Get this one right, Francesca, and the employer could become a gravy train. This could be holidays in Sri Lanka until the gray hairs started sprouting.

"I wonder why he said that, though, Annie.” As usual Francesca had asked her friend to be nearby in case the IC got nasty and she needed someone to take care of her after getting dumped, or worse. It had happened before, just once, when she’d foolishly strayed into the black IC of that Edinburgh system. On that occasion Annie had been able to give her the kiss of life in time.

“Who knows? Just do the job, honey.” Annie sprawled her six-foot length over the leather sofa, stretching her legs-and she did have fabulous legs, long and lean and muscular. If all went well now they might celebrate by going out on the town tonight. Francesca the blonde in black, Annie the brunette encasing herself in something white, tight, and very, very inadequate to the purpose. They didn’t ask too much about each other’s lives, speaking of their relationships with the flippancy more common to men talking about women, but it worked at that level. They didn’t talk much about their work, either. Francesca needed to keep quiet about what she did, while Annie proclaimed herself a model. Francesca knew what that meant, though. If Annie’s hard edge didn’t give her away, the high rents she had to pay on her flat around the corner did. But they shared a certain wary mutual respect and unspoken trust. Each knew the other was someone she wouldn’t regret having as a companion while getting far too drunk. That counted for a lot.

Francesca’s thoughts turned back to the run. The priorities for this job were different from her last. No subtleties needed here; it was bod mode all the way and the most vicious attack program she could muster.