Page 81 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Nope,” he says with infuriating cheer, “you don’t get your hand back just ’cause you’ve got your panties in a twist.”
Instead of trying to force it or argue, I just smile sweetly. “Okay. But when you get your hand back, it might be missing the rest of your arm.”
“We’re here anyway, so there’s no need for violence, darlin’.”
Pulling up to a solid steel gate, Ryan winks at me, then rolls down his window. He punches a code into a black box, then he grins up at a camera pointed down from the top of the brick wall that flanks the gate, and flips it the bird.
“Were you in a fraternity?” I wonder aloud, watching him in all his cocky, Captain America football-hero glory as he makes lewd gestures at a piece of electronic surveillance equipment.
“In?” he scoffs. “No. I was a founding father of the Kappa Alpha Delta fraternity, the coolest frat on campus.”
“It’s all starting to make sense now.” I shake my head as the gate swings open.
We pull into a large lot similar to the one at Ryan’s home and park near a building similar to his, too, only much bigger. It looks like a converted industrial warehouse. All the windows are blacked out and there’s only one entrance,
a huge hammered steel door that’s at least ten feet tall and about as wide. A fleet of hulking black Hummers lurks on one side of the lot, windscreens and chrome rims gleaming