Zero Day Exploit (Bayou’s End #1.5) (12 page)

“Where are you going next?”

“Boise.” He shrugged. “I know. Potatoes and industry. But someone out there needs downsizing.”

“You don’t sound very happy about that.”

“Funny how that works.” He trailed her down the steps into the subway, and followed after her through the turnstile. “Wouldn’t have thought twice about it a week ago.”

She settled to lean against a pillar and watched him curiously, peeling him open with her gaze. “What changed?”

“You.”

Color crept high in her cheeks. She blinked, then turned her face away, groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re having some kind of epiphany.”

“Feels more like a midlife crisis.” He settled on a bench nearby, propping his elbows on his knees. “It’s not your problem, Z. Don’t worry. I only brought you here for clothes. Nothing else.”

Another of those odd looks. Why did she keep looking at him that way? He supposed it was better than glaring fit to skin him, but it left him at a loss for how to read her. How to guess what she was feeling, when all she said was, “Sure…okay.”

Not very encouraging. But she was still here. That was something. He glanced up as the train came grinding into the station, the wind off the tracks slapping across his cheeks. “Then let’s shop.” He stood, offering his hand with a smile. “C’mon.”

*     *     *

The train let them off in SoHo close to ten p.m., with half the shops already darkening their windows for the night and locking their doors—but the streets bustled busily, trendy people with their shopping bags strolling through the snow, draped in designer scarves and practiced laughter. Evan blinked as Zero huddled closer to him, her arm bumping and brushing his. With a frown, he glanced down at her.

“You okay?”

She bit her lip. “This really isn’t my kind of place.”

“It’s SoHo, not Rodeo Drive. Trust me, no one’s judging you.” He hesitated, then rested his hand gently atop her head, lightly stroking her hair; snowflakes dotted the soft strands, and melted cool and damp against his palm. “You fit right in.”

For just a moment, she leaned into him. And for just a moment, the pit of his stomach clenched painfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone without
wanting
something from them. A handshake to seal a deal, to instill confidence with a firm and commanding grip. A clap on the shoulder to say
we’re all friends, I’m one of you, not the guy here to rip your job out from under you
. A brush of fingers across a soft cheek, a hand to the small of the back, a graze down a pretty throat—the dance of seduction, all a means to an end. They meant nothing. Just a numbing filter between him and real human contact, emotion.

But this—this one simple touch for Zoraya. This one simple need to offer her a brief respite through companionship, warmth, reassurance. It cut him open, left him bleeding, and left him wanting so much more.

Then she pulled away, stiff and proud. Always so proud, this one. So stubborn. It made him smile, even as the wrench of loss pulled inside him when his hand fell back to his side.

“I’m fine,” she said flatly, and strode ahead of him with her head held high. “Let’s just find somewhere open and get this over with.”

He followed her for a few more steps, then took the lead as they made their way down the sidewalk until they found a shop promising open hours until midnight. More than enough time, as long as she wasn’t a choosy shopper. He studied the window displays—crisp smart suits and delicate, gauzy scarves, killer heels and designer handbags. Entirely not Zero, but he wasn’t here to make her look like herself.

He held the door open, then ducked inside after her, brushing snow off his shoulders. “Business clothes are this way.” He tossed his head toward one section. “You’ll need a mix of business casual and business formal. You don’t need to dress like a high-powered lawyer taking clients to ten thousand dollar lunches, but you don’t want to go down the ‘khakis and pocket protector’ route, either.”

“Like I can tell the difference.”

“Which is why I’m here. Just consider me your personal image consultant.” He stopped at a rack of smart-looking black jackets and thumbed through them, checking tags. “Anything you want to try first?”

She stared at him, eyes wide, looking more than a little lost. “I…have no idea.”

“Then you’ll have to trust me. Petite small, right?” He pulled a jacket off the rack, then threaded through the aisles toward a stand of red sateen blouses. “Don’t look so scared. I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s what scares me.” She let out a shaky laugh as she trailed in his wake. “How do you know so much about women’s clothing?”

