Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) (12 page)

And because of that invisible connection between us, I feel the exact moment Connor begins to doubt me.

I
t takes
several hours to unload all my equipment from Connor’s Hummer and set it up. During that time, Miranda retires to her office to get some sleep on the couch—it’s past midnight—O’Doul and I have arrived at a tenuous truce brought about by my successful effort to thwart Søren’s malware attack with an antimalware program of my own, and Connor has become increasingly agitated.

I’m not sure anyone else would notice it, but I’m attuned to him now. To his facial tics and the timbre of his voice, to the way he holds himself when under strain yet trying to look as if he’s not. He’s exceptionally good at maintaining his composure…except when he looks at me.

When he looks at me, his eyes blaze so hot, I think I might ignite.

This time, however, it’s unclear if the fire in his eyes is lust.

“Can I have a word?” he says under his breath, leaning over my shoulder.

My hands freeze on the keyboard. I glance up to find him staring down at me, his face like a slab of granite. “Now isn’t really a good time,” I say, stalling. “I’m searching the root directory for—”

“I’ll meet you in the ladies’ room.” He turns and strides away, his back stiff.

I glance around. In spite of my warnings to the contrary, all the agents are at their computers, avidly searching for the name Søren Killgaard in every directory and database they have access to, including O’Doul, who is pecking away relentlessly with his stubby index fingers at a laptop.

They won’t find anything—as I told them they wouldn’t—but the real problem is that now Søren will know they have his name.

And he’ll start wondering who gave it to them.

I rise as casually as I can and wander out of the room as if I just need to stretch my legs.

The ladies’ room is down the hall. I enter with trepidation, dreading what’s on the other side of the door:

Connor, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread apart, scowling.

“Funny meeting you here.” I let the door swing shut behind me.

“What was your relationship with Søren Killgaard.”

It isn’t a question, it’s a demand, delivered with dangerous softness. I decide to sidestep. “In the words of your client, my feelings about the subject are immaterial.”

“I didn’t ask about your feelings. I asked about your relationship.”

We stare at each other. The color is high in his cheeks. His breathing is slightly irregular.

“Why?” I ask softly. “Are you jealous?”

“Fuck yes,” comes the instant, husky response. “But that’s not why I’m asking.”

A little thrill burns through me at his admission. “Then why are you asking?”

“Because there’s a hell of a lot you’re not telling me, and that lack of knowledge could compromise this job.”

“We’ve already been over this.”

“Let’s go over it again.”

After a long, tense interval, I say, “No.”

His arms unfold. He takes a step toward me. I take a step back.

“Why not?” he asks, and his voice is velvet darkness.

My heart begins to beat faster. I’m not afraid of him; it’s his intensity that’s getting to me. His proximity. The way I can recall with perfect clarity how he sounds when he comes.

I moisten my lips. “Because it’s none of your business.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. It stops him dead in his tracks with a look of incredulity on his face. Slowly, he shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

My ears go scalding hot. “We had a deal. One night, remember? One night to get it out of our systems, and then we’d never mention it again.”

He softly corrects me, “One night and one morning.”

The way he’s looking at me makes my nipples hard and sends a rush of heat between my legs. I can’t help it, my body responds to this man like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. I’m an addict, he’s a needle full of heroin, and even though I know I’m not supposed to want it, I do.

He must see something in my expression, because his dark, dark eyes turn an even deeper shade of black. He takes another step toward me.

“Connor,” I warn, backing up.

“Yes, Tabitha?”

“I’m going to touch you everywhere, Tabitha. Anywhere I want, anywhere it pleases me.”

The way he says my full name, the deeply sexual tone of it, sends my heart racing. I retreat another step until my back comes in contact with the door.

Connor advances. Lifting his arms, he sets his palms flat against the door on either side of my head. He leans in close to my face. “You were about to say something.”

“You said we were both professionals.” I try to keep my voice stern, but fail. The words are a breathy whisper, more
come closer
than
stay away
.

“We are. And I’m asking—from one professional to another—what your relationship to Søren Killgaard was so I can then determine how much satisfaction I’m going to get from putting the bastard in prison.”

He’s betraying himself. A moment ago, he said it was about compromising the job. I’m amazed to find myself reaching up to touch his face. He stills when my fingers come in contact with his skin. His breathing goes ragged. I see the pulse pounding in his throat.

In a shaking voice, I tell him the truth. “I was the only person who ever told him no, and he punished me for it.”

His hand covers mine. If I’m not imagining it, his tone is hopeful. “You weren’t in love with him?”

I want to laugh. Or maybe vomit. “Love? There are things much stronger than love, Connor.”

His eyes glow with emotion. “I thought nothing was stronger than love.”

Unthinking, I blurt, “Fear. Hate. Self-loathing. The way your own mind can betray you if it’s left alone in the dark for too long.”

Connor takes my face in his hands and gazes down at me, his brows pulled together, a look of something like fury darkening his face. “What the hell did he do to you?”

Flooded with shame, I close my eyes. I whisper, “He held up a mirror to my soul and showed me what it looked like.”

After a while, Connor says, “Open your eyes.”

I obey him and stand there helplessly shaking, feeling as if my heart is exposed, dangling out of my chest.

“Let’s put aside the question of Søren for the moment. I want to make a new deal.”

I can’t speak. I can hardly even breathe. I wait, my nerves standing on end like a million screaming exclamation points.

“Let’s extend the one night to one week.”

My breath leaves my chest in an expulsive rush. He makes it sound so rational. So businesslike. So simple, when it’s anything but.

