I shift in my seat, my ass and neck both aching from last night’s hammering. There are times, especially during and right afterward, when Thomas’s intensity feels amazing.

And I love the way he protectively snuggles me in his arms when we’re done. He’s the world’s best blanket buddy.

And yeah, I sort of take pride in walking just a tad bit bowlegged when I meet up with Izzy or Char for lunch. Their looks of amused jealousy are more than worth it.

But when I’m sitting at my desk trying to get my work done, an ache in my neck while I constantly shift around trying to get comfortable isn’t the best feeling.

Not that I’d trade the feeling that Thomas gives me for anything in the world. The feeling of waking up this morning in his arms, of the safety and security that comes with it, is beyond compare. I even felt just as safe and secure as he was fucking me so hard that my spine crackled last night as I did this morning when he gave me a soft kiss before we came downstairs to start work.

Speaking of, it’s time to get to work. I’ve got a day full of clickity-clacking away on my computers in front of me, analysis and compilation.

But first, I need data. Thankfully, my new position and my new assignment from Thomas give me administrator viewing privileges to everything in the Goldstone database, only one step below Thomas’s own access or that of the IT department’s VP.

I even have ghost mode, which means nobody but someone who’s actively checking the database at the time will know any files are even being looked at. Sneaky . . . but effective.

It doesn’t cover everything. I can’t see the passwords for bank and other financial transactions, for example, but it does enough.

“Okay,” I tell myself as I turn on my favorite Spotify techno channel to get things rolling, “let’s put all these multiple cores to work.”

Thankfully, my computer can handle the load of running multiple separate database searches at the same time. I went full geek mode on it, and I’m pretty sure it could run The Matrix if needed. Actually, the slowest part will be the data stream to the Goldstone servers, but that’s fine.

First, I shunt my resort numbers to my far screen, then I pull up my main search on the other two screens. On the right, I run the first of two algorithms I wrote. The first one scans for server access that falls outside job title parameters I’ve set, like an HR assistant opening an IT file, which could be sketchy. The second assigns everyone a home floor based on their department location and then scans the data access points of their card usage for anomalies.

That’ll help me find out if Susan down on three heads upstairs to the executive level bathrooms at ten every morning, or it will catch if someone is sneaking out to the parking garage outside set factors of lunch and quitting time.

Both checks result in huge heaps of data, but I’m hoping that it’ll be useful to catch someone where they shouldn’t be, either physically or electronically, and correlate it back to the questionable project figures. It’s a long shot, but it’s either in-house or an outside threat, and statistically speaking, in-house sabotage is much more likely so I want to scan from every possible angle.

On the middle screen, I work through my project figures of the ones Thomas pointed out as concerns.

The music and the hours go in sync, with the beats and grooving flow of the music allowing me to pull up files on bad deals the company’s made.

Not all of them lost money, which is what makes it hard. Whoever’s done this has been really, really subtle. There were deals that broke even, or deals that made a profit, but just a small one. The only consistent thing is that they underperformed.

For example there’s the real estate deal, a large tract in an expanding suburb of Seattle. Everything around it seemed great, the area was up and coming, and Goldstone had a contractor ready to turn the whole area into a housing development . . . until after the contracts were signed and the contractor went belly-up at the last minute.

While the housing development was done, the cost in the delays, the taxes, and more meant that what should have netted the company tens of millions of dollars barely broke even.

Or an aircraft parts company that was ready to sell to Goldstone until at the last minute pulling out and selling to a Chinese government-backed consortium. It made no sense because the company made military parts, and by selling to a foreign entity, they lost out on twenty years or more of contracts that would have netted the company billions.

The strangest part was, Goldstone had actually outbid the Chinese, but the supplier was privately held and sold to the Chinese anyway.

Those are just two of the anomalies. I keep finding them. I know that at least half of these are going to end up being dismissed during my search as just plain old bad luck. Even with Thomas’s superhuman drive to be the best, it’s business.

Even in an era where the stock market can gain or lose a thousand points in a week, there’s always that thirty to forty percent of investments that go opposite of what the rest of the market does.

But I have to investigate each one, draw out the data and plug it into my matrix. From there . . . trends will emerge, and I’ll try to find that one common thread in the whole fabric.

I feel a little bit like a detective searching for clues to a crime . . . and maybe I am. Like a forensic analyst, I think, picturing me surrounded by computers with a flap-eared hat and pipe like Sherlock Holmes. I have always been someone good at finding patterns and clues, but this feels different. More challenging. More important.

“Face it, Mia, you just need a dog and some Scooby Snacks and you’ll have the entire schtick down,” I murmur as I close a file on a chemical research deal that hasn’t increased in value but hasn’t decreased either. I move it into my list of Investigate Later and keep going. “Well, that and a kickass orange sweater. Ooh, knee socks! Actually, those might be kinda hot,” I murmur, appreciative again that no one can hear my weird chatter.

By lunch, I take a break, rubbing my eyes and checking in with Thomas, who’s plugging away at his computer. He’s muttering to himself, but his face looks calm, and when I knock, his first reaction is a smile. I’ll take the win.

“Hey, I thought the fat cats at the top of the corporate ladder were supposed to sit around in their offices listening to, I don’t know, Huey Lewis and the News or something.” I sing dramatically, “It’s hip to be square!”

