Wicked Sexy

14

We stare at each other. She’s standing up, I’m sitting down, we’re both panting. Her face is bright red. My c**k is so hard, it hurts.

The two girls at the bar are openly gaping at us. So is the waitress, who just arrived to clear our plates.

Tabby staggers back a step. She drags the back of her hand across her mouth. She rips her gaze from mine and looks at the girls at the bar.

“He’s all yours,” she says hoarsely. She spins around and strides away.

“Goddammit, Connor,” I mutter. I throw some money down on the table. Ignoring the titters of the girls, I follow Tabby.

When she walks in the front door of her house, I’m already there, leaning against the counter in the dark kitchen in the same spot I was standing before we left.

She flicks on the light and stares at me. I’ve seen her angry before, but this… This is something else altogether.

Eyes glittering, she says with dangerous softness, “Don’t ever do that again.” Not chancing what might come out of my mouth if I open it, I simply nod.

She slowly exhales. “And no more appearing out of nowhere. Respect my privacy or f**k off.

Permanently.”

Again I calmly nod, but my heart leaps with hope. She’s laying down terms, which means she’s still in.

“I don’t travel by plane. Ever. Anywhere. So if the job is in another country—”

“It’s in LA. We can drive. If we leave tonight, we can be there in—”

“Three or four days, give or take,” she says flatly. “I know. I’ve made the trip before. Only not with someone I detested, so I imagine it’ll seem like much longer.”

If a man could be murdered by a look alone, I’d already be dead. I decide to take a gamble and go out on a limb. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” “Yes,” she replies. “You really are.” Ouch.

“Give me the contract.”

Earlier I’d left the job contract, along with my standard, ironclad nondisclosure agreement, beneath the laptop on the counter. I retrieve the paperwork and hand it to Tabby. She flips through it, quickly scanning the pages, her mouth tight, her face pale. When she gets to the end, she finds a pen in a drawer, scratches her name on the signature line, and thrusts the contract back into my hands.

“I’ll tell Miranda to wire payment into your—”

“I already told you,” Tabby grinds out through clenched teeth, “I don’t need the money. In this case, I don’t want it.” Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see entire cities burning to the ground. “And no more questions about Søren.”

I keep my voice carefully measured to hide the unease I feel hearing her say that. “I need to know whatever you know about him. It’s critical information that could have a major impact on the success or failure of the job.”

“There’s a ninety-nine percent probability the job will fail, no matter what you know.”

Her lack of confidence is surprisingly painful. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

Tabby stares at me, her chest rising and falling in irregular bursts. I feel the tension in her, the weight of it in her body, how much effort it takes to stand motionless when everything inside her is pure violence. I recognize it because it’s something I’ve felt myself countless times, on countless missions. Gun in hand, crouched low against a wall in the dark, counting my breaths as I lie in wait for an enemy.

Whatever happened between the two of them, she carries it with her like the lone survivor of a battle, standing in the middle of a field gory with bodies and blood.

She says, “The only thing you need to know about Søren Killgaard is that he’s more clever than the devil, and not nearly as nice. If you show any weakness, he’ll exploit it. 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?”

Tabby smiles. The cold pragmatism in it sends a chill down my spine.

“By using me as bait.”

6

CONNOR

W

e leave for LA at midnight. And for the next nineteen hours, Tabby doesn’t speak to me.

I’m comfortable with silence, but her silence is so loud, it screams. She’s furious

about that kiss, but it goes deeper than that. I took something from her when I didn’t give her a choice.

Worse, I suspect, is the way she feels about her own reaction to having my mouth on hers. She liked it, which makes her hate me even more.

Women.

“Are we driving straight through to LA?”

Startled, I glance over at her. She’s staring out the window of the car, refusing to meet my eyes, the question asked in a tone that suggests she doesn’t care one way or another.

Her choice of travel wear raised my brows when I returned to her place after making a quick trip home to pack my bags, and I let my gaze rake over it once again, if only to satisfy my growing need to look at her. Tight black leather everything, including gloves, motorcycle jacket zipped up to her chin, and combat boots. The only thing she’s missing is a helmet. Except for her face, not an inch of skin is showing.

I recognize this outfit for what it is. Armor.

It’s a good thing it’s only March and the weather is cool, because August in that getup would be murder.

“No. Wanted to get into Tulsa before we stopped for the night.”