agenda.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Michaud, bienvenu,” the host, Michel, said. He stepped forward from the front desk and spoke in a low voice. “Aimeriez-vous la pièce privée?” Would you like the private room?
“Oui, Michel. Merci.”
Michel reached for two menus and motioned for the pair to follow him. With Neer in tow, she walked past the row of tables populated with Georgetown veterans and decorated with white tablecloths, votive candles, and yellow mums. Michel seated them and left.
Neer studied the dark cherry wood paneling. “Nice place. You have a reserved private room?”
Thia thought the ambient lighting softened Neer’s eyes.
“Oh, let’s just say it pays to treat staff well.” She tapped her foot three times, initiating a continuous sensor sweep that would download the results to her node. A green light flashed in her periphery. The room was clean of bugs. At least the ones she knew about. Technology improved every day. One’s enemies—or a neutral party looking to sell information—could be listening in with some new device. It paid to be paranoid.
The waiter entered after knocking and took their orders: the signature dish for both, a bottle of strong wine for dinner, and Green Chartreuse liqueur with dessert to help lower Neer’s inhibitions. When the waiter left, Thia kept the conversation light, choosing to wait until dessert to make the offer and close the deal. She hoped Neer was a fast eater.
By the time the crème brûlée arrived, the wine was taking effect, to Thia’s satisfaction. She’d managed to maintain her one glass, while Neer had polished off the rest of the bottle, all the while pontificating on his technological prowess.
“He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about anyway. He’s a finance manager, for cryin’ out loud. He barely knew Cog was a trapped ion quantum computer, and he’s got the nerve to try to tell me—ME—about decoherence. Ha!”
As her eyes began to glaze over from boredom, she slid closer to Neer, slipped off one of her black leather pumps, and rubbed her foot against his leg. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, raking through his hair.
With her other hand, she spooned her dessert into her mouth. The savory warmth of the brûlée curled around her tongue. Neer finally stopped talking and looked at her with a wicked grin. Pieces of broccoli stuck in his teeth; green dots crowned his gums. She did her best to ignore it.
His hand shook as he poured the last of the Green Chartreuse into his glass, spilling some onto the white tablecloth. The stain spread, reminding her of a gunshot wound, and she imagined Wills Ryder lying on the floor in front of her, bleeding to death, his life slowly ebbing away. He had stolen information from her, and it had been her ass that had gotten chewed out. She didn’t even know he had stolen the secrets until the rumors started. But if she didn’t bring him in, there would be hell to pay. Bastard .
“You know, you never told me exactly what you wanted,” Neer slurred. The cold, sharp intelligence in his eyes had dulled to a hazy obtuseness. She’d seen that look too many times in too many bars, hashhouses, and pakz joints.
“Well, besides Wills Ryder himself, you know more than anyone about Cog, n’est pas?”
“Wills Ryder. Puh! Bastard took the money and ran. Had nothing to do with day-to-day management. And with the old man in a coma and his thieving sister on the run, I predict the company’s gonna go down the fema hole.” He pointed a shaky finger in Thia’s face. “Mark my word.”
“Nicholle Ryder, curator at a holographic art museum, acting president of a large corporation, now a suspected felon.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but we got a new VP, Perim Nestor. Maybe the Board will appoint him.”
She’d heard Wills had cut and run with a large percentage, but that didn’t sound like him. His mantra was power, not money. He was controlling the company from behind the scenes.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Michaud, bienvenu,” the host, Michel, said. He stepped forward from the front desk and spoke in a low voice. “Aimeriez-vous la pièce privée?” Would you like the private room?
“Oui, Michel. Merci.”
Michel reached for two menus and motioned for the pair to follow him. With Neer in tow, she walked past the row of tables populated with Georgetown veterans and decorated with white tablecloths, votive candles, and yellow mums. Michel seated them and left.
Neer studied the dark cherry wood paneling. “Nice place. You have a reserved private room?”
Thia thought the ambient lighting softened Neer’s eyes.
“Oh, let’s just say it pays to treat staff well.” She tapped her foot three times, initiating a continuous sensor sweep that would download the results to her node. A green light flashed in her periphery. The room was clean of bugs. At least the ones she knew about. Technology improved every day. One’s enemies—or a neutral party looking to sell information—could be listening in with some new device. It paid to be paranoid.
The waiter entered after knocking and took their orders: the signature dish for both, a bottle of strong wine for dinner, and Green Chartreuse liqueur with dessert to help lower Neer’s inhibitions. When the waiter left, Thia kept the conversation light, choosing to wait until dessert to make the offer and close the deal. She hoped Neer was a fast eater.
By the time the crème brûlée arrived, the wine was taking effect, to Thia’s satisfaction. She’d managed to maintain her one glass, while Neer had polished off the rest of the bottle, all the while pontificating on his technological prowess.
“He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about anyway. He’s a finance manager, for cryin’ out loud. He barely knew Cog was a trapped ion quantum computer, and he’s got the nerve to try to tell me—ME—about decoherence. Ha!”
As her eyes began to glaze over from boredom, she slid closer to Neer, slipped off one of her black leather pumps, and rubbed her foot against his leg. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, raking through his hair.
With her other hand, she spooned her dessert into her mouth. The savory warmth of the brûlée curled around her tongue. Neer finally stopped talking and looked at her with a wicked grin. Pieces of broccoli stuck in his teeth; green dots crowned his gums. She did her best to ignore it.
His hand shook as he poured the last of the Green Chartreuse into his glass, spilling some onto the white tablecloth. The stain spread, reminding her of a gunshot wound, and she imagined Wills Ryder lying on the floor in front of her, bleeding to death, his life slowly ebbing away. He had stolen information from her, and it had been her ass that had gotten chewed out. She didn’t even know he had stolen the secrets until the rumors started. But if she didn’t bring him in, there would be hell to pay. Bastard .
“You know, you never told me exactly what you wanted,” Neer slurred. The cold, sharp intelligence in his eyes had dulled to a hazy obtuseness. She’d seen that look too many times in too many bars, hashhouses, and pakz joints.
“Well, besides Wills Ryder himself, you know more than anyone about Cog, n’est pas?”
“Wills Ryder. Puh! Bastard took the money and ran. Had nothing to do with day-to-day management. And with the old man in a coma and his thieving sister on the run, I predict the company’s gonna go down the fema hole.” He pointed a shaky finger in Thia’s face. “Mark my word.”
“Nicholle Ryder, curator at a holographic art museum, acting president of a large corporation, now a suspected felon.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but we got a new VP, Perim Nestor. Maybe the Board will appoint him.”
She’d heard Wills had cut and run with a large percentage, but that didn’t sound like him. His mantra was power, not money. He was controlling the company from behind the scenes.
Similar Books