“On weekends, I wear skirts. And fishnets. It’s a bitch finding heels in my size, though.”

“…what?”

Evan burst into laughter. “It worries me a little that you look like you believe that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but…not that kind of guy. To each their own.” He snagged a blouse, draped it over the growing pile on his arm, and went hunting for the skirt to match the jacket, turning sideways to fit through narrow rows that hadn’t been planned with him in mind. “I know business, Z. I know what makes a good impression and what doesn’t. That goes for everything from your resume to your outfit to your business proposals, performance, and team behavior. It takes more than a good work ethic to succeed. You need the whole package. So I learned what it takes—for men and for women. I’ve taught more than one person how to play the game. Make their mark. Leave an impression.”

“So is that what you’re going to teach me? How to play the game?”

“I,” he said, “am going to teach you how to fake the game.” He winked and added a few more things to the growing pile in his arms. “Wouldn’t want to kill that creative spirit.”

“I get the distinct feeling you’re mocking me.”

“I’d never.” He dumped the entire pile into her arms—and grinned when she staggered back, struggling to catch it. “Now get into the fitting room, Cinderella. Clock’s ticking to midnight.”

Zero tossed him a filthy look and stalked off, muttering under her breath the entire way. Laughing to himself, Evan settled on a bench to wait. God, he couldn’t believe he was out here doing this—but it felt
good
. Here he was, dragging a woman around a department store, shopping for her, waiting for her to try on her clothes like a good little boy…and he was
happy
.

Instead of pretending to be happy with the life he’d bought for himself at the cost of other people’s joy.

Stop that
. He wasn’t considering a career change now. There was nothing else he could do, really. This was what he was good at. He’d never really specialized in any field, and being a jack of all trades and master of none meant one’s best skill was telling other people when and where they’d fucked up.

“Evan?” Zero called plaintively through the fitting room door. “I don’t like it. I don’t want to come out looking like this.”

He lifted his head. “I’m sure you’re fine. Let me see.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me come in there.”

“You’re not allowed.”

“That wouldn’t stop me.”

With a disgusted sound, she muttered, “Fine.” The fitting room door creaked open a crack, then stopped. One slitted blue eye peered out at him, before with a scowl she shoved the door open and stepped out. “I feel ridiculous.”

Evan said nothing. He couldn’t, his mind escaping him as his gaze raked over her. She sure as hell didn’t look ridiculous. She looked like dynamite wrapped up in a neat little package, all that fire and wildness waiting to explode past the clean-cut edges of her slim little skirt suit. The skirt licked over her curves like oil, sleek and clinging, drawing his eye up over the flow of her hips—and nearly drawing his hands, until he clenched them as if that could still the tingling ache in his palms. He burned for contact. That red blouse drew him like a bull drawn to a flag, a glimpse of blood-bright color past the tightly-closed jacket; the buttons strained over her chest, barely able to close, and suddenly Evan could think of nothing but how the heavy, full weight of her breast had felt in his palm, warm and filling his hand.

Then she turned away to study herself in the full-length mirror and he groaned, closing his eyes against the tempting sight of her lush, curving bottom, cupped so perfectly by the formfitting skirt. If he wasn’t careful, he’d do something she’d hate him for. He barely heard the rustle of cloth as she fussed with her clothing, his head pounding with the throb of blood rushing in his veins.

“This feels weird,” she said petulantly.

He wasn’t quite sure how he struggled the words out, but he managed somehow, voice dry. “Weird how?”

“Stiff. Like I’m not allowed to move in it.”

He took a deep breath. Control. Get himself under control. He’d ruined the fragile truce between them enough times that he wasn’t going to act like an oversexed ape and do it again. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. Professional. Detached.

Like he’d been detached since the moment he’d met her.

Fucking
idiot
.

He made himself pull back and study her clinically. She stood in the suit as if she’d been mummified in it, discomfort screaming in every rigid line of her body, in how she fidgeted and fussed at the fabric until it sat all wrong on her and bunched until she looked like a snake trying to molt an ill-fitting second skin. He stood and stepped behind her, for a moment studying their reflections in the mirror. She barely came up to his chest. So small, yet filled with enough fire for a man twice his size.

