Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  Angeline turns to Tabby with a new look on her face, one of wariness, as if she’s seeing her for the first time. “Oh?”

  Tabby leans back into Connor’s arm and smiles at him. “Technically I work for the government, but these bozos need a little assistance from time to time.”

  Angeline says tightly, “Assistance?”

  Tabby looks back at Angeline and says what she always says when someone asks what she does, with the same flat, no more questions delivery. “I’m in computers.”

  It’s like a wall comes down over Angeline’s face. Her smile vanishes. The light goes out in her eyes. She says tonelessly, “You’re a hacker.”

  That almost jolts me out of my seat. How the fuck did she put that together? Connor and I glance sharply at each other. Tabby merely smiles.

  “I prefer the term social engineer.”

  Angeline carefully sets her spoon on the edge of her dessert plate. “How interesting. I’ve been thinking about writing a book about hackers, actually. Which branch of the government do you work for?”

  Tabby’s way too smart not to notice the sudden change of vibe from Angeline, but she’s also too smart to let that show. She says brightly, “Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you!” Then she laughs.

  Angeline stifles the small tremor in her right hand by sliding it into her lap and curling it into a fist. “And you, Darcy? Do you work for the government, too?”

  Darcy snorts like a farm animal. “Girlfriend, I couldn’t work for Uncle Sam even if I wanted to. I’ve got waaay too many skeletons in my closet. It’s like a damn boneyard in there. Nope, I’m a food blogger. And me and my baby, here”—she tenderly kisses Kai’s temple—“just published our first cookbook!”

  Angeline’s smile looks like someone is holding a gun to her head and ordering her to act normal on pain of death. “That’s wonderful. So you’re writers, too.”

  Kai politely belches behind his hand. “I’m a chef. Darcy does the writing. She’s the one with all the talent.”

  Darcy pets his golf hat like he’s her favorite Chihuahua she dressed up and brought to dinner. “Aww, baby, that’s so sweet! But without your recipes, there would’ve been no cookbook. You’re the talent. I just transcribe your genius onto paper.”

  Kai is incandescent with pride. Meanwhile, I’m too focused on every nuance of Angeline’s reaction to this conversation to pay much attention to anything else.

  She’s pretty good at concealing her emotions, but I’m better at reading people. And right now, the thing she most wants to do is bolt.

  I reach out and give her clenched fist a squeeze. Instantly, it loosens. She threads her fingers through mine and sends me a small smile.

  I lean over and murmur, “You ready to go?”

  “Yes.” She gazes gratefully at me, like she’s surrounded by highway bandits and I’ve just charged in on my white steed, brandishing a sword.

  “Well, kids, this has been fun,” I say, addressing the group. “Sayonara.”

  I stand, pull a wad of cash from my wallet, throw it on the table, grab Angeline’s hand, and pull her to her feet.

  “Guess we’ll say our goodbyes in the morning!” Connor calls out after us as I stride away from the table without a backward glance. The sound of everyone’s laughter fades quickly as I lead the way through the lobby, Angeline by my side.

  When we get to the elevator bank, I stab my finger on the call button. Beside me, Angeline is silent and tense. The doors open, we get in, and the doors shut behind us. As soon as we’re in motion, I turn and press the emergency stop button. The elevator jolts to a halt.

  Angeline lets out a little yip of surprise and grabs the handrail for balance. Then she flattens herself against the wall as I advance. Her eyes widen. When we’re chest to chest, toe to toe, I say, “Let’s play a game, Angel. It’s called Truth or Dare.”

  She swallows.

  I say, “I’ll go first. I choose Truth. Ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer it truthfully.”

  Angeline silently searches my face for a moment. I wonder what she sees.

  In a husky whisper, she asks, “Can I trust you?”

  “Now that’s an interesting question.” I brush my fingertips across her jaw, slide my hand into her hair, and cup the back of her neck. “I could ask you the same thing. But since it’s my turn, I’ll honor the rules of the game and give you an answer.” I lean in and softly press my lips to hers. Against her mouth, I say, “It depends.”

