Page 17 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“I’ve got a full minibar, Angel,” he says, grinning. “Name your poison.”
“Bourbon.”
His eyebrows lift. He nods approvingly. “America’s number one spirit. Interestin’ choice for a girl from Paris.” He winks and saunters across the room toward the wet bar, leaving me astonished once again.
He knows I’m not from Paris.
How does he know?
Who is this guy?
“I’m going to snoop around now,” I pronounce.
“Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I got nothin’ to hide from you.” He doesn’t even turn, just casually proceeds to pour us drinks.
Teetering between exasperation, exhilaration, and the urge to abandon the job altogether and run away quick as I can, I kick off my heels, set my handbag on the TV console, and look around.
His room is large, with one wall missing and open to the view of the sea, as all the rooms in the resort are. Built right into the side of a mountain, the resort is the playground for the rich and famous, those who require both luxury and privacy. Everything about the décor and architecture supports both needs, from the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets to the huge wading pools on the balconies to the ban on camera use in all the public spaces.
I walk through the living room and stare at the view. In the distance, the ocean sparkles under patchy moonlight. Fat gray thunderclouds slink down the hills. A humid breeze stirs my hair.
Ryan appears silently beside me and hands me my drink. “Gonna be a storm tonight.” He looks sideways at me. He’s not smiling.
I gulp the bourbon. It sears a stinging path down my throat. Steady, Mari. Steady.
I begin my inspection of the room.
First stop is the dresser. I pull open a drawer and peer inside. Underwear. White cotton briefs, folded with military precision. I resist the urge to touch them and close the drawer. The next drawer holds T-shirts, all of them plain black, all of them exactly alike. He must look amazing in them, tattooed biceps bulging from beneath the sleeves, the color setting off his golden skin and hair…
Who’s running this show, Mari? You, or your ovaries?
I close my eyes, take another swig of my drink, and close that drawer, too.
Ryan relaxes onto the sofa. He watches with cynical interest as I open and close the rest of the dresser drawers. “If you’re lookin’ for my gun, Angel,” he drawls. “I’m wearin’ it.”
I smile at him. “Hammerless slimline .38 strapped to your left ankle. I know.”
The laser-beam look he gives me would slice a lesser woman in two, but I merely smile wider, enjoying myself, and stroll over to the teak armoire. I swing open the door.
A row of white dress shirts, spotless and crisp, like the one he’s wearing. Dark-wash jeans, also like the ones he’s wearing, hang next to the shirts. On the floor are three pairs of shoes, black leather Ferragamos, same as the ones he’s wearing, and a lone pair of flip-flops. I turn and look at him.
“You have very specific taste in clothing.”
“And women.”
He takes a drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. One arm is stretched casually over the back of the sofa. His legs are spread wide. He takes up a lot of space just sitting there. He fills up the whole room. I’ve never met a man with so much presence.
The necklace, Mari. Eyes on the prize.
I turn away from Ryan and stroll into the bathroom, thoughtfully swirling what’s left of the bourbon in my glass.
Razor, comb, shaving cream, toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste are laid out on the marble bathroom counter in a straight row. Though I know he showered and shaved before dinner, there isn’t a stray hair or drop of water in sight. All the towels hang, perfectly folded, from their racks.
“You’re freakishly neat,” I observe aloud.
“Or maybe the maid came in and straightened up during dinner.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Without tripping one of your alarms? I don’t think so.”
