Because we’re looking right at each other, I see clearly how all the blood promptly drains from Tabby’s face, turning it white as stone.
“It’s him,” she whispers.
She’s terrified.
Operating on pure instinct, I stride over to her, kneel beside her chair, take her hand, and squeeze it.
She squeezes back, hard.
“Answer it,” says O’Doul.
Chan taps a single key on the keyboard, and the ringing stops. There’s dead silence.
No, not dead, I think, listening. This silence has a weight and a temperature, an actual presence, like it’s alive. It takes a lot to rattle me—I’ve seen men trying to hold their bloody intestines in their mangled stomachs after being savaged by a grenade—but the texture of this silence makes my skin crawl.
Faintly, Tabby says hello.
The awful silence breaks with the sound of a low exhalation, and then a single word, murmured like a prayer.
“Tabitha.”
Tabby’s arms break out in gooseflesh. Her eyes close. She stops breathing.
I watch all that with impotent rage, not understanding what the hell is happening, only that I want it to stop. Now. I squeeze her hand again, but hers has turned limp and clammy in mine.
Perfectly still, Tabby sits. The air crackles with electricity.
“You’ve made me wait,” says Søren, “a very long time.”
His voice has the quality of a lullaby, soft and stroking, meant to soothe. It carries a faint and indefinable accent. Not British, but something equally refined. Aristocratic. Somehow it reminds me of winter snowfall, when the air is sharp and cold and everything is blanketed in powdery white.
Snow. Beautiful, frozen, and deadly if you stay out in it too long.
“But how do I know it’s really you?” he muses. Soft tapping, like fingers drumming on a hard surface. “What could convince me?”
A change comes over Tabby’s face. A flash of emotion disfigures it momentarily, as if a terrible memory has reared its head.
“I have a little black box inside my head. Inside the box are monsters.”
She says, “I still have the dagger, if you’d like me to take a picture and send it to you. I’ll focus up close on all the dried blood.”
Her tone is flat and hard, edged with fury. Abruptly I understand that I was wrong before. Tabby wasn’t terrified. It wasn’t fear that made her face go white, her body stiffen.
It was hate.
She hates him. She hates him so much, she’s shaking with it, breathless from it, frozen in place from the sheer enormity of the feeling.
And now we’ve got a bloody dagger to add to all the other weirdness. How fucking Shakespearean.
Whatever the meaning of the dagger, the mention of it makes Søren laugh. It’s a ridiculously self-satisfied sound, low and infinitely pleased, and also pleasing. This dickhead has a voice as pretty as his face.
God, I’m really going to enjoy mangling both.
“Oh pet,” Søren says warmly, “I’ve missed you.” A shade of melancholy sneaks into his cultured voice. “I’ve missed you so much.”
A shudder runs through Tabby’s body. She opens her eyes and stares at Chan’s computer monitor as if she’d like to tear it to pieces with her teeth. “Really? No other gullible minions to mold in your despicable image?”
Søren’s gentle sigh sounds perversely intimate, like he might be stroking himself, aroused by the sound of her anger. “Yes, of course, but none of them could ever compare to you. My fierce little krijger. My liefde.”
Whatever those words mean, they really piss her off. Color burns over her pale cheeks. Veins standing out on her neck, she leans forward in her chair and says through clenched teeth, “I was never yours.”
“On the contrary, liefde. You always were…and still are.”
“You’re wrong!”
“Am I? Well, that would be a first. Tell me, do you have a family? A husband? Children? Any connection to another human being that could be considered intimate?” He waits for a only a beat before answering his own question, smug as shit. “Of course you don’t. And you never will. And—please be honest with me, you know I’ll know if you’re lying—why is that?”
Tabby vibrates fury. That and misery. She withdraws her hand from mine, sits back in her chair, and exhales hard, as if expelling a poisonous breath from her lungs.
“Because of you.”
