Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  Sure you did. I narrow my eyes. His cool smile grows suspiciously wider. Suddenly, I feel like we’re in the middle of a film noir standoff, two spies on opposite sides of a bridge waiting to see who’ll draw their gun first.

  “See you at eight, Angel.” Ryan kisses me on the cheek, slaps me on the ass, and saunters off, whistling, toward the pool.

  I watch him go, convinced I’ve made a miscalculation.

  I’m dealing with something far more dangerous than a wolf.

  Back in my room, I unlock the safe and remove the burner phone I bought at the airport. I dial a number I know by heart. There’s a distant hiss, then a click as the line is answered.

  “Reynard,” says a cultured British voice.

  “It’s Dragonfly,” I say, relieved. Reynard always answers the line, he’s as reliable as Big Ben, but there are so few reliable things in this world, I still can’t take him for granted.

  “My darling!” he says, pleased. “Have you completed your article already?”

  “I need to check a source.”

  A short pause follows. “I see. One moment.” Fingers tap a keyboard thousands of miles away. “Proceed.”

  “Ryan McLean. Unsure if it’s M-C or M-A-C. Male, thirty-four, American, from Perry, Georgia. Served in the Marines. Unsure of the service dates. Blond hair, blue eyes, approximately six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds. Multiple tattoos. Perfect teeth.”

  More typing. I know it won’t be long, but I’m impatient anyway, tapping my foot on the plush carpet as I wait.

  Finally, a low chuckle comes through the phone. “Oh my. That’s quite a smile. I’ve seen sharks less deadly. Careful, my darling, this one’s got a serious bite.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Ryan Tiberius McLean—”

  “Tiberius?” I’m incredulous. “He was named after a Roman emperor? Who does that to their child?”

  “May I continue, or would you like to amuse yourself by repeating everything I say and asking rhetorical questions?”

  I smile but don’t laugh. Under no circumstances does one laugh at Reynard. “My apologies. Please continue.”

  “As I was saying. Ryan Tiberius McLean, born August tenth, nineteen eighty-three, to Betty Anne Rasmussen, a homemaker, and Thomas Robert McLean, a peach farmer.” Reynard’s pause drips with condescension. “Humble beginnings, indeed.”

  I don’t point out that my father was a farmer too. Avocadoes. To this day, I still can’t bear to look at them. They’ll forever be paired in my memory with gunfire, bodies, and blood.

  “August tenth,” I muse. “So he’s a Leo. That fits.”

  Reynard sighs. I can almost hear the eye roll. “My darling. Astrology isn’t an actual science.”

  “I know, but there could be something to it. If you met him, you’d agree he’s very lionlike.”

  Though Reynard doesn’t reply, I know exactly what he’s doing at this moment. He’s shaking his head in silent disappointment. I miss him with a sudden, violent ache.

  He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got.

  Reynard continues, sounding bored. “Two older siblings, Missy and Cleo—you’re right, these names are dreadful—graduated Perry High School top of his class, football scholarship to Georgia State…” Reynard pauses. “Both parents killed in a drive-by shooting on a vacation to Los Angeles to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary.”

  The breath leaves my chest in an audible rush. The room starts to spin. The words get stuck in my head, replaying over and over until I want to press my hands over my ears and scream.

  Parents killed. Shooting. Parents killed. Shooting. Killed.

  Killed.

  Killed.

  I sit heavily on the edge of the bed and swallow back the hot, acid sting of bile.

  If Reynard guesses the effect those words have had on me, he doesn’t mention it. He continues in the same monotone as before.

  “Graduated Georgia State and entered the United States Marines. Seems your Mr. McLean excelled there. Commendations galore, rose rapidly through the ranks, selected for Special Ops, etcetera, etcetera… Oh, this is interesting. Areas of specialty include reconnaissance, close-quarter battle tactics, and edged weapons.”

  “He’s a knife-fighting expert,” I say dully. “Why does God hate me, Reynard?”

  “Again with the rhetorical questions. I wasn’t quite finished, my darling.”

  I groan. “Don’t tell me there’s more.”

