Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) (3 page)

She has a beauty mark near her right eyebrow, a tiny, perfect spot of velvet brown. Otherwise, her skin is flawless. Creamy, I think you’d call it. And those eyes, sweet Jesus, those eyes that can turn a man to stone can also light his imagination on fire.

Smelling her skin, sitting so close, looking into those jungle cat eyes, my imagination is definitely ablaze.

Tabby abruptly withdraws. She licks her lips, swallows, turns her attention back to her glass of water. In a flat voice, she says, “Well. Thanks for that, but I work alone. Also I just remembered I hate you.” She downs the water all in one gulp like it’s whiskey, stands, and, without looking at me, says, “See you in another life, jarhead.”

She turns and walks away.

Fuck
.

I call out after her, “Think about it, Tabby. I’m at the Carlisle until six tomorrow morning if you change your mind.”

She keeps walking, making no indication she’s heard me. Feeling a little desperate, I add, “You got something better to do, sweet cheeks? Go back to New York and work on your Hello Kitty handbag collection? Get a few more tattoos?”

Over her shoulder, she flips me the bird. The old guy on the stool next to me cackles.

I turn around and give him my signature death glare, the one that always shuts dumb motherfuckers up.

But he’s a scrappy old goat, not easily scared. He just cackles again, shaking his head. He says, “Don’t worry, son. I’m sure someday you’ll figure out how to talk to a woman.”

I growl, “Mind your business, Grandpa.”

Another cackle. Must be his signature thing, like my death glare. He says, “A little finesse wouldn’t kill you, boy.”

The fucking balls on this geezer! “
Excuse
me?”

“Convincing a woman to do something you want her to do isn’t like Operation Desert Storm. You can’t go in all shock and awe, balls to the wall. Trust me, I been married four times. You gotta make her think it was
her
idea. You know.” He wiggles his fingers in the air. “Finesse.”

I look back to the entrance of the bar just in time to see Tabby disappear around the corner, her shoulders stiff, her head held high.

Finesse, he says. Not exactly my strong suit.

Fuck.

W
hen I get back
to my room, I lie on the sofa and do deep-breathing exercises for ten minutes before the urge to break something passes.

What. The hell. Was
that
?

Just seeing him was strange enough. Out of the blue after three years, Connor Hughes materializes from thin air in my hotel room like fucking Cowboy Dracula, all
Hiya! Howdy, pardner!
Have I got an offer for you!

As if we don’t have history.

As if he doesn’t
know
I hate him.

And then the mysterious, cloak-and-dagger, I’d-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you job offer.

I admit I was tempted by the thought of meeting Miranda Lawson. I’ve always admired her. She’s a true genius, and those are rarer than unicorns. Graduated MIT—my alma mater—at seventeen, then attended USC film school and received an MFA in film and television production. Became the youngest female studio head in any movie studio’s history at twenty-five. Founded her own studio at thirty. In the decade since, she’s churned out blockbuster after blockbuster, attributed to a proprietary statistical analysis software she developed which can apparently predict what the movie-viewing public will enjoy with frightening accuracy.

She’s fiercely intelligent, utterly unapologetic, and more competent than any man.

What’s not to like?

Sure, she’s got haters. A lot of them, from what I’ve read in the press. But the number of fucks she gives about what people think of her is equal to the number of times Connor Hughes has said, “I don’t know.”

Arrogant prick.

Although I grudgingly admit he shocked the hell out of me with that “you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met” shtick. Not sure if it was even in the neighborhood of genuine, but he definitely managed to
look
sincere.

He looked a few other things too. Like…intense. Intimate.

Aroused.

And we’re breathing.

I’m sure there are women who’d consider his kind of rugged, mountain-man type attractive, but I’m definitely not one of them. Two-day growth of beard, thighs like tree trunks, shoulders like a linebacker…ugh. He’s fucking uncivilized is what he is. A big, barbarian ape. He probably chews with his mouth open.

Why would he even think I’d
consider
working with him?

The last time I saw him, I was in crisis mode. My best friend and employer, Victoria, had disappeared, the police had just interrogated me about my relationship with her, and in walks Victoria’s ex, Parker, with his hired gun jarhead, demanding answers. It all turned out fine in the end, but I’ll never forget how insensitive Connor was. How he
laughed
at me.

