Page 29 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“I didn’t have to. Geniuses always exude a certain darkness. They don’t fit, they know they don’t fit, and being an outsider to the rest of the human race molds them in a way normal people can’t understand. If you know what to look for, you can always see it.”
Now I’m fascinated. “How?”
Angeline hesitates, thinking. “It’s mainly in the eyes. Even when they’re right in front of you, they’re far away. But also it’s a strange sense that they’re…” She struggles to find a word. “Other. Almost like an alien. It’s in everything they do. Once you’re attuned to it, it’s unmistakable.” Her laugh is subdued. “Like knowing when someone’s a killer.”
Now my antennae are going crazy. “Oh really,” I drawl, trying to sound nonchalant. “Known many killers, Angel?”
Because our chests are pressed together, I feel the way her heartbeat doubles in the space of two seconds.
Bingo.
In one smooth motion, I roll her over, throw my leg over her body, and capture her face in my hand. “I promised we wouldn’t tal
k about work tonight, and I’m gonna keep my word. But tomorrow’s a different story. Once the sun rises, all bets are off.”
She swallows. In the low light, her eyes shine. “Yes,” she whispers. “Once the sun rises.”
I nod.
“But for now, you’re going to tell me more about Juanita while I get something to drink. My mouth’s a desert.”
I kiss her softly on the lips. “Why’re you so interested in Juanita?”
She rolls out from under me, sits up on the edge of the bed, and stretches her arms overhead. “I told you. She reminds me of someone I used to know.”
I admire the way her long hair cascades down her back, a sleek brushstroke of mahogany against the golden canvas of her skin. “One more thing we’re gonna talk about in the morning: who.”
Angeline drops her arms and glances at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are unreadable. “Whatever you say, cowboy.”
She rises from the bed and makes her way across the room toward the small refrigerator under a console near the television. I cross my arms under my head and indulge myself in the sheer pleasure of watching her nude body move. Poetry.
When I say, “She was kidnapped,” Angeline whirls around and stares at me with a horrified look. She clutches her throat.
“Kidnapped! By who?”
“A psychopath. It’s a long story.”
She’s beginning to look a little green. “That scar on her back…”
“It’s a long, ugly story,” I say flatly.
She passes a hand over her face and exhales a hard breath. “Oh God, that poor baby.”
There’s so much more to her reaction than just average human empathy at hearing a terrible story about someone you don’t know, but I won’t be able to uncover it tonight. So I just add it to the list of things I’ll get to tomorrow.
“Anyway, me and Connor and the crew found out where she was and went in and got her—”
“You rescued her?”
Angeline’s eyes are wide. We stare at each other from across the room. “It’s what I do, Angel,” I say softly. “It’s the job. I find people.”
For some bizarre reason, she looks like she might throw up.
Abruptly, she turns away and goes to the fridge. She yanks open the door, grabs a bottle of orange juice, slams the door, savagely unscrews the cap, and chugs half the bottle without taking a breath.
I lie still, giving her space for this newest freak-out, because I know instinctively that making any kind of sudden move will result in her running out the door. She stands with her back to me for several long moments until finally she draws a breath and turns back to me with a shaky smile.
“That must be very gratifying work.”
