So weird that there were only three others here, especially since the room was big enough to seat so many more. Though the gatherings had grown smaller each time, she’d still expected it to be more crowded. It was, after all, the final meeting. Tonight they’d find out who had been selected.
There was a young man in the third row, but he looked half asleep, slouched down low in the uncomfortable-looking chair with his long legs stretched out in front. His shaggy dark hair had fallen over his forehead so she couldn’t really tell what he looked like, but the way his worn, paint-stained Levi’s molded to his long legs and well-defined package caught her interest.
At least she was thankful the bastard who roughed her up only wanted her backpack and laptop. She wasn’t sure how she’d feel if the attack had screwed up her appreciation for sex.
No, that was functioning as well as ever, thank goodness, in spite of the assault that happened shortly after that little incident with the ex-boyfriend. If catching him in her own bed with both a woman and another man hadn’t screwed up her libido, she figured nothing would.
And it was almost worth it for the satisfaction she’d gained from running all three of them out of her apartment, so terrified of her Taser they’d escaped the place stark naked.
If only her neighbor hadn’t caught the entire thing on his mobile phone. Unfortunately, that was the sort of video just crying out for mass distribution on the Internet, but the best part was, he’d focused on her naked ex-boyfriend, the woman, and the other guy. Rodie’d been little more than a mass of swirling dark hair and the zapping buzz of the Taser gun.
Yep. She bit back a smile. Some bad things were worth going viral, if only for the joy of revenge. She grinned for the first time today, and took another appraising look at the cute dude. Opened her senses to him. Nothing on the mental level beyond a soft buzz. Maybe he was napping, but she didn’t really care. On second glance, he looked young—hardly out of his teens.
Jailbait wasn’t on the menu.
Her gaze slid over to a really cute white girl in the front row. She had long brown hair—board straight—a perfect little nose and a big smile. Another kid. She looked too damned perky, as far as Rodie was concerned, but there was always one in every crowd.
Of course, now that she’d hit thirty, Rodie figured everyone looked younger than she did.
The only other person already here, another guy, sat in the very back row. Dark hair, long legs, and something about him that was so blatantly carnal she caught herself sliding her tongue over first her upper lip, then the lower. Hell, there was no reason for it—he was just sitting there with his back to her, but damn!
He’d turned his chair and had it tilted back on two legs with his feet planted firmly on the wall. Cords from his earbuds disappeared over his shoulders. It looked like he was listening to his iPod while playing with his phone.
Now this was a guy who made sense, even if her reaction to him didn’t. He was here, but controlling his own space. She liked that. Forcing herself to look away, Rodie shoved her hands into her back pockets, sauntered into the room, and took a seat on the far side, fifth row back, so she could watch the door.
This couldn’t be everyone. When they’d started the selection process, there’d been over a thousand applicants, originally meeting in three separate groups. Even though a lot of them had been dropped, there’d still been almost two hundred people the last time they’d met. Where the hell were they?
As Rodie scrunched into her chair, a tall, slim black girl, much darker than Rodie, paused in the doorway, looked around, and then stepped into the room. She practically oozed class, and Rodie bet the chick’s snazzy little handbag alone probably had set her back a good six hundred bucks. She walked with long, purposeful strides and took a seat toward the back, on the side opposite the guy with his feet on the wall.
It appeared they were all staking out their territory. Opening her senses, she realized the buzz of energy in the room felt charged—more like there were dozens of people here rather than just the five of them.
Rodie checked her watch. Four minutes after seven. Where the hell was everyone else?
A new guy strode into the room. No hesitation there. Rodie sat up and watched him. This one acted like he owned the place with his tousled dark blond hair almost artfully disarranged and bright blue eyes darting from one person to another as he checked everyone out. Another gorgeous guy? Damn ... did the men get picked for their looks? He caught her watching him and flashed a bright grin, walked across the room, and sat a couple of seats away.
He leaned close and whispered, “Where is everyone? I’m never early, so ...”
Rodie laughed. “I was just wondering the same thing.”
At that moment, an older man stepped into the room and the energy sizzled. Rodie’s breath caught in her throat. This guy actually did own the place. It was him—MacArthur Dugan—in the flesh. And oh, mama, but it was mighty fine-looking flesh. She flashed a grin at the guy next to her and straightened in her seat, eyes forward.
