“I don’t have time to wait for the bureaucracy to process a request.”
His gaze flickered down her body and back up. Then he held out his hand. “So you’re the best hacker-buster in the known universe.”
She stared at the elegantly long, blunt-tipped fingers and neatly trimmed nails. His hands were the only thing about him that fit the information she’d been given. They looked like surgeon’s hands.
The only recent photos of him were long-range, grainy tabloid shots. From them she’d gotten the impression of a thin, hatchet-faced, obsessed scientist.
Boy was she wrong!
“Hacker-buster?” She shook her head. “No. Computer expert.” Her voice was steadier than her insides.
This was Dylan Stryker. Her head spun as lurid headlines filled her vision.
HORROR IN THE HAMPTONS.
Mad Doctor Hides Hideously Maimed Son In Airless Underground Dungeon.
It was typical tabloid fare and it made her shudder each time she thought about it, made her dread meeting Stryker’s child, whom Decker had told her was paralyzed. How could anyone keep a child in this place? Underground dungeon—underground lab. Close enough.
“Dr. Stryker.” She took his extended hand, and his intensity hit her like the back draft from a fire. Shock and awareness skittered along her spine. His grasp was firm and brief, leaving her palm feeling singed by his touch.
“So, Agent Rudolph, are you really the best?” His voice held a challenge.
“Yes, I am,” she said without hesitation.
His straight mouth tilted slightly at one corner. “Good. Perfect.”
He nodded, dislodging a trickle of sweat that slid down over his temple and down his jawbone.
He glanced at his watch, used the towel on his damp hair again, then turned to Mintz. “Get her settled and put her to work. What about equipment?”
“Brought it with her. Where do you want her?”
“In the office across from the virtual surgery lab.” He pointed farther down the hall. Then he looked at her. “How much equipment do you have?”
“I’d rather have an office upstairs—” Natasha started, but Mintz was listing her equipment for Stryker. Neither one of them paid any attention to her.
“Is there anything else you need, Agent Rudolph?”
Windows. Lots of windows. “Any chance I could work upstairs somewhere?”
“No. Out of the question.” Stryker eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure you can handle this job?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, thankful her voice was still steady. She had a job to do. And that meant forgetting that there were truckloads of dirt and an entire mansion over her head. Her career was on the line. She had to succeed—windows or no windows.
“I assume I can start right away.” The quicker she got started, the quicker she could expose the hacker and get out of this hole in the ground.
“Alfred’ll take care of anything you need,” Stryker said with a wave of his hand.
As he turned away, his gaze met hers in a fleeting, intense glance that seared her to the bone. His clear blue eyes burned as brightly as an oxygen flame, warming her cheeks and stirring a cauldron of unexpected emotions within her.
He might be tired and unkempt, underfed and distracted, but Dylan Stryker exuded an air of command and—she searched for the right word…masculinity…that hummed through her like the ring of a perfectly pitched tuning fork. She blinked and dropped her gaze.
“Thanks, Alfred.” Stryker headed back to his lab.
Natasha felt stunned. According to his file, Stryker was thirty-three, and already known worldwide for his breakthroughs with computer-assisted mobility in nerve-damaged patients.
Natasha had studied everything the FBI had on him, including clippings from the tabloids. He’d been thirty when his wife was killed three years before.
It has long been rumored that Stryker’s infant son did not die in the mysterious car crash that killed his wife….
Natasha stared at Stryker’s broad shoulders and lean hips until she realized Mintz had left her behind again. She hurried to catch up. He used his thumbprint and keyed in digits from a pass code generator. The door clicked open to reveal a small foyer banked with elevators.
“Where are we going? I need to start work.”
Mintz punched the call button. “I’ll show you to your room first, so you can freshen up. Have you eaten?”
She nodded, finding it difficult to pull her thoughts away from Dylan Stryker. He was so completely different from her expectations. He was driven, maybe even obsessed. But there was something else about him. Something dark and haunted lurked behind his brilliant blue eyes.
“I assume you’ve been fully briefed on our situation?” Mintz asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m here to stop a hacker and construct a firewall. And of course, to help with physical security.”
Mintz shook his head. “Physical security is not your job. Two of your fellow agents are on the outside to help my staff handle that. You concentrate on the computer.”
Irritation stiffened her shoulders. “I’ve studied the aerial photos. You’ve done a good job of camouflaging the house.”
Too good for her taste. This was her first assignment since her injury. And now she understood why Decker had given her a choice. He’d told her that the staff psychiatrist had declared her minimally qualified. At the time she was furious, and eager to prove the shrink wrong.
Now she got it. How ironic that this job tapped into her worst fears. Before her injury, this would have been just another assignment, and her mild claustrophobia would be manageable. But now she was fighting for her career. If she couldn’t conquer her irrational fear of closed spaces, she’d lose her job.
She suppressed a shudder, drew in a lungful of conditioned air and repeated the mantra Dr. Shay had given her to calm her panic.
Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It was nighttime now, but she knew from the photos Decker had shown her that even during the day, the massive house was shrouded in darkness. “I saw the infrared photos. How do you keep from broadcasting body heat?”
“The canopy that stretches over the entire house is made of a specially designed heat-repelling mesh,” Mintz answered. “Some sunlight does get in. But it’s very good camouflage.”
“Right. The perfect hiding place,” she said wryly.
“Not perfect,” Mintz responded. “We do what we can to quash any rumors that this is Dylan’s base of operations. But occasionally somebody tries to breach the walls, or flies over in a helicopter. Usually paparazzi.”
The faint note of disapproval in his voice intrigued her. She looked at him, but his stern face gave away nothing.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
“And now it looks like we’ve got a hacker.”
“Did I understand that your computer guy said he got in and out clean?”
He nodded. “Jerry Campbell. He’s the bioengineer working with Dylan. He assured us the hacker left nothing behind.”
“Bioengineer? Who’s handling the computer system?”
Mintz cleared his throat impatiently.