  “You’ll love this. After aging out of Special Ops and leaving the corps, he was recruited to a private security firm—”

  “Security firm?” My eyes bulge in horror.

  “Wait for it…where he provides armed security services for high-profile clients, federal and local governments, law enforcement and intelligence agencies, and multinational corporations. Looks like he’s primarily doing extractions now. Retrieving the Russian oligarch’s kidnapped daughter from the clutches of the Serbian Mafia, that kind of thing.”

  My silence must last a long time, because Reynard eventually asks, “Are you still there?”

  “He’s a merc,” I say, miserable with disbelief. “Of all the men in all the world who could’ve been staying in that room, he’s a mercenary. A knife-wielding, kidnapped-daughter-extracting, goddamn mercenary.”

  “Yes,” Reynard drawls, amused. “He certainly is. Am I to take it your article won’t be completed by deadline? That could be problematic, my darling.”

  I grit my teeth and straighten my spine. “I’ve never missed a deadline yet, have I?”

  “That’s my girl,” says Reynard, his voice a purr. “See you on the other side.”

  As always, he hangs up with that cryptic goodbye.

  I say aloud to the empty room, “Well, it could be worse. At least it’s not raining. The climb up to Khalid’s balcony would be really treacherous in the rain.”

  From somewhere off in the distant mountains comes a low roll of thunder. I flop onto my back on the bed and close my eyes.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  4

  Ryan

  If my boner doesn’t chill pretty soon, I’m gonna have to seek medical attention.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, looking down at the big guy jutting out from the front of the towel wrapped around my waist. “Would you behave?”

  He doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t budge. I’ve got an organ that’s been sticking out at a ninety-degree angle from my body for the past three and a half hours. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d grab a length of duct tape and tape him to my leg.

  I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror, slap my face with a dollop of foam, and start to shave. It’s awkward because I have to tilt my hips back so I don’t bash my dick on the edge of the sink. I finish the shave, brush my teeth, comb my wet hair, and throw on clean clothes, thinking the entire time about a brown-haired siren who seems about as likely to kiss me as she is to stab me in the back with an ice pick.

  I haven’t been this turned on in years.

  Whistling, I set the motion detectors and alarms that will send an alert to my cell if they’re tripped, and lock my hotel door. I’m ten minutes early, but I don’t want to miss Angeline coming off the elevator. The woman moves like poetry. I’ve got the perfect spot in mind where I’m gonna stand and wait until she comes down.

  Angeline Lemaire, age twenty-six, born and raised in Paris, France. Freelance travel writer for Condé Nast and National Geographic Travel, among others. Graduated from the Sorbonne with a degree in journalism, never married, no children, no criminal record, pays her taxes on time.

  Biggest load of bullshit ever invented. Boring, too. If I were gonna invent a background for myself, you can bet it would include something awesome like astronaut or race car driver. A writer? Seriously? She looks like a Bond girl, all slinky strides and knife-blade eyes. She should’ve gone with “international lingerie model/boner inducer.” It would’ve been way more believable.

  F
uck, this is gonna be fun.

  So. Much. Fun.

  I have to remember to thank Tabby for updating Metrix’s computer systems. The search program she installed is amazing. I have a suspicion it’s somehow linked to the National Security Administration’s database, but hell if I’m gonna ask. The less I know the better.

  I take my time as I make my way through the hotel to the lobby. Anticipation buzzes inside my gut like I’ve swallowed a beehive. All my senses are heightened. Sharpened. I’ve got that jacked-up feeling I get right before a midnight raid.

  The lobby of the hotel is swanky but understated, decorated in classic, laid-back island style. The scent of rain and orchids perfume the air. One entire wall is open to the view of the ocean, letting the balmy evening breezes drift in. The guests are swanky too, jet-set types from around the world, dripping diamonds and scorn.

  I make a quick loop through the lobby to check the exits—old habits die hard—then take my position in front of a stand of potted palms between the main elevators and the entrance to the restaurant. By my calculation, Angeline will have to walk toward me for a good thirty seconds, giving me plenty of time to enjoy the view.