She’d heard so much about Dugan that she felt like she knew him, but she’d never actually seen the man in person. The prior meetings had all been run by other people within his company, but she’d followed media reports of Dugan for years. He was considered a god in the industry, his every move fodder for the evening news. In media clips he was usually at an opening of some play or speaking in front of Congress or doing something that required a suit and tie.
Sometimes he had a beautiful woman on his arm; other times he traveled with a well-known, openly gay news anchorman. Nils something-or-other. Tall guy, blond hair. Also gorgeous. No one knew if the two had something going, if Dugan was gay or straight, but as hot as the dude was, as much money as he had, did it really matter?
It appeared he was alone tonight, and he’d discarded the suit and tie for a more relaxed look. Holy crap, but the dude even looked hot in worn jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt.
The guy even had tats. A big stylized cross of some kind spread from his right shoulder almost down to his elbow. He was definitely better-looking than on TV, with that thick, dark-blond hair and absolutely brilliant blue eyes. Rodie knew he was in his mid-forties, but he didn’t look more than about thirty or so. Probably all that money. Any guy rich as Mac Dugan had access to whatever it took to look hot.
He bounded up the four stairs to the stage, walked across to the podium, and glanced around the room. Then he frowned. “This won’t do at all,” he said. He crooked his finger overhead and pointed toward the door. “Follow me.”
Rodie glanced at the guy beside her, shrugged, grabbed her backpack, and stood. Like a bunch of mismatched sheep, the six of them followed him through the door. Dugan waited just outside. “Break room’s this way. It’s a more intimate setting for what we need to discuss.”
No one said a word, but they all followed him down the broad hallway into a smaller room with black granite counters, coffee machines, soft drink dispensers, and a tray of donuts that had probably been fresh sometime this morning. A large oak table with matching chairs all around dominated the space in the center.
Dugan took one of the chairs. The rest of them each found a seat around the oval-shaped table. Rodie glanced to either side of her. The smiley guy who’d been next to her in the first room was on her left; the one who’d had his feet planted on the wall sat on her right.
Good god, but she was surrounded by pheromones. At least earbud dude had removed the buds, turned off his iPod, and stashed his phone. Everyone appeared totally relaxed, but Rodie could feel the buzz, as if their curiosity was cranked up on high. She toned down her sensory abilities, thankful she’d at least learned how to do that much.
In the beginning, when this new ability of hers first appeared, picking up on everyone’s mood had almost driven her off the deep end. She was still learning how to work it, how to make it work for her, not against her. She forced herself to relax, glanced at Dugan, and waited. He smiled at her and then planted both his hands on the table.
“This is better,” he said. “I’m MacArthur Dugan, and you six are the only ones to make the cut out of over a thousand original applicants. I appreciate your willingness to hang on through what has to have been a frustrating and seemingly interminable selection procedure, but all those questions and tests were essential to my project. It’s my hope that you’ll decide to stick with it once you hear the details.”
Wow.
Rodie took a new look at the others and wondered what the six of them had that the other thousand-plus didn’t.
Earbuds raised his hand.
Dugan acknowledged him with a nod. “Yes, Mr. Black. What do you wish to know?”
“You said there were over a thousand who applied. On what criteria were we selected? And what, exactly, have we been selected for?”
Dugan grinned at all of them and then focused on Black. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves first and tell us why you applied, who you are, what you do. Then I’ll explain everything, including the project. You go first. Age, why you’re here, that sort of thing.”
The guy nodded. “Fair enough. I’m Morgan Black. Thirty-five years old. Self-employed landscaper.” He gazed at Dugan as if he were daring him to say something. “I clean up dog shit, pull weeds, and mow lawns.”
Oh, my, but he had a sexy voice, and she loved the obvious chip on his shoulder. She could so relate, but that voice! So deep she felt the timbre of it touch her inside like a physical stroke between her legs. All her vaginal muscles clenched, leaving her so intent on the sensation, she barely heard what else he said.
“I got interested when I heard the rumor going around that this was closely tied to the SETI project.”
“What’s that?”
Rodie almost snickered. Wouldn’t you know it, the classy black chick didn’t have a clue. Probably spent all her time and energy finding the right shoes to match her handbags.
