Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) (17 page)

When we enter the lobby, Ryan says to Connor, “I’ll be down here if you need me.” He ambles over to a sofa and makes himself comfortable with his feet up on the glass coffee table. The concierge looks at him with pinched lips, disapproving of him using their furniture like it’s a frat house, but when Ryan notices his stare and raises his brows, the concierge sniffs and looks away.

I’m gifted with another of Ryan’s winks. Shaking his head, Connor steers me toward the elevators.

“You’re not coming anywhere near my room,” I say stiffly, “so don’t get any ideas.”

Connor stabs his finger to the elevator call button. A muscle in his jaw is jumping like crazy. He doesn’t say a word, just stands next to me in silence until the elevator arrives. We step inside.

“What floor?” he asks.

“Eight.”

He presses the button. The doors slide shut. As soon as the car starts to rise, Connor presses the Stop button, and the elevator comes to a jerking halt.

“What the—”

“I’m sorry.” He bites it out, moving in front of me. His body blocks the doors. I quickly back up, only to find myself up against the mirrored wall. To stop his advance, I brace my hand flat against his chest and lock my elbow.

“Don’t you
dare
,” I say through gritted teeth, staring him down.

He gazes back at me with fire in his eyes. Every inch of his body is filled with tension.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice husky. “But you’re keeping so much to yourself and I have to find out secondhand about your uncle and that you
lived
with Søren—you won’t just be honest with me. How was I supposed to react?”

“I
have been
honest with you,” I counter, hearing how tight the words sound because my throat is closing with emotion. “I might be a lot of shitty things, but I’m
not
a liar!”

Connor blinks. His dark brows draw together. “You’re not one single shitty thing.”

I whisper, “You don’t know me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No you—”

“You live alone,” he interrupts. “You don’t trust anyone. Your only friend is a fifteen-year-old girl who reminds you of yourself, smart and odd and lonely. Before that, your only friend was a woman whose entire identity was made up…by you. Because she was like you too, completely alone in the world, mistreated and misunderstood, and by helping her, you did what no one had ever taken the time to do for you, namely—be on your team. You’re a team of one. And I suspect that’s because of Søren, because you’ve never gotten past whatever it was between you. Because he somehow taught you that trust is worse than anything else.”

He pauses. “How am I doing so far?”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. The arm I have braced against his chest starts to tremble.

Connor’s voice softens, and so do his eyes. “When the exact opposite is true. Trust is
better
than anything else. Ryan, that goofball downstairs? I trust him with my life. I’d take a bullet for him. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other. Nothing.”

He reaches out, gently brushes away a lock of hair from my cheek, cups my face in his hand. “I want that for us too.”

I struggle to keep the waver from my voice. “You move pretty fast, soldier. First it was one night you wanted, then one week, and now it’s bullet-taking trust?” My soft laugh sounds choked. “I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”

“No, I don’t.” He takes my face in both his hands, forces me to meet his eyes. “You can trust me, Tabby. I’m not him. I’ll never lie to you. I’ll never let you down when you need me. I might irritate the shit out of you and say or do something stupid once in a while because I’m a guy and sometimes we’re clueless, but if you want me to, I’ll give you one thousand percent and have your back one thousand percent and be one thousand percent on your team.”

His eyes shine so bright, they look unreal. “I want to be on your team.”

I can’t breathe. My throat has closed. There’s water in my eyes—fucking
tears
! I want to slap myself.

“You’re just trying to get laid.”

He smiles. “Can you blame me? Look at yourself, baby.”

“I’m not your baby!”

His smile deepens. “I stand corrected. Sugar? Sunshine? Angel?”

I shake my head to clear it and give his chest a push. He steps back, releasing me. He makes no move to come closer again, just keeps watching me with those warm, beautiful eyes.

Eyes that, if I’m not careful, I’ll fall so far into, I’ll never be able to crawl back out.

“Let’s go.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare at the sliding doors.

