Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(36)
“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 S?ren found out what all you busy little bees were up to.”
The room falls quiet. It’s O’Doul who finally speaks.
“You’re saying the hacker cut the power to the building? How? And how would he know we’re searching for his name? We’re on the FBI’s secure virtual private network—”
I laugh. “Spare me your ‘secure’ crap, O’Doul. The FBI’s VPN is about as solid as Swiss cheese.”
My new arch nemesis, Rodriguez, drawls, “Riiight. Let me guess—you think you could hack it.”
The energy in the room changes. I’ve got fifteen guys—sixteen including O’Doul— looking at me as if I’m either full of shit or off my rocker. They’re shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, like I couldn’t possibly be legit because no one can hack the FBI’s site, and probably also because I don’t have a dick.
I grin. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.
“O’Doul, I need you to guarantee me immunity from prosecution by the FBI or any other law enforcement agency for what I’m going to do in the next five minutes.”
Rodriguez snorts. “Five minutes? Are you high? You can’t hack into the FBI’s VPN in five—”
“I’m not in a position to grant anyone immunity,” lies O’Doul, making me laugh again.
“C’mon, buddy. You’re the head of the NCIJTF! I wasn’t born yesterday.” When his expression sharpens, I add, “You’ve got fifteen witnesses who can attest to what happens in case anything goes sideways, which it won’t.” I glance at Rodriguez. “This is just a little pissing contest.” I turn my attention back to O’Doul. “If it makes you feel better, you can consider it a bit of free security consulting for Uncle Sam. And after I win, you and I will have a nice long talk about the man you’re dealing with at the other end of cyberspace.”
O’Doul says drily, “Yes, about that. No one by the name S?ren Killgaard exists. We’ve been checking for the last two hours.”
“And don’t you find that interesting, that on this planet with a population over seven billion people, not a single one of them has the given name S?ren with the surname Killgaard? Not one social media profile? Not one utility bill? Not one birth—or death—certificate, driver’s license or credit card? What do you think the odds are of that?”