Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  “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, derisiv
e “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.

  When 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?”

  “About one in seven hundred trillion.”

  It’s Connor, from the doorway, holding a flashlight in his hand. The yellow beam sweeps across the room, landing on O’Doul’s scowling face. He adds, “The guards at the security desk downstairs confirmed the power outage isn’t anywhere else on the local grid or the rest of the studio campus. It’s only in this building. And it’s not the circuit breakers either.”

  Someone says, “I’m sure the backup generators will come on any second—”

  “Those will be disabled too,” I say. “He’s hacked into the servers of the local power station, along with the studio servers. Consider the power out in this building for good.” Smiling broadly, I add, “Except for over here, of course,” and make spokesmodel hands at my computers.

  I can tell O’Doul is trying to decide if he should arrest me on the spot and ask questions later, so I throw him a bone.

  “How about this? While I get busy winning my hundred bucks from Rodriguez—”

  “I never said we were betting a hundred bucks!” protests Rodriguez.

  “Two hundred bucks from Rodriguez, why don’t you get Professor Alfredo Durand in the Computer Science department at MIT on the horn and ask him about the Bank of America incident in 2007. He and other professors at the school can confirm the existence of Søren Killgaard, even if all the records of his attendance have been erased.”

  I look at my watch. It’s glow-in-the-dark, and therefore easy to read. “It’s after three a.m. in Massachusetts, but I’m sure Professor Durand won’t mind assisting the FBI, no matter the time. He’s a good sport like that.”

  O’Doul cocks his head, his sharp eyes studying me. He says to one of the agents standing nearby, “Special Agent Chan.”

  A young Asian man with glasses and unruly black hair, says, “I’m on it, sir,” takes a cell phone from his shirt pocket, and walks several feet away to make a call.

  I point to my computer. “May I?”

  O’Doul growls, “You’ve got five minutes, Miss West, and not a second longer. Don’t make me regret this.” He throws a shady look at Rodriguez, who I can tell he doesn’t particularly like.

  I sit down in front of the computers. Everyone gathers around me, including Connor, who asks, “What are you doing?”

  His voice is suspicious, but even more than that, it’s worried. I don’t look at him when I answer. “Oh, just this little thing called a bitch slap. It’ll only take a sec.”

  Behind me, there are snickers. Ignoring them, I log onto my computer and begin.

  For a full minute, there’s silence. The only sound is my fingers rapidly tapping the keyboard. Over my shoulders, everyone raptly stares.

  At two minutes, a hushed voice says, “There’s a vulnerability in the web server.”

  Still typing, I chuckle. “There always is.”

  After another interval of silence: “Holy shit. Is that the remote login for the…crime database?”

  “Yep,” I say cheerfully.

  The agents behind me are getting restless, starting to mutter to each other.

  “There’s no way she can get into the mainframe. They fixed all the holes after the Trilogy software disaster.”

  “She’d need an administrator password—”

  “Forget about passwords, she’s already at the Unix shell!”
/>   I say, “Oh look, the mainframe directory listing. Tsk. Your system architect should be tried for treason.”

  Shocked silence. After typing for another few moments, I ask no one in particular, “Should we add Darth Vader to the Most Wanted list?”

  Nobody answers.

  Finally, Connor says, “Four minutes, twenty-six seconds.”

  “Hold on, I’m looking for the president’s cell phone number. Let’s text him a dick pic—”

  O’Doul slaps the laptop closed, cutting the connection.

  I swivel slowly around in my chair, look at the stunned faces staring down at me, and smile. “Any questions, ladies?”

  Connor’s flashlight provides enough light that I can see how pale Rodriguez’s face is. He says, “That was pure luck.”

  Connor is the one who responds, in a voice like silk. “No. That was pure talent.”

  Our eyes meet. He gives a slight, annoyed shake of his head, chastising me for showing off, but I see the admiration in his eyes.

  O’Doul snaps, “Posell, coordinate with studio security to find us another space to set up. Rodriguez, get all this shit ready to be transported. And you,” he says, jabbing a finger in the air in my direction, “come with me.”

  He spins on his heel and heads for the door.

  I stand and follow, Connor right behind me. Over my shoulder, I call, “When I get back, you better have my money, Rodriguez!”

  I’m gratified to hear a low, aggravated, “Fuck.”

  15

  Connor

  The elevators are out, so we take the stairs to the ground floor. The yellow beam of my flashlight leads the way. Harry doesn’t ask why I’m following along, but he doesn’t tell me not to, which is good because I don’t want to have to knock him on his ass.

  From now on, wherever Tabby goes, I go. Hearing her tell Harry that Søren had “eliminated” people activated every protective cell in the caveman part of my brain. Which would account for my decision to corner her in the women’s restroom and start demanding answers and trying to renegotiate our agreement.

  Damn, this woman gets to me.

  We pass through the darkened lobby. An armed security guard unlocks the doors for us, letting us out into the night. It’s cold. The air is a bracing snap in my lungs, a welcome broom to sweep the cobwebs of jealousy, desire, and frustration from my head.