Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  She’s fiercely intelligent, utterly unapologetic, and more competent than any man.

  What’s not to like?

  Sure, she’s got haters. A lot of them, from what I’ve read in the press. But the number of fucks she gives about what people think of her is equal to the number of times Connor Hughes has said, “I don’t know.”

  Arrogant prick.

  Although I grudgingly admit he shocked the hell out of me with that “you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met” shtick. Not sure if it was even in the neighborhood of genuine, but he definitely managed to look sincere.

  He looked a few other things too. Like…intense. Intimate.

  Aroused.

  And we’re breathing.

  I’m sure there are women who’d consider his kind of rugged, mountain-man type attractive, but I’m definitely not one of them. Two-day growth of beard, thighs like tree trunks, shoulders like a linebacker…ugh. He’s fucking uncivilized is what he is. A big, barbarian ape. He probably chews with his mouth open.

  Why would he even think I’d consider working with him?

  The last time I saw him, I was in crisis mode. My best friend and employer, Victoria, had disappeared, the police had just interrogated me about my relationship with her, and in walks Victoria’s ex, Parker, with his hired gun jarhead, demanding answers. It all turned out fine in the end, but I’ll never forget how insensitive Connor was. How he laughed at me.

  How small he made me feel.

  Yeah, he’s a prick. A self-involved bulldozer of a man who I want absolutely nothing to do with. And, more importantly, any job I take has to be within driving distance. I’ve never been on a plane in my life. I’m not about to start now.

  Not even for Miranda Lawson.

  Right, I think, sitting up on the sofa. Moving on.

  I’m driving back to New York first thing in the morning, so I put together the report for Roger Hamilton, order room service, and pack. Then I eat my dinner on the couch while watching TV.

  Just as I’m about to get into bed a few hours later, someone slips an envelope under my door.

  I stare at it like it’s full of anthrax. Who would be slipping me notes? At this hour? Here?

  Only one way to find out.

  I walk with trepidation to the door, open it, and peek out. The hallway is empty and silent. I close the door, pick up the envelope, and pull out a single sheet of paper. It’s handwritten in blocky, blunt print. The first line alone has me gasping.

  I owe you an apology.

  It wasn’t my intention to insult you, but I think that’s what I’ve done. I’m not very good at treading lightly. Truth be told, I have one setting, and that’s full steam ahead. Sometimes I forget my manners.

  Sometimes I’m a dick.

  You were right to flip me off, and I can’t honestly say I blame you for walking out. What I can say is that I wasn’t bullshitting you when I said I wanted you on this job. Not to sound like a stalker, but I’ve kept any eye on what you’ve been up to the past three years, and I’m damn impressed. I think you could rule the world if you wanted to, Tabby.

  Anyway. Since I won’t ever see you again, I’ll take this opportunity to say I’m sorry. Sincerely. Best of luck to you. I’m sure whatever you’re working on next will be much more interesting than meeting Miranda Lawson.

  Yours,

  Connor

  I stand there with the letter in my hands for what feels like a long time. Then I crumple the letter in my fist. “Nice try, jarhead.”

  I throw the letter in the trash.

  The drive from DC to Manhattan is just under five hours with no traffic. Since it’s a Saturday and I left with the sunrise, I expected to be home by noon. Unfortunately, there was a pileup on the New Jersey Turnpike, so it took an additional few hours. By the time I get home, I’m crabby and ravenous.

  “Honey, I’m home!” I call out as I walk inside.

  “We’re in here!” answers a faint voice from the direction of the living room.

  My townhouse is in the swanky part of Greenwich Village. I bought it two years ago and promptly tore out all the hideous purple carpeting the previous owner favored, along with the blood-red Victorian floral wallpaper that made my skin crawl. It was like living inside a rotten plum. Now the walls are painted delicate eggshell, the floors are glossy ebony hardwood, and the furniture… I’m still working on the furniture. In five stories with six bedrooms, the only places to sit are behind the desk in my office, on the sofa in the living room, on the floor, or on my bed.