“Because of me,” Søren slowly repeats. He lets it hang there, damning as a confession of murder.
Tabby says nothing. She doesn’t move, with the exception of her lower lip, which starts to tremble.
I’m going to kill him.
The thought is bright and dangerously sharp in my mind, a knife blade catching the light.
Even if I never find out the details of what happened between them, it’s clear as day that this motherfucker wrecked her in some profound, irreversible way. And so I’m going to kill him, and present his head to Tabby on a metal spike, and then feed his body to a pack of rabid dogs.
The thought makes me feel a lot better.
I rest my hand on her shoulder. Tabby blindly reaches up, grabs my pinky, and holds on tight.
“I saw what you did,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even. “On the news, that movie studio in Los Angeles, the press conference. I knew it was you when they talked about how they’d been hacked. That’s why I’m calling.”
Søren says nothing.
His silence seems strategic, as if he’s waiting for her to keep talking, to blunder, to give something away. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe he’s just sitting there frantically jerking off to his reflection in a mirror and I’ve built up this whole vision of him as the great and powerful Oz because that’s how Tabby thinks of him, when really he’s just some insecure asshole pulling levers and operating machinery from behind a curtain.
Maybe he’s all smoke and mirrors, and she’s never been able to see beyond the screen.
Chan points to his watch, signs the numbers two and zero, and then gives a thumbs-up.
I squeeze Tabby’s shoulder. Twenty seconds. Keep him talking for twenty more seconds, sweetheart, and then we can nab his smug, psychotic ass.
“Do you remember what I told you the last time I saw you?” asks Tabby.
She’s beginning to look drained. Even this small amount of contact is taking it out of her. How must it have been for her living with him for an entire year?
I want to kick my own ass for doubting her.
“Yes,” replies Søren. “Perfectly. You know I do.”
“So you know what has to happen next.”
“I know what you think has to happen next. But consider: Who would you be without me? No one. Just another squandered talent in a world littered with the corpses of the could-have-beens and the almost-hads and the settled-for-second-bests.”
Chan taps his watch, signs, Ten.
“But you’re none of those things,” continues Søren, his voice growing softer with every word. “Are you, pet? You’re not the frightened little lamb I saved all those years ago. What are you now?”
Tabby’s voice cracks over her answer. “Frankenstein’s monster.”
“No, liefde. You’re a survivor. You’re a hunter. You’re a lioness. And we both know what do lions do best.”
Chan raises his right hand. All five fingers are splayed. He makes a fist, displays four fingers. Another fist, three. Then two. Then one.
Tabby whispers, “They hunt.”
Chan shakes his fist. He turns to O’Doul. Exultant, he mouths, We got him!
In a voice throbbing with intensity, Søren says, “So let the hunt begin.”
And just like that, the line goes dead and he’s gone.
Twenty-Four
Tabby
I’m shaking so hard, my teeth chatter. A trickle of cold sweat runs down the back of my neck. My heart is like a rat trying to claw its way out of a cage, and there’s an invisible vi
se winching tighter and tighter around my lungs.
It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve heard Søren’s voice, yet it still has the power to shatter me like a hammer slammed against bone.
“Where is he, Chan?” barks O’Doul.
“Miami. South Beach.”
Miami? Søren hates the beach.
I’m vaguely aware of Connor’s hand on my shoulder, of O’Doul calling for the agents to return to the room, of a swarm of excited activity around me as everyone starts talking at once. Words tumble over me like water, a meaningless jumble of noise.
“I’ve missed you so much. My fierce little warrior. My love.”
Air. I need air.
I lurch to my feet. Connor follows.
“Tabby?”
His voice is tight with worry, but I can’t think about that now. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can barely put one foot in front of the other holy shit get me out of this room before I scream—
I’m scooped up in a pair of strong arms.
“Wha—”
“I’ve got you,” says Connor. I realize I’d been just about to fall. My legs are as wooden and useless as the rest of me.
