"Lucky shot." Except he wasn't just lucky, he was so highly trained that instinct and experience put him several jumps ahead of almost everyone else, allowing him to see the significance of a battered copy of a classic lying in the open on Ronsard's desk.
He slid a disk into the A drive and began calling up files and copying them onto the disk. He didn't take time to read any of them, he just copied them as fast as possible, one eye on the closed-circuit monitor the entire time.
Niema moved around behind the desk. "I'll watch the monitor," she said. "You copy."
He nodded, and the A drive began whirring almost continuously.
A moment later, watching the monitor, Niema saw the door at the end of the hallway open.
"Someone's coming," she whispered.
John glanced at the screen, but didn't pause in what he was doing. "That's one of the security team," he replied.
"Do they do door checks?"
"Maybe." The reply was terse. Since he had disabled the lock on the door, it would open if anyone tried it.
Niema put her hand in the folds of the evening wrap. The pistol grip felt cool and heavy under her fingers. The guard began walking down the hallway toward the office. Her heartbeat picked up and her mouth went dry.
The hallway was a long one; on the small screen, it seemed to stretch out endlessly, with the guard becoming bigger and bigger as he approached. Niema found herself counting his steps. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one-
"Don't lose your cool," John cautioned softly but didn't look up from the list of files. "Almost finished here."
The guard strode past, never even pausing outside the door. Watching him on the screen, hearing his footsteps pass by the office, gave her an odd sense of unreality because the sound came from a different direction than the activity she watched on the screen.
"That's it." Quickly he punched the release, and the disk popped out. He slipped it into a protective sleeve and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Then he turned off the computer, restored everything on the desk to its original position, and touched her elbow. "Ready?"
"I'll say."
She turned to go to the door, but suddenly he grabbed her arm, pulling her to a standstill. "More company."
She looked back at the monitor. The hallway door was opening again. Someone had stopped in the doorway, half turned away as if he were speaking to someone on the other side of the door. The tiny figure on the screen had long dark hair.
"Ronsard," she whispered, a cold twist of panic tightening her stomach. He wouldn't be in this long hallway unless he were coming to his office.
John exploded into motion, literally lifting her off her feet. In two long strides he was beside the sofa. He set her down and began stripping out of his tuxedo jacket, carelessly dropping it on the floor. "Take off your underwear and lie down," he ordered, his tone low and urgent.
They had only seconds, seconds before Ronsard would be coming through that door. Her hands shook as she pulled up her skirt and reached under it for the waistband of her panties. Pretending to have sex was such a cliche, trotted out in hundreds of movies, that no one would believe it, especially not someone as sophisticated and savvy as Ronsard. That was precisely why it just might work, because he wouldn't believe Temple would be so hokey.
Of course John, being John, wouldn't depend on a torrid clinch to give the impression he wanted. No, he wanted underwear off, clothes disarrayed, as if they truly were just about to make love.
Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel her pulse throbbing under her skin. She skimmed her panties down her thighs and let them drop, then hurriedly kicked them away and lay down on the sofa.
Leaning forward, John tugged her skirt up to her waist and pulled her legs apart, kneeling between them with one knee on the sofa while he tore open his trousers. She went numb with shock. Only the cool air washing over her naked flesh told her this wasn't a weird dream, but it had to be. This was carrying pretense further than she was prepared to take it. She couldn't be lying here half-naked with him between her spread legs and witnesses likely to come through the door at any second.
He bent down and licked her, his hard hands pushing her thighs wider as his tongue probed inside her, depositing moisture. Niema's entire body jolted and he held her down, his mouth pressed between her legs. She swallowed a shriek, her breath strangling in her throat. Oh God, he was going down on her-Ronsard would . . . She couldn't let herself think of Ronsard walking in on them now but this must be what John had planned, to be caught in an act so intimate no one would dream it was pretense-
How could it be pretense when he was actually doing it?
She whimpered and reached down, her hands sliding through his hair. She wanted to push him away but couldn't, her hands simply wouldn't obey. Bolts of sensation shot through her body, arching her in his hands. How long would she have to endure this? How long? Five seconds? Ten?
Time had become elastic, stretching beyond recognition. She shook her head in wordless protest, helplessly speared under the dual lash of fear and pleasure. Something hot and wild spiraled in her. She couldn't do this, couldn't bear it, not with his mouth on her body making every muscle tighten past endurance.
She found the strength to push weakly at his shoulders. He slid upward, his tongue swirling around her clitoris in a quick caress that nearly shot her off the sofa, but he quickly controlled her and shifted into position between her legs.
"Easy," he whispered and pressed himself to her opening.
No. He couldn't actually be doing this. Not here, not like this. She didn't want their first time to be like this.