Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(18)

“I’ll be ready,” I say indifferently. “Meet you at the car in thirty.” I turn and walk away, trying to convince myself I really can’t feel the weight of his stare on my back as I go.



I wake up with a start sometime in the late afternoon with a crick in my neck and my heart pounding. I’d been having a dream that I was falling from a great height, freezing wind tearing at my clothes and snapping through my hair, the air so thin it swallowed my screams the moment they left my lips.

From the driver’s seat, Connor says, “You twitch in your sleep like a dog.”

I mutter, “I was having a nightmare. I dreamt I was you.”

He chuckles. “Aw. Am I annoying you already? You just opened your eyes.”

“You only annoy me when you’re breathing. Where are we?”

“Close to Albuquerque.”

I’m surprised. “New Mexico already? We’re making good time.”

I regret that instantly when Connor smiles. He says, “Of course we are. I’m driving.”

“God. It’s too bad arrogance isn’t painful.”

Another mistake, because it causes Connor to laugh. Loudly.

I sit up straighter, scrub my hands over my face, and take a swig of water from the plastic bottle in the holder between the seats. Right after swallowing, I realize this bottle wasn’t there when I fell asleep however long ago. Connor must have put it there.

For me?

He says, “Sorry there’s no ice or lemon in it.”

He remembered I ordered ice and lemon with my water at the bar in DC. Unsure what to make of that, or that he anticipated I might be thirsty when I awoke, I return the bottle to the cup holder with no comment.

After another few miles of driving in silence, I ask, “So what’s the plan?”

Connor’s dark brows lift. He glances over at me. “Oh, now the Abominable Snow Queen wants to talk plans?”

I exhale a long, pained sigh. “Did your parents ever ask you to run away from home?”

He laughs again. It’s a big, unselfconscious laugh, deep and natural. In spite of myself, I smile.

“No,” he says, “although I gave them plenty of reason to.”

I’m intrigued. “Really? The strong, smart, courageous, popular hero who’s the star of his own fairy tale wasn’t a perfect little boy?”

“You forgot handsome,” he says with a straight face.

I shoot back, “Handsome? You look like a before picture.”

He pretends outrage. “Are you getting smart with me?”

“How would you know? If you had another brain, it would be lonely.”

From there, it rapidly devolves, and although both of us stay absolutely poker-faced, it’s a hell of a lot of fun.

“Yeah, well your head is so big, you have to step into your shirts.”

“We all sprang from apes, jarhead, but you didn’t spring far enough.”

“Just remember Jesus loves you, sweet cheeks, but everyone else thinks you’re a pain in the ass.”

“If brains were dynamite, you wouldn’t have enough to blow your nose.”

“Ha! Maybe if you ate some of that makeup you’re wearing, you’d be pretty on the inside.”

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you’d had enough oxygen at birth?”

“No, but I bet whatever your problem is, it’s really hard to pronounce.”

“The village called. They said they were missing their idiot.”

“Tabby, if your heart was made of chocolate, it wouldn’t fill an M&M.”

“Connor, if I wanted to kill myself, I’d climb your ego and jump to your IQ.”

“I wasn’t born with enough middle fingers to let you know how I feel about you.”

Trying desperately not to laugh, I say, “A hundred thousand sperm, and you were the fastest?”

Connor looks over at me. A brilliant grin spreads over his face. Behind him, the setting sun flares into a golden nimbus around his head, and he looks so heart-stoppingly handsome, it takes my breath away.

He says, “Earth is full. Go home.”

Our eyes lock, we stare at each other, and I can’t look away. Slowly, his smile fades. With the sensation that we’ve just driven off a literal and figurative cliff, my stomach drops.

I finally break eye contact and stare out the windshield, blinking hard into the distance.

I don’t like him. I don’t. I refuse to. He’s everything I detest in a man.

And yet…

“Let’s talk about Miranda,” I say abruptly, gazing at the range of blue-purple mountains we’re headed toward. Their tips are lit fiery red by the setting sun as if they’ve been dipped in blood.

“Fine.” His voice is low, slightly rough, all the teasing gone.

“When did she first contact you about her situation?”

He clears his throat. “I’ve been on retainer with her for years—”

“For security?”

“As a technical advisor,” he says, gripping the steering wheel so hard, I think it’s in danger of breaking. “Stunts, fight scene coordination, training actors in weapons handling, anything military related that needs an expert to add realism to a movie.”