False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(72)
Goddammit, Tila.
“Now, you’re in,” Ensi says. “You help me, I help you, and all of San Francisco is at your fingertips.”
I force myself to smile, as if that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Really, I’d rather grab a nearby candlestick, bash him over the head and run away. Evidently I’m capable of it. I flinch at the violent urge. Did the Verve or the Test change me? I finish the drink and set the glass on the little table by the sofa.
“You caught my eye when we first met,” he says, standing and drifting closer to one of the paintings on the wall. I join him, my mind still spinning. Where did they meet? When? “You put yourself to any task I asked of you with a single-mindedness few possess. You’ve proved yourself at the Verve lounge, these last few weeks. I have no doubt you’ll be an asset to us.”
He has a way of speaking that seems familiar. Didactic—that’s what it is. Expansive, confident, the way Mana-ma would deliver a sermon. His voice draws me in close. I try to resist his spell. I wonder if there are still remnants of the drug in my system, or if he exudes some sort of pheromone that I can’t resist, either manufactured or natural, that makes me want to open to him like a flower. I close my eyes and call on Mana-ma’s training, imagining a bright light cleansing my whole body. When I open my eyes, I feel in control of myself, cold and calculating.
“When do we start?” I ask.
“Soon enough. Tonight, though, is a celebration. Don’t worry about business for now.” He moves closer, holds out his hand. “Shall we dance?”
I take his hand, warm and soft. No manual labor for him. “Shouldn’t we go downstairs, where the music is?”
With a flick of his eyes, the same music that plays downstairs flows through unseen speakers. “Much as I’d like to, I can’t go down to join in. Not just yet.” He smiles to himself, as if he’s told an amusing joke. I shiver.
His hand moves around my waist, slipping on the silver fabric. It reminds me of when I danced with Nazarin, and I flinch from that memory. I put my arms up around his neck. He’s six inches taller than me, even with my heels. We move in time to the music.
“Ah, little Tila,” he says. “What a relief. After that Test I know all about you.”
His words are ominous rather than reassuring. I look into his eyes as he dances. I can’t see any sign that he doesn’t think I’m Tila, but I’m still nervous. We’re similar, my sister and I, but our personalities are not identical. I’m also sure the Ratel have looked up Tila’s file and know she has a twin, and I have to hope they know the twin is meant to have a different face.
We dance to the music, soft and steady. It’s almost hypnotic. Ensi knows just where to put his feet, just how to move. Before long, he bends his head down to kiss me, and I open my mouth to his. His mouth is warm and sweet, tasting of spices and whiskey. He’s surprisingly gentle for the crime lord of the city, yet firm. He wants me. And he expects to get me.
It occurs to me again that I still have time to change my mind. Draw away and shake my head and smile, reach for some whiskey. I could say I was unwell or on my period. I don’t. I’m choosing to kiss him.
There are several things that keep me kissing him. One: sex is a way to get to understand him better, to see him in a state of vulnerability. Two: these are his personal chambers, or one set of them. I’m pretty sure Alex Kynon is actually one of his (several) aliases. There could be something in here I need. There are wallscreens. I’ve brainloaded a lot of information on hacking during the last few days. If he trusts me, it will make it all the easier for me to get what I need from him. Three: he’s a good kisser and I’m surprisingly into it. Four: it’s what Tila would do.
It’s risky, though. For all I’m close with my sister, we’re not close enough that I know exactly how she has sex. I have to hope we’re similar enough. Another thought of Nazarin and Tila together. Such strange, inverted parallels. Stop. Nothing happened. Let that go. Focus on the here and now.
His arms move lower, and I can feel the strength in his fingertips. Perhaps I enjoy the danger. Perhaps I’m more like Tila than I thought.
He picks me up, presses me against him. His hair tickles my face. I wrap my arms and legs around him and he carries me to the sofa.
The music trails away, forgotten. He pushes me into the soft velvet. I kiss him fiercely. His fingers run through my short, blue hair. I dance my fingers along the skin of his neck, unbuttoning his shirt. He helps me, shrugging off his coat and pulling his shirt over his head. He has a swimmer’s body, with hardly any fat to speak of, his abs a rippled six-pack. I touch his skin, and he shivers.
A little notebook peeks out of his jacket, and attached to it, I see a small datapod. I half-lid my eyes as I study it. I want it. It’s important enough he keeps it on him at all times in the inside pocket of his jacket, where no one can get it.
He soon distracts me, at least somewhat, from the thought of the little paper book. His lips move from mine, down to my neck. I arch against him, my nerves on fire. The adrenaline of the recent Test is still pumping through my body. I pull him against me, nipping his neck with my teeth.
Those long, nimble fingers work at the zipper at the hollow of my neck. Within moments, I’m exposed to him from neck to navel. He traces the scar down my sternum with his fingertip. It reminds me uncomfortably of Nazarin.