Take Me Two Times Read online

  Gwen entered the stairwell, climbed two floors, and timed a convincing sneeze so that her face would be hidden from the surveillance camera near the door. She pulled a pocket hankie out of her ugly dress and buried her face in it until she was inside the corridor that led to the offices. These measures were probably unnecessary, given her makeup job, but she couldn’t be too careful.

  The Nerd Corps had provided her with a scanned duplicate of an employee key card—Gwen knew by now not to question their methods and just to be grateful for the results.

  She slid the key card into the slot on Jaworski’s door, expelling a silent breath of relief when a little green light blinked. A simple turn of the handle and she waltzed right into the corporate reception area, all of their security be damned.

  Her gaze went straight to the alarm keypad in the corner. She had thirty seconds to enter the correct code . . . except apparently that wasn’t necessary. The alarm wasn’t set.

  The little hairs at Gwen’s nape stood to attention. Why wasn’t it set? It wasn’t a question of someone having forgotten to do it. No, there was somebody here.

  She shrank back against the wall near the reception desk and listened. Hum of the watercooler. Electronic groan as the air-conditioning cycled off, the room having reached the correct temperature. A phone rang a few offices away. Other than that, silence.

  Gwen was about to move into the hallway when she heard the murmur of voices. Two men? Two men and a woman. A smothered yawn, a slap on the back, a “Yup. See you tomorrow.”

  The female voice said, “Triple-check the results—he’s going to grill you.”

  Snort from one of the men. “He can grill this.”

  Finally she saw them as they turned from a back corridor and made their way toward her and the main exit.

  Gwen dropped to the ground and crept under the receptionist’s desk, pulling the rolling chair in after her. The group didn’t bother with the lights, thank God. A pair of woven, tasseled loafers, a pair of sensible navy pumps, and some wingtips walked by as she held her breath. Then the door opened, the group exited, and the door closed again.

  Gwen continued to crouch under the desk, her heart hurling itself against her rib cage, until she talked herself out of the panic. She looked like a maid, someone who belonged here after hours. Someone whom the employees wouldn’t think to question. Someone who was almost invisible to them. It was sad but true: Most white-collar professionals wouldn’t spare a glance for a heavy woman in her late sixties in a janitorial uniform.

  When her breathing had returned to normal, Gwen eased the chair back, crawled out from under the desk, and got to her feet. Wielding the duster and a trash bag, she forced herself around the corner and along the corridor she knew led to Quinn Lawson’s old office.

  A faint mildew smell hung in the air, despite a chaser of Lysol. Once water got into industrial carpet in Miami, it had its way with the fiber and nothing could stop it.

  She looked for light under every door she passed, breathing more easily as she discerned nothing but darkness. She stopped at Quinn’s door. No sign of light. No sign of any movement inside. But what if? What if the duplicate mask was still with Jaworski?

  Her breathing had kicked up a notch just at her thinking about it. She counted to ten and got it under control as she used another key card to open this door. If the mask wasn’t here, then it wasn’t here. She could track down Jaworski and get into his house, too. The Nerd Corps wasn’t just made up of brilliant geeks . . . they were essentially criminal consultants. Gwen skittered away from that thought.

  The end justifies the means. Avy had repeated it patiently, over and over. These aren’t sweet, decent kindergarten teachers we’re dealing with, Gwen! They’re crooks.

  But Gwen didn’t feel right being here . . . and she had to get over that. She was here. And she needed to get a look at that duplicate mask.

  She entered Quinn’s office and shut the door behind her. The moonlight streamed through his open wood blinds and caught the teeth of the bear’s head, which looked as if it might leap off the wall at any moment and grab her by the throat.

  Gwen shivered in disgust and turned her back on it, walking over to the big, ugly mystery-wood credenza by the window. Outside, the royal palms that oversaw the parking lot swayed disapprovingly at her, shaking their fronds over her lost ethics.