  I drop my bags near the stairs to the second level and make my way down the hall. When I get to the living room, I prop my hands on my hips and smile, amused by the scene.

  Juanita, my fifteen-year-old neighbor, is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa with an open bag of Cheetos in her lap and a can of Red Bull in one hand. She’s in her school uniform of white shirt and plaid skirt, but her skinny legs are bare, as are her feet. Her wild mop of curly dark hair is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. The floor around her is littered with candy wrappers, empty soda cans, discarded bags of chips, and schoolbooks. She has her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her and is watching MMA wrestling, her favorite thing in the world.

  Trying to sound stern, I say, “When someone tells you ‘make yourself at home’ while they’re gone, Nita, it’s a euphemism for be comfortable. Not move in and turn the place into Animal House.”

  She doesn’t bother to acknowledge that or look over in my direction. “When are you gonna get a TV, man? What kind of weirdo doesn’t have a TV?”

  “I’m not weird. I’m limited edition.”

  “Tch.”

  “I’d also like to point out that I’m the only person in this room not wearing a rat.”

  Juanita’s pet rat, Elvis, is perched on her head. He’s white with big black patches, like a dairy cow. Juanita rescued him from a storm drain when he was a baby, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. He travels with her on her shoulder or in her backpack, to the dismay of her mother and teachers at school. When the principal said he’d suspend her if she didn’t stop bringing Elvis to class, Juanita threatened to call the civil rights division of the US Department of Justice and report that her rights were being violated under the Americans with Disabilities Act, because Elvis was a service animal like a seeing-eye dog. When asked what service he provided, Juanita replied with a straight face, “Emotional support.”

  I love this kid.

  She comes over every day after school to escape her six siblings, who all still live at home. She tells her mother I’m helping her with her calculus homework, but the reality is that Juanita could teach her AP calculus class herself.

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” says Juanita, reaching up to scratch Elvis on his belly. He shivers in delight, white whiskers trembling. “How’d the job go?”

  “How do you think it went?”

  Juanita snorts. “I think you shriveled another rich old white dude’s balls to the size of peas.”

  “That I did. Another pea-sized pair of balls to add to my collection.” I sigh in satisfaction. I really do love my job. “I’m going to make a sandwich. You want one?”

  Her attention still glued to the computer screen where two shirtless, barefoot guys are beating each other to within an inch of their lives, Juanita says, “Nah. I’m good.”

  I eye all the junk food wrappers scattered around her. “It wouldn’t kill you to eat some real food once in a while, kiddo.”

  Juanita makes a face. “Sure thing, Lourdes.”

  Lourdes is her mother’s name. It’s what she calls me when I’m meddling.

  She calls me Lourdes a lot.

  “Suit yourself,” I say breezily, and leave Juanita and Elvis to enjoy their show.

  In the kitchen, I kick off my shoes and open the fridge. Unlike the rest of my home, it’s packed. An empty refrigerator is one of the few things that frightens me.

  “Roast beef, provo
lone, tomatoes, lettuce,” I say, gathering everything. “Hello, my beauties!”

  I get the bread from the pantry, make myself a sandwich, and eat it standing up over the kitchen sink. Then I make another sandwich, tuck it inside a Ziploc bag, and slip it inside the backpack Juanita left on the console by the front door.

  Then I go upstairs and unpack. When my things are put away, I pad down the hallway to my office, fire up my computer, and check my email.

  Zip. Nada. Crickets.

  And the old, familiar loneliness pops its head around my shoulder and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  This is the worst time, when I come home from a job and don’t have anything else lined up. When I’m working, my mind is occupied, and when my mind is occupied, I can go days or weeks without once wondering what the point of everything is. But when I’m not working…

  “I’m betting you’d go out of your fuckin’ mind if you didn’t have a puzzle to solve. Right?”

  Jarhead and his annoyingly astute observations.

