Page 6 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
There’s a shrug in her voice. “Men can’t help themselves, Connor. Boobs are your gender’s Kryptonite. I don’t take it personally.”
Still bristling, I look at her. “Well, I do. You could be mine, for all that asshole knows.”
She arches one elegant eyebrow. “Sure. In an alternate universe where I don’t have an IQ approaching two hundred points and you’re not a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal with a god complex and one too many pairs of cargo pants, I suppose that could be a possibility.”
It’s my turn to raise a brow. “You’re in no position to diss my wardrobe, sweetheart. The fuck is that thing dangling from your belly button, a fishing lure? You trolling for largemouth bass?”
I suspect she wants to laugh. Her lips press together as if to keep a rogue grin at bay. Instead, she says coolly, “Hey, I’m not the one who always dresses like he’s going to a military funeral. You realize they make clothes in colors other than black, right?”
“I’ll wear something other than black when they make something darker.”
The bartender returns with my scotch. His gaze firmly affixed to the bar, he politely asks Tabby, “And what may I get for you, miss?”
She shoots me a sour look. I grin.
“Ice water with lemon, please.”
“Ice water?” I ask once the bartender has left.
Something odd crosses her face, there but quickly gone. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Lemme guess. Vegan?”
She curls her lip. “Please. I eat so much meat, I’m practically a meatatarian. And what does drinking ice water have to do with being vegan?”
“The fuck should I know?”
She inspects my face for a moment, and then says, “One of these days, I’ll ask what you have against the words ‘what’ and ‘how.’ Until then, why don’t you tell why you’re here.”
She slides onto the stool next to me, crosses her long legs, props her chin on her hand, and waits.
I can almost feel the old guy behind me having a heart attack. Must be staring at her legs. They’re pretty fucking spectacular, if I do say so myself.
“Got a client,” I say. “High level. With a delicate situation. Knew you’d gone freelance after Victoria, heard through the grapevine you were killin’ it. Today proves I heard right.”
She tries not to look smug about that last part but fails. “What’s the situation?”
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.”