  A loud electronic tick had her whirling, but she couldn’t identify the source. She stood frozen for a moment and then made the mistake of looking up at the bear’s head again. Its eyes followed her every move.

  Wildly, she wondered if there were some kind of nanny-cam in its mouth, and then dismissed the idea as ridiculous. What was wrong with her? She needed to pull it together and focus on why she was here.

  Where was this heavy-duty safe? Behind a painting? Built into a piece of furniture?

  She began with the artwork, which interestingly enough was boring and nondescript. Quinn’s choices? Somehow she didn’t think so.

  There were some pompous herons in tall grass gazing out from one painting with an ornate frame. She lifted it from the wall, but there was nothing behind the piece.

  The next picture portrayed two sailfish popping up out of the water simultaneously, like a couple of pieces of marine toast. No safe behind them, either.

  She checked inside the massive credenza, since she was standing right next to it. No dice. Inside were stacks of Jaworski Labs letterhead, mailing envelopes, and annual reports. There were boxes of Jaworski Labs pens and an old-fashioned Rolodex, a series of golf videos, and a book on golf that looked more effective than a sleeping pill for knocking someone out within five minutes.

  Gwen shook her head. Where was the Quinn she’d known? Who was this guy?

  She was reassured by the bottom shelf of the credenza, which held a few old issues of Car and Driver, an all-in-one tool that did everything from open beer bottles to tighten wing nuts—and a lighter. Evidently Quinn had not stopped by yet to pick up his personal belongings.

  Gwen nudged the door of the credenza closed with her foot, jumping at the sound it made. Stupid of her.

  She turned to the desk, creeped out when the grizzly’s eyes followed her over there, too. God! What was it with men and dead animals? Horns, fangs, claws?

  Just in case, and half for curiosity’s sake, she pulled open the top drawer of Quinn’s desk and examined the exciting possibilities arrayed inside. A tube of Rolaids, a set of keys, pens and pencils galore, a calculator. A letter opener, a box of pushpins, a pair of scissors . . . no mask.

  The second drawer yielded business cards, CDs filed in alphabetical order in labeled jewel cases, and a couple of notepads. In the third drawer was a portable printer that could be used with a laptop for travel.

  She was beginning to get frustrated. Where was this safe? She’d headed for the file drawers when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Panic punched her in the stomach and she switched off her flashlight. She reminded herself again that she was dressed appropriately to be here.

  Yeah, but most janitorial staff turned on a couple of lights and left the door open. In her discomfort, she hadn’t done that. She was creeping around like exactly what Quinn had initially thought she was: a thief in the night.

  So Gwen crouched and gave in to her instincts—she crawled under Quinn’s desk, where she banged her knee on something rectangular with sharp corners. Could it be . . . ? She felt around the edges of it with her hands, and determined that it was the right size and made of ornately carved wood. This was the box that had held the mask.

  Gwen made herself wait a full two minutes—she counted off 120 seconds in her head—before switching on the flashlight and fumbling for the catch on the box. She opened it with growing excitement—only to be disappointed. The box was empty.

  Then she heard the electronic snick. A card swiped through the lock on the office door, which flew open.

  Gwen’s head came up instinctively and cracked the underside of the desk, hard. She switch
ed off the flashlight, even knowing that it was too late. The game was up.

  Quinn’s voice said, “Come out from under there with your hands up.” He sounded hard, angry . . . dangerous. He didn’t know it was her. Did he have a gun?

  Sick with fear, Gwen told her limbs to move, but they refused.

  Quinn knocked his executive chair to one side with a single, well-aimed kick. Ropers. He was wearing ropers and faded jeans. “Get the hell out of there!”

  Someone had filled her mouth with cotton. No moisture. No ability to draw in air. Gag reflex.

  “With your hands up!” he ordered.

  Did he have a gun? Why hadn’t he called security? Were men on their way up already? Wait . . . he couldn’t do that. He was here just as illegally as she was. It was small comfort, but it was some.