As if he knows instinctively that I need to get as far away from this room as possible, Connor strides out of the office, carrying me in his arms. In the hallway, he pauses, looking left and right.
“Outside,” I say, panting fast, shallow breaths.
Connor squeezes me. “You’re hyperventilating. If you don’t get your breathing under control, you’ll pass out.”
I drag in a huge breath, blow it out hard. It seems to help clear my head, so I do it again.
“Good. Keep doing that.”
Connor starts to walk again. We move down the hall until we get to the elevators. He lifts a knee and presses it against the call button, and I’m distracted from my pending mental breakdown by how impressed I am that he can stand on one foot and knee a waist-high button on the wall while holding a grown woman in his arms, all without even a wiggle of imbalance.
Between breaths, I wheeze, “Do you do Pilates? Your balance is amazing.”
“Yoga.”
He answers with a straight face, so I know he’s not making a joke. I picture Connor—macho man, hulking muscles Connor—on a yoga mat doing sun salutations and a downward-facing dog, and laugh. Unfortunately, it was badly timed as I was in the middle of gulping air, and so I start to cough, big, body-racking coughs that have Connor saying, “Whoa,” and looking alarmed.
“Put me down,” I croak, gasping.
He gently sets me on my feet and then puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me. I lean against the wall and cough and cough until finally I catch my breath and look at him, my eyes watering and my face red.
“Thought you were gonna cough up a lung, princess.”
His voice is casual, but his expression is anything but. He’s concerned. Really concerned.
A melty feeling expands inside my chest. It’s definitely better than what was there a few moments ago.
I blurt, “Thank you.”
His forehead wrinkles. “For saying you were gonna cough up a lung?”
“For getting me out of there. And for being…”
I flail around for the right word, but Connor supplies it before I can come up with anything.
“Supportive?”
“Yes,” I say as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. “Supportive. Thank you.”
He gazes at me for a moment. As if just realizing his hands are still on my shoulders, he withdraws, shoves them into his pockets, and clears his throat.
“Sure. That’s what friends are for.”
Friends. Why those seven letters arranged in that particular way and said in that particular tone should irritate me so much at this particular moment, I don’t want to examine.
Yes, I’m going with denial, thank you very much. It’s highly underrated.
We get in the elevator. The doors slide shut. Connor presses the button for the ground floor. We stand beside each other, subjected to a truly hideous Muzak rendition of the Rolling Stone’s song “Under My Thumb” as the car descends.
I try not to read any significance into it.
When the doors open, Connor asks, “Where to?”
His assumption that wherever I’m going, he’s going doesn’t irk me as much as it should. In fact, I’m grateful for it.
I don’t want to be alone with my brain right now. I can’t trust it. I don’t know what tricks it might play on me, what rabid-dog memories it might decide to unleash.
“A bar,” I decide in a flash of inspiration. I look at Connor. “Take me to a bar.”
He slow blinks, rubs his hand over the stubble darkening his jaw. “Thought you didn’t drink alcohol, princess.”
I shoulder past him on my way toward the lobby doors, and freedom. “Yeah, well, that was then and this is now.”
“Sure thing,” he calls from behind me, his voice wry. “Let me just put on my neck brace, and I’ll catch up.”
For the first time in hours—days?—a smile lights my face. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it’s because of Connor.
My good “friend” Connor, who I might actually like, need, and want a hell of a lot more than I’ll ever admit.
Because if anything goes wrong with O’Doul’s plan to capture Søren, I’ll have to intervene.
And then I’ll never be seeing my “friend” again.
I stare in utter disgust at the shot glass in my hand. It’s half full of a vile, black substance called Jäegermeister, the aftertaste of which is still searing my nostrils and throat with a bitter, cough-syrup flavor more suited to poison than a food product.
“That is absolutely the most revolting thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. How do people drink this shit? And why would you pay for it? Yuck!”
