Gar tried every trick he knew to shake the tail, but nothing worked, and too late, he saw that he'd been herded toward the shore of the bay, heading too fast down a dead-end alley, with warehouses on each side and a chained metal gate in front of him.

Braking too hard and too late, he jerked the bike into a sharp turn in front of the ten-foot-high gate. The bike slewed on the slick, mist-damp street, drawing a screeching curve to the left before crashing into the cyclone fence.

He hit hard and went down, his bike clattering on its side, sliding out of the fog lamp's amber halo into the dark, misty night.

In a haze of pain, he lay stunned on the pavement, moving in and out of consciousness, with the bitterness of failure flooding his mouth.

The other motorcycle stopped. Gar heard the scrape of boots on asphalt. Blinking, he raised his heavy head a fraction to see an hourglass figure silhouetted against the golden light. He groaned and dropped his head back. One hand scrabbled toward the precious parcel, seeking to protect it.

The boots stopped close to his head. Too close, but nothing he could do about it. Too weak. Too much pain. Should have worn a helmet--

Motorcycle leathers creaked. He smelled jasmine, felt warmth, sensed she knelt beside him. He blinked again.

She had a jaunty smile and eyes that gleamed green even in the dim light. Opening his jacket, she removed the package, which contained the prototype of the computerized brain that would run some of the United States' newest, most sophisticated guided missiles.

“Thank you.” She tucked the package into her jacket and walked away, her boots crunching. Then he heard her bike kick, catch, and roar away, its growl receding into the misty night.

Chapter One

Menlo Park, California

He heard her long before he saw her.

The harsh growl of a motorcycle shattered Richard Rexford's concentration as he pored over a stack of dull print-outs from the Accounting Office. His focus fled as the steady vibration gentled. He guessed that the cyclist had entered the parking lot and slowed for safety.

Then, the pitch of the engine increased to a roar. Leaping out of his chair, Richard strode to the window.

At first he couldn't see anything. His office, the best his building had to offer, had a limited view of the parking lot. Instead, he could see the rolling grass lawns his architects had carefully planned.

But below, in the slice of asphalt his view included, a Harley Davidson slammed through the parking lot, slaloming through the parked BMW's and minivans as though its reckless rider were on a parcourse instead of the grounds of the newest, biggest, most prestigious company in Silicon Valley .

Dark hair floated from the rider's helmet, whipped by the wind into a wild cloud. He couldn't see much else, except that the cyclist wore black leather, defying the golden autumn sun.

The hog disappeared from his view, and a few moments later, silence reigned. He supposed that she'd parked near the lobby doors, out of his sight.

His gaze floated to the far end of his "L" shaped building. The temporary sign, a tarp stretching along its topmost reaches read REXFORD.COM, the name of his new company.

The name she owned.

He imagined her entering the lobby, taking a moment to sign in with security before ascending the elevator.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Heavy shoes clattered over the hardwood floors in his outer office. Motorcycle boots?

A pause, then a buzz from the intercom. Richard pressed a button to open the connection with his secretary.

"Yes, Paul?"

"Ms. Ani Sharif is here for her appointment."

"Send her in." Standing by his desk, Richard waited.

Clack. Clack. The door opened, and there she was. He'd guessed right. She had arrived on the hog.

Short and trim, Ani Sharif wore black motorcycle leathers, from jacket to booted heels. Tight chaps encased faded jeans. Tousled bedroom hair, flattened at the top by the helmet, flowed curly and free over her shoulders, mysterious as midnight.

Mouth dry, he swallowed. Computer nerds tended to be an unconventional group, but this cyber-babe took eccentricity to new heights. Or depths. He couldn't decide which, but he hadn't expected a Hell's Angelette. He walked forward, extending a hand. "I'm Richard Rexford, Ms. Sharif. I'm pleased to meet you."

She grinned at him, even white teeth flashing in amber skin. Dark-fringed eyes like emeralds … no, jade, or perhaps peridots. He hated doing business with beautiful women. Too damn distracting.

"No, you're not." Her hand, though small and finely boned, shook his with a firm, no-nonsense grip.

He started at her touch. "I'm ... not what?"

"You're not pleased to meet me." Her husky contralto seemed at odds with her petite stature. "You have to meet me." She set her beat-up helmet on one corner of his immaculate desk.

She was right. Not only did Ani Sharif own REXFORD.COM, but she'd purchased REXFORD.ORG, REXFORD.NET and every form of his name that anyone in his Marketing and Legal Departments could dream up. Marketing was sure that if his famous family name wasn't in the web address, he'd lose millions.

Worse, she'd announced her ownership via email. Not a public email sent via Yahoo or Netscape or any open system. Oh, no. She'd broken into a private, guarded system. His carefully designed, heavily guarded system. If that information got out, he'd lose even more millions in Defense Department and private contracts.

The snotty little web chick had him by the short hairs, and she knew it.

She stripped off her gloves and shoved them into a pocket. Unzipping her jacket, she exposed a tie-dyed T-shirt hugging small, high breasts.