  She tried to speak but couldn’t form words. So she crawled out, hands in front of her, palms toward him. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her.

  “Stand up.”

  She did so in one fluid motion before realizing her mistake. A bulky woman in her late sixties would have difficulty doing that. She’d have had to brace herself, probably huff and puff.

  “Turn around.”

  Gwen swallowed and pivoted. First she noticed the .22 aimed at her chest. Then she focused on Quinn’s eyes, which were hard and cold and just as uncompromising as the business end of that gun. They narrowed, then widened. His jaw jutted toward her. “Take off the wig,” he said.

  Gwen broke into Spanish, pleading and gesturing. “Don’t shoot! I didn’t do anything. Please God, don’t shoot.”

  “Take off the wig,” he repeated. “It’s slipped, so you can save the denials.”

  Fudge! She must have knocked it out of position when she’d cracked her head under the desk. “No hablo inglés,” she claimed.

  “No hablo any further patience,” Quinn growled, striding toward her. He grasped the gray wig and pulled it clean off, tossing it to the floor. “Who are you? Who hired you?”

  Gwen felt naked and exposed as she stood in front of him, even with the realization that her makeup job and the body padding still protected her.

  Then he grasped her roughly by the padded arm and the jig truly was up. His expression changed from angry to puzzled and angry; he opened his fingers and then gripped her again. The latex body padding looked real, but it just didn’t feel real. And it wasn’t warm to the touch, like human flesh. He inhaled, then peered at her incredulously, his gaze traveling from her puffed-out cheeks to her support hose and cheap black lace-up shoes—then back up to her face again. He opened and closed his mouth as if trying to get his temper under control.

  “I can smell your shampoo, Gwen,” he said through gritted teeth. Then, to her shock, he ripped the maid’s uniform open, sending buttons flying. He yanked off the body padding, and she stood there, mouth open, wearing nothing but a flesh-colored camisole and tights.

  He cast her a look of pure disgust. “Well, honey, you’ve just been busier’n a one-legged cat tryin’ to bury shit on a marble floor.”

  As Gwen blinked at that, he gouged a line down her heavily made-up forehead with the nail of his index finger. The revulsion on his face intensified. He whipped out a pocket handkerchief, cleaned the underside of his nail, and then wiped the cloth down one side of her face.

  He dangled the makeup-caked handkerchief by one corner before tossing it at her. “Nice,” he said. Then he pointed. “There’s a washroom in there. Clean that off and pull yourself together. Afterward, you and I are going to have a chat, my little double-crossing quarterback.”

  “I didn’t double-cross anyone,” Gwen said. But she stepped out of the ruined uniform, kicked off the ugly shoes, and walked with utterly false calm to the washroom, shutting the door behind her.

  Her whole body vibrated with tension as she leaned her hands on the sink and took several gulps of air. She finally looked up to meet her own eyes in the mirror and winced. Her hair was matted down from the wig, half the age makeup was smeared off, and he’d left a long squiggle mark on her forehead. Her face looked like a toddler’s idea of abstract expressionism, painted in a palette of liver-olive and chalky beige.

  She reached into her mouth and removed the dental cotton that had distorted the shape of her cheeks. She dropped that into the wastebasket and turned on the faucets full-blast, splashing water onto her face and groping for the soap dispenser.

  Two minutes later she was scrubbed clean. She had no makeup with her, not even a lipstick to arm herself for the “chat” she was about to have with Quinn. And she’d have to have it in a pair of support hose and a camisole. Lovely. Every woman wanted to look this way in front of her ex.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and got it to stand up in a feeble semblance of its normal appearance. She washed her hands and dried them again, a completely unnecessary stall for more time. She glanced with little hope at the nonopening corporate window. Riiiight. What would she do—charge through it wielding the toilet plunger and fall to her death?

  That seemed preferable to going back out there and facing Quinn like this; it really did.

  “Have you fallen in, Gwen? Or are you just trying to drown yourself in the toilet so you won’t have to come out?”