  The thought of him is equivalent to a migraine. How can anyone stand to be around that cocky, irritating jerk? I know he runs a successful business, so he’s got employees, clients, vendors, people he has to interact with on a daily basis. He’s probably even got friends…girlfriends?

  No, I think, wrinkling my nose. He wouldn’t call them “girlfriends.” He’d call them…gashes. Or something equally repulsive.

  I really hate that chauvinistic prick.

  “And we’re breathing,” I remind myself as my stomach tightens. “Again.”

  Connor Hughes is bad for my blood pressure.

  From downstairs Juanita yells, “We’re outta here! See you after school Monday!”

  I yell back, “Good luck on your calculus test!”

  “Suck a bag of dicks, hooker!”

  A laugh, and then the front door slams.

  “Love you too, kiddo,” I say, smiling.

  I change into my running clothes and head over to Washington Square, the big park a few blocks away. I run my regular circuit on the paths that wind through the park, nodding at the old guys playing chess, dodging the street performers and families and couples walking their dogs. It’s a bright, beautiful spring afternoon, and the park is crowded with people picnicking around the main fountain, enjoying the weather.

  This is why I run in the mornings. All these people make me twitchy.

  An hour later, sweaty, my thighs aching, I head back to my house. I finish a book on the Chernobyl disaster, recategorize my CD collection by genre, and then decide to shower before I head out to find a place for dinner. Saturdays I usually head over to a little French wine bar in my neighborhood. I like to watch all the date-night couples gazing adoringly at each other over their overpriced glasses of Bordeaux and speculate about who’s cheating on who.

  I almost always decide it’s everyone.

  I take a long, hot shower, condition my hair, and shave all my lady parts that need shaving. Not that anyone’s going to touch said lady parts, but I like to keep my garden free of weeds, so to speak. In case I’m ever in an accident and I have to be examined at the hospital by some insanely hot doctor. Why he’d be examining me nude I don’t know, but in my fantasies, these kinds of odd scenarios regularly occur.

  In reality, it’s been years since a man saw me naked.

  It’s easier this way. Sex leads to feelings, and feelings lead to disappointment, so it logically follows that celibacy leads to no disappointments. Especially since I can get myself off in under sixty seconds. So it’s easy and efficient.

  I dry off, wind my hair in the towel, and wrap it around my head, and head naked into my bedroom.

  Where I let out an earsplitting scream.

  Connor Hughes, reclining on my bed with his arms behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankle, grins at me. “That’s twice now I’ve made you scream, sweet cheeks, without even laying a finger on you.”

  His gaze, searing hot, travels down the length of my naked body. His voice grows husky.

  “Imagine what I could do with all ten.”

  Four

  Tabby

  I leap backward into the bathroom and slam the door. “You fucking asshole!” I shout.

  In response, I hear a deep, satisfied chuckle.

  So furious I’m shaking, I tear the towel off my head and wrap it around my body. “This is breaking and entering! I’m calling the police, you goddamn maniac!”

  There’s a short pause, and then Connor’s voice, low and rich, comes through the door. It sounds like he’s standing right outside. “You’re not gonna call the police.”

  Red-faced, I stalk back and forth in front of the vanity, deeply mortified that animal saw me naked. “Oh yes I am!”

  “Tabby. Be reasonable. Do you really think it’s the best idea to invite law enforcement over to the home of the woman who once hacked into NASA’s mainframe and intercepted the source code of the International Space Station? NYPD might not be the sharpest tools in the shed, but they’ll take one look inside your office and know they’re not dealing with the average computer hobbyist.”

  The bastard is right. My office is packed floor to ceiling with hard drives, servers, monitors, modems, wireless networking equipment, soldering equipment, lock picks, ham radios, cryptophones, and all the other tools of my trade. I’m careful to always flush data from every device after a job is done, but you never know if some rookie officer who wants to make a name for himself decides to invoke probable cause in the name of post-9/11 public safety.