  Unfortunately, Darcy and Kai get off the elevator first. They spot me instantly.

  “Ryan!” Darcy bellows from halfway down the hall. Startled, several people turn to see what the commotion is.

  I lift a hand, trying not to smile. “Yo, Darcy.”

  She hustles over, Kai in tow, as people watch in fascination. Her dress is short, low-cut, zebra print, with high-heeled boots to match. Cleavage abounds, so much of it, I’m sure she has to wear scaffolding instead of a bra. She walks like a bulldozer and jangles with gold bracelets halfway up both arms. Kai’s wearing purple pants, white lace-up shoes, and a shirt an eye-watering shade of orange, topped off by a golf cap set at a jaunty angle.

  They look like circus performers.

  When they stop beside me, Darcy huffs and gives me a side-eyed look. “What’re you doing over here lurking by the plants?”

  “I’m not lurking. I’m waiting.”

  Darcy looks at Kai and waggles her eyebrows salaciously. “For Miss Thang.”

  Kai grins at her. “Love is a cruel master, mein kleines Häschen.”

  I don’t allow myself to react to him calling her his little bunny rabbit in German. These are my friends, after all. It would be impolite to fall down laughing.

  But then the conversation comes to a screeching halt because the elevator doors open again. Angeline steps into the room, and all the air goes out.

  Feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the gut, I say faintly, “Holy shit.”

  Darcy and Kai turn to look in the direction I’m looking. When Darcy sees Angeline, she turns back to me, cackling. “This bitch ain’t playin’! Good luck, sucker. We’ll be at the bar.”

  She pats me on the shoulder, then drags Kai off toward the restaurant, leaving me standing alone with my mouth open like I’m trying to catch flies.

  Angeline is a supermodel, and the lobby is her runway. Scarlet lips, scarlet dress with a slit from ankle to hip, long legs flashing in slow motion. Glossy hair tumbling over her shoulders. Dangerous eyes. A radiant smile. Impressions hit me one after another as she moves toward me. The long skirt of her dress billows behind her like a sail.

  Her waist is narrow, her hips are round, and my dick and my brain are in total agreement: she’s a fucking knockout.

  When she reaches me, she rests her hands on my shoulders and kisses me lightly on both cheeks. I’m wrapped in the scent of her skin, fresh and peppery, like watercress.

  “You look wonderful,” she says softly, holding my gaze. “Have you been waiting long?”

  Against impossible odds, I regain the power of speech. “Only my whole life.”

  She laughs, thinking I’m joking.

  I make a motion with my index finger, indicating she should turn around. I have to see this masterpiece from all angles. She takes a step back and twirls. It looks professional, like she’s been performing spins in front of a camera for years. Two guys near the front desk who are watching look like they’re having heart attacks.

  “That’s some dress, Angel.”

  “This old thing?” She bats her lashes at me. It’s my turn to laugh.

  I grab her, pull her against my chest, bury my face in her hair, and inhale deeply. “Have you been rolling around in a clover field?” I murmur against her neck. “You smell like spring. And spices.”

  “That’s my perfume. It’s Caron’s Poivre. You like it?”

  I lightly bite her neck. I whisper, “It’s edible. Like you.”

  A little shudder runs through her body. She pulls away and tilts her head toward the restaurant. “Shall we?”

  “Yes. But don’t be surprised if I drag you off halfway through dinner. This dress is testing the limits of my self-control.”

  Her smile is pleased. Apparently, devastation of the male population was her goal when she dressed. Nailed it.

  She takes my arm. We stroll toward the restaurant while I enjoy the unexpected pleasure of being the envy of every man in sight. Even some of the women look like they’d like to take my place. The rest look like they’re hoping Angeline will trip.

  “So, did you finish your article?”

  There’s not a quiver in her voice when she answers. “I did.”

  “How’d it go?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see her mysterious smile. “There are always some unexpected difficulties near the end, but nothing insurmountable. I think my editor will be very pleased with how it turns out.”

  “Turns” out, not “turned” out. Which indicates the work is still in progress, but she just said she finished it.