"Take a seat," he said. "Coffee?"

"Thank you. That would be very nice." Selecting the nearest side chair, she sat and stretched out her legs. "Black, please."

He went to the door to speak to his secretary. "Paul, bring me black coffee for Ms. Sharif." A moment later, Richard handed her a mug. "So how did you do it? And why?"

"I beg your pardon?" Her nose twitching, she sniffed the brew before she sipped.

Distracted by her formal speech and slight accent, he wondered if she was foreign-born, a fact that his internet search hadn't revealed. Information about her was distressingly absent. He knew only that she was a hot young programmer whose start-up had failed, a common scenario. Shoving any personal interest in her out of his mind, he said, "My name. Why do you own my name?"

"I own numerous names." She pulled his stack of printouts closer and set her mug on top of them. "I bought your name when I heard a rumor that you wanted to leave CompLine and start your own firm. Purchasing internet domain names is an inexpensive investment."

"You're a cyber-squatter." He sat behind his desk, opposite her.

Meeting his gaze, she smiled. Her eyes held a flirtatious twinkle. "I prefer ... entrepreneur."

"You broke into my system. What you're doing is illegal."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She shrugged. "I'm sure neither of us wants a fight in court, or even a time-consuming arbitration. Why don't we just play 'Let's Make a Deal?'"

He leaned back into his chair and grinned at her, recognizing a kindred spirit, someone who also loved the game. "It didn't cost you any more than, oh, five dollars to register the Rexford name, Ms. Sharif. I'll offer you five thousand."

She laughed. "I'll take Door Number Two, please. My research tells me you could lose millions. I want a proportional share."

He lifted his brows. "Shares in my company? Not a chance." He'd never tie himself to this cyber-pirate, though he had to admire her nerve and smarts.

She shook her head. "No stocks. Too speculative."

Faintly insulted, he frowned. Even in the shaky economy, insiders considered his web security company a sure thing, a great investment. Had she been living in a cave? Web chick Ani had just made her first misstep. He relaxed. "What do you want?"

"Add a zero to your payment offer and give me a programming job."

"What?" Oh, no. This woman was trouble with a capital "T." Having her around daily would be a disaster. He'd never get a lick of work done, and neither would any straight male in the company.

"This is very simple. I have what you want. You have what I want: cash and a job. I know you're hiring programmers. Fifty thousand isn't unreasonable, considering your family's resources."

A golddigger. Great. "I have no idea if you're competent. According to my research, your dot.com just went dot.gone. Going kaput isn't a high recommendation."

Her pirate smile sped his pulse. "In six months—if I'm still around—I'll be running your programming division."

"I doubt that." He decided to call her bluff. "I'm sorry we can't reach an agreement. Contact me when you're ready to be more reasonable."

"By Monday morning I believe you'll contact me." Standing, she picked up her helmet.

"Not likely." He chuckled at the cute little lightweight. He'd let her sweat. On Monday he'd offer her three thousand, just to teach her a lesson.

"A challenge. I like that." She turned and winked before sauntering out the door. Her chaps framed her heart-shaped backside, snug in the faded, tight jeans.

He walked to the door to close it. Scenting the exotic fragrance of jasmine, he looked through the doorway into his outer suite and saw Ani chatting to his secretary. Worse, she had a good view of Paul's computer screen, which probably held information Richard didn't want her to see.

His dismay mushroomed. "Excuse me. I'll show you out myself." Richard grabbed Ani's arm. He ignored the warmth of her flesh, palpable even through the leather jacket.

Ani looked him over again as he hauled her to the double doors of his outer office. Richard Rexford, a WASP dream come true, had sea-blue eyes and unfashionably shaggy blond hair, which contrasted with the rest of his ultra-straight appearance. His athlete's body was clad in proper yuppie garb, pleated khaki pants and a starched broadcloth shirt topped by a navy blazer with corny little anchors on the brass buttons. His aftershave, slapped onto perfectly shaved cheeks, smelled like an ocean breeze.

The calluses on his manicured hands couldn't be from honest work, given his upper-class background. He probably played some silly sport like golf or billiards. Maybe he worked out, given the way he hauled her through the ritzy halls of his company.

She didn't like to be manhandled, even if the man handling her was as outright sexy as Richard Rexford. Even if his touch, strong but not rough, made her tingle down to her toes. She resisted curling them inside her boots.

A personal interest in Richard Rexford was impossible.

Ani remembered the way his eyes narrowed with contempt when she'd mentioned his family's money. She smiled. This mission was going even better than she dared hope. Who cared about Richard Rexford and his opinion? He didn't know squat.

Faster than Ani liked, Rexford sped her down the elevator and through the lobby. He deposited her out the door like an unwanted kitten, bidding her good-bye and good luck ... even though his behavior hollered, "Good riddance!"

Ani told herself to quit letting herself get distracted by Rexford's attitude. He was a target, nothing more. She hummed a careless tune to herself as she mounted her Harley. Arrogant Richard Rexford needed a lesson, and she'd be the woman to teach him.

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From the book Spy Game By Sue Swift
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