How small he made me feel.

Yeah, he’s a prick. A self-involved bulldozer of a man who I want absolutely nothing to do with. And, more importantly, any job I take has to be within driving distance. I’ve never been on a plane in my life. I’m not about to start now.

Not even for Miranda Lawson.

Right
, I think, sitting up on the sofa.
Moving on
.

I’m driving back to New York first thing in the morning, so I put together the report for Roger Hamilton, order room service, and pack. Then I eat my dinner on the couch while watching TV.

Just as I’m about to get into bed a few hours later, someone slips an envelope under my door.

I stare at it like it’s full of anthrax. Who would be slipping me notes? At this hour?
Here?

Only one way to find out.

I walk with trepidation to the door, open it, and peek out. The hallway is empty and silent. I close the door, pick up the envelope, and pull out a single sheet of paper. It’s handwritten in blocky, blunt print. The first line alone has me gasping.

I stand there with the letter in my hands for what feels like a long time. Then I crumple the letter in my fist. “Nice try, jarhead.”

I throw the letter in the trash.

* * *

T
he drive
from DC to Manhattan is just under five hours with no traffic. Since it’s a Saturday and I left with the sunrise, I expected to be home by noon. Unfortunately, there was a pileup on the New Jersey Turnpike, so it took an additional few hours. By the time I get home, I’m crabby and ravenous.

“Honey, I’m home!” I call out as I walk inside.

“We’re in here!” answers a faint voice from the direction of the living room.

My townhouse is in the swanky part of Greenwich Village. I bought it two years ago and promptly tore out all the hideous purple carpeting the previous owner favored, along with the blood-red Victorian floral wallpaper that made my skin crawl. It was like living inside a rotten plum. Now the walls are painted delicate eggshell, the floors are glossy ebony hardwood, and the furniture… I’m still working on the furniture. In five stories with six bedrooms, the only places to sit are behind the desk in my office, on the sofa in the living room, on the floor, or on my bed.

I drop my bags near the stairs to the second level and make my way down the hall. When I get to the living room, I prop my hands on my hips and smile, amused by the scene.

Juanita, my fifteen-year-old neighbor, is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa with an open bag of Cheetos in her lap and a can of Red Bull in one hand. She’s in her school uniform of white shirt and plaid skirt, but her skinny legs are bare, as are her feet. Her wild mop of curly dark hair is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. The floor around her is littered with candy wrappers, empty soda cans, discarded bags of chips, and schoolbooks. She has her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her and is watching MMA wrestling, her favorite thing in the world.

Trying to sound stern, I say, “When someone tells you ‘make yourself at home’ while they’re gone, Nita, it’s a euphemism for be comfortable. Not move in and turn the place into
Animal House
.”

She doesn’t bother to acknowledge that or look over in my direction. “When are you gonna get a TV, man? What kind of weirdo doesn’t have a TV?”

“I’m not weird. I’m limited edition.”

“Tch.”

“I’d also like to point out that I’m the only person in this room not wearing a rat.”

Juanita’s pet rat, Elvis, is perched on her head. He’s white with big black patches, like a dairy cow. Juanita rescued him from a storm drain when he was a baby, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. He travels with her on her shoulder or in her backpack, to the dismay of her mother and teachers at school. When the principal said he’d suspend her if she didn’t stop bringing Elvis to class, Juanita threatened to call the civil rights division of the US Department of Justice and report that her rights were being violated under the Americans with Disabilities Act, because Elvis was a service animal like a seeing-eye dog. When asked what service he provided, Juanita replied with a straight face, “Emotional support.”

I love this kid.

She comes over every day after school to escape her six siblings, who all still live at home. She tells her mother I’m helping her with her calculus homework, but the reality is that Juanita could teach her AP calculus class herself.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” says Juanita, reaching up to scratch Elvis on his belly. He shivers in delight, white whiskers trembling. “How’d the job go?”

“How do you think it went?”

Juanita snorts. “I think you shriveled another rich old white dude’s balls to the size of peas.”