  Interesting. I make a vague “hmm” sound and settle my arm around her waist. Our steps fall in sync like we’ve been walking together for years.

  When we reach the restaurant, I check in with the hostess. She says the rest of our party is in the bar, so we head over, holding hands.

  “Hiya, kids,” I say when we reach them. “This is Angeline.”

  I introduce her to Tabby, who’s wearing ponytails and what looks like a turquoise tube sock for a dress, Connor, in his usual all-black ensemble of T-shirt, cargo pants, and boots, and Darcy and Kai. Juanita is nowhere to be seen.

  After the introductions are made and everyone has said a friendly hello, I ask Tabby, “Where’s Juanita?”

  “She found an MMA match on cable. I left her in front of the TV with Elvis and enough Red Bull and Cheetos to last a lifetime.”

  Angeline says, “Elvis?”

  Tabby nods. “The rat she never goes anywhere without.”

  When Angeline’s brows lift, Tabby grins. “It’s a long story. I love your dress, by the way.”

  “And I love your Tinker Bell tattoo,” Angeline counters, looking at Tabby’s ankle. “She was always my favorite Disney character.”

  “Mine, too!” says Tabby, smiling. “She’s badass.”

  “But also fragile. She can’t exist unless Peter believes in her. Faith is the only thing that keeps her alive.”

  I see it the instant Tabby’s curiosity kicks into gear. If she were a cat, her ears would’ve just pricked and her tail would’ve begun twitching. She says, “All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.”

  Without hesitation, Angeline responds. “Never say goodbye, because goodbye means going away, and going away means forgetting.”

  Tabby claps her hands and hoots. “Oh my God! I think I love you, Angeline!”

  I look at Connor. “Brother, you have any idea what’s happening?”

  Darcy says dismissively, “White girls be crazy, Ryan, you know this,” and downs the rest of her martini.

  “Let’s eat,” says Kai, stroking Darcy’s arm and staring up at her in adoration. “My Häschen needs fuel for later.”

  They exchange a pair of truly lascivious smiles. Before the conversation can get any weirder, I motion for t
he hostess to seat us.

  An hour later, dinner is over, Kai and Darcy are fondling each other under the table, and Tabby and Angeline have become fast friends.

  “You do not like Hello Kitty!” pronounces Tabby. She’s been peppering Angeline with questions for the past twenty minutes as Connor and I listened, stealing amused glances at each other.

  Angeline nods, swallowing another spoonful of her dessert. She delicately pats her lips with her napkin. “I know you probably think it’s silly, but I was obsessed with her for my entire teenage years. I had this backpack I carried everywhere. It was pink, with little butterflies and flowers—”

  “And Kitty was wearing an embroidered kimono,” interrupts Tabby in a low, thrilled voice. “I had the exact same one.”

  Angeline blinks. “You like Hello Kitty?”

  Tabby pounds both fists on the table and shouts, “I fucking love her!”

  They beam at each other.

  I say, “Would you two like to get a room?”

  Tabby says, “Don’t hate, Ryan. Kitty’s worth seven billion dollars a year. What’re you bringing in annually?”

  Connor says, “Not enough. He’s due for a raise.”

  Now he’s got my attention. “Oh yeah? This is news.”

  He smiles and slings his arm over the back of Tabby’s chair. “Just got a bonus from Karpov. A big one. And that’s thanks to you, brother. That job would never have gone so well if it weren’t for you. I think the guy wants to put you in his will or something. He wouldn’t shut up about how you saved his daughter’s life.”

  I chuckle. “Well, you never know when you might need a favor from a Russian oligarch. His gratitude could come in handy someday.”

  Beside me, Angeline falls still. Her gaze cuts from Connor to me. “You two work together?”

  “Yep. This big ape recruited me straight outta the corps into his security firm. I thought we talked about that.”

  “No, we didn’t. You said you knew each other in the military, and then we all started talking about the wedding.”

  I think for a minute. “Oh yeah.” I shrug. “Anyway, we work together. Tabby helps, too.”