Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  But the look in Connor’s eyes…oh God. My poor heart can’t take much more of this.

  He murmurs, “Please. Listen to Harry.”

  When I open my mouth, Connor holds up a hand. Even more gently than before, he says, “Please.”

  You son of a bitch. Please? After you practically accuse me of setting this whole thing up, you have the nerve to say please? Nicely?

  But I don’t say anything out loud, because his eyes are wrecking me. His voice is wrecking me. The memory of his face is wrecking me, how he looked when his body was moving inside mine, his expression of adoration, of reverence, as if what he felt wasn’t just physical pleasure, but something a little more…

  Sacred.

  Connor didn’t just fuck me. He made love to me. And no matter how much I might want to deny it, what happened between us was far more profound than a casual screw.

  One night, he’d promised.

  I don’t know which one of us is the bigger fool.

  “So what are we supposed to do now?” Miranda starts up her pacing again, back and forth over a few feet of carpet, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Just wait and see what happens?”

  “Go home,” answers Harry. “Get some sleep. There’s nothing more you can do here. If anything happens, we’ll call you.” He glances at me, and then at Connor. “The same goes for you—”

  “I already slept,” I say dully, dragging a hand through my hair.

  Harry looks at me, his lips in a wry twist. “Forty-five minutes curled up in an armchair doesn’t count as sleep, Miss West.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” says Connor, still with that soft voice. He must see my anger at his contradiction, because he adds, “I know you need to be clear-headed, and I also know you need sleep to be clearheaded. Let your program do its work. Harry’s right. There’s nothing more we can do for now.”

  Waiting. I’m no good at it. I’m even worse at taking directions. But judging by the expression on Harry’s face, it looks like I’m going to be doing both of those things whether I like it or not.

  Slowly, I stand. Miranda stops pacing long enough to send me a cool glance. “You said you know him, this Maelstr0m.”

  I nod, feeling Ryan’s eyes on me. For such sweet baby blues, they’re downright scary.

  “And that he likes to create chaos.”

  I nod again.

  Miranda says, “What if—to unruffle his feathers, as you put it—what if we give him the appearance of chaos?”

  Harry asks, “How?” but I’m already on the same page with Miranda.

  “A press conference,” I say, staring at her. “But you’d have to act really—”

  “Devastated,” she murmurs, warming to the idea. She moves closer, her eyes brightening. “Tears?”

  “Gallons. If you can pull it off realistically, faint.”

  Her smile is savage. “I’ve spent the last twenty years around actors. I can pull it off.”

  With narrowed eyes, Connor looks back and forth between the two of us. “I thought you didn’t want publicity, Miranda. If you give a press conference—and cry—it’ll be a media circus. You’ll be all over the news, here and abroad.”

  At the same time, Miranda and I say, “Exactly.”

  Harry says flatly, “No press conferences.”

  Miranda looks at him. “You’ll speak too,” she says in a tone reserved for royalty addressing peasants. “What should he say, Tabitha?”

  My lips curve into a smile, just as savage as the one Miranda wore. “That the studio has experienced a major breach in its network and you’re coming forward with it because Miranda thinks it’s important to be transparent with the public and her shareholders. That the business and government communities can only catch these cyber criminals by working together. That the hacker responsible is the Hannibal Lecter of computer crime, the head of a highly sophisticated, vertically integrated global network of hackers, and his capture could have even more far-reaching effects than the capture of Bin Laden.”

  I pause. “Make sure you use both those names. He’ll love that shit.”

  Harry erupts in anger. “Are you crazy?” he shouts. “I can’t go on national television and compare a hacker to Bin Laden!”

  “Leak it anonymously, then,” responds Miranda calmly. “Or compare him to Hitler.” Her eyes meet mine. “I know a thing or two about men with gargantuan egos. One thing they all have in common is they want to be recognized as the best. Even if being the best means being the worst.”

  “Absolutely not!” barks Harry, but Miranda isn’t having any of his attitude.

  “Would you like me to call your superior?” she asks, one blonde eyebrow arched.

  Harry has to take several deep breaths before he managers to answer. Veins are popping out all over his neck. “My superior,” he says between clenched teeth, “is the President of the United States.”

  Miranda’s expression is serene. “I know. We’ve met on more than one occasion. He’s a big movie buff. I gave him a personal tour of the lot.” She smiles lazily. “He invited me to spend the night in the Lincoln bedroom at the White House.”

  The subtext is clear. The leader of the free world has the hots for Miranda.

  You have to admire a woman who can render four grown men speechless. I cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile.

  Connor clears his throat. “Well. We’ll leave you to figure out the details. Harry, you know how to reach me. Tabby…” He sears me with a look. “Let’s go.”

  I snort. “You’re funny, jarhead.”

  “I’m not joking. We’re leaving. Together.”

  Now everyone is looking at us. Heat sweeps up my neck. I say quietly, “No.”

  Harry intervenes. “You can have two federal agents assigned to you, Miss West, or you can have Metrix. Your choice. But until this investigation is over, someone is keeping eyes on you twenty-four-seven.”

  Livid, I glare at him. “I know my rights—”

  “Use that big brain of yours to think of all the perfectly legal scenarios where you end up a lot worse than simply followed, Miss West. I’ve got fifteen agents who’ll swear under oath they saw you hack into the FBI’s database like you’d been doing it for years.”

  It takes almost all my self-control not to execute a spinning axe kick on this turncoat and knock his head off his shoulders. “You gave me immunity for that!”