  An alarm buzzes. We ignore it.

  “Depends on what?”

  “How you define trust.”

  She drops her tiny handbag and grabs fistfuls of my shirt, her arms braced against my chest, pushing me away at the same time she’s pulling me closer. “That’s not an answer.”

  I dip my head and skim my nose down her neck to her collarbone. She shivers but tries to suppress it, which makes me smile. I wrap my arms around her body and nuzzle my face into her hair. My hands find the full, round perfection of her ass, and squeeze.

  Into her neck I ask, “Can I trust you?”

  She arches against me, moaning softly when she finds me hard for her. When I open my mouth over the pulse on her neck, her next moan is almost drowned by that damn buzzer.

  I lift my head and stare into her eyes. “Can I trust you, Angeline?”

  “Of course you can,” she says, staring earnestly back at me.

  I throw my head back and laugh. “Fuck, I love the way you lie!”

  Then I kiss her until we’re both panting and the buzzer gets too loud to ignore. I press the button for my floor and turn back to Angeline with a smile.

  “Okay, sweetheart. Since we’re obviously not gonna do too well with Truth, let’s move on to Dare.”

  My gaze drops to the neckline of her dress.

  5

  Mariana

  The look in Ryan’s eyes is savage. I know exactly what’s coming next.

  Time to apply the brakes.

  I place a hand flat on his chest, lock my elbow, and level him with a look. “Let’s not move on to Dare. Let’s just have a drink, cowboy, and slow this rodeo down.”

  Beneath my hand, his heart thuds like there’s someone inside his rib cage whacking it with a sledgehammer. Mine is doing the same thing. Not only because he turns me on like nobody’s business, but also because I’m unsettled.

  This man can sniff out a lie like a dog sniffs out a rat.

  And worse than that? Far worse?

  He knows I’m lying, and he doesn’t care.

  I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t know what he has planned. All I know is that I’m far out in rough water, there’s a dangerous riptide, and something with a mouthful of sharp, hungry teeth is closing in.

  Ryan takes my hand from my chest and kisses it. He sends me a dazzling game-show-host smile. “Sure thing, darlin’. I can go slow. I can go as slow as you like.”

  His smile turns filthy. Unexpectedly, I laugh.

  “You have a dirty mind.”

  Chuckling, he pushes the button to start the elevator’s ascent. “Angel, you have no idea.”

  But I do, and it intrigues me. Just one more part of the problem.

  When we arrive at his room, I watch in fascination as he takes several minutes to disarm and unlock a series of electronic and mechanical security devices hidden behind various pieces of furniture and on all the doors, including the one to the bathroom. His paranoia seems like overkill, even to the woman planning on drugging his drink.

  Amused, I ask, “Were you expecting company? Other than me, I mean.”

  He turns to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Better safe than sorry, in my experience. You never know when someone with sticky fingers might take a stroll through your door.”

  My heart stops. It starts back up with a painful beat, then flutters erratically while I draw a breath.

  I decide the best way to handle this is with a frontal attack. He’ll know if I’m bullshitting anywa
y. Looking him dead in the eye, I say, “I’m not here to steal from you.”

  His smile comes on slow. He wanders over to me, moving casually, his arms loose at his sides. He stops in front of me and murmurs, “I know. I just haven’t figured out what you are here for.”

  I can’t tell if he’s talking about here in his room, here in this hotel, or here on this island. Possibly all three. Everything he says to me now seems layered with meaning. It’s all innuendoes and undertones. Insinuation is his middle name.

  Better than Tiberius.

  He touches my cheek. “Why’re you smilin’ like that, Angel?”

  “I’m trying to decide if I like you or not.”

  “Oh, you do. You just don’t want to. The question is why.”

  Suddenly, I’m tired, and more than a little depressed. He’s worn me out with his eagle-eyed intuition. I’ve never met a man so perceptive. It’s exhausting.

  “Can I ask a favor, Ryan?” I ask quietly, holding his gaze.