After a moment of silence, Connor says, “All right.” He pushes the Stop button again, and the car lurches into motion. We stand unspeaking as my heart thunders. When the elevator stops on my floor and the doors open, Connor adds ominously, “But this conversation isn’t over. And remember, I’m not
him
.”

He steps out of the elevator and strides down the hall.

W
hen I wake up
, it’s dark outside and I have no idea where I am.

I bolt upright in bed. It takes a moment for me to recognize the unfamiliar room and for my heart to slow from a gallop to a trot. I drag my hands through my hair, rub my eyes, get up, and use the toilet, brush my teeth. When my stomach starts to make angry growling noises I realize I’m ravenous. I think I had only one or two bites of the sandwich at the commissary at the studio before what Harry was saying made my stomach turn sour and my appetite flee.

I order room service and then take a shower, wondering where Connor is. He left me at my door with a promise that if I tried to run away, he’d find me, and then I slammed the door in his face. According to my watch, that was six hours ago.

Six hours of tossing and sweating and nightmares I thought I’d outgrown.

But no. Once horror sinks its claws into you, it never lets go. I should have known better.

The hotel’s robe is one of those poufy white terry cloth affairs that are totally impractical but highly comfortable. I put it on, turn on the TV, and wait for room service to arrive.

When I hear a noise outside my door, I cross the room and open it.

And find Connor asleep on the floor.

He’s sitting upright, back against the wall, arms hanging over his bent knees, dark head bowed, breathing evenly. I don’t know whether to knock him over or go back inside and call hotel security. It might be fun to see him try to explain himself.

Unmoving, he says, “If you kick me I’ll take you over my knees, woman.”

His voice is scratchy with sleep, low and impossibly sexy.

Irritatingly sexy.

“It’s princess,” I say impulsively.

Connor looks up at me. He blinks slowly several times.

“Not woman or baby or sugar or any of that other stuff. And especially not sweet cheeks.” My face is red, I can feel it. “I like princess, because it’s ironic. Okay?”

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He nods. He needs a shave and to run a comb through that dark mop on his head, but he still looks so goddamn handsome, I feel sorry for the rest of the men on earth.

Then I feel sorry for myself. I’m beginning to realize just how much it’s going to hurt when all this is over.

At the end of the hall, the elevator opens. A uniformed waiter gets off, pushing a rolling cart. I lift my hand and wave.

“Down here!”

The guy—grinning and tanned, has the look of an aspiring actor—waves back. In the blink of an eye, Connor is on his feet. He stretches with his arms over his head. His black T-shirt is so tight, I can see every ridged outline of abdominal muscle through it.

I can see his nipples through it.

I find myself wondering if it’s only the thought of food that’s making my mouth suddenly water.

“Got a lot for you here, miss,” says the waiter cheerfully. He glances at Connor and comes to an abrupt stop. “Should I set it up inside?”

I notice Connor staring hungrily at the cart. From beneath the domed silver plates, delicious scents waft up: cheeseburger and fries, chicken wings, mac and cheese, nachos with the works. I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I ordered everything that looked good.

It’s more than enough for two.

I wave the waiter in. “Yes, please. On the coffee table is fine.” When he rolls past me into the room, I sigh and tighten the belt on my robe. “All right, soldier, you can come in for a minute. But just to eat, okay?”

Connor looks at me from under his lashes. “Roger that.”

How he manages to make that sound so perilous, I have no idea. I decide to stay as far away from him as possible and get him out as quickly as possible because, judging by the tingling happening throughout my body from his look, I’m in serious danger of making a bad decision if he stays too long.

Another bad decision.

Shit.

The room service guy sets up the food, silverware, and a carafe of water on the coffee table, then has me sign the bill. He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him, and then Connor and I are alone.

“Where do you want me?” Connor asks.

I know it’s only my imagination that makes it sound sexual, because he’s not doing anything remotely suggestive, but damn if my vagina isn’t shouting,
In here, big boy!

“At the desk,” I blurt, too loudly.

Connor gives me an odd look. Ignoring it, I make myself a plate, pour a glass of water, and go sit on the chair across the room, at a safe distance. After watching me for a moment, Connor gets himself a plate of food, sits down at the desk, and starts to eat.