Sitting across from me in the booth at the trendy bar he chose, Connor chuckles. “You’re not supposed to sip it. You’re supposed to shoot it, like an oyster. Down the hatch in one swallow.”
I shake my head and gulp water from the glass the waitress brought with the drinks. “Holy crispy pork belly Christ. It’s beyond foul. It tastes like melted crayon and mint mouthwash. With some licorice and funky barnyard herbs mixed in just to make it even more disgusting. How can they sell this to the public? I bet it causes cancer!”
Connor leans back, swirls his whiskey around in the glass, sniffs it, and then takes a swig. “Guess it’s an acquired taste,” he drawls, sounding suspiciously like he’s holding back laughter.
I glance sharply at him. He stares back at me with a bland expression but brightly twinkling eyes.
“You…oh my God. You dick.”
He blinks innocently. “What?”
“You picked the worst drink for me, didn’t you?”
A dent forms in his cheek.
I recognize that fucking dent. And now I want to slap him…although part of me also thinks it’s funny. I can absolutely see myself doing the same thing to him if the situation were reversed.
“You could make a girl schizophrenic, you know that?” I mutter, glaring at him.
“Me?” He snorts. “Uh, hello pot, meet kettle.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Don’t tempt me. Seriously, I’ll lay you flat on your back on the floor in front of all these pretty yuppies before you can say ‘steroids are my soul mate.’”
He snorts again, louder. “I don’t take steroids, Tabby. These muscles?” He makes a show of flexing his arms so his biceps pop out, big as boulders. “These babies are one hundred percent bonafide. I’m just genetically blessed.”
Ignoring her boyfriend, who’s studying a menu, the dishy blonde sitting in the booth across from us picks up her cell phone and discreetly takes a picture of Connor. When she notices me scowling at her, she blushes and looks away.
In a voice as sweet as syrup, Connor notes, “You’re pretty territorial for a woman who only wants to be a team
of one, sweetheart.” He takes another swig of his whiskey, watching me over the rim of the glass.
“I just don’t like the way people look at you like you’re…meat.”
He sets his glass down, runs a finger thoughtfully around the rim, glances at the blonde and then back at me. “And by people you mean women. You don’t like the way women look at me.”
I pick up the shot of Jäegermeister and drink the rest of it. It burns my throat, just like that nasty bit of truth I so stupidly blurted. Anyone who could develop an acquired taste for this putrescence deserves a gold medal.
Grimacing, I say, “Order me something better. Please. This can’t be the first and last taste of alcohol I’ll ever have. I’ll be scarred for life. Well, more scarred.”
Connor’s eyes sharpen when I say that last part, but he lets me off the hook for the moment and motions for the waitress. She arrives quickly and asks him what he’d like.
“You have Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, 1995?”
She blinks in surprise but quickly recovers. “Oh, uh—no. We unfortunately don’t carry that vintage, sir, but we have the 2007.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
She realizes she’s been dismissed and hurries away. She stops to confer with a gentleman in a suit at the end of the long wooden bar. They both turn to look in our direction, and the suit smiles. I get the feeling they’re both happy with the order.
“I’ve read Krug is the champagne of true connoisseurs.”
Connor shrugs. “Judge for yourself. And while we wait, you can tell me more about this little territorial problem of yours…” A loaded pause. “Or about the dagger.”
Oh, goodie. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“How about a third option?”
Connor rests his elbows on the table, leans forward, and gazes intently into my eyes. “Sure. How ’bout this, Tabby. What’s your plan here? Why did you really agree to help me find Søren?” When I open my mouth, he adds, “And don’t say it’s payback for the Bank of America thing, because that’s bullshit. You could’ve done that years ago. There’s something else.”
My heart starts to pound. I look away, hating how easy it is for him to see me. He sees me, no matter how high or thick the wall I build, and I don’t know what to do with that. I only know how to live behind walls. It’s only with him that I’ve ever felt…
Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) Page 20