Thomas claps, a laugh teasing at the edges of his smile. “You geek out on the old stuff too?” Thomas asks, sitting back. “What’s up?”

“I was going to grab a little bite down the street. You want to join?”

Thomas shakes his head sadly, his mouth narrowing. “I’d love to, but I can’t. It seems someone is trying to throw a wrench into the hospital deal. I’m getting a request from them. Well, more like a very strong suggestion that I see a doctor.”

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask, surprised. “I know it’s not a performance issue.”

“No, not like that,” he replies, sitting back and rubbing at his temples but not laughing at my joke, which worries me. “You should have heard what they said, total corporate word salad . . . In the interest of maintaining our commitment to public health and to good corporate image, we’d encourage you to take advantage of the same perks that all of our corporate officers share and complete a full physical and mental checkup so you can feel comfortable with our offerings . . . blah, blah, blah. They want me to know what I’m buying firsthand, I guess. Basically, if they’re going to sell to me, I have to do this.”

“I mean a little ahh while some doc looks at your tonsils isn’t bad, but a mental checkup? That seems odd, right?” I say hesitantly. I’m not averse to Thomas getting a little professional help and have even said as much to encourage him to do so, but doing it as a requirement of sale seems beyond the pale.

“I wondered the same thing,” Thomas says, glancing out the window. “Either it’s legit and they just want to show off a bit, or someone encouraged them to require this as a condition.”

“Ouch. So when’s the first appointment?” I ask.

Thomas looks up, lifting an eyebrow. “Who said I’m going?”

I can’t help but chuckle. Maybe I am starting to read him because though his face is dead-serious, I can see the twinkle deep in his eyes. “Thomas, I know you, remember? You’d crawl naked through fifteen miles of army ant-infested manure in order to get what you want, and you want that hospital.”

“Army ant-infested manure?” Thomas asks. “Where did you hear that . . . another one of your Russia-isms?”

“Nope, that’s a total Mia-ism. So?”

“This afternoon . . . in about two hours,” Thomas says, and I can hear the dread in his voice. “Which is why I’m chugging away at this.”

“How, uh, open and honest are you planning on being with them?” I ask.

“As little as I can get away with being. I don’t need a shrink poking their fingers in my emotional wounds and asking how that makes me feel. This is a business transaction. Truth be told, if the return on investment wasn’t so high, I’d tell them to shove it. But like you said, I can say ahh, let them listen to my heart, and tell a therapist that life is grand and be out the door with their promise to sign on the dotted line.”

“Sounds like a plan. Though maybe skip the bloodwork too? Just suspicious, and I don’t want them cloning you from your DNA,” I joke, though my Velma senses are still tingling. “So, dinner later then?”

“Do you think we can do breakfast in the morning? I think after all this, I might need to work off a little frustration and I won’t be very good company.”

His answer disappoints me, but I understand. I’ve seen how much wear and tear he’s put on his home gym. “Sure. You know, if you want, I can introduce you to some of my games. It’s not as sweaty as your ways, but there’s something to be said for the rush of slashing a troll in half with a giant sword and how it calms the nerves.”

Thomas smiles a little, relieving me. He’s not that bad off, and maybe he’ll do okay today. “I can do that. Say, if things aren’t too bad . . . ?”

“You might find that I wouldn’t mind a visitor tonight,” I promise him. “I’ll keep a half-pint of ice cream ready for you, deal? It’s another guaranteed stress reliever.”

“Deal.”

I head to the elevator, my mind still ticking over what’s going on. Someone is trying to break Thomas, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen enough of the data to know that Thomas isn’t paranoid in that regard.

And this, now? He’s got a lot on his plate, but everyone’s well aware the hospital deal means a lot to him. Financially and personally. With that on the line, the last thing he needs is the additional stress of having a shrink, therapist, whatever, poking the bear that is his emotional baggage.

Someone knows this, and they’re applying the pressure to him. As the elevator doors close, I promise myself that I’m going to do whatever it takes to help him. Still, as I eat my chicken wrap, I force myself to think about everything but Thomas and his twin mysteries that are on my work plate.

It’s part of my secret, just letting my mind work unfettered by conscious steering. Sometimes, it works faster that way.

Not that I plan on a revelation coming to me out of the blue while I’m eating lunch, but stranger things have happened.

When I get back from lunch, my scans are still chomping away, but at least one of the algorithms is done. The last thirty days of access card scans that hit outside my set parameters are compiled into a report. It’s not much, just a bare-bones start, but I figured fresher figures would be my best bet to see if this approach will even yield useful information.

I can’t help it, my eyes scan for Thomas first. Not to be snoopy or spy on him, but just because I’m curious. Okay, and maybe a little possessive. I like knowing what he does all day. It makes me feel close to him, even if he’s twenty-six floors above me.

Nothing too unusual. Data points for him heading back and forth to his apartment mid-day, visits to other floors, but that makes sense for the CEO, and several exits to the parking garage. And I realize with a smile that the last line is his exiting to the garage just a few moments ago.

He is heading to the doctor appointment at the hospital. I’m proud in a weird way. Even if it’s only because he wants the hospital deal so badly, the mere fact that he’s going to sit down with a therapist bodes well.

I cross my fingers and say a little Russian prayer Papa taught me, hoping that Thomas is protected. From whomever is messing with him, and from himself.

And then I turn back to my computers with a groan and turn up the volume on my music. “I’ve got a lot more data to go through.”