Wicked Sexy

35

I want to laugh. Or maybe vomit. “Love? There are things much stronger than love, Connor.”

His eyes glow with emotion. “I thought nothing was stronger than love.”

Unthinking, I blurt, “Fear. Hate. Self-loathing. The way your own mind can betray you if it’s left alone in the dark for too long.”

Connor takes my face in his hands and gazes down at me, his brows pulled together, a look of something like fury darkening his face. “What the hell did he do to you?”

Flooded with shame, I close my eyes. I whisper, “He held up a mirror to my soul and showed me what it looked like.”

After a while, Connor says, “Open your eyes.”

I obey him and stand there helplessly shaking, feeling as if my heart is exposed, dangling out of my chest.

“Let’s put aside the question of Søren for the moment. I want to make a new deal.”

I can’t speak. I can hardly even breathe. I wait, my nerves standing on end like a million screaming exclamation points.

“Let’s extend the one night to one week.”

My breath leaves my chest in an expulsive rush. He makes it sound so rational. So businesslike. So simple, when it’s anything but.

“You said you didn’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.” I take no joy in turning his words back at him, but it has to be said.

“I did say that,” he admits, nodding. “Because I never have before. But in this case, I’m willing to bend my rules.”

His thumbs gently stroke over my burning cheeks. Why does he have to do that, be so distractingly tender when I’m trying to concentrate on all the reasons why what he’s asking for is insane? “It’s a terrible idea,” I say. “It will be too much of a distraction.”

“I’m aware.”

He’s aware but obviously doesn’t care. His face is getting closer to mine. I’m beginning to feel a little desperate.

“I’m not sure I like you.”

His lips curve. Faint amusement is reflected in his eyes. “I’m not sure I trust you.” Touché.

I put my hand flat on his chest and push. “I’ll think about it.” “You’ll think about it,” he repeats slowly.

“Connor. We’re in a women’s bathroom—”

“You’d prefer the men’s?”

“I’m exhausted, hungry, and wrestling with some very dark personal demons. All while standing ten feet away from a row of toilets. It’s hardly conducive to romance.”

“Is it romance you want?” he asks softly, reaching for my hand. “Or is it this?” He presses my hand to his crotch. Beneath my fingers, he’s rock-hard.

My patience snaps.

All my initial irritation with him, my original assessment of his character that concluded that most of his brain power is contained in his underwear, comes flooding back. I jerk away from him, spinning out of his reach. “Jesus! You’re nothing but a…giant…animal!”

His jaw hardens. He folds his arms across his chest, draws himself to his full, considerable height, and looks at me down his nose. “Volatile little thing, aren’t you, sweet cheeks?”

Sweet cheeks. Not “sweetheart” or “princess” or even Tabby—the mocking, derisive “sweet cheeks,” which he knows I detest.

I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. Like he just punched me right in the chest.

Watching my face, Connor curves his mouth into a grim smile. When I realize he was counting on this reaction from me, that he was baiting me, I want to scream.

He says, “If you’re telling yourself last night meant nothing, you’re not half as smart as I thought

you were.”

He opens the door and walks out.

A moment later, all the lights go out, plunging me into darkness.

When I stumble into the COM center, I hear O’Doul shouting, “And why isn’t her station out?”

“Because I’m not on the grid,” I answer from the doorway. “I have my own power source.”

My computer station is the only one with monitors that are lit up. All three of them glow cheerfully, lending my corner an ethereal electronic light in contrast to the rest of the room, which is in blackness. Agents mill around with their hands on their hips, muttering to each other, unsure what to do.

It’s ridiculous how unprepared people are to be cut off from electricity.

“What are you talking about?” snaps O’Doul, coming closer. The others turn to look at me. Connor is nowhere to be seen.

“I’m using a portable generator.” I cross to my station and point at a black piece of equipment the size of a printer, gently humming on the floor beneath the desk.

The guy who had a problem with my Hello Kitty watch also evidently has a problem with my energy source, because he pipes up with a snotty “Generator power fluctuates too much—there are too many variable voltage issues for it to be a reliable source to power your computers. Your hard drive is probably already fried.”

I clap, slowly, three times. “Very good, Einstein. But I’m using a UPS that employs double conversion topology to provide continuous pure sine wave output.”

Even in the low light, I can see how ruddy his face gets. “Well…that…that probably voided your warranty!”

“Yes,” I reply with a straight face. “That is a very serious concern.”

O’Doul interrupts our little love fest by standing between us and barking, “Shut your piehole,

Rodriguez! And why the hell would you be using a generator, Miss West?”

Exasperated, I cross my arms over my chest and tap my toe against the carpet. “Because I needed my equipment to stay online when Søren found out what all you busy little bees were up to.” The room falls quiet. It’s O’Doul who finally speaks.