Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2) (20 page)

“Animal, I know,” he says drily. In one smooth motion, he flips me over and sets me on my feet.

We’re in the adjacent room. It’s an average office with a desk and two chairs, a bookcase, a sofa along one wall. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger from
The Terminator
stares back at me from the opposite wall.

I wonder how it’s going to look with Connor’s blood splattered all over it.

With a kick of his boot, Connor shuts the door.

“You did
not
,” I say, breathing hard with my hands balled to fists at my side, “just pick me up and throw me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes. In front of everyone. In front of that epic asshole Rodriguez, you did
not
just do that. Right?”

Connor folds his arms over his chest. “Is that a trick question?”

“Because if you
did
,” I continue, ignoring him, “I’m going to tell you that I loathe you.” When his eyes flare, I add, “
And not in our secret code way!
”

He purses his lips. “Now you’re just being mean.”

I take a moment to try to calm myself. When I’m reasonably sure I’m not going to stab him with the scissors from the jar on the desk, I ask through gritted teeth, “Why would you do that to me?”

“Because I’m gonna look out for you,” comes the instant reply, “even when you’re not looking out for yourself.”

I glare at him without speaking, forcing him to explain.

“Harry will arrest you if you interfere with the investigation.”

“I just
handed him
the investigation!”

“It doesn’t matter. He told you to step aside. If you don’t listen to him, he’ll have you removed from the premises with some shiny new metal bracelets decorating your wrists.”

When I open my mouth to retort, Connor interrupts me.

“I know him, Tabby. This is as far as he’ll be pushed.” A muscle in his jaw jumps. “And I’m not taking a chance with your safety.”

A noise is growing in my head. It sounds like a swarm of bees after someone has kicked their hive. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I say, holding his gaze. “Just because we’ve slept together doesn’t give you
any
right to tell me—”

“I care about you.” His voice is big and loud in the small room.

For so many reasons, that leaves me breathless. Unable to meet his eyes any longer, I turn away. When I can finally talk, it sounds like I’ve swallowed gravel.

“I know you have a hero complex, but I don’t need you to save me. That includes saving me from myself.”

He mutters an oath under his breath. “You can’t do it, can you? You just can’t let anyone in.”

He’s bitterly angry with me. It’s obvious from his tone. That hurts so much, I find it hard to say what I know I have to say. But if I let this thing between us go any further, I’ll hate myself.

I can’t drag him down with me. I have to cut the cord before it’s too late.

In a flat, emotionless voice, I set him loose.

“It’s not your business what I can or can’t do. Why do I have to keep explaining this to you? There’s
nothing
between us, Connor. We have
nothing
in common. I thought we were both adults, on the same page about our agreement, but I have to admit I totally regret it, because it’s given you some kind of bullshit idea that you’re entitled to an opinion about the choices I make.”

I gather my courage, take a deep breath, and turn to look at him.

“Stop trying to convince yourself this thing between us is anything other than sex. It isn’t. You said it yourself. I’m a team of one.” I pause and then drive home the final nail in the coffin. “And that’s how I want it to stay. Forever. So
back off
.”

His silence burns and lasts an agonizingly long time. A vein in his neck throbs. One of his fingers intermittently twitches.

Finally—so, so softly—he says, “I’ve always admired you. Respected you, for everything you are. But right now, I’m so disappointed in you, it’s making me sick to my stomach.”

I force myself to hold his gaze steadily, to keep my breathing slow and even, to stand upright when it feels like I might at any moment fall to the floor.

Without another word, Connor turns on his heel and walks out, leaving the door open behind him.

And what’s left of my heart breaks a little bit more.

A
s soon as
I enter the room, I know something has happened in my brief absence. The mood has turned from excitement to frustration.

Almost as big as my own.

I walk over to Ryan. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with narrowed blue eyes.

“What’s going on?” I jerk my chin in O’Doul’s direction. He’s huddled with Chan in a corner of the room, gesticulating and shaking his head, obviously annoyed.

“You tell me. Why do you look like your face was on fire and someone tried to put it out with a hammer?”

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Here’s the part where I tell you to mind your own business, brother.”

Ryan bristles. “I told that broad in no uncertain terms that if she fucks with you—”

I clap my hand on his shoulder and look him in the eye. “Number one, don’t call her a broad. It’s disrespectful. Number two, dial it down a few thousand notches. I don’t like you threatening her.” My voice softens. “Number three, I appreciate your concern, but this is one battle I’ve gotta face on my own.”

His look sours. “Yeah, well, it looks to me like you’re walkin’ into this battle with a slingshot while the other side has a mile-wide fuckin’ lineup of tanks pointed at your head.”

I slowly nod. “Sounds about right.”

“Listen, brother—”

“I’m a big boy, Ryan,” I say, my voice nearly a growl in my throat. “Leave it alone.”

He cocks his head, folds his tattooed arms across his chest, and thoughtfully strokes his goatee like he does whenever he’s trying to suss something out. After a second, he says, “Huh. Never thought I’d see the day.”

