On his way back into the building Vincent nods to Jeff, the security guard plowing his way through an over-filled sub, as if to say: hey, it's only me, as always this time of night, no need to extricate yourself from that mountain of beef and salami.
As ever, the guard ignores or misinterprets the gesture. By the time he reaches the barrier the man is up - surprisingly fleet of foot for someone so portly and gray - waiting for Vincent to remove his jacket and put it through the metal detector along with his little box of Chinese takeout.
Vincent sighs inwardly, thinking: Really? I'm a threat to this place?
Employees as well as visitors have their belongings scanned at RCE Energy, ever since a disgruntled marketing exec passed comment concerning his being passed over for promotion by emptying a handgun into the third-floor photocopier.
That photocopier had always been asking for it, though. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time. In recent years, though, there had been a rise in attempted invasions. Protestors, objecting to the Corporation's take on sustainable energy, running into the building armed with eggs, paint, other things not so pleasant.
So Vincent doesn't make any comment to Jeff the security guard, just complies as usual. Vincent's not a security man, but he actually feels some sense of solidarity with the guy ever since the CEO came down to his office one night after hours, asking him to carry out a special intelligence project.
"The major threat's not people throwing shit at our building, Vincent," the man had said. "This is the information age."
Vincent had accepted the job, of course. The kudos of a personal visit from Mr Stanton had been far too much to turn down. His constant dedication and extensive record of overtime had finally been noticed, and he wasn't going to waste the opportunity now.
He probably wouldn't know what to do if he ever did find a mole, of course. Vincent's not in corporate intelligence - Stanton no longer trusts the folks in corporate intelligence - he's just a lonely soul who doesn't have a life, coming back to the office with a little box from Wong's, just long enough after everyone's gone home so they can't see he's a sad workaholic.
Sad that he gets a little thrill when the elevator doors slide open to confirm that the 33rd floor is now empty.
Sad that when he reaches the fake walnut door to his office, he's buzzed to have some time to himself to get ahead on his work.
Sad that there's nothing for him at home but a dark little hole of an apartment.
He twists the doorknob and does a dorky little 360 as he slips inside, easing the door shut so that the latch clicks, sealing him inside his quiet sanctuary of gray, black and chrome.
When he turns around again, Cassandra Mayer is right there, lying there on his desk, waiting for him, without a stitch on.
"Hi, Vincent."
*
Vincent drops his box of sweet-and-sour, eyes wide, jaw dropping to the floor. The shapely brunette is lying on her side, propped on one elbow, her long hair draped over a shoulder to hide her breasts, the only part of her that is in any way concealed.
To say it's a shock would be putting it mild.
He's never even seen the corporation's senior planning policy officer in casual clothes before, let alone stark naked, sprawling across his desk. And yet the very first wince of embarrassment that passes over his face is from realizing his beautiful, startlingly nude colleague just bore witness to his dorky little 360 as he entered the room.
It takes a moment before it begins to sink in that his disturbingly bare colleague is lying on his desk, waiting for him to react.
"C-C-Cassandra..." he stammers, wishing to the high heavens he could somehow channel Cary Grant just now.
Just an ounce of cool, suave calm would be worth the world.
Cassandra smiles as she traces a hand down the elegant curves of her body, from breasts to thighs, as though guiding his startled eyes to take in what he clearly can't quite believe is in front of him.
The warm peachy glow of her skin is so out of place in the coldness of the office with its black leather, cool steel and stark white decor. God, he can even see a little smudge of dark hair pointing the way to the delights concealed between her thighs.
"Why don't you close the door and come over here?" she says, seeming incredibly calm.
He always thought she was pretty, but she'd always played it down. Frumpy suits, little if any make-up, glasses that did not make best use of the angles of her face. Right now, she's made up like a supermodel, dressed down to the maximum, there's no sign of any deficiencies in her eyesight.
Vincent steps forward, gulping a huge lungful of air as a mix of emotions washes through him. The thrill of seeing Cassandra like that, so stunning against the sober backdrop of his office, offset by a sudden heart-stopping realization that she is the one he's been hunting.
She is the mole.
The air conditioning comes on with a cough and a grunt, breaking him out of his thoughts.
"What's this about, Cassandra?"
He tries to add a note of strength to his voice, if anything to counter the tremor he knows is in there. It's not an entirely successful attempt. He takes a couple of steps forward, involuntarily. Though he's a little horrified at what she's done, he's drawn by her beauty, can't resist.
"It's about you, Vincent," she says, teasing a finger or two through her hair, then on down her breathtakingly flat stomach, pointing the way to the center of her womanhood. "It's about you, and me."
He can detect the slight sweetness in the air from her perfume, even above the clinical corporate cleanliness of the office. His whole body is pulsating with desire, how could it not? His cock swelling inside his pants, as good as a devil sitting on his shoulder telling him to ignore the facts that have recently come to light in this case.
"Come here," she says, tilting her hips and then with just a little movement, turning to lie on her front, revealing a glimpse of her pert derrière to him, as she gives him a come-hither flick of the fingers.
He takes another couple of paces forward, and she smiles again with feigned innocence. As if to say, I'm just a silly girl who couldn't resist your charms, Vincent.
But Vincent doesn't believe he has charms. What he does believe is that he has information that puts Cassandra at risk.
"How did you find out I knew?" he asks her.