  He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Can we pretend, just for tonight, that nothing bad has ever happened to either one of us? That we still have faith that the world is a good place, filled with good people? That all our tomorrows can be as good as today?”

  He searches my face in silence. He lifts his hand and cups my cheek. When he speaks, his voice is husky with emotion. “When you let me see you, the real you, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. If you give me more of that, I’ll pretend anything you want.”

  We stare at each other. My pulse gallops like a whipped horse. Finally, I decide what the hell. I’ll never see him again. I’ve got two hours until Khalid passes out—as he does every night like clockwork after half a dozen cocktails. I might as well spend it being the real me with a stranger while we pretend everything is what it’s not.

  I nod. “Okay. That’s sufficiently fucked up for my liking. But I’m warning you, I haven’t been the real me in so long, it might take a minute for me to remember who that is. And I have one condition, but it’s nonnegotiable.”

  Ryan might as well be a live wire for all his crackling energy. He says, “Which is?”

  “We don’t talk about work. Mine or yours.”

  He replies instantly. “Deal.”

  I’m so relieved, I want to collapse into hysterical laughter onto the floor. “Good. Pour me a drink while I take off these heels. They’re killing me. Being a femme fatale is hell on the feet.”

  He blinks. Then he laughs. It’s a sound I enjoy far too much for my own good.

  Grinning, he says, “I’ve got a full minibar, Angel. Name your poison.”

  “Bourbon.”

  His eyebrows lift. He nods approvingly. “America’s number one spirit. Interestin’ choice for a girl from Paris.” He winks and saunters across the room toward the wet bar, leaving me astonished once again.

  He knows I’m not from Paris.

  How does he know?

  Who is this guy?

  I pronounce, “I’m going to snoop around now.”

  “Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I got nothin’ to hide from you.” He doesn’t even turn, just casually proceeds to pour us drinks.

  Teetering between exasperation, exhilaration, and the urge to abandon the job altogether and run away quick as I can, I kick off my heels, set my handbag on the TV console, and look around.

  His room is large, with one wall missing and open to the view of the sea, as all the rooms in the resort are. Built right into the side of a mountain, the resort is the playground for the rich and famous, those who require both luxury and privacy. Everything about the décor and architecture supports both needs, from the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets to the huge wading pools on the balconies to the ban on camera use in all the public spaces.

  I walk through the living room and stare at the view. In the distance, the ocean sparkles under patchy moonlight. Fat gray thunderclouds slink down the hills. A humid breeze stirs my hair.

  Ryan appears silently beside me and hands me my drink. “Gonna be a storm tonight.” He looks sideways at me. He’s not smiling.

  I gulp the bourbon. It sears a stinging path down my throat. Steady, Mari. Steady.

  I begin my inspection of the room.

  First stop is the dresser. I pull open a drawer and peer inside. Underwear. White cotton briefs, folded with military precision. I resist the urge to touch them and close the drawer. The next drawer holds T-shirts, all of them plain black, all of them exactly alike. He must look amazing in them, tattooed biceps bulging from beneath the sleeves, the color setting off his golden skin and hair…

  Who’s running this show, Mari? You, or your ovaries?

  I close my eyes, take another swig of my drink, and close that drawer, too.

  Ryan relaxes onto the sofa. He watches with cynical interest as I open and close the rest of the dresser drawers. He drawls, “If you’re lookin’ for my gun, Angel, I’m wearin’ it.”

  I smile at him. “Hammerless slimline .38 strapped to your left ankle. I know.”

  The laser-beam look he gives me would slice a lesser woman in two, but I merely smile wider, enjoying myself, and stroll over to the teak armoire. I swing open the door.

  A row of white dress shirts, spotless and crisp, like the one he’s wearing. Dark-wash jeans, also like the ones he’s wearing, hang next to the shirts. On the floor are three pairs of shoes, black leather Ferragamos, same as the ones he’s wearing, and a lone pair of flip-flops. I turn and look at him.

  “You have very specific taste in clothing.”

  “And women.”

  He takes a drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. One arm is stretched casually over the back of the sofa. His legs are spread wide. He takes up a lot of space just sitting there. He fills up the whole room. I’ve never met a man with so much presence.

  The necklace, Mari. Eyes on the prize.

  I turn away from Ryan and stroll into the bathroom, thoughtfully swirling what’s left of the bourbon in my glass.

  Razor, comb, shaving cream, toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste are laid out on the marble bathroom counter in a straight row. Though I know he showered and shaved before dinner, there isn’t a stray hair or drop of water in sight. All the towels hang, perfectly folded, from their racks.

  “You’re freakishly neat,” I observe aloud.

  “Or maybe the maid came in and straightened up during dinner.”

  I look at him over my shoulder. “Without tripping one of your alarms? I don’t think so.”

  The corners of his mouth tip up. I can tell he’s enjoying our strange little game as much as I am.

  “Finished with your inspection yet?” he inquires, so casually he almost sounds bored.

  I glance at the laptop on the coffee table.

  “You said no work,” he reminds me. “And that”—he tips his head at the laptop—“is all work.”

  I know exactly what I’ll be firing up as soon as he passes out. The urge to know more about him feels like the nail-biting habit I had when I was a kid. Irresistible. Obsessive. Something you know isn’t good for you, but you’re helpless to stop it.

  I say lightly, “You’re right. No work. Take out your wallet.”

  He chuckles. “It’s in my back pocket, Angel. You wanna snoop in it? Come and get it.”

  I hesitate. I don’t believe he’ll harm me, but this is dangerous anyway. Being physically close to him is dangerous. It makes me think of hot kisses and big, rough hands and the pulse between my legs like a little heartbeat when he touches my skin.

  I take a moment to fortify myself with one last swig of bourbon, then cross to him and set the empty glass on the coffee table. I expect him to stand, but he just looks up at me, a glint of mischief shining in his blue eyes.

  Son of a bitch.

  I lift my skirt and straddle him.

  Which of course is what he wanted, evidenced by the smug-as-shit smile he gives me.

  “Well, howdy, sw
eetheart,” he drawls. He leaves the one arm stretched out over the back of the sofa, but settles his other hand on my bare thigh. It’s heavy and warm, and feels strangely possessive.

  “Howdy yourself.” I reach around, trying to stuff my hand under his butt so I can get to his back pocket. It’s almost impossible. I can wriggle my fingers just past his hip, but he’s too heavy to make much headway otherwise.

  Naturally, he doesn’t assist by adjusting his weight. He just smiles at me while I struggle.

  “Never had a woman fondle my ass on the first date,” he muses.

  “I’m not fondling, cowboy, I’m investigating. And you’re not helping, by the way.”

  “Why on earth would I help when it’s so much fun watchin’ you work?”

  His gaze drops to my chest.

  My dress has a low neckline and spaghetti straps, and I’m not wearing a bra, so my breasts aren’t exactly hidden. In fact, they’re popping out all over, mere inches from his face.

  He moistens his lips.

  It’s such a simple thing, yet utterly seductive. I imagine those lips latching on to one of my nipples and drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth. Lust rips through me, razor sharp.

  His gaze flashes up to mine. It’s blistering hot. “Your heartbeat just went all catawampus, darlin’.”

  I say, “Your lips are so—”

  My face goes molten hot.

  “So what?” he prompts, holding perfectly still.

  I swallow. The heat between us is like a current on a circuit, cycling back and forth on a loop, growing hotter and brighter with every breath. My answer comes on the barest of whispers. “Sensual.”

  His hand tightens on my thigh, but otherwise, he doesn’t react. Even his voice remains unruffled. “And you say I’m the one with a dirty mind.”

  “I can’t help it if you have an abnormally pretty mouth,” I say, staring at the subject in question.

  “Pretty?” he repeats, offended.

  “Sulky and pretty, like a girl’s.” I manage to make my tone lighter, more in control, but he’s looking at me like his control is quickly unraveling.

  He says gruffly, “Now you’re just bein’ mean.”