Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(3)
“They’re just over here.” He holds an arm out, allowing me to move in front of him as we walk the length of one wall, our heels clicking on the tile.
Now comes the risky part.
There’s a chance any one of the guys in the information technology department has actually met Dena Johnson in person during the interview process. If that’s the case, I’m screwed. She’s a sixty-year-old stick-thin blonde with a fondness for pearls and pastel sweater sets, and I’m a twenty-seven-year-old curvy redhead who wouldn’t be caught dead in a cardigan, much less a lavender one, much less a set of pearls.
My heartbeat picks up as we approach a mirrored door. We stop in front of it. Hoffmeier swipes his badge through the reader mounted on the wall, enters his pin number into the keypad, and presses his thumb to a square black biometric scanner.
Nothing happens.
He gives the scanner a quizzical tap, waits, and then tries the whole process again. When there’s still no result, he glances at me with an embarrassed smile. “Must be on the fritz.”
Then—in a breach of security protocol so fantastic I nearly squeal in glee—he simply raps on the door with his knuckles. It opens from the inside.
“Ruben,” he says curtly to the bearded hipster in the skinny jeans and untucked T-shirt who stands inside the door.
Ruben replies drily, “Hoff.”
Hoffmeier stiffens. Brushing past Ruben—who is now openly staring at my chest—Hoffmeier mutters, “Don’t call me that,” and disappears into the dim interior of the room.
I hold out my hand to Mr. Ruben. “Hi. I’m Dena Johnson.” I smile. “But you can call me John.”
All the risks pay off when my new best friend Ruben, who clearly has never set eyes on the real Dena Johnson in his life and hates Mr. Hoffmeier with a passion, raises his gaze from my boobs to my face and drawls, “Don’t mind if I do, John.”
With a lazy grin, he takes my hand in his and leads me inside.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve met the three other guys on the team, gotten a detailed description of all their security measures, secretly taken dozens of pictures of the equipment, and installed a bot into their mainframe via a USB drive I had stashed in my bra that will allow me access to their network via my own servers.
To say I hit the mother lode would really be understating the situation.
“Well!” I say brightly, smiling at Hoffmeier. “This has been wonderful! But I don’t want to keep you any longer on a Friday.” I turn to the four IT guys standing in a cluster to my right. Ruben is still staring at my boobs. This guy must not get out a lot. “Thank you so much for showing me around, guys. I really appreciate it. Corporate will hear exactly what kind of a job you’re all doing here.”
Hoffmeier beams. The three other guys—whose names I’ve forgotten—smile sheepishly and shift their weight from foot to foot. Ruben, coming out of his breast-induced stupor, says, “Sure, great, I’ll walk you out,” and takes me by the arm. He steers me out the door before Hoffmeier can get a word in.
“Nice meeting you!” I call over my shoulder, listening to Hoff exclaim behind me.
Ruben takes a shortcut through the facility. We’re in the lobby in no time. We stop beside a stand of potted palms in one corner, near the front door.
Ruben shoves his hands into his front pockets and stares at the floor. “So, uh, if you have any other questions, uh, I could, you know, take some time to answer them. Over drinks. Tonight.”
Aww. He’s asking me out.
It’s too bad I’ve sworn off men, because he’s actually really cute with his messy man-bun and scruffy beard.
It’s also too bad I’ll be costing him his job.
“Thanks, but I’ve got an early flight in the morning.”
He nods, looking like he knew a no would be forthcoming. Feeling bad for him, I lower my voice and lie, “Actually, I live with my boyfriend, or I totally would.”
Surprised, he looks up. I blink like a baby bird, which is what I do when I’m trying to look coy. I’m crap at flirting, but it seems to work, because Ruben breaks into a bashful smile.
“Okay. Well…if you guys ever break up…and you’re in the area again…”
I smile back, nodding, wondering how long it will take him to try to connect with Dena Johnson on Facebook or Instagram and get the surprise of his life.
I’m giving it an hour.
I murmur a good-bye, head out to my rental car, and tear out of the parking lot, tires squealing. In twenty minutes, I’m back in my suite at the Four Seasons Hotel. There’s a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice waiting in my room. The note accompanying the bottle reads:
A little gift to take the sting out of failure. Yours, Roger Hamilton.
I laugh for longer than I probably should, but honestly, showing a man his weaknesses after he’s insisted he doesn’t have any is a perversely satisfying part of this job. I can’t wait to demonstrate to the vastly overconfident CEO of GenCeuticals—Roger Hamilton, my client—exactly how much of a non-failure today was.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall. And nothing is ever completely secure, no matter what fail-safe systems you think you’ve put in place.
I kick off my heels, strip out of the loathsome tailored suit I wear only on jobs, ignore the champagne, and pour a sparkling water into one of the crystal flutes beside the ice bucket. I get into the bathtub, where I luxuriate in victory and soak until I’m almost a prune. Then I climb out, dry off, wrap the fluffy white towel around my body, and head to the bedroom.