Code(9)

Iglehart’s attention snapped back to the present. He’d walked right past the conference room.

“Staff meetings still take place in here.” Sundberg grinned, holding the door. “And don’t worry about Triton, we’ll get you squared away.”

Iglehart forced a smile. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten a file I’ll need. Won’t be a moment.”

“Sure.” Sundberg waved a hand. “I can hold off for five. Take your time.”

“Thanks.” Such graciousness from his lordship. “Back in two shakes.”

Iglehart hurried to his phone booth–sized office and pressed the space bar on his computer.

How he hated the cramped, windowless dungeon. Metal desk. Straight back chair. Soulless institutional bookshelves. Never enough space. To do any real research, he was forced to hunt for open conference rooms.

Which meant endless interruptions by the idiots working around him. Idiots with bigger offices. Galling.

So he’d taken steps. Howard and Sundberg thought him content to eat whatever scraps fell from their tables? Think again.

Howard had been director for two months, yet here Iglehart remained. Stuck in a broom closet with a second-rate Dell.

Not for long.

Agitated, he tapped the keyboard again. The institute’s logo finally appeared on-screen. Entering the backdoor code he’d been given in secret, Iglehart accessed LIRI’s mail server and deactivated the security protocols. Safely off the grid, he began to type.

The email was short and to the point. He knew what his contact wanted, even if the reasoning escaped him.

Iglehart pressed send, reset the protocols, and slapped his laptop shut.

You shouldn’t have ignored me, Kit.

Wearing a satisfied smirk, Iglehart hurried to meet the coworkers he despised.





CHAPTER 5





I sensed trouble the moment I turned my key.

Coop shot inside and up the short flight of stairs to our townhome’s small living room. Where he froze, tail erect and bristling.

Only one thing caused that reaction in my wolfdog: Kit’s gal pal.

Blargh.

I trudged up the steps to see Whitney Dubois scootched to one end of my couch, eyeing Coop as she might an intruding ax murderer.

Mascaraed eyes darted in my direction. “Tory, control this creature!”

“Relax.” I clicked my tongue. Coop glanced my way, padded to his doggie bed, circled three times, and sat. “He’s just surprised to find you here. In our house. Alone. Unannounced.”

“I came to feed you.” Manicured hands poofed her salon-blonde hair. “Lord knows what you’ve been eating lately. Your daddy spends far too much time at work. And on the weekend, no less!”


“Kit’s the director,” I said flatly. “It’s a demanding position.”

“But that makes him the boss.” Whitney’s nose crinkled as her deep blue eyes filled with incomprehension. “Can’t he leave whenever he wants?”

“That’s not how it works.” I suppressed a sigh. “To get LIRI back on its feet, Kit has a thousand details to square away. He’s chairing board meetings, managing the expansion, all while still overseeing day-to-day operations. Plus, he has responsibilities to the trust. It’s a huge job right now.”

“He should delegate.” Whitney’s voice carried the conviction of someone with no idea what she’s talking about. “Be more proactive.”

“He can’t.” This time, the sigh escaped. “Kit will be very busy until LIRI is finally straightened out. That’s going to be months, not weeks.”

Kit had talked with me about this before accepting the post. At length. I’d given my full approval—Kit becoming LIRI’s director meant no one had to move. That my friends’ parents’ jobs were safe, too. To keep everyone in Charleston, I’d have agreed to much worse than an overly busy father. Anything to preserve my pack.

Apparently Kit had failed to have the same conversation with Whitney.

“He needs to spend more time with his family,” she said firmly.

That’s me, not you.

“Whatever.” Something else had snagged my attention.

Throw pillows littered the couch on which Whitney lounged with her half-eaten peach. Lime green ones, with swirling pink embroidery.

New. Frilly. Definitely not a Kit purchase.

I scanned the room, noted other troubling developments.

There, on the bookshelf: a black-and-white porcelain vase. And on the mantel: the picture of Kit’s bowling team had been replaced by a framed shot of Kit and Whitney on the beach, wearing identical blue sweaters.

Other minor changes dotted the living room. A small ficus. Ceramic bookends. A wicker magazine caddy.

What the hell?

Kit and I share a townhouse on Morris, a four-square-mile island forming the south half of the entrance to Charleston Harbor. It’s a skinny, four-story home that goes up more than out. On the ground floor is an office and single-car garage. Our kitchen, dining, and sitting areas make up the second level, while floor three consists of sleeping quarters. Upon my arrival Kit moved into the one in back, giving me the larger front bedroom overlooking the ocean.

Our top floor is Kit’s man cave—an impressive media center that opens onto a spacious outdoor roof deck with a stunning view of the Atlantic. Every scrap of furniture was purchased from the good folks at Pottery Barn or IKEA. All in all, it’s nice, so long as you can handle all the stairs.