Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(42)

I needed to get my head screwed on straight before I talked to Tabby.

Whether she’d let that happen was up in the air. She’d curled up in a chair in the new COM center and gone to sleep without once looking in my direction. Or accepting my suggestion that she sleep on the sofa I’d had brought in for her.

Harry had asked that we both stay on premises until further notice…though I knew it really wasn’t a request.

So I’d found a quiet spot for a nap in someone’s office and gone to sleep.

And now someone is shaking me awake.

I open my eyes to find a man—goateed, tatted, grinning—standing over me.

“Gettin’ your beauty rest, pumpkin?”

“Ryan.” I’m on my feet and slapping him on the back in greeting before the word is all the way out of my mouth. I’m surprised how relieved I am to see him. Impulsively, I pull him into a hug.

“Gee, boss,” he says, my arms still around him, “one day in LA and you’re already battin’ for the other team? What’re they puttin’ in the water out here?”

“Fuck you,” I say with gruff affection and push him away. “And if I was going to bat for the other team, your ugly ass is the last place I’d start.”

Still smiling, he crosses his arms over his chest. At just over six feet tall, Ryan McLean is a few inches shorter than I am, but bigger than pretty much everyone else. We served together in the corps, and as soon as he aged out of Special Ops, I recruited him to Metrix. He’s an expert in close-quarter battle tactics, weapons, and recon.

And despite my teasing, he’s not ugly. His nickname is Thor, because the resemblance to the Norse comic book superhero is uncanny. All he needs is a flowing cape and an oversized hammer and he could star in the movie. Add a sleepy Georgia accent and a pair of baby blue eyes to the mix, and he’s the kind of “not ugly” that melts panties.

Those blue eyes now squint at me. “You all right?”

I drag a hand through my hair, shake my head to clear it. “Been a strange coupla days.”

“So you said. Wasn’t sure what to make of your phone call last night, brother. You sounded…not like yourself. Got on a plane fast as I could.”

I don’t want to get into exactly how much I’m not myself at the moment, so I deflect with a question. “You see Harry yet?”

Ryan nods. “He brought me up to date. And they just got another email from the target. Apparently this Maelstr0m is none too f*ckin’ happy someone on our team cock-blocked his malware. Says he wants the name of who did it. Threatenin’ all kind of mayhem if we don’t give it up.”

“Fuck. All right. Let’s hit it.”

I leave the room, Ryan by my side. When we reach the COM center, Miranda is already there, pacing back and forth in front of the windows. Harry and his boys are gathered around a desk set up with computer equipment, staring at a single monitor. Tabby is noticeably absent.

“Heard you had contact,” I say, stopping next to Harry.

With a subtle smile, he jerks his chin at the screen. “Looks like this Killgaard character doesn’t like sharing his toys.” He sends me a sidelong glance, which I don’t take the time to interpret because I’m too busy staring in fascination at the screen.

Appearing in rapid succession on the monitor is a series of pictures of battle: atomic mushroom clouds, planes dropping bombs over targets, buildings exploding under heavy mortar fire. At the bottom left of the screen is a white skull and crossbones—the skull has flaming eyes—with a bar of text. Ryan reads it aloud.

“‘Give me a name, or there is no avoiding war.’” He snorts. “Melodramatic much?”

“That’s Machiavelli, not melodrama.”

Everyone turns to the sound of the voice.

It’s Tabby, standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the room. She’s obviously dead tired, but still sexy as f*ck in spite of it. Her eyes are heavy lidded, her hair tumbles over her shoulders in an appealing mess. She’s wearing the clothes she had on earlier, but pared down: unlaced combat boots, skintight black jeans, a black T-shirt that’s about three sizes too small and does an incredible job of showcasing her slender waist and the fullness of her breasts.

She yawns and stretches, arms overhead, arching her back. The T-shirt rides up her flat stomach to display the glittering jewel tucked into her navel and part of the tiger tattoo lower down. I know it’s not my imagination that the temperature in the room seems to jump by several degrees.

Standing next to me, Ryan mutters, “Mercy.”

I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. The way everyone is looking at her.

The way she’s now looking at me, with complete disgust.

Harry says, “Pardon?”

Tabby moves into the room. Nineteen pairs of eyes follow her every move. She stops on the other side of the desk from me and stares down at the screen.

“Niccolo Machiavelli, the Renaissance philosopher. It’s part of a quote of his. ‘There is no avoiding war, it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.’”

When no one responds, she looks up and around. “None of you has read Machiavelli?”

“No, ma’am,” says Ryan. “But he sure sounds fascinatin’. I’d love to hear all about him real soon.”