Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(7)

I look back to the entrance of the bar just in time to see Tabby disappear around the corner, her shoulders stiff, her head held high.

Finesse, he says. Not exactly my strong suit.

Fuck.





Three





Tabby




When I get back to my room, I lie on the sofa and do deep-breathing exercises for ten minutes before the urge to break something passes.

What. The hell. Was that?

Just seeing him was strange enough. Out of the blue after three years, Connor Hughes materializes from thin air in my hotel room like f*cking Cowboy Dracula, all Hiya! Howdy, pardner! Have I got an offer for you!

As if we don’t have history.

As if he doesn’t know I hate him.

And then the mysterious, cloak-and-dagger, I’d-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you job offer.

I admit I was tempted by the thought of meeting Miranda Lawson. I’ve always admired her. She’s a true genius, and those are rarer than unicorns. Graduated MIT—my alma mater—at seventeen, then attended USC film school and received an MFA in film and television production. Became the youngest female studio head in any movie studio’s history at twenty-five. Founded her own studio at thirty. In the decade since, she’s churned out blockbuster after blockbuster, attributed to a proprietary statistical analysis software she developed which can apparently predict what the movie-viewing public will enjoy with frightening accuracy.

She’s fiercely intelligent, utterly unapologetic, and more competent than any man.

What’s not to like?

Sure, she’s got haters. A lot of them, from what I’ve read in the press. But the number of f*cks she gives about what people think of her is equal to the number of times Connor Hughes has said, “I don’t know.”

Arrogant prick.

Although I grudgingly admit he shocked the hell out of me with that “you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met” shtick. Not sure if it was even in the neighborhood of genuine, but he definitely managed to look sincere.

He looked a few other things too. Like…intense. Intimate.

Aroused.

And we’re breathing.

I’m sure there are women who’d consider his kind of rugged, mountain-man type attractive, but I’m definitely not one of them. Two-day growth of beard, thighs like tree trunks, shoulders like a linebacker…ugh. He’s f*cking uncivilized is what he is. A big, barbarian ape. He probably chews with his mouth open.

Why would he even think I’d consider working with him?

The last time I saw him, I was in crisis mode. My best friend and employer, Victoria, had disappeared, the police had just interrogated me about my relationship with her, and in walks Victoria’s ex, Parker, with his hired gun jarhead, demanding answers. It all turned out fine in the end, but I’ll never forget how insensitive Connor was. How he laughed at me.

How small he made me feel.

Yeah, he’s a prick. A self-involved bulldozer of a man who I want absolutely nothing to do with. And, more importantly, any job I take has to be within driving distance. I’ve never been on a plane in my life. I’m not about to start now.

Not even for Miranda Lawson.

Right, I think, sitting up on the sofa. Moving on.

I’m driving back to New York first thing in the morning, so I put together the report for Roger Hamilton, order room service, and pack. Then I eat my dinner on the couch while watching TV.

Just as I’m about to get into bed a few hours later, someone slips an envelope under my door.

I stare at it like it’s full of anthrax. Who would be slipping me notes? At this hour? Here?

Only one way to find out.

I walk with trepidation to the door, open it, and peek out. The hallway is empty and silent. I close the door, pick up the envelope, and pull out a single sheet of paper. It’s handwritten in blocky, blunt print. The first line alone has me gasping.

I owe you an apology.

It wasn’t my intention to insult you, but I think that’s what I’ve done. I’m not very good at treading lightly. Truth be told, I have one setting, and that’s full steam ahead. Sometimes I forget my manners.

Sometimes I’m a dick.

You were right to flip me off, and I can’t honestly say I blame you for walking out. What I can say is that I wasn’t bullshitting you when I said I wanted you on this job. Not to sound like a stalker, but I’ve kept any eye on what you’ve been up to the past three years, and I’m damn impressed. I think you could rule the world if you wanted to, Tabby.

Anyway. Since I won’t ever see you again, I’ll take this opportunity to say I’m sorry. Sincerely. Best of luck to you. I’m sure whatever you’re working on next will be much more interesting than meeting Miranda Lawson.

Yours,

Connor





I stand there with the letter in my hands for what feels like a long time. Then I crumple the letter in my fist. “Nice try, jarhead.”

I throw the letter in the trash.



The drive from DC to Manhattan is just under five hours with no traffic. Since it’s a Saturday and I left with the sunrise, I expected to be home by noon. Unfortunately, there was a pileup on the New Jersey Turnpike, so it took an additional few hours. By the time I get home, I’m crabby and ravenous.