  I imagine Connor smirking on the other side of the door and feel a profound desire to bury a hatchet in his skull.

  “You’re right. I won’t call the cops. But you just made yourself an enemy. Consider it open season on Metrix.”

  Silence.

  Now it’s my turn to smirk. Connor knows I can make good on my promise. If I wanted to, I could have his entire company’s network fucked six ways to Sunday before he could even figure out how I snuck in.

  “How ’bout a compromise?”

  “Compromises require two parties to make concessions in order to get what they want. You, asswipe douche bag megaprick, have nothing I want.”

  Connor chuckles. “I ever tell you I love that dirty mouth of yours?”

  Oh my God. I’m seriously going to open the door and punch him in the face.

  He taps on the door. “C’mon, Tabby. I promise I won’t surprise you again, okay? No more showing up unannounced when you’re coming out of the shower.” Pause. “Though I have to admit, seeing you naked has been like the highlight of my entire fuckin’ life. Nipple piercings? Jesus Christ, that’s hot. And was that a tiger tattoo on your stomach?” He chuckles again and then growls, “Rawr.”

  I stare at the door, blood pulsing in my cheeks. “I will kill you with my bare hands.”

  A gently teasing tsk. “You love me. Just admit it, sweetheart. The only time you feel alive is when you’re screaming insults in my face.”

  I close my eyes, pulling in deep breaths through my nose, and count to ten. “How did you even get here so fast?” I ask through clenched teeth. “I thought you had a meeting in LA?”

  “TSA global security pass, private jet, yada yada. Plus, manipulating time is my superpower.” His voice drops. “Wanna know what my other superpower is?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll give you a hint. It’s between my legs.”

  I look around the bathroom for something sharp to stab him with.

  I freeze when the door swings open. Connor leans against the frame, dwarfing it. He drawls, “Forget to lock something, girl genius?”

  I stare at him with what I hope are death rays emanating from my eyes. “I hate you. With a heat like a thousand suns, I hate you. With the force of a million tons of TNT, I hate you. With every fiber of my being, I—”

  “Hate me, I get the picture,” says Connor drily. “But you also think I’m kinda cute, right?” He winks.

  The nerve. Th
e nerve of this man. My voice shakes with rage. “Get out. Get out of my house. Now.”

  Connor looks at me for a long, measured moment. “Sure thing, Pop-Tart. But there’s something you need to see first.” He turns around and disappears.

  I find him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, calmly eating an apple as if it’s the only thing he’s got on his schedule for the rest of the week.

  “Liked you better in what you were wearing upstairs,” he remarks, eying my baggy jeans and even baggier Nine Inch Nails sweatshirt.

  I say coldly, “If I had one, I’d also be wearing a hazmat suit. The thought that you’ve seen me naked is traumatizing.”

  He crunches into another bite. I wonder if he’s got his arms folded across his chest like that on purpose, to show off his ridiculous, oversized biceps. They’re so big, he could be one of those strongmen in an old-fashioned circus, the guys in the stretchy leopard-print unitards, hoisting barbells over their heads.

  I’d like to hoist a barbell over his head.

  “What’s so important you just doomed your network to an early death over it?”

  He motions with his chin to a laptop on the opposite counter.

  “You brought me a gift? How sweet. But I don’t accept candy from home-invading strangers. Now get out before I remove your spleen. With a rusty knife. Through your nose.”

  Connor takes a final bite of his apple—my apple!—swallows, and licks his lips. He manages to make the entire thing look both sensual and provocative. A dare.

  A growl builds in the back of my throat.

  He says, “Open it. You can kill me after.” A dent forms in one of his cheeks.

  I’m not sure which infuriates me more, him seeing me naked or finding my anger about it a source of entertainment.

  “I’ll leave you alive just long enough to appreciate my skill at creating the metamorphic virus that’s going to devour every line of code in every piece of software your company owns. How’s that?” I smile sweetly and head to the laptop.