I drop my hand from his shoulder. “Don’t even want to know what that means. And don’t tell me either!” I snap when he opens his mouth to say more.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself, ‘big boy.’” Then he smirks at me. “Just make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.”

“Gimme a fuckin’ break, will you?” I say, scowling.

Ryan has the balls to laugh.

Then O’Doul calls Tabby’s name. Unsmiling, she appears in the doorway of the adjacent office, looking like she’d rather be anyplace else than here. She leans against the door frame and looks him up and down with her lip curled and her nose wrinkled, a hand on her hip.

Ryan says under his breath, “At least you’re not the only one on her shit list.”

I mutter, “Shut up.”

O’Doul’s tone is brusque. “The location file was corrupted. Whatever data your program extracted was useless in determining Søren’s whereabouts. On that front, we’re back at square one.” A loaded pause follows. “So about that phone number you have.”

Tabby says innocently, “Oh, so you need my help with your case again?”

I can already tell where this is going, but O’Doul doesn’t know her as well as I do, so he just nods as if he’s not about to get his balls handed to him on a platter.

“Obviously we’ll take every technical precaution so the call can’t be traced from his end. On ours, you only need to keep him on the line for—”

“And what do I get out of it?”

After beat of silence, a flush of color crawls up O’Doul’s neck. “You get to stay out of prison.”

With perfect indifference, Tabby yawns and then inspects her manicure.

Ryan hides his chuckle by coughing into his fist. For my part, I don’t think this is funny at all, but she’s made it crystal clear how much help she wants from me, so I clench my teeth and keep my mouth shut.

O’Doul steps slowly forward. A flush rises from his neck to his face. Against the starched white of his shirt collar, his skin is the color of a boiled beet. He says, “There’s this fun thing called ‘obstruction of justice.’ I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

Tabby tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks at him down her nose. “There are also these
other
fun things called ‘coercion,’ ‘undue influence,’ ‘duress,’ ‘illegal compulsion,’ ‘oppressive exaction,’ ‘extortion’—”

“What do you want?” he interrupts, exasperated.

“I want,” she replies with the air of a duchess, “my computer, all my equipment, and a written statement from you that whatever happens from this point forward, I’ll be immune from prosecution for any and all assistance I may give on this case.” She bats her lashes. “Since I obviously can’t trust you to keep your word.”

I hope O’Doul doesn’t have any undiagnosed heart problems, because he looks as if he’s about to have some kind of major cardiac event.

“That’s blackmail,” he says, seething.

“No, that’s negotiating. Blackmail is when you threaten to send someone to jail unless they do what you want.” She gives him a bland smile. “I forgot to mention that one in my ‘fun things’ list.”

While everyone else in the room watches this interaction as if it’s the best reality TV episode ever, Tabby and O’Doul stare at each other like pistoleros in a Mexican standoff.

Me? I’m wishing I had an Alka-Seltzer. This shit is hell on my stomach.

O’Doul takes a short, stiff walk around the office with his hands on his hips, shooting Tabby the occasional glare. Finally, he lets out an aggravated sigh and relents.

“Fine. Since we’re ‘negotiating,’ how about this.
If
you successfully make contact with Killgaard, and
if
we successfully determine his location from that contact, and
if
we’re able to apprehend him as a direct result of your assistance, then you can have all your equipment back—
after
we’ve extracted all relevant evidence to this case—and I’ll write you a letter. But
if
your phone call produces nothing, I’m under no obligation to uphold my end of the deal.”

Tabby considers his words for a moment. “That’s a hell of a lot of
ifs
.”

“Life is full of uncertainty. Take it or leave it.”

Tabby purses her lips. She glances at me, and I incline my head.
Take it.

“All right,” she says breezily. “Deal.” Like a boss, she struts over to him and sticks out her hand.

He shakes it.

Tabby adds, “But we should wait until after Miranda’s press conference. That will give me a legitimate excuse that might not tip him off that I’m involved in the investigation.”

“How so?”

“Because I saw it on TV, obviously.” She shrugs. “Miranda can drop some obscure fact about the hacker’s methods that I’d be familiar with, and I can say I decided to reach out to him.”

“But why now?” My voice is a little too loud. Everyone except Tabby looks at me. I get the distinct feeling they’re all thinking the same thing:
That dude is losing it.

I clear my throat, try to act casual. Normal. Like I’m not out on a fucking ledge.

“You’ve known how to contact him for years. If I were him, I’d want to know why you waited so long to call.”

Just to twist the knife a little deeper, she throws my words from our elevator ride back at me. “But you’re
not
him, remember?”

She doesn’t even bother to look at me when she says it.

O’Doul ignores our back and forth and accepts Tabby’s suggestion. “Fine, we’ll do it right after the press conference. Be back here at five p.m. sharp tomorrow. And in the meantime,” he glances meaningfully at me, “
stay out of trouble
.”