Dugan didn’t seem to mind answering such a dumb question. “SETI, Miss Pearce, stands for the Search for ExtraTerrestrial Intelligence.”
“Aliens?” She glanced at the others. “Really?”
“Really.” Dugan chuckled. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, tell us why you’re here?”
She looked nervous. “Well, it’s not to look for aliens.” She laughed. “At least it wasn’t. My name’s Kiera Pearce. I’m twenty-eight, an attorney. I was originally hired by a group of religious fundamentalists that wanted me to find a legal basis to shut your project down.”
She glanced at Mac Dugan and smiled. “Obviously, I couldn’t find any way to file a lawsuit that wouldn’t be considered frivolous, but when I saw that the ones you selected would spend six well-paid months living in the mountains, I figured it sounded like an interesting change of pace.” She shrugged and laughed again. “I filled in the application more out of curiosity than anything. I never expected to be selected.” Still smiling, she added, “For the record, no one said a thing about aliens.”
“Aliens or not, you’re actually highly qualified,” Dugan said. When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “I’ll explain in a moment.” He looked at Rodie. “Ms. Bishop?”
Clearly, he’d done his homework. He knew all their names. She fought the impulse to squirm in her seat like a little kid. Something about Dugan got to her on such a visceral level that it was totally disconcerting. She took a quick breath. Let it out. Reached for whatever composure she could find.
“I’m Rodie Leigh Bishop. I’m thirty. I got my masters in computer science at Stanford. I’m in telecommunications, the research and development part, currently on a leave of absence for personal reasons.”
She wasn’t about to explain that the combination of assault and robbery just after the ex-boyfriend fiasco had really knocked her for a loop. She needed this. Needed to shake up her life a bit and get her confidence back, but Dugan was smiling at her, and it was obvious he wanted more.
“I applied because I’m fascinated by the telescope array you’ve been building,” she said, which was part of it. “I mean, it’s huge, even bigger than the Allen Array. From what I’ve read, it’s a lot more sophisticated, though I couldn’t find out everything I wanted to know.” She flashed Dugan a bright grin. “Security on this project has been amazing, but you’re going to tell us all about it, right?”
Smiling mysteriously, Dugan nodded. “Eventually.” He glanced at the young-looking guy who was slouched in his seat, all bored attitude and shaggy hair. “Mr. Paisley?”
The kid sat up. “Uh ... Cameron Paisley. I’m thirty, an artist.” He glanced at the others and added, almost defensively. “No degrees. Lots of art classes, though, and I make a living.”
Rodie got caught on his age. Sheesh ... the kid looked about seventeen, tops. Even younger when he sort of puffed up his chest and added, “I do paintings of impossible landscapes.”
“But are they really impossible?” Dugan steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his fingertips. “Or are they places you’ve possibly traveled to in your dreams?”
Rodie glanced at the kid. The attitude was gone. He stared wide-eyed at Dugan.
Dugan merely let the question hang there a moment. Then he turned to the blond dude. “Mr. O’Toole?”
“Finnegan O’Toole. Finn.” He flashed a cocky grin that seemed to take in all three of the women. “I’m thirty-three, I can fix anything that breaks, including your satellite dishes. I’ve had every job imaginable from oil-rig roustabout to bank teller to a three-year stint as a professor of physics at UC San Diego. And yes, I do have a doctorate in applied physics. However, I’m mainly here to check out the women.”
“I see.” Mac chuckled. “Good enough, I guess. I’m sure we all appreciate your honesty, if not your goal.” He flashed a grin at the man. “Though I guess we can always use a good repairman.”
Still smiling, Dugan shook his head and turned to the last one in the group, the young-looking white girl. “Miss Connor? Your turn.”
She blushed. Rodie almost rolled her eyes. Talk about deer in the headlights ...
Then she sort of shook herself, sat up straight, and spoke with a lot more self-confidence than Rodie’d expected. “I’m Elizabeth Connor. I prefer Liz or Lizzie. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m looking for something new. I’ve specialized in satellite communications for the aerospace industry, but I’m really tired of the sexism and ageism in my field. I’ve been following the development of Mr. Dugan’s project and actually had some input for the telescopes, receivers, and antennae. I’m thrilled to have been selected for this. Thank you, Mr. Dugan.”