Page 55 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
Appearing in rapid succession on the monitor is a series of pictures of battle: atomic mushroom clouds, planes dropping bombs over targets, buildings exploding under heavy mortar fire. At the bottom left of the screen is a white skull and crossbones—the skull has flaming eyes—with a bar of text. Ryan reads it aloud.
“‘Give me a name, or there is no avoiding war.’” He snorts. “Melodramatic much?”
“That’s Machiavelli, not melodrama.”
Everyone turns to the sound of the voice.
It’s Tabby, standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the room. She’s obviously dead tired, but still sexy as fuck in spite of it. Her eyes are heavy lidded, her hair tumbles over her shoulders in an appealing mess. She’s wearing the clothes she had on earlier, but pared down: unlaced combat boots, skintight black jeans, a black T-shirt that’s about three sizes too small and does an incredible job of showcasing her slender waist and the fullness of her breasts.
She yawns and stretches, arms overhead, arching her back. The T-shirt rides up her flat stomach to display the glittering jewel tucked into her navel and part of the tiger tattoo lower down. I know it’s not my imagination that the temperature in the room seems to jump by several degrees.
Standing next to me, Ryan mutters, “Mercy.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. The way everyone is looking at her.
The way she’s now looking at me, with complete disgust.
Harry says, “Pardon?”
Tabby moves into the room. Nineteen pairs of eyes follow her every move. She stops on the other side of the desk from me and stares down at the screen.
“Niccolo Machiavelli, the Renaissance philosopher. It’s part of a quote of his. ‘There is no avoiding war, it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.’”
When no one responds, she looks up and around. “None of you has read Machiavelli?”
“No, ma’am,” says Ryan. “But he sure sounds fascinatin’. I’d love to hear all about him real soon.”
While I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end the way it does just before I pull the trigger on a kill, Tabby blinks at Ryan and looks him up and down.
“Who are you?”
“Ryan T. McLean, ma’am. At your service.” His gaze rakes over her. “And you are?”
Before I can snarl Off limits! Tabby says, “Tabitha West. But you can call me Tabby.”
Ryan grins. “I once saw a thoroughbred named Tabby win at Belmont Park. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Obviously charmed, Tabby grins back at him. “What’s the ‘T’ stand for?”
“Tiberius.”
Her brows shoot up. “Like Captain Kirk or the Roman emperor?”
Impressed, Ryan blinks. “Like Captain Kirk. My parents are huge Trekkies.”
“Well,” Tabby says, looking him over, “it suits you. You have the look of a man who could captain a starship.”
“Why thank you, ma’am,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest so his big, tattooed biceps are on full display. “And may I say I really like that T-shirt. Does it, uh…have any special meanin’?”
Tabby’s T-shirt reads: “Pussy Riot.” She glances down at herself. “It’s a Russian feminist punk rock protest group.”
Ryan thoughtfully strokes his goatee. “Oh. And here I thought it might be somethin’ straight outta one of my wet dreams.”
Heat sweeps up my neck and into my face. Tabby looks at me…and smiles.
I think if I look anywhere but right at her, I might accidentally murder someone.
