The Last Straw by Nia Simone

 
    Oh no, not him . He stared at her from the photo stapled into the file, mocking her with his dark, hooded gaze and mysterious half smile.
    Ally was expecting another routine background check. Not Mark Daily, the man responsible for her leaving New York City. But the name typed in large font below the picture read Darren Ray. Well, if this wasn’t Mark Daily, she wasn’t sitting in her office in the middle of Silicon Valley, California.
    She rummaged in her desk drawer until she found the Security Risk stamp and, with a satisfying smack, stamped the folder.
    She swiveled her chair and opened her window. A breeze carried the salt-water scent of the bay. Her office was an added bonus to her arrangements with NST. A fast-growing company, NST kept her so busy she’d been able to negotiate the space as part of the deal. Working in a building with security and other employees was economical and offered a sense of community, key for a transplant like her. And they had a gym, another good way to meet people. She’d made a friend there, a woman named Ralene.
    Her gaze traveled back to the challenging gaze of Mark Daily, AKA Darren Ray. Something between her heart and belly kicked over. She was never in love with him. But she was still attracted to the heel. Her face flushed with heat as explicit sexual images from the nights they’d spent together flashed. The scent of another body of water, the harbor off lower Manhattan. Her apartment in Greenwich Village, the windows open to the Autumn breeze. An ice cube teasing her flesh, her naked body exploding in hot chill bumps.
    Her hands smoothed the wool gabardine of her pencil skirt. She’d let her body rule her brain.
    But she was a woman . With one brain, not two , like men. Well, bad judgment had happened to her, too.
    Her finger grazed the curve of his insolent mouth. She could make him pay. Bring him in and make him twist. She had the power now.
    Start with a background check. Even though doing one after he’d left had turned up zilch. She’d bent professional ethics digging into his past, but what good was it being a PI if she couldn’t research an AWOL lover?
    The afternoon slipped by until a knock at the door interrupted her reading of the absorbing and tidy, but utterly fictitious, life story of Darren Ray. With her heart pounding in her temples, she blanked her computer screen.
    Show time.
    He sauntered through the door, a white button-down shirt tucked into belted khakis. When his dark gaze found her, he stopped. Stared. Her throat dried and a rustling motion stirred in her abdomen.
    “Hi. I’m Darren Ray.”
    Keep your cool, she commanded herself, standing and reaching across the desk. His hand was rough. His stroke on her body flashed. Not helping.
    She yanked her hand back and waved at the chair. “Please, have a seat.” He waited for her to sit before settling in the visitor’s chair. “So, Darren, according to this, you’re being considered for a programmer position in the IT department. Tell me about your background.”
    A professional mask settled over his features. “As you can see on my résumé, I have several years of consulting experience.”
    “Tell me something about your experience as a mechanic.” Working on his prized old Mustang had been a favorite hobby.
    The corner of his mouth twitched. “What do you mean? That’s not in my résumé.”
    “You don’t have the hands of a programmer. More of a mechanic.” Oh, his hands.
    “Okay, you got me.” He was going to confess. This should be good. “When I’m not programming computers I’m working on my car.”
    “And what were you doing in New York City?” A whiff of his spicy aftershave reached her.
    “I see you’re very good at reading between the lines of my résumé.”
    Before she could respond, he reached across her desk for a piece of paper, plucked a pen from its stand and scrawled something. When she took the note their fingers brushed. Time stopped. Her gaze met his, found