  His brows lift. “Really? Because as I recall, those words never left my mouth. And we still haven’t addressed the issue Agent Rodriguez brought up—Polaroid, in case you’ve forgotten—or the fact that you were once intimately acquainted with our new friend Mr. Søren Killgaard, hacker and extortionist, and, by your own admission, possible terrorist. I’ve got so much probable cause to lock you up, I could make a very convincing case for Guantanamo.”

  When I take a step forward, my hands curled to fists, Connor is there to stop me.

  “Easy, tiger.”

  He stands in front of me, gazing down at me with that annoying look from before, like he thinks I’m made of glass and it’s his job to make sure I don’t get broken.

  The only thing in danger of breaking here is someone’s jaw.

  “Fine.” My voice is cold as I look up into his eyes. “Metrix it is. Ryan?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Ryan answers over Connor’s shoulder.

  Still looking into Connor’s eyes, I say, “Will you please accompany me to my hotel?”

  Ryan drawls, “Be happy to, Tabby.”

  Connor’s face darkens. There’s murder in his eyes.

  Unintimidated, I stare up at him. “Move.”

  “If you think you’re going anywhere without me,” he says, deadly soft, “you’re mistaken.”

  Ryan ambles over, slings an arm around my shoulders, and grins down at me. “Looks like it’s a threesome, then.” He winks. “Lucky girl.”

  I know Ryan notices the way Connor’s nostrils flare, the way his lips flatten, the
way his body, invaded with a sudden tension, falls perfectly still. I know because as Ryan leads me away toward the door, he leans down and murmurs into my ear, “He didn’t tell me shit about what’s goin’ on between the two of you, Tabby, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve never seen him like this. Not over a woman, not over anything. The rest of the boys at Metrix call him ‘Teflon,’ because nothin’ ever sticks. So here’s somethin’ for you to think on. You fuck with my boy, you’re fuckin’ with me.”

  When he pulls back, his smile is gone. His baby blues drill straight down into my soul. “And I’m no sexist. I’ll take you down even if you are a girl.”

  Strangely, this little speech endears him to me. My spirits somewhat lightened, I nudge him in the ribs. “You could try, but big guys like you are always super slow.”

  Unsure of what to make of my nonchalance, he cocks his head. “Is that a fact?”

  I nod. “Glacially slow. On account of all that muscle mass. You’re too bulky. Now, me on the other hand—I’m ninja fast. Like lightning fast. Like”—I snap my fingers—“Shazam!”

  Ryan’s trying hard to keep the stern look on his face, but I know that in spite of himself and the warning he just gave me, he’s inclined to like me.

  What surprises me is that I’m inclined to like him too. And not because I dig his tattoos or his dimples or his disarming combination of sweet Southern drawl and gun-toting badassery.

  I like him because he’s a good friend of Connor’s. Because he obviously has Connor’s back, and would do anything for him. Because somehow I’m living in an alternate universe where those things have become important benchmarks against which my opinion of people is measured.

  Even if I despise him.

  Which I do.

  Which I keep telling myself as Ryan leads me out of the room while Connor follows behind us, burning holes in the back of my head with his eyes.

  By the time we pull up in front of my hotel, I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve slept less than one hour in the last day. Everything is getting fuzzy around the edges.

  When Connor opens my door—I’m in the back of Ryan’s rented Escalade because I refused to sit up front when Connor announced he was driving—I jump out and immediately stumble.

  Connor catches me. His hands grip my arms for support.

  “Do I need to carry you?”

  I shake him off. “Try it and I’ll introduce you to a thousand new forms of pain,” I grumble.

  Ryan rounds the front of the SUV. “You two lovebirds need a little privacy? I can make myself scarce—”

  In unison, Connor and I snap, “We’re not lovebirds!”

  Then we stare at each other in silence while Ryan whoops with laughter. “Roger that! Not lovebirds!” Grinning, he comes to stand beside us. He slaps Connor on the back. “So, notlovebirds, you need a little privacy or what?”

  “Is he always like this?” I ask Connor.

  “He hasn’t even gotten started,” he sourly replies.

  “Aw, c’mon now!” Ryan gives Connor’s shoulder a friendly shake, which doesn’t budge his big frame. “I’m just providin’ a little relief from all the unresolved sexual tension, my friends! Thought I was gonna choke on it on the ride over!” Turning practical, he props his hands on his hips. “You two really should get it over with and bone so we can focus on work.”

  Connor’s face turns red. Instead of being embarrassed, I’m amused. “What was it you said to me at the hotel, Connor? Oh yes—great minds think alike. I guess you two graduated from the same charm school?”

  Ryan nods. “Oh yeah. We’re a couple of real charmin’ motherfuckers. Ask anyone.” He spots a woman walking through the sliding glass doors to the lobby who’s checking out him and Connor over her shoulder. His grin returns in full force. “You see? Proof’s in the puddin’.” He turns his grin on me and waggles his eyebrows. “Or should I say panties.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s like you’re twelve.”

  Connor says drily, “That’s giving him a lot of credit.”

  “Okay. Now that we’ve established my babysitters are the world’s worst driver and a randy twelve-year-old, can I please go to my room and get some sleep?”

  Ryan’s brows pull together. “Randy? Is that one of them poo-poo British words for handsome?”

  Connor’s eyes briefly close. “Horny, brother. It means horny.”

  Ryan acts affronted. “Hey, don’t get all uppity with me, boss, at least I’m not the world’s worst driver.” When he winks at me, I think he might be becoming one of my favorite people.

  It’s a short list.

  “C’mon, then.” Connor holds out an arm. “After you, Tabby.”

  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.

  Nineteen

  Tabby

  When 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.