  Hateful jerk. She pulled open the door and stalked out, glaring at him. Offense was the best defense. “Quinn, what are you doing here? How do you have access to the building? You’ve been fired. Your presence here and the noise you’ve made could land us in jail!”

  Quinn’s über-manly jaw slackened. “Are you actually standing there in your grandma underwear blamin’ me for this situation? You have some nerve!”

  Gwen nodded. “That comes in handy when you repossess stolen art for a living.”

  “What in the hell are you doing here, Gwen?”

  “I came to look at the mask, to see if I can get any clues as to who made it and how and where. I was going to call you, but the makeup job took a while, and I ran out of time.”

  “You weren’t going to call me,” he said flatly.

  She broke eye contact and sighed. “All right. I wasn’t going to call you. I knew I could do this more easily on my own.”

  “You’re taking completely unacceptable risks.”

  “Really. And what about you? You’re here, too.”

  “That’s different.”

  She smirked at him, which seemed to enrage him.

  “Ever been in jail, Gwen? It wouldn’t be your idea of a good time, trust me.”

  “Why, have you?”

  “Yeah. I tried to break up a fight one time, and got arrested for my trouble.”

  She hadn’t known that. But there was probably a lot about Quinn now that she didn’t know.

  “It’s not only dangerous for you to break in here, but it’s dangerous for a woman to be out alone at night in Miami. You don’t even have your SIG with you, do you?”

  “I didn’t think I could get it through security. But I have other ways of protecting myself. How did you get in with a gun?”

  “I know my way around the system,” he said.

  “How did you get in, period?”

  “Like I said, I know the system.”

  “By the way, it sucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” Quinn muttered.

  “All we had to do was scan your assistant’s key card. Our team did it from three feet away and he never noticed.”

  Quinn looked a bit shamefaced and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Same,” he muttered.

  Gwen laughed. “So, do you want to lecture me on my morals tonight?”

  His face darkened. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and took her by the shoulders. His hands burned her bare skin, sending that familiar liquid heat through her system. Oh, God. Not this. Not now.

  But her lungs had compressed; she had trouble drawing air in. Her pulse spiked. Her knees went weak.

  “You lied to me about this. Don’t friggin’ lie to me. Not ever again.”r />
  “I didn’t lie. I simply omitted to tell you I was coming here.”

  “Same thing! We’re supposed to be working as a team.”

  “We don’t make a good team. I tried to tell you that.”

  “We make a great team—until you decide that it’s only made up of one person. You did it fifteen years ago, Gwen. You did it again tonight. And you know what? It’s bullshit. ”

  “Oh? Well, you came here alone, too. Now get your hands off me, Quinn,” she said, her tone low and deadly.

  His nostrils flared. White dents in his nose appeared directly above them. A muscle bunched in his jaw. His face loomed over hers, and his hands stayed right where they were.

  Old attraction pitched a pheromone-laden fastball, but mutual hostility hit it right out of the park.

  “Hands, Quinn!”

  That muscle in his jaw jumped again, but he lifted his palms from her shoulders. However, he didn’t step back one inch.

  Neither did she. Gwen stood there in the damned support hose and glared right back at him, chin up like a battering ram.

  chapter 10

  Quinn stood looking down at the top of Gwen’s disheveled head, opening and closing his hands in sheer frustration. The soft orange streaks lay like little question marks among the strands of her natural color.

  They asked, What are you going to do? Kill her? Or kiss her?

  She stood in front of him in a lacy wisp of lingerie and a pair of the ugliest stockings he’d ever seen—yet with no visible panty line underneath them.

  Quinn had gotten a thorough and disturbing view of her sweet backside as she’d stalked into the washroom. The stockings were hideous, but they left little to the imagination. Gwen looked just as good as she had when she was nineteen. Maybe better, since she was now more muscular.

  Because of his height, she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes, and her full, nude mouth played havoc with his anger. Would she taste the same?