Chapter 6 Brenna #2
Morrison guided us to a small alcove near the windows, where the noise from the main party was muted enough for easier discussion. He gestured for us to sit on a small sofa while he took the nearest chair.
“So,” he began, “tell me about your decision to relocate. What prompted it?”
“Better access to defense contractors,” I replied. “My fund was doing well in DC, but I needed more West Coast presence. The defense tech ecosystem is stronger here.”
“Which contractors are you working with?” Morrison asked casually.
“The usual suspects.” I chuckled. “Though the procurement cycles are killing us. One of our companies has been waiting eighteen months for a contract that was supposed to take six.”
Morrison nodded sympathetically. “The bureaucracy is incredible. I have a friend whose company spent two years getting approval for something that should have taken two months.” He turned to Atticus. “Your cybersecurity clients must deal with similar frustrations.”
“Everything from nation-state actors to corporate espionage,” Atticus confirmed. “The attack vectors are getting more creative every month.”
“And the compliance costs keep rising,” Morrison added. “Frustrating when you see foreign competitors who don’t have the same restrictions.”
“Extremely so,” Atticus said. “We’ve seen deals fall through because of compliance delays in the past year alone.”
“All that expertise, all that understanding of the technology, and you’re limited by red tape.”
I let my hand find Atticus’ and squeezed it.
“It’s the nature of the business,” he said. “Though I have to admit, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to work for clients who had more flexibility in their operations.”
“Flexibility can mean a lot of things.”
“Companies willing to move faster, take calculated risks. The kind that aren’t waiting for total compliance before they innovate.”
“You’re right to suggest innovation requires pushing boundaries,” Morrison agreed. “The key is knowing which are worth it.”
“And which will land you in federal prison,” I added, keeping my tone light.
Morrison chuckled. “Indeed. Though sometimes, I think the regulations are designed by people who’ve never actually built anything. They don’t understand the realities of competing globally.”
“Especially when Chinese companies are eating your lunch because they don’t have the same restrictions,” Atticus said.
“Exactly.” Morrison’s eyes lit up. “I know several founders who’ve had to make difficult choices about international partnerships because of ITAR concerns.”
I recognized the pattern from cases I’d prosecuted—feeling out frustrations, building rapport around shared complaints. Classic recruitment technique, though subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability.
“Well,” Morrison said, checking his watch. “It’s been great talking with you both. I don’t want to monopolize your time. I assume you’ll be at tomorrow evening’s reception at the Redwood City Marina?”
“We’re planning on it,” I confirmed.
“Excellent.” Morrison lowered his voice conspiratorially. “The real conversations happen on the upper deck. I’ll make sure you get access.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Brenna said.
“Not at all. I think you’ll find our circle particularly interesting.” Morrison stood when we did and shook hands with both of us. “I’ll look for you tomorrow evening, then. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
As he walked away, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. From my perspective, Atticus’ performance had been flawless. For me, the strain of appearing interested in criminal activity while fighting every instinct I’d developed as a prosecutor was exhausting.
We spent another hour at the event to finish making the rounds and establish our presence in the community. I watched Atticus track Morrison’s movements around the room, and noticed when he spoke briefly with the two men who’d been observing us earlier.
Several other attendees approached us with varying degrees of interest, but none with Morrison’s intensity. By twenty-one-thirty, we’d accomplished what we came to do.
The drive back to Sausalito was quiet, both of us processing what had happened. Morrison’s approach was exactly what we’d prepared for. He hadn’t made any overt offers or explicit suggestions. Instead, he’d simply tested our receptiveness.
“He bought it completely,” Atticus said as we pulled into our driveway.
“We’ll know soon enough,” I responded as he helped me out of the car, his hand warm and steady on mine.
Inside, I kicked off my heels and immediately felt smaller, more vulnerable. The heels had added four inches and a certain armor I hadn’t realized I was wearing.
“That was intense,” I muttered, sitting on the side of the bed and rubbing my feet.
Atticus came up behind me. “Let me do that.”
“You don’t have to—” I forgot what words were when he ran his hand up my calf as he pushed my dress out of the way, then pressed a thumb into the bottom of my foot while his opposite hand massaged from my ankle to my toes.
“Oh my God, you’re good at this,” I said, lying back against the pillow and closing my eyes.
“I took a class once,” he said. “Well, technically, it was battlefield medicine, but foot massage was definitely part of it.”
“Liar.”
“Would I lie to my wife? Plus, it’s all part of keeping my woman satisfied.”
I opened one lid. “Woman or women?”
“You heard me.”
Even as he pushed my dress higher, partway up my thigh, I relaxed and let him. I wanted him to do it. When he pressed soft kisses from my knee upward, I knew I should tell him to stop, push him away, and get off the bed and as far away from him as I could. Knowing and doing it were polar opposites.
I brought my hand to my mouth, stopping myself from saying a word, whether to discourage or encourage him, but nearly groaned out loud when I no longer felt him touching me.
I didn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t. Whatever I saw on his face would devastate me.
Whether I saw disinterest or desire, it would wreck me.
His weight left the bed, and tears filled my eyes. I turned my head into the pillow, then felt his hand stroke my hair. “I’m going to take a shower. Don’t fall asleep in your evening gown, Bug.”
Once I heard the door click and was certain he was gone, I sat up and brushed away the tears I’d managed to keep from falling.
Mason Finch was a dangerous man. The kind that made a woman feel like she was everything he wanted and desired, then turned it off like the flip of a switch.
I retreated into the closet, dropped my dress in a heap on the floor, and pulled out my least flattering pair of sweats and an oversized fluffy sweater.
Once I’d changed, complete with fuzzy slippers that I hadn’t realized were at the bottom of my suitcase when I’d unpacked it but was now so happy to find, I went downstairs to the kitchen.
The place was well-stocked with food. I’d noticed that this morning. After not consuming much of anything all day, I was hungry. Coupled with the need for emotional eating, I was famished.
“Where’d you run off to?” I heard him say from the stairwell.
Not thinking enough to talk myself out of it, I grabbed my cell and pretended to be on a call.
When our eyes met, I held up one finger, then escaped out onto the deck, closing the door behind me.
I stayed out there a full ten minutes, acting as if I was in the midst of an animated and very personal call, hoping that when I returned inside, he’d be gone.
I had no such luck.