“And quite recently, you and McCallister took a trip out of town together—quite an elaborate little trip, apparently, one on which he took great pains to evade surveillance. Where did you go?”
Bryn didn’t dare hesitate, not for a second; she remembered how it had felt when she’d lost control in the bar. Hesitation would be fatal, and it would betray her completely. “To a motel,” she said. “The Hallmark Motor Court Inn. I don’t really know what town it was in. ”
Harte opened a folder, took up the Montblanc, and marked something down without really looking at her. “And what did you do all that time at the motel, Bryn?”
Even with the inhibitors, Bryn felt a little stirring of impulse to blurt it out—the lab, Manny Glickman, the IV, Pansy, the mugging, McCallister’s gentle touch on her forehead. She gulped it down and squeezed the arms of the chair as she said, “We made love. Three times. Once on the bed—”
Harte glanced up, eyebrows arched, and then held up a hand. “I don’t need the details. Well … not yet. Not until I have Patrick McCallister’s story to match it against. ” Her smile was cold, and thin enough to cut. “You went all that way, to a motel, to indulge your apparently ravenous sexual appetites for each other. You do know he has a house. ”
“He said we were being watched. And there was something else he wanted there, at the motel. ”
“Did he say what it was?”
“No,” Bryn said.
Harte waited a beat before she said, “Did you do anything else while you were on this little pleasure trip?”
“No. ” Again, Bryn felt that stirring inside, like something hammering hard against a closed door, struggling to get free. Tell her. Tell her everything. She shuddered and held on. How long had Manny said the inhibitors would last? Was she getting close to the time they’d wear off? What if he’d been wrong about the effective dose?
“Did McCallister pay you?”
Bryn blinked. That was the last thing she’d expected. “Pay me?”
“Did McCallister give you money in return for sex? Or your silence about such activities?”
“No. ”
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first, although you’re certainly his most … unusual choice. ” Harte lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “I suppose he has somewhat perverse taste, considering your … condition. ” She paused and cocked her head, staring hard at Bryn for a moment. “Do you understand what’s happening to you, Bryn? Why you can’t stop yourself from telling me these very personal things?”
“No. ” Bryn tried to remember the panic she’d felt before, the internal struggle. Harte needed to see those things. She expected to see them.
Mareen entered the room from that same side door she’d used before, set a second cup of coffee pale with milk on the side table beside Bryn, and departed without a word.
“D
rink your coffee, Bryn; I wouldn’t want it to get cold. ”
Bryn obediently reached for it and sipped. It was delicious, and the hot liquid made her feel sharper, but more jittery, too. The cup rattled lightly against the saucer as she put it down. Look at us, so civilized, sipping our coffee from expensive cups while she mind-rapes me. Or tries to.
“I knew from the moment I saw your revival profile that McCallister had some use for you beyond his stated objectives; he tried to opt you out of certain control features built into Returné for the safety of the company. I countermanded that, in the hopes you’d tell me something more about McCallister’s business. It’s not your fault, Bryn. You may feel you’re betraying him, but I assure you, you’re not. You’re simply a recording device I put next to him. ” Harte tapped her fingernails again, thinking, then continued. “Have you seen him meet anyone not associated directly with Pharmadene?”
“Liam,” Bryn said.
“The estate administrator. No, not counting Liam. Anyone else?”
“No. Just Joe Fideli and his other security people. No one else. ”
“Hmm. ” Harte’s eyes lowered to half-mast, making her look deceptively relaxed. “And have you overheard him discuss anything that did not relate to Pharmadene business?”
“No. ”
“That’s deeply unfortunate. I was really hoping you would be more … enlightening. ” Harte sat back and drank her coffee in silence for a moment, and Bryn was just starting to relax a bit when she said, “Are you in love with Patrick McCallister?”
“No!” Bryn said. Too quickly. Too much force. It was an instinctive denial, not a reasoned answer, and Harte speared her with a cold, level gaze. Bryn swallowed and tried again. “I have no feelings for him. ”
“That, Ms. Davis, means that when he took you to the motel, he did so without your consent. I assume that he coerced you by use of the same command I just engaged. Is that correct? You had no feelings for him, yet you participated in a full day of illicit sex with him, under duress?”
“I …” She was caught, dead caught; either she admitted she had just lied, and proved she wasn’t conditioned the way Harte wanted, or she dropped McCallister in what was, at the very least, a charge of rape. “It wasn’t about love. It was about needing something. ” That was the best middle ground she could walk, but she could see, with a sinking feeling, that Harte wasn’t buying it for a second.