Wicked Sexy

11

I narrow my eyes and inspect his expression, which remains suspiciously bland. I can’t tell if he’s lying.

I hate it that I can’t tell if he’s lying.

He says mildly, “You have trust issues, you know that?”

“Ha! Me? With you? No!”

His smile is wry, that amusement again. He inclines his head, as if to say Fair enough.

“Are we done here? Because I’d really like to get back to my life now.”

“There’s really nothing I can do to persuade you? Nothing you want from me in exchange for doing this job?”

The way he said that last part, the hint of innuendo along with a sparkle in his eyes, makes me grimace. “Please tell me you didn’t just offer to service me sexually. Tell me I’m wrong, jarhead.

Restore my faith in humanity and tell me you’re not that much of a pig.”

He makes big, innocent doe eyes at me. “What? Geez, Tabby. s*x on the brain much? How long has it been since you’ve gotten some?” Then he smiles.

And he does it with his whole goddamn body.

I shudder. “You’re a real piece of work. How do you ever get a date? No wait, don’t tell me— with cash!”

His lashes lower. He looks at me with so much smugness oozing from his pores, I’m afraid I’ll need to get out the mop. “Never had to pay for it in my life, sweetheart. Though I’ve been on the receiving end of that offer more times than I can count.”

I stare at him, amazed by the sheer size of his ego. “You’re so full of shit.”

His full lips curve into a wicked grin. “You’d like to think I am.”

I cross my arms over my chest, shaking my head in disbelief. “Okay. I give. Uncle! Now vamanos, por favor, and don’t ever darken my doorstep again.”

“She’s bilingual,” he murmurs, as if that’s some kind of giant shock.

Is he f*****g with me? Making fun of me? Baiting me? I can’t tell! f**k! In spite of myself, I can’t resist correcting him. “Not bilingual. Septalingual.” He slow blinks, the very definition of droll.

Impatiently, I explain, “Spanish, French, Italian, Latin, Portuguese, Romanian, and Catalan. I speak seven languages, not two.”

“The Romance languages,” he says, drawing it out as if he’s expecting me to give an explanation as to the origins of my knowledge. Which, obviously, I’m not.

But I am the tiniest bit impressed he knows what the Romance languages are. I doubt they teach that in jarhead school.

When I don’t reply, Connor prompts, “You forgot English.”

I’m momentarily thrown off balance. “Oh. Right. English. Well, that goes without saying.”

In a tone so banal he could be examining his cuticles, he corrects me. “Actually it doesn’t. Including English, you’re octolingual, not septalingual.” That roguish dent in his cheek makes another appearance. “Technically speaking, that is.”

With a shock like sticking my wet finger into an electrical outlet, I realize several things at once. First, he’s right. He was right about the police thing earlier too.

Cue brain cells fainting.

Second, he’s much smarter than he lets on. He plays the blunt, sexed-up, muscle-bound military man to absolute perfection so no one will think to look closer. But it’s an act. A brilliantly executed, nuanced disguise.

Third, the preceding realizations rearrange something in my head, and I feel the first stirrings of something other than anger or contempt for Connor Hughes.

The world tilts on its axis. I pull my lips between my teeth and stare at him, for once at a total loss for words.

“Wow,” says Connor. “There’s smoke comin’ outta your ears, sweet cheeks. What gives?” “I-I…I’m…”

The dent in his cheek becomes an apostrophe.

“Nothing. We’re done here. Get out.” My voice is empty of all emotion. My eyes unflinchingly meet his.

For a moment, his mask slips. I see disappointment. I see frustration. I see something that might be defeat. But he quickly gathers himself, pushes off the counter, runs a hand through his dark hair. He shakes his head like a dog shaking off water and huffs a short breath through his nose. To himself, he mutters, “Roger that. We’ll get Maelstr0m some other way.”

He looks up at me, gives me a tight smile along with a curt salute. “See you in another life, maybe.

Sorry to have wasted your time.”

He moves past me, graceful even at his size, his step improbably silent against the floor, but I can’t focus on the elegance of his movement because I’m too busy rewinding and replaying what he just said.

“Wait!”

In the doorway, Connor pauses. He looks at me over his shoulder.

With my heart in my throat I whisper, “Did you say…Maelstr0m?”

Connor frowns. “Yeah. Some hacker who goes by the alias Maelstr0m, with a zero for the ‘o.’

He’s Miranda’s situation.” A heartbeat, and then, sharper, “Why?”

I inhale. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. The room seems too warm, too bright, too close.

“I hope you’re prepared to go to war, Connor. I’m in.”