I notice it again, how elegant he is for a man his size. He eats with perfect self-possession, almost regally. He walks the same way, easy, smooth, with an economy of motion that’s unusually graceful. Normally, big men thump around noisily, eat noisily, take up too much space. Connor takes up a lot of space, but it’s his presence—quiet and intense, dangerous and still—and not a loud, arrogant swagger that calls attention to itself.

I’ve seen it happen many times. When Connor is in a room, every eye instinctively turns his way, even if he’s just sitting there not saying a word.

He notices me watching. “You’re gonna give me a complex, princess.”

I flush and look down at my plate. “Any news from O’Doul?”

He doesn’t mention my awkward segue. “’Bout an hour ago. All quiet. Miranda scheduled the press conference for five tomorrow evening. Word is already all over the Internet. Speculation is tending toward two camps, her resignation or a major hack.”

I’m relieved, both because Søren hasn’t taken any action—yet—and about the rumors. I know they’ll please him.

It was smart for her to do it later instead of the morning. If I know Søren, Miranda’s just bought us another day. He won’t want to do anything before he sees the show.

The television keeps us company as we finish our food. Having Connor here isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be, and gradually I begin to relax.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “When I was fourteen, my brother Mikey died.”

Startled, I look up. Connor is staring at his plate.

“Fell out of a tree in our backyard. Wasn’t even that tall of a tree, but it didn’t matter. Mikey was five. The baby. I was the oldest. Of six, all boys, my poor mother. Anyway, after that I developed a fear of heights.” He snaps his fingers. “Boom. Like that. Totally irrational, I wasn’t even near Mikey when it happened, didn’t see him fall, nothing. But from the day of Mikey’s funeral on, I couldn’t stand to be anywhere my feet weren’t touching solid ground. I’d get dizzy going up ladders. Felt like my heart would explode if I had to climb a flight of stairs. Which was really fucking inconvenient considering my bedroom was on the second floor of our house. I even cried when my father made me go up into the attic to get the Christmas ornaments.”

I’m astonished. “You?
Cry?
”

He lifts a shoulder. “Not my proudest moment, but yeah. My point is that I get it. Suffering over something you have no control over, that you picked up secondhand.”

He looks up at me. His eyes are penetrating. “Your fear of flying, I’m talking about.”

I don’t know what to say. His confession and the direction this is taking are so unexpected, I’m literally speechless.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, tosses it to his plate, and stands. When he looks at me his expression is empathetic. “What I’m trying so badly to say is that there’s a way out.”

This is dangerous territory. But after a moment, my curiosity overcomes my hesitation. “Which is?”

“Through.”

When I blink at him, confused, he clarifies.

“The obstacle
is
the way. The thing that ails you is also the cure. There’s no running away or going around or over. There’s no avoidance. Avoidance is just a guarantee you’ll never prevail. You have to push
through
, to the other side of your fear. The obstacle itself is the way through.”

My heart is doing something strange inside my chest. “You’re saying I should suck it up, put on my big-girl panties, and get on a plane.”

“I’m saying that the only way you’re ever going to get this monkey off your back is if you give it the middle finger and tell it to go fuck itself. I
know
you’re capable of that.”

Give the monkey on my back the middle finger.

I study his face for a long time in tense silence before I speak again. “So that worked for you with your fear of heights?”

Connor slowly moves away from the desk. He looks at the bed, and then looks away quickly, almost guiltily, as if he caught himself doing something bad. Agitated now, he starts to pace back and forth across the room.

I can’t help but think of a lion, pacing in his cage.

“My father—a Texas ranch man, raised longhorns, still does—said no son of his was gonna turn out to be a lily-livered sniveler, so he basically forced me to join the Marines. And thank fuck he did, because by the time I was seventeen, I was on the express train to the United States penal system. So I
had
to deal with my shit. The military doesn’t care about your dainty little phobias. You
must
climb that rope, you
must
scale that wall, you
will
learn to be a team member and a leader and an example for others, in spite of yourself. Or you’re out. Disgraced.

