Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(34)

I turn to glare at him, my hands curled to fists. “Yeah, motherf*cker, it is. And in two seconds it’s going to be telling the time inside your colon.”

Connor coughs to cover his laugh. Appalled, Miranda lifts her hand to her throat. O’Doul says wearily, “Shut the f*ck up, Rodriguez, my daughter loves Hello Kitty.”

Abandoning my attitude of nonchalance, I turn back to O’Doul. “The name of the man you’re looking for is S?ren Killgaard. I went to school with him.” I glance at the jerk who made the watch comment. “MIT, in case you’re wondering.” Back to O’Doul: “I know how he thinks, I know how he codes, and I know it’s him using that hacker alias, because he’s eliminated anyone else who ever tried to use the name.”

At the same time, O’Doul and Connor say, “Eliminated?”

“Use your imagination,” I respond, looking back and forth between them. “The part where all the monsters live.”

Connor does this thing where he seems to inflate, like a cat when it bristles all its fur upon sensing danger. I can’t decide if it’s interesting or ridiculous, but all the other men in the room except O’Doul definitely seem to think it’s intimidating as hell. I’ve never seen a group of men shrink as a collective.

Before Connor turns into the Incredible Hulk, I say, “I can make contact with S?ren in five minutes. In under an hour, I can have a program installed on Miranda’s server to counteract the damage his malware is doing. And if you don’t get in my way, by tomorrow at this time I can—most likely—find out exactly where he is. If I fail, you’ve lost nothing.”

The room is silent. When I look at Connor, I feel everything he’s feeling as if an invisible wire is connected to our chests.

In a low, controlled voice, he asks, “You know how to contact him?”

I know he’s not asking for a yes or a no. He’s asking for an explanation.

“He left me a channel. A way to reach him in case I ever changed my mind.”

O’Doul steps farther into the room, his eyes sharpening. “Changed your mind? About what?”

All at once, the room feels too hot. My skin feels too tight. My hands are cold and clammy. I say simply, “About joining him.”

And because of that invisible connection between us, I feel the exact moment Connor begins to doubt me.





Fourteen





Tabby




It takes several hours to unload all my equipment from Connor’s Hummer and set it up. During that time, Miranda retires to her office to get some sleep on the couch—it’s past midnight—O’Doul and I have arrived at a tenuous truce brought about by my successful effort to thwart S?ren’s malware attack with an antimalware program of my own, and Connor has become increasingly agitated.

I’m not sure anyone else would notice it, but I’m attuned to him now. To his facial tics and the timbre of his voice, to the way he holds himself when under strain yet trying to look as if he’s not. He’s exceptionally good at maintaining his composure…except when he looks at me.

When he looks at me, his eyes blaze so hot, I think I might ignite.

This time, however, it’s unclear if the fire in his eyes is lust.

“Can I have a word?” he says under his breath, leaning over my shoulder.

My hands freeze on the keyboard. I glance up to find him staring down at me, his face like a slab of granite. “Now isn’t really a good time,” I say, stalling. “I’m searching the root directory for—”

“I’ll meet you in the ladies’ room.” He turns and strides away, his back stiff.

I glance around. In spite of my warnings to the contrary, all the agents are at their computers, avidly searching for the name S?ren Killgaard in every directory and database they have access to, including O’Doul, who is pecking away relentlessly with his stubby index fingers at a laptop.

They won’t find anything—as I told them they wouldn’t—but the real problem is that now S?ren will know they have his name.

And he’ll start wondering who gave it to them.

I rise as casually as I can and wander out of the room as if I just need to stretch my legs.

The ladies’ room is down the hall. I enter with trepidation, dreading what’s on the other side of the door:

Connor, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread apart, scowling.

“Funny meeting you here.” I let the door swing shut behind me.

“What was your relationship with S?ren Killgaard.”

It isn’t a question, it’s a demand, delivered with dangerous softness. I decide to sidestep. “In the words of your client, my feelings about the subject are immaterial.”

“I didn’t ask about your feelings. I asked about your relationship.”

We stare at each other. The color is high in his cheeks. His breathing is slightly irregular.

“Why?” I ask softly. “Are you jealous?”

“Fuck yes,” comes the instant, husky response. “But that’s not why I’m asking.”

A little thrill burns through me at his admission. “Then why are you asking?”

“Because there’s a hell of a lot you’re not telling me, and that lack of knowledge could compromise this job.”