Wicked Intentions

43

16

Ryan

W

hoever coined

the phrase “If looks could kill” would have to create something substantially worse than death if he saw the expression on Mariana’s face right now.

Her look isn’t simply murderous. There’s a h*******t behind her eyes. Planets are being destroyed. Entire universes are getting incinerated by the sheer heat, power, and enormity of her fury.

It’s so cute, I want to kiss her.

I open the door and pull her from the car, listening to her sputter, “You lying, scheming, untrustworthy prick!”

I chuckle. “Uh, hello, kettle? Yeah, it’s the pot calling. We’d like our hypocrisy back. At least I didn’t drug your OJ.”

Her back is so stiff, her spine might be in danger of snapping. The whites of her eyes glow all around the pupils. She’s pulling hard against my grip, but she’s not going anywhere.

Not without me, anyway.

I lean in close to her ear. “I like this outfit, by the way. Very heroin chic. Nice touches with the filthy hoodie and the dirt smudged on your face. You must fit in real nice with all the drug addicts and indigents at that fleabag motel you’ve been holed up in for the past week while you planned the job, hmm?”

She makes a noise I heard a man make once right before he shot me. It’s a real hair-raiser of a hiss, vicious as all get-out, like some unholy combination of a badger and a rattler and Nosferatu on the hunt.

Coming from her, it’s as hot as a naked roll in a habanero patch.

If I didn’t have the wool to pull over everyone’s eyes right now, I’d drag her off into the bushes and have my way with her, filthy clothes and dirt stains be damned.

Her voice a raw scrape of betrayal, she says, “You just killed him, you know! I hope you’re proud of yourself! I hope you can sleep easy knowing you’ve got Reynard’s blood all over your hands, you heartless—”

“Oh ye of little faith.” I tweak her nose. “Be quiet now, woman, your man’s got work to do.”

Her expression is priceless. Priceless. I wish I had a camera. This is one for the books.

Grinning, I turn back to the squad cars and yell, “Zuckerman! C’mon over here and meet my colleague! I told you she could do it!”

Mariana goes slack against my grip. She makes a small retching sound, like a cat trying to expel a hairball.

I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing out loud.

A pudgy, sweating, middle-aged bald man in a gray suit that fit well thirty pounds ago pushes past the policemen milling around their squad cars and heads toward us with a sheepish smile. He sends Mariana a little wave.

She mutters, “What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.”

Smiling at the approaching Zuckerman, I reply under my breath. “Just savin’ your ass, honey. You can thank me later. I’ve got some real good ideas how.”

“Ms. Lane!”

In his enthusiasm, Zuckerman practically falls on top of Mariana. He grabs her hand and pumps it up and down like he’s trying to inflate her. “I’m so pleased to meet you!” He laughs nervously, his cheeks a damp, cherubic pink. “I know I probably shouldn’t be thrilled that you pulled it off, but I’ve been telling the board for years that we needed to update our security protocols. And now I have proof, thanks to you! We’ll definitely get that funding I applied for now!”

In response, Mariana faintly wheezes.

I suggest, “Why don’t we go inside and have some coffee, and Ms. Lane can debrief you and your head of security about what holes you need to plug in your system, yeah?”

“Oh yes, definitely, I want to hear all about it!” Zuckerman says with glee. “Oh goodness. I hope I get a promotion out of this. You’re a genius, Ms. Lane. When Mr. McLean approached us this week with his offer to do a penetration test, I must admit I had my doubts that this kind of thing actually worked, but I’m so happy to say I was wrong!”

He claps, hopping a little.

Mariana looks like she’s been Tasered.

Zuckerman waves us toward a squad car. “Let’s have one of the boys drop us off at the main entrance. I hate to go anywhere on foot, don’t you?” He turns and starts to amble away, but stops when I call, “Mr. Zuckerman.”

He turns back to me. “Yes, Mr. McLean?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He blinks like a baby bird. Then he throws his hands in the air. “Oh my stars! Ha ha! Silly me! How could I forget?” He hurries back to us, says behind his hand, “Don’t tell the board I forgot to ask for the diamond back. They’ll have me skinned!”

Smiling, he holds out his hands to Mariana.

When she doesn’t move, I take the backpack from her—wresting it off her shoulders when she resists—and hand it to Zuckerman.

“Heavy!” he exclaims, wide-eyed.

“Tools,” Mariana says, the way someone might say “Shoot me.”

“We’re right behind you, Mr. Zuckerman. Lead the way!” I clamp my arm around Mariana’s shoulders, ignoring the blistering string of curses she lets loose under her breath.

Thirty minutes later, we’re in Zuckerman’s office with the head of the security team and the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, both of whom have been called in from home, where they’d been fast asleep.

They’re pissed as hell. Apparently, they weren’t in on the pen test idea.

Zuckerman, meanwhile, is glowing like his wife just gave birth to his first child.

As for me? I’m having what could be described as the time of my life.