Sloan picked a piece of pineapple and held it to Luna as she made her way back to her computer desk.
“Here you go, ladyface. All yours.”
The cat scrambled after her. She lifted onto her hind legs and nibbled the fruit from Sloan’s fingers.
“Let’s go see how our thermostat is doing.”
With a wicked grin, she settled into her desk chair and watched the monitor. The camera angled from behind Max on the ceiling, giving her a view of his entire office floor. Four desks with computers, a couch in the corner. Fridge. Kitchenette. That even looked like a flat screen hooked to a gaming console. He was alone in the room. The rest of his staff must be on assignment.
Max’s tawny hair had gone dark around his face—stuck down with sweat. He had that sun-kissed surfer look about him which was understandable. He was from Australia, had lived by the beach and surfed throughout the year when not on tour with his regiment. His perpetual bronzed tan was now turning red, but good ol’ Maxie-boy wasn’t retreating to a cooler place. Nope, the man continued to stare at his computer.
With the thrill of the chase licking up her spine, Sloan checked the temperature. One-oh-four degrees. She chuckled and took a bite of pizza. A chunk fell and landed on her stomach. She glanced down and grimaced at the pudgy pale flesh poking out from beneath her camisole and underwear. Frowning, she flicked the chunk off for the cat, and then returned her attention to the screen.
Any minute now he was going to lose his shit.
“Fuck you, Maxie-Pad.”
A ping on her cell made her jump. Six siblings lived in her building, and without a doubt, one of them was constantly in her hair. It was a message from her brother Wyatt. Today, it was his turn to harass her. She’d missed her last two martial arts training sessions with him. The man had been on a relentless crusade to get her back into shape. At the start it had been awesome. She really did need the extra motivation. But now…
The phone pinged again. She ignored it, instead, settling in to watch the Max Show.
Max fanned his hand in front of his face. He got out of his chair and went to the fridge to pull out a can of soda. Huh. Would you look at that. Diet. Since when did he drink diet?
Another ping sounded in her periphery, but her eyes were glued to the screen, watching Max’s brawny but graceful body as he tipped his head back, chugging the drink. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Sweat ran down his temples, but he didn’t leave in a huff. No. He went back to his damned desk and continued to work.
“AIMI,” she asked slyly.
“Yes, Sloan,” came the feminine computer voice from speakers hard-wired into her apartment ceiling.
“What’s the highest external temperature a human can sustain before receiving permanent internal damage?”
A pause, then, “This is the entry I found on the internet: Human cells start to die at one hundred and six degrees Fahrenheit, but a healthy person can survive up to one hundred and forty degrees providing he has access to water.”
Max got up from his desk, and Sloan leaned forward. Was this the moment?
“Are you healthy, Max?”
Max retrieved a second soda can and rolled it over his handsome face, a face she knew well. Had seen it virtually every night for almost two years, unless he had been on tour. She knew those cut cheekbones, his cheeky lips, sparkling brown eyes… except they weren’t sparkling anymore, and those lips were often pressed hard together. The man who had recently turned up in her city wasn’t the man she once knew. He was a humorless stranger with haunted eyes.
Movement caught her attention. She gaped, a mouthful of pizza fell out and dropped with a splat to the floor.
Max had taken his shirt off, leaving nothing but a sweaty, sculptured chest. Washboard abs were carved into his stomach from the fine chisel of relentless core work. Veins bulged down his arms from the heat. Another change in him. He used to have a thick, muscled physique. If she had to pick a word to describe him then, it would have been solid. Now his body took the shape of someone who lived in the gym, someone who wouldn’t sit still.
Damn these high-resolution monitors.
Suddenly, Max leaned forward, squinting at his computer screen.
“Shit.” Sloan ducked, as if he could see through her monitor which was impossible. The camera was behind him in the ceiling. It wasn’t a two way. Still, she hid beneath her desk, cheeks heating, heart pounding. Maybe she’d imagined the tension tightening his shoulders. But… she’d changed the configuration of the CCTV monitor network to include his office. His monitor also displayed the same configuration. There had been no way about it. He’d know a picture of his surroundings wasn’t supposed to be on his interface, and since he was the only one with admin access… he’d know the only person with up-to-par hacking skills was her.
“Shit.” She dared a look at the monitor again.
Max craned his neck to view the camera in the ceiling. Narrowed his eyes. Looked right through her soul.
“Shit. Shit. Shit! AIMI,” she shouted. “Change the user interface for the CCTV on user account—” but she had no time to finish her directive. While she watched helplessly, Max typed with murderous intent, and one by one, all her camera links of footage winked out until only one video stream was left—his office. His muscled arm whipped out in the direction of the camera, then his fist, then his middle finger—aimed at her. The screen winked out to black, reflecting Sloan’s surprised and beet-red face.
