Page 11 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
My silence must last a long time, because Reynard eventually asks, “Are you still there?”
“He’s a merc,” I say, miserable with disbelief. “Of all the men in all the world who could’ve been staying in that room, he’s a mercenary. A knife-wielding, kidnapped-daughter-extracting, goddamn mercenary.”
“Yes,” Reynard drawls, amused. “He certainly is. Am I to take it your article won’t be completed by deadline? That could be problematic, my darling.”
I grit my teeth and straighten my spine. “I’ve never missed a deadline yet, have I?”
“That’s my girl,” says Reynard, his voice a purr. “See you on the other side.”
As always, he hangs up with that cryptic goodbye.
“Well, it could be worse,” I say aloud to the empty room. “At least it’s not raining. The climb up to Khalid’s balcony would be really treacherous in the rain.”
From somewhere off in the distant mountains comes a low roll of thunder. I flop onto my back on the bed and close my eyes.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Four
Ryan
If my boner doesn’t chill pretty soon, I’m gonna have to seek medical attention.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, looking down at the big guy jutting out from the front of the towel wrapped around my waist. “Would you behave?”
He doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t budge. I’ve got an organ that’s been sticking out at a ninety-degree angle from my body for the past three and a half hours. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d grab a length of duct tape and tape him to my leg.
I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror, slap my face with a dollop of foam, and start to shave. It’s awkward because I have to tilt my hips back so I don’t bash my dick on the edge of the sink. I finish the shave, brush my teeth, comb my wet hair, and throw on clean clothes, thinking the entire time about a brown-haired siren who seems about as likely to kiss me as she is to stab me in the back with an ice pick.
I haven’t been this turned on in years.
Whistling, I set the motion detectors and alarms that will send an alert to my cell if they’re tripped, and lock my hotel door. I’m ten minutes early, but I don’t want to miss Angeline coming off the elevator. The woman moves like poetry. I’ve got the perfect spot in mind where I’m gonna stand and wait until she comes down.
Angeline Lemaire, age twenty-six, born and raised in Paris, France. Freelance travel writer for Condé Nast and National Geographic Travel, among others. Graduated from the Sorbonne with a degree in journalism, never married, no children, no criminal record, pays her taxes on time.
Biggest load of bullshit ever invented. Boring, too. If I were gonna invent a background for myself, you can bet it would include something awesome like astronaut or race car driver. A writer? Seriously? She looks like a Bond girl, all slinky strides and knife-blade eyes. She should’ve gone with “international lingerie model/boner inducer.” It would’ve been way more believable.
Fuck, this is gonna be fun.
So. Much. Fun.
I have to remember to thank Tabby for updating Metrix’s computer systems. The search program she installed is amazing. I have a suspicion it’s somehow linked to the National Security Administration’s database, but hell if I’m gonna ask. The less I know the better.
I take my time as I make my way through the hotel to the lobby. Anticipation buzzes inside my gut like I’ve swallowed a beehive. All my senses are heightened. Sharpened. I’ve got that jacked-up feeling I get right before a midnight raid.
The lobby of the hotel is swanky but understated, decorated in classic, laid-back island style. The scent of rain and orchids perfume the air. One entire wall is open to the view of the ocean, letting the balmy evening breezes drift in. The guests are swanky too, jet-set types from around the world, dripping diamonds and scorn.
I make a quick loop through the lobby to check the exits—old habits die hard—then take my position in front of a stand of potted palms between the main elevators and the entrance to the restaurant. By my calculation, Angeline will have to walk toward me for a good thirty seconds, giving me plenty of time to enjoy the view.
Unfortunately, Darcy and Kai get off the elevator first. They spot me instantly.
“Ryan!” Darcy bellows from halfway down the hall. Startled, several people turn to see what the commotion is.
I lift a hand, trying not to smile. “Yo, Darcy.”
She hustles over, Kai in tow, as people watch in fascination. Her dress is short, low-cut, zebra print, with high-heeled boots to match. So much cleavage abounds, I’m sure she has to wear scaffolding instead of a bra. She walks like a bulldozer and jangles with gold bracelets halfway up both arms. Kai’s wearing purple pants, white lace-up shoes, and a shirt an eye-watering shade of orange, topped off by a golf cap set at a jaunty angle.
They look like circus performers.
