference.
She had less than two minutes to spare.
“Thank you, Mr. Reston. So I guess?—”
“Sam.”
“Sam.” She gritted her teeth. A minute and a half left. “Tell me where to meet you and when.”
His scowl grew deeper. “Absolutely not. I’ll pick you up at your house.”
There wasn’t time to argue, not even time to roll her eyes. “Okay. Shall we say seven? I live on Mulberry Street. Three forty-six Mulberry Street. Is that okay?”
“Fine. I’ll be there at seven to pick you up.” A muscle in his jaw rippled, though the words were low and quiet.
Did he live far away? Well, if he had to drive across town, he’d asked for it. She’d been willing to meet him at the restaurant.
He turned away, she closed the door and the phone rang.
Nicole leaped to pick it up, heard the Master’s nasal tones. She’d made it! The price had been high, but she’d made it.
TWO
Well,that worked out just fine.
Sam Reston sat down behind his desk, looking at the day’s reports, but all he saw in front of him was the delicious Nicole Pearce, with her exquisite face and hourglass figure, wrapped in classy clothes. An aristocratic wet dream.
He’d been waiting for this moment since he’d first seen her moving into that cubbyhole across the hallway from his own five-room headquarters.
He knew her office was small because it had been shown to him before he settled on his own quarters. Her office wouldn’t have been big enough for his files. She ran a translation business. Sam knew exactly zilch about the translating business. Maybe you didn’t need much space to translate French into English.
Or Spanish into Russian. Or Italian into German. Or Norwegian into Portuguese.
She covered them all, an amazing configuration of languages, as her sharply designed website told him. He’d looked at her list of collaborators and it was 120 strong, each one with an impressive resumé, scattered all over the world. If there’d been translation work available on the space station, she’d probably have a collaborator there, too.
He’d nearly laughed at Nicole Pearce’s expression when he’d named his price for picking that ridiculous lock of hers—dinner out with him.
Granted, he thought, as he looked at his big, battered shit-kickers now comfortably settled on his shiny, expensive desktop, he did look like a scumbag. Well, you wouldn’t want to be his enemy. But Nicole Pearce wasn’t his enemy. Shit, no.
He’d been aching to touch that creamy white skin ever since he’d first seen her, and when he finally got his chance, he’d make sure his hands were clean. And gentle. He had strong hands, but he knew when to curb his strength. The idea of hurting any woman made him physically ill, but the idea of somehow hurting Nicole…no, hurting her was not in the cards.
Fucking her…now that was another matter.
The lock on Nicole Pearce’s office door had been so easy to pick, it was embarrassing. It had taken two seconds, tops, while she’d been checking the time on that fancy wristwatch.
The memory of her slack-jawed surprise when she looked up to see him opening her door had him grinning as he bent forward to check his e-mail. This afternoon he’d get a haircut and a shave and then a half-hour shower before his date, but right now, he wanted to get some work out of the way.
He scanned the subject lines of his e-mails, giving a quick fist pump in the air when he saw NIGHTINGALE LANDED.