“You said you didn’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.” I take no joy in turning his words back at him, but it has to be said.

“I did say that,” he admits, nodding. “Because I never have before. But in this case, I’m willing to bend my rules.”

His thumbs gently stroke over my burning cheeks. Why does he have to do that, be so distractingly tender when I’m trying to concentrate on all the reasons why what he’s asking for is insane?

“It’s a terrible idea,” I say. “It will be too much of a distraction.”

“I’m aware.”

He’s aware but obviously doesn’t care. His face is getting closer to mine. I’m beginning to feel a little desperate.

“I’m not sure I like you.”

His lips curve. Faint amusement is reflected in his eyes. “I’m not sure I trust you.”

Touché
.

I put my hand flat on his chest and push. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it,” he repeats slowly.

“Connor. We’re in a women’s bathroom—”

“You’d prefer the men’s?”

“I’m exhausted, hungry, and wrestling with some very dark personal demons. All while standing ten feet away from a row of toilets. It’s hardly conducive to romance.”

“Is it romance you want?” he asks softly, reaching for my hand. “Or is it this?”

He presses my hand to his crotch. Beneath my fingers, he’s rock-hard.

My patience snaps.

All my initial irritation with him, my original assessment of his character that concluded that most of his brain power is contained in his underwear, comes flooding back. I jerk away from him, spinning out of his reach. “Jesus! You’re nothing but a…giant…
animal
!”

His jaw hardens. He folds his arms across his chest, draws himself to his full, considerable height, and looks at me down his nose. “Volatile little thing, aren’t you, sweet cheeks?”

Sweet cheeks.
Not “sweetheart” or “princess” or even Tabby—the mocking, derisive “sweet cheeks,” which he knows I detest.

I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. Like he just punched me right in the chest.

Watching my face, Connor curves his mouth into a grim smile. When I realize he was counting on this reaction from me, that he was
baiting
me, I want to scream.

He says, “If you’re telling yourself last night meant nothing, you’re not half as smart as I thought you were.”

He opens the door and walks out.

A moment later, all the lights go out, plunging me into darkness.

* * *

W
hen I stumble
into the COM center, I hear O’Doul shouting, “And why isn’t
her
station out?”

“Because I’m not on the grid,” I answer from the doorway. “I have my own power source.”

My computer station is the only one with monitors that are lit up. All three of them glow cheerfully, lending my corner an ethereal electronic light in contrast to the rest of the room, which is in blackness. Agents mill around with their hands on their hips, muttering to each other, unsure what to do.

It’s ridiculous how unprepared people are to be cut off from electricity.

“What are you talking about?” snaps O’Doul, coming closer. The others turn to look at me. Connor is nowhere to be seen.

“I’m using a portable generator.” I cross to my station and point at a black piece of equipment the size of a printer, gently humming on the floor beneath the desk.

The guy who had a problem with my Hello Kitty watch also evidently has a problem with my energy source, because he pipes up with a snotty “Generator power fluctuates too much—there are too many variable voltage issues for it to be a reliable source to power your computers. Your hard drive is probably already fried.”

I clap, slowly, three times. “Very good, Einstein. But I’m using a UPS that employs double conversion topology to provide continuous pure sine wave output.”

Even in the low light, I can see how ruddy his face gets. “Well…that…that probably voided your warranty!”

“Yes,” I reply with a straight face. “That is a
very
serious concern.”

O’Doul interrupts our little love fest by standing between us and barking, “Shut your piehole, Rodriguez! And why the hell would you be using a
generator
, Miss West?”

Exasperated, I cross my arms over my chest and tap my toe against the carpet. “Because I needed my equipment to stay online when Søren found out what all you busy little bees were up to.”

The room falls quiet. It’s O’Doul who finally speaks.

“You’re saying the hacker cut the power to the building? How? And how would he know we’re searching for his name? We’re on the FBI’s secure virtual private network—”

I laugh. “Spare me your ‘secure’ crap, O’Doul. The FBI’s VPN is about as solid as Swiss cheese.”

My new arch nemesis, Rodriguez, drawls, “Riiight. Let me guess—you think
you
could hack it.”

The energy in the room changes. I’ve got fifteen guys—sixteen including O’Doul— looking at me as if I’m either full of shit or off my rocker. They’re shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, like I couldn’t possibly be legit because
no one
can hack the FBI’s site, and probably also because I don’t have a dick.

I grin.
Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

“O’Doul, I need you to guarantee me immunity from prosecution by the FBI or any other law enforcement agency for what I’m going to do in the next five minutes.”

Rodriguez snorts. “Five minutes? Are you high? You can’t hack into the FBI’s VPN in five—”

“I’m not in a position to grant anyone immunity,” lies O’Doul, making me laugh again.

“C’mon, buddy. You’re the head of the NCIJTF! I wasn’t born yesterday.” When his expression sharpens, I add, “You’ve got fifteen witnesses who can attest to what happens in case anything goes sideways, which it won’t.” I glance at Rodriguez. “This is just a little pissing contest.” I turn my attention back to O’Doul. “If it makes you feel better, you can consider it a bit of free security consulting for Uncle Sam. And after I win, you and I will have a nice long talk about the man you’re dealing with at the other end of cyberspace.”

O’Doul says drily, “Yes, about that. No one by the name Søren Killgaard exists. We’ve been checking for the last two hours.”

“And don’t you find that interesting, that on this planet with a population over
seven billion
people, not a single one of them has the given name Søren with the surname Killgaard? Not one social media profile? Not one utility bill? Not one birth—or death—certificate, driver’s license or credit card? What do you think the odds are of that?”