Page 62 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
With quiet resignation, Tabby says, “It will take hours for the traceback to compile a report. Then more hours to comb through it to see if there’s anything useful. In the meantime, to appease him a little, we should give him some money. Make it look like we’re trying to comply with his demands.”
Miranda points out, “You said he doesn’t care about money.”
“He doesn’t. But it’s our only play if we want to stay in the game. It’ll buy us time to try to figure out what he’s really after, and maybe unruffle a few feathers so he doesn’t blow the whole thing to shit.” Her voice drops. “Obedience is always rewarded.”
That last part sends a rash of chills down my spine. I share a look with Ryan. I know our thoughts are aligned: This freak Søren Killgaard needs to be put down.
Tabby glances at Miranda. “His demand is now at twenty million, correct?”
Miranda nods. “But my assets are primarily real estate, stocks, equity in the studio. I don’t have that kind of cash just lying around.”
Tabby stands, pulls her shoulders back, takes a breath. She lets it out in a noisy rush.
“I do.”
Eighteen
Tabby
The first thing out of O’Doul’s mouth is a flat, “No.”
His tone suggests there’s no room for argument. Naturally, I do anyway.
“Miranda can pay me back—”
“No. As soon as he has the money, he’ll make good on all his threats. We never negotiate—”
“This isn’t negotiating,” I interrupt wearily. I’m so tired, my eyes are crossed. “This is stalling. It’s strategic—”
“Tabitha.”
Connor says my name so gently, it startles me. I look at him, standing next to the blond, tattooed bulk of Ryan T. McLean, who, though large and intimidating in his own right, is dwarfed by his boss. Between the two of them, there’s so much free-floating testosterone in the room that a girl could get pregnant through osmosis.
But the look in Connor’s eyes…oh God. My poor heart can’t take much more of this.
He murmurs, “Please. Listen to Harry.”
When I open my mouth, Connor holds up a hand. Even more gently than before, he says, “Please.”
You son of a bitch. Please? After you practically accuse me of setting this whole thing up, you have the nerve to say please? Nicely?
But I don’t say anything out loud, because his eyes are wrecking me. His voice is wrecking me. The memory of his face is wrecking me, how he looked when his body was moving inside mine, his expression of adoration, of reverence, as if what he felt wasn’t just physical pleasure, but something a little more…
Sacred.
Connor didn’t just fuck me. He made love to me. And no matter how much I might want to deny it, what happened between us was far more profound than a casual screw.
One night, he’d promised.
I don’t know which one of us is the bigger fool.
“So what are we supposed to do now?” Miranda starts up her pacing again, back and forth over a few feet of carpet, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Just wait and see what happens?”
“Go home,” answers Harry. “Get some sleep. There’s nothing more you can do here. If anything happens, we’ll call you.” He glances at me, and then at Connor. “The same goes for you—”
“I already slept,” I say dully, dragging a hand through my hair.
Harry looks at me, his lips in a wry twist. “Forty-five minutes curled up in an armchair doesn’t count as sleep, Miss West.”
