Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(6)

I shake my head. “That’s classified unless you’ve signed on the dotted line.”

“What’s the job?”

“See my previous answer.”

She looks at the ceiling as if for divine intervention. After a moment during which I imagine her counting to ten to control the urge to stab me in the eye with the shiny lure attached to her navel, she says, “Can you at least tell me who the client is?”

“Miranda Lawson.”

Tabby’s eyes widen. “The Miranda Lawson?”

I knew that would get her. There’s nothing Tabitha West likes better than another ball-busting woman who had to claw her way to the top over a pile of male corpses. “Yep.”

The bartender sets a glass of water in front of her and leaves without a word. She takes a sip from the glass, thoughtfully crunches on an ice cube. “So the job’s in LA.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Will I be working at her movie studio?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“That’s it.”

She stares at me like I’m a complete idiot. “You expect me to commit to a job based on no information other than a name.”

“Pays half a million.”

That stops her cold. She freezes with her glass halfway to her mouth, and then slowly sets it down and looks at me. “Nobody pays half a million for a pen test.”

“Never said it was a pen test.”

She studies my face, but she won’t find anything I don’t want her to see.

“You have to give me something else, Connor. I don’t go into situations blind. It’s not how I work.”

She’s serious. I can see that much. Stalling, I take a swig of my scotch. I relish the burn for a moment, considering my answer. “You have a particular skill set that’s necessary for this job. None of my guys can do what you can do.”

“You can’t do what I can do,” she shoots back, challenging me.

I know a lot of men who’d never admit a woman was better than them at anything. But I’m man enough to admit the truth. “Nobody can do what you can do, Tabby.”

She blinks.

I sense a chink in her armor and press my advantage. “I’m flying out in the morning. Got a meeting with Lawson tomorrow. If all goes well, we’re looking at maybe a week before the job’s done. Then you can go back to your life and you’ll never see me again. Only you’ll be half a million bucks richer.”

She sniffs. “I don’t need the money. I never have to work again if I don’t want to.”

It’s another challenge. So I challenge her right back. “Okay. But I’m betting you’d go out of your f*ckin’ mind if you didn’t have a puzzle to solve. Right?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. Then she turns away and mutters, “Bullshit doesn’t suit you, jarhead.”

I lightly grasp her chin, turn her face, and look her right in the eyes. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. I’m including myself in that statement, and I’m one smart motherf*cker. I want you on this job. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t know you were perfect for it.”

She stares back at me silently. A furrow forms between her brows. When she pulls her full lower lip between her teeth, I realize how close my face is to hers.

She has a beauty mark near her right eyebrow, a tiny, perfect spot of velvet brown. Otherwise, her skin is flawless. Creamy, I think you’d call it. And those eyes, sweet Jesus, those eyes that can turn a man to stone can also light his imagination on fire.

Smelling her skin, sitting so close, looking into those jungle cat eyes, my imagination is definitely ablaze.

Tabby abruptly withdraws. She licks her lips, swallows, turns her attention back to her glass of water. In a flat voice, she says, “Well. Thanks for that, but I work alone. Also I just remembered I hate you.” She downs the water all in one gulp like it’s whiskey, stands, and, without looking at me, says, “See you in another life, jarhead.”

She turns and walks away.

Fuck.

I call out after her, “Think about it, Tabby. I’m at the Carlisle until six tomorrow morning if you change your mind.”

She keeps walking, making no indication she’s heard me. Feeling a little desperate, I add, “You got something better to do, sweet cheeks? Go back to New York and work on your Hello Kitty handbag collection? Get a few more tattoos?”

Over her shoulder, she flips me the bird. The old guy on the stool next to me cackles.

I turn around and give him my signature death glare, the one that always shuts dumb motherf*ckers up.

But he’s a scrappy old goat, not easily scared. He just cackles again, shaking his head. He says, “Don’t worry, son. I’m sure someday you’ll figure out how to talk to a woman.”

I growl, “Mind your business, Grandpa.”

Another cackle. Must be his signature thing, like my death glare. He says, “A little finesse wouldn’t kill you, boy.”

The f*cking balls on this geezer! “Excuse me?”

“Convincing a woman to do something you want her to do isn’t like Operation Desert Storm. You can’t go in all shock and awe, balls to the wall. Trust me, I been married four times. You gotta make her think it was her idea. You know.” He wiggles his fingers in the air. “Finesse.”