He tore his attention back to her clothing and only her clothing. Gently he settled his hands on her shoulders, wary of sending her skittering away from his touch. She stiffened, but held still as he coaxed her shoulders to straighten. “It’s all about posture,” he said. “You have to walk like you’re in control of the room.”

Her nose wrinkled. “But I’m not.”

“No one knows that but you. Here.” He let go of her shoulders and slid his fingers into her hair. He loved the way it felt pouring over his hands, cool and soft and luxuriant; he loved even more the catch of her breath as he gathered it gently, pulling it into a messy twist in the back, drawing it away from her face to leave those lovely blue eyes unshielded. Her exposed throat drew him, as if inviting him to touch, to taste—and he couldn’t look away from her even as he continued, “Lift your hair off your neck. Raise your chin. Shoulders back. You can’t walk into the office as Zero. Zero’s a punk, the underdog who has to fight her way up. You have to act like you’re already on top. You are Zoraya Blackwell. Confident. Brilliant. Formidable.”

Her eyes caught his in the mirror, wide above the flush of color in her cheeks. With unsteady hands, she straightened her coat. Squaring her shoulders, she licked her lips nervously. “I’m not so formidable.”

“You terrify me.”

A startled laugh burst past her lips. “I do not!”

“Seriously, I wouldn’t trust you around sharp objects.”

“Evan!” She pulled away from him, her hair tumbling from his hand to spill over her shoulders and back as she turned to shove him, grinning that minx’s grin that made her light up so brilliantly. He rocked back dutifully, staggering just a little extra for effect before catching himself with a laugh.

“Maybe I should say I don’t trust you with sharp objects around
me
.”

“You
shouldn’t
.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown anything at you yet.”

“The mercy of the goddess.”

“The common sense to avoid a lawsuit.” She tugged at the jacket and blouse. “I feel like it’s choking the life out of me.”

“You don’t have to button up so tight.” He couldn’t resist any longer. He stepped closer and caught the topmost button of her coat to tug it carefully open, his fingers brushing along the curve of her breast. He told himself he was only showing her, helping her, but he knew it was a lie. He wanted to touch her, in any way she would let him. “You have to be professional,” he murmured. “Not a spinster schoolteacher. You can be business-appropriate and still be a woman.”

His brain screamed at him to stop there, but his heart wasn’t listening. Not when that arresting stillness fell over her, and she looked up at him with her eyes so dark and smoky; not when he could feel the increased rate of her breathing in the repeated brush of the jacket against the backs of his knuckles; not when her body heat seemed to double, reaching out like grasping fingers. He knew the moment he lowered his eyes to the hard-beating throb of her pulse that he had already damned himself.

If he was to be damned, then he would do something to deserve it.

The second button of the jacket popped loose under his touch, and she sucked in an audible breath as it fell open. The soft sateen shirt was already warm from her body heat, soaking her in as he ached to; the buttons kissed cool against his skin as he ran his fingertips up the line of them to her throat. She’d buttoned the blouse much too high for his tastes, all the way up to the collar, hiding the sweet, smooth, dusky skin that made his mouth water for a taste of her.

As he found the top button, his fingers brushed her chin; she tilted her head up with a soft sound, an unspoken question darkening her eyes. When she looked at him that way, he could almost think she wanted him. Almost think she’d forgiven him, when she stood trembling and
let
him tug the button open to expose the soft dip at the base of her throat. Her eyes lidded with a low exhalation as he brushed the pad of his thumb against the smooth skin and felt its luscious fragility under his touch.

Another button. Another. Until he could see the fine birds-wing crests of her collarbones; until her next heaving breath pushed the V of the shirt open over a scalloped edge of lace and the sweet warmth of the plunging crevice between her breasts. He nearly trembled with the restraint it took not to touch skin to skin. Not to take her flesh into his palm, and let the fiery heat of her burn him.

It struck him like a physical blow when she pulled back, a trembling hand rising to pull the blouse closed. “Don’t,” she breathed. “Don’t do that.”