Oh, great. Here’s the part where I’m supposed to get Tabby to let me babysit her again. No problemo. I might as well just castrate myself first and get it over with.

“I’m staying right here,” she says to O’Doul. To Special Agent Chan, she says, “No offense, but there’s no way I’m not here to watch while you extract data from my baby.”

Indifferent, Chan shrugs, but O’Doul is looking more and more like he’s going to keel over from stress. He glares at me. “Will you deal with this, please?” he says gruffly, waving in Tabby’s direction. Then he whips his cell from his pocket and stabs his fingers against the screen to make a call.

Tabby sends me a look that says if I take a step in her direction, I’ll get a knife shoved through my thorax. Then she steps backward into the office and slams the door.

“Well,” says Ryan beside me, “looks like we’re hangin’ out here for a while. I’ll get us some chow.”

* * *

B
y the time
we’re ready to make the call to Killgaard the next day, Chan has finished extracting the data from Tabby’s computer, Miranda has given an epic performance as a damsel in distress at a mobbed press conference on the steps of the studio, and Tabby and I are apparently not on speaking terms because she’s refused to acknowledge my existence every time we’re in a room together.

I’m
persona non grata
, and it’s really crossing my wires. I’ve got a head full of scrambled eggs.

As for the FBI, they’re more hyper than a bunch of little kids on Christmas morning. I’ve never seen a bunch of grown men so giggly and excited. Apparently, Killgaard has been involved in so many previously uncredited high-level hacks, he’s shot right to the top of the Cyber Most Wanted List.

Yes, they really have one of those. Which is where I suspect Tabby’s name will appear if this all falls apart and I have to smuggle her to safety across some international border in the hidden compartment of the Hummer.

I’m pacing back and forth in front of the office windows when Ryan ambles in, fresh from a shower in the employee gym on the first floor.

“What’s the 411?” he asks, dropping the duffel bag with his clothes and shaving kit on the floor beneath the window.

“Just waiting on these fucknuts to get their shit together.”

Rodriguez and Chan are on the other side of the room at Chan’s desk, arguing over who should sit where during the call. O’Doul and Miranda are deep in discussion outside the adjacent office, where Tabby’s been for hours. She’s emerged only once, to shower and grab a sandwich from the food platters delivered at regular intervals from the cafeteria.

She’s not eating enough. She’s not sleeping enough. I’m worried about her, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Which sucks so hard, I want to break something.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” asks Ryan without a hint of sarcasm.

Knowing it will only wind him up if I deny Tabby’s my girlfriend, I tip my chin toward the closed office door.

Ryan looks at me. I can tell he’s trying not to smile. “You’re still in the doghouse, huh?”

“Why is this so funny to you?”

He shrugs. “Because I’ve never seen you not get something you want.” Smiling, he adds, “I think a little groveling will be good for your character.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my character. And I don’t
grovel
.”

“Not yet.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, aggravated. “Remind me why I thought it was a good idea to bring you here?”

Ryan’s smile widens. “Because right now you’ve got a boner where your brain used to be, and I can see stuff that you can’t. For instance, that little interaction between Tabby and Miranda, all that Machiavelli bullshit back and forth. What was that about?”

I think for a moment, recalling the scene. “The smart chick equivalent of a big dick contest?”

“Nope.”

Realizing he’s right, I slowly nod. Their exchange seemed weird to me at the time too. Loaded with unspoken layers of meaning. I glance at Miranda on the other side of the room. She must feel me watching, because she looks over and smiles.

It looks fake. As fake as the tears she manufactured for the press conference.

Ryan says quietly, “She’s been a client for what? Three years?”

“Yeah. She signed on right around the same time…”

The same time I met Tabby.

When I stiffen, Ryan looks at me. “Get your game face on, brother,” he says under his breath, still smiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I have a feeling all the pawns are about to get moved around the board.”

Ryan’s mention of pawns jars my memory. It was something Tabby said to me right before we left for LA. We were standing in her kitchen, and she’d just told me the job had a ninety-nine percent failure rate no matter how well I was prepared to go up against Søren.

“Whatever you think his endgame is, you’ll be wrong. He’ll always be five moves ahead of you, no matter how well you plan, and there’s only one way you’ll ever catch him.”

“Which is?”

“By using me as bait.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. “Ryan. You ever play chess?”

“Yep.”

“You any good at it?”

“Yeah, actually. My dad taught me. We played all the time when I was a kid. Why?”

Looking between O’Doul, Miranda, Rodriguez, Chan, and the rest of the FBI agents working at their various stations around the room, I ask, “What’s the most valuable piece on the board?”

“Technically the king. The goal is to get him in checkmate. That wins the game. He’s the most important piece, but he’s not the most powerful.”

“Who’s the most powerful?”

The door on the opposite side of the room opens. Tabby stands there, outlined in light. Despite being pale and somber, despite the dark hollows under her eyes that betray her fatigue, her chin is up. Her back is straight. Her legs are braced shoulder-width apart.