“And though I was a hardheaded little fucker, even at seventeen I knew I’d rather die than be disgraced. So it became about more than just me and my fear. It became about making my father proud. About making my brothers proud. About honoring Mikey’s memory, instead of letting it cripple me.”

After I overcome my shock, I say softly, “Connor. That’s sort of…beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he says gruffly.

Then it seems neither of us knows what to say, because we just look at each other in awkward silence.

Finally, I draw enough courage to ask, “But you’re not really talking about my fear of flying, are you?”

He looks at me for a long time, and then blows out a hard breath and looks away. “You said something to me in the car on the drive out here that stuck with me. After I told you the story about the hero and the princess, you remember?”

When he looks back at me, I nod.

“You said, ‘A real hero would teach the princess how to save herself.’ I thought that was so profound. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” His voice gets gruff. “About you. What it might mean to you, if I could…help you save yourself.”

There’s no more air in the room. There’s nothing left to breathe. When I look down at my hands, they’re shaking.

Connor softly curses. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about him—”

“It’s all right. You’ve been fair.” I glance up and meet his eyes. “It’s just that…some things shouldn’t be said out loud. It’s dangerous, summoning old ghosts. You never know what they might want from you in return for digging them out of their graves.”

Connor looks disturbed by that but waits to see if I’ll say more. There’s so much I should tell him, so much I’d like to say but can’t. But he deserves some explanation, at least, and so I try.

I rise from the chair, cross to the window, and stare out with my arms tightly wrapped around myself. I exhale a ragged breath.

“I have a little black box inside my head where I keep all the memories of that year I lived with Søren. It’s this trick I learned. Compartmentalization, my therapist called it. The box is there to keep me safe. It has a big metal lock and sits in a dark corner with a layer of dust on top inches thick. Inside the box are monsters.” As I speak, my voice is growing more and more constricted. “I can’t open that box, Connor. Not even for you. But I will tell you this.”

I swallow twice before I can continue. “I haven’t lied to you about anything. I’m holding things back, yes, but it’s only to protect myself, not to deceive you. And I don’t…” My voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t want you to hear all the ugliness. Especially now.”

I hear him move behind me. I see his reflection in the glass. He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Why especially now?”

My laugh is soft and ragged. “You know why.”

When I feel his hands gently rest on my shoulders, I don’t pull away. Then his mouth is next to my ear, and his voice is a low, sexy rasp.

“Because you’re falling in love with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself!” I scoff, but his words leave me breathless.

He threads his fingers through my hair, makes a fist, and softly tugs so my head falls back.

He whispers, “I’m not,” and kisses me.

It’s different, this kiss. So different from any we’ve shared before. It’s not demanding but endlessly giving, tender and sweet, filled with unspoken promises.

“I want to be on your team.”

Startled by the swell of emotion rising inside me, I break away, but he spins me around, pulls me back against him, and kisses me again. His strong arms wrap tightly around my body.

“I’ll give you one thousand percent.”

I want to pound against his chest but my arms are trapped between us, and they don’t want to pound—they want to wind up around his shoulders and never let go.

“I’ll never let you down when you need me.”

When I make a sound of desperation, Connor breaks the kiss but keeps his tight hold on me, keeps me so close I can feel his heart hammering, like my own.

“That’s why you were so mad at me in the cafeteria,” he says roughly, breathing hard. “Why you’re always so mad at me. Because I keep hurting you. And I couldn’t hurt you unless you
care
.”

He kisses me again, but it’s rougher this time, edged with raw emotion. I stumble backward, and we slam into the desk, rattling the lamp. It topples off the edge to the floor. Connor leans forward. I’m forced back. My leg instinctively comes up as I try to keep my balance. My robe slips open over my bare thigh.

His mouth is hot and delicious. His tongue knows exactly what to do. Though I hate myself for it, my body responds as it always does to his touch, and I allow the kiss to go on longer than I should just because it feels so good.