“That I did. Another pea-sized pair of balls to add to my collection.” I sigh in satisfaction. I really do love my job. “I’m going to make a sandwich. You want one?”

Her attention still glued to the computer screen where two shirtless, barefoot guys are beating each other to within an inch of their lives, Juanita says, “Nah. I’m good.”

I eye all the junk food wrappers scattered around her. “It wouldn’t kill you to eat some real food once in a while, kiddo.”

Juanita makes a face. “Sure thing, Lourdes.”

Lourdes is her mother’s name. It’s what she calls me when I’m meddling.

She calls me Lourdes a lot.

“Suit yourself,” I say breezily, and leave Juanita and Elvis to enjoy their show.

In the kitchen, I kick off my shoes and open the fridge. Unlike the rest of my home, it’s packed. An empty refrigerator is one of the few things that frightens me.

“Roast beef, provolone, tomatoes, lettuce,” I say, gathering everything. “Hello, my beauties!”

I get the bread from the pantry, make myself a sandwich, and eat it standing up over the kitchen sink. Then I make another sandwich, tuck it inside a Ziploc bag, and slip it inside the backpack Juanita left on the console by the front door.

Then I go upstairs and unpack. When my things are put away, I pad down the hallway to my office, fire up my computer, and check my email.

Zip. Nada. Crickets.

And the old, familiar loneliness pops its head around my shoulder and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

This is the worst time, when I come home from a job and don’t have anything else lined up. When I’m working, my mind is occupied, and when my mind is occupied, I can go days or weeks without once wondering what the point of everything is. But when I’m not working…

“I’m betting you’d go out of your fuckin’ mind if you didn’t have a puzzle to solve. Right?”

Jarhead and his annoyingly astute observations.

The thought of him is equivalent to a migraine. How can anyone stand to be around that cocky, irritating jerk? I know he runs a successful business, so he’s got employees, clients, vendors, people he has to interact with on a daily basis. He’s probably even got friends…girlfriends?

No
, I think, wrinkling my nose.
He wouldn’t call them “girlfriends.” He’d call them…gashes. Or something equally repulsive
.

I really hate that chauvinistic prick.

“And we’re breathing,” I remind myself as my stomach tightens. “
Again
.”

Connor Hughes is bad for my blood pressure.

From downstairs Juanita yells, “We’re outta here! See you after school Monday!”

I yell back, “Good luck on your calculus test!”

“Suck a bag of dicks, hooker!”

A laugh, and then the front door slams.

“Love you too, kiddo,” I say, smiling.

I change into my running clothes and head over to Washington Square, the big park a few blocks away. I run my regular circuit on the paths that wind through the park, nodding at the old guys playing chess, dodging the street performers and families and couples walking their dogs. It’s a bright, beautiful spring afternoon, and the park is crowded with people picnicking around the main fountain, enjoying the weather.

This is why I run in the mornings. All these people make me twitchy.

An hour later, sweaty, my thighs aching, I head back to my house. I finish a book on the Chernobyl disaster, recategorize my CD collection by genre, and then decide to shower before I head out to find a place for dinner. Saturdays I usually head over to a little French wine bar in my neighborhood. I like to watch all the date-night couples gazing adoringly at each other over their overpriced glasses of Bordeaux and speculate about who’s cheating on who.

I almost always decide it’s everyone.

I take a long, hot shower, condition my hair, and shave all my lady parts that need shaving. Not that anyone’s going to touch said lady parts, but I like to keep my garden free of weeds, so to speak. In case I’m ever in an accident and I have to be examined at the hospital by some insanely hot doctor. Why he’d be examining me nude I don’t know, but in my fantasies, these kinds of odd scenarios regularly occur.

In reality, it’s been years since a man saw me naked.

It’s easier this way. Sex leads to feelings, and feelings lead to disappointment, so it logically follows that celibacy leads to no disappointments. Especially since I can get myself off in under sixty seconds. So it’s easy
and
efficient.

I dry off, wind my hair in the towel, and wrap it around my head, and head naked into my bedroom.

Where I let out an earsplitting scream.

Connor Hughes, reclining on my bed with his arms behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankle, grins at me. “That’s twice now I’ve made you scream, sweet cheeks, without even laying a finger on you.”