Page 126 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Tabby stands. “Computer’s in the office.”
She doesn’t have to ask us to follow her; as soon as she takes a step, Connor, Darcy and I fall in line behind her like ducklings. She leads us to Victoria’s spacious office, and we crowd in behind her as she sits down behind the desk and fires up the computer.
Tabby types in concentrated silence for a moment while we watch behind her shoulder as she hacks into Hertz’s mainframe.
Connor mutters, “Those bozos need to hire me.” Beneath the irritation, a grudging respect resonates in his voice.
“Here!” Tabby points to the screen. “She turned the car in yesterday in Texas!”
I lean over the desk and stare at the computer screen. “What city?”
“Brownsville.”
I know it well. It’s a town about two hundred miles south of Laredo.
And, like Laredo, it’s situated right on the US border with Mexico.
“Mexico,” I whisper, my blood rising.
“It’s a big fuckin’ country, brother,” says Connor, folding his arms over his chest.
A smile spreads over my face. “Yeah. But it’s a start.”
THIRTY-NINE
~ Victoria ~
Six months later
“Carlos!” I holler at the ceiling, mopping at my forehead with a handkerchief that’s already soaked with my sweat. “¿Dónde está ese pinche ventilador?”
Where is the fucking fan?
You’d think he’d answer me after the first two blistering screams I sent his way, but my friend and coworker Carlos puts the dick in unpredictable.
At present, he could be enjoying a siesta facedown on his desk, having sex in his office with one of the boozy barmaids from the cantina across the street, or composing another terrible ballad on his guitar to woo said barmaids. There’s only about a five percent chance he’s actually doing the work he’s been hired to do, which is help people with very little money and even less English apply for work visas in the States.
Which means that in this dumpy law firm of three people—me, Carlos, and the proprietor, one very shady Ignacio Maximiliano Colón, who only shows up on Mondays for two hours before lunch to sign paperwork—I’m the only one doing any work.
I drop my armload of manila file folders on my desk and heave a sigh, gazing around the office. I suppose I’m looking for a stray fan to pop out from behind the dented file cabinets, or maybe hoping for a random breeze to filter through the sweltering room from the open windows near the front door, but no luck. It’s just as stifling as it was in here before I went into the other room to pull these case files.
Late summer in Mexico City. I might as well be standing on the surface of the sun.
I lift my chin and glare at the ceiling. “Carlooos!”
A voice behind me says in Spanish, “Calm down, Anacita, I’m standing right here.”
I whirl around.
He is standing right there, leaning casually against the doorway smoking a cigarette, as if he’s been there all along. He’s tall, young, and good-looking in a shaggy, unkempt sort of way. Rumpled clothes, a three-day beard and black hair desperately in need of a trim do nothing to distract from his long-lashed eyes, the color of topaz, or the muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt, or his easy, suggestive smile.
You get the picture: Carlos is hot. But he’s also ten years younger than me, and a certified man-whore, and I happen to be pining hard for someone else whose name I don’t permit myself to say. Or think. Or moan in the middle of the night when I’ve got my hand between my legs.
Carlos flashes his smile and says in his slow, sexy way, “Though I do love hearing you scream my name.”
I press my lips together so I don’t smile. Though I refuse to give
him one iota of encouragement, I have to admit it’s nice being flirted with. Especially considering this God-awful bleached hair of mine, which makes me look ridiculous. I had hoped it would give me a Gwen Stefani/Marilyn Monroe vibe, but all it did was make me look cheap.
