You've Got Male. Elizabeth BevarlyЧитать онлайн книгу.
underestimate the power of one of those. Even the ones who had been effectively spayed in the ol’ revenge department.
She studied the lines of code again, backtracking to see where she might have gone wrong. She didn’t want to abandon the project completely, because it really was a brilliant bit of work, if she did say so herself. But it wasn’t going to function properly the way she had it set up, theoretically or realistically.
Let’s see…. If she dropped this command and added a different one instead…Or if she clarified that command a little better…Hmm…
What had she done wrong?
She squinted at the numbers and letters and symbols again, then removed her glasses to rub her eyes. She’d been up for thirty-six hours straight now, her mind completely engaged during the majority of them. She hadn’t even stopped working long enough to eat anything since that last bowl of Cajun popcorn. Maybe she needed to take a break for a little while. Clear her head with a nice Starbucks double shot.
Yeah, that’s the ticket.
She tossed her glasses onto the table and stood, reaching as high as she could above her head, arching her back to relieve the kinks that had set in. Oh, man, that felt good. The sudden activity stirred her cat, Skittles, who had curled herself into a meatloaf shape on one of the other dining room chairs. After mimicking Avery’s stretch with one of her own, she leaped down, curling her lithe silver-and-black-striped body around and between Avery’s calves. Avery smiled and bent to pick up the cat, cuddling her under her chin and calming immediately at the soft hum of the animal’s contented purr.
It was always good to have someone in your life you could count on, no matter what. Skittles was that for Avery. She’d shown up as a stray kitten outside the gates of the Rupert Halloran Women’s Correctional Facility during the final month of Avery’s term, and after much urging and cajoling from the inmates, one of the guards had brought the scrawny little thing inside for the women to fuss over. They’d decided whoever was the next released would take the kitten with her. Avery had been the winner. In more ways than one. Skittles had been with her ever since.
She strode, cradling Skittles, into the kitchen. It was still a mess, unfortunately. No friendly little house-cleaning brownies had come by while she’d been working to clean the place up. Dang. Although, speaking of brownies, hadn’t she put some Sara Lee brownies on her grocery list? she recalled now. She put down Skittles and padded in sock feet over to the counter, where she had at least cleared a place for the two sacks of groceries, even if she hadn’t quite gotten around to unpacking them all yet. Well, she’d needed the space on the dining room table to work and then she’d been too preoccupied by that work to worry about putting away anything but the stuff that needed to be refrigerated.
She had dug out the brownie tin and peeled back the paper lid from the foil—oh, boy, just the sight of all that icing was enough to send her into spasms of orgasmic chocolaty euphoria—when there was a knock at her front door. She jerked up her head upon hearing it. Two visitors within a matter of hours was extraordinary. It was also very suspicious.
As quietly as she could, she made her way to the front door and leaned forward to peer through the peephole. When she saw who stood on the other side, her heart kicked up a ragged rhythm and heat flooded her belly. Because it was the delivery guy from Eastern Star Earth-friendly Market again, only this time he wasn’t carrying groceries.
She told herself to ask him what he wanted but feared she already knew. Hey, a scrawny, ill-favored woman living all alone? Avery knew what an easy mark she was to creeps. Look at what had happened with Andrew. Even if this guy was here for a legitimate reason, Avery didn’t feel like answering the door. She had everything she needed, thanks, and preferred to be left alone. She didn’t like talking to strangers. She didn’t like talking to anybody. She liked keeping to herself and hoping the world—and the grocery delivery guy it rode in on—stayed away.
She started to move away from the peephole, pretending she wasn’t home so he’d leave. But he called out through the door, his words stopping her cold.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Ms. Nesbitt.”
It didn’t surprise her that he knew her name. Mohammed would have told him who the delivery was for. But the very nature of her in-home business was to create online security systems for other people and businesses. She’d learned her trade by making her own system—her own life—secure. She’d done everything she knew to do to keep herself safe. It always creeped her out whenever she was identified, regardless of how innocently that identification came. And the fact that the identifier now was standing on the other side of her front door, which was the only way in—or out—of her apartment, made her feel more than a little nauseous.
Pressing her eye to the peephole again, she asked, “What do you want?”
“I want you to open the door, Ms. Nesbitt.”
Yeah, she’d just bet he did. “Why?”
“Just open the door, please.”
Oh, right. She’d just invite a sexual predator right into her home.
“Not without a good reason,” she told him, wondering why she was even bothering. She should be heading for the phone right now to call the cops. Still, she was safe enough behind the four dead bolts and chain. And there might be a chance the guy had come here for a perfectly legitimate reason. Maybe. Possibly. In an alternate universe someplace where women didn’t have to be on guard about their personal safety twenty-four hours a day.
“Because you and I need to have a little chat,” he said.
Okay, so much for the Clever Banter portion of their program, Avery thought. Now it was time to move along to the ever-popular Alert the Authorities segment.
“That’s not going to happen,” she said. “And if you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the police.”
“Peaches, I am the police,” he said.
Oh. Well. That made a difference. Or rather, it would have made a difference. If he hadn’t been lying through his teeth. And if he hadn’t just called her Peaches, something that made her want to open the door just so she could smack him upside the head.
Just to be sure, though, she pressed her eye to the peephole again to see if maybe he was displaying a badge. He wasn’t. He was just standing out there wearing the same clothes he’d had on the last time she’d seen him…how many hours ago? She performed some quick mental math…six minus four…drop the three, make it a two…carry the one…and that would be—oh, bugger it, she was too tired for this—last night. His driving cap was still turned backward, his leather bomber jacket was still hanging open over a heavy sweater and blue jeans, and his hands were still stuffed into pockets that could hold anything from chloroform to an automatic weapon.
“Policemen identify themselves right away,” she said, still gazing through the peephole. “And they carry badges. And ID. Now go away. Or I’ll call the cops. The real cops.”
His shoulders rose and fell then, as if he were sighing deeply, and he pulled one hand out of one pocket to flip something open. Whatever kind of identification he was trying to show her, it was in a folding case, with some kind of photo and writing on the left side and some kind of badgish-looking thing on the right. She’d have to open the door to get a better look at it. But she wasn’t going to do that. Because even through the fish-eye she could tell it was phony as hell. She’d seen police ID before. Hell, she’d seen federal ID before. Up close and personal, too, as a matter of fact. And whatever this guy was holding, it wasn’t an ID for New York’s finest or the feds.
Obviously thinking she’d fall for it, however, he repeated crisply, “Ms. Nesbitt, open the door.”
How had he even gotten into the building? she wondered. Billy the doorman must be sleeping on the job. She made a mental note to ask him about it the next time she saw him, then, as quietly as she could, she pushed herself away from the door and took a giant step backward.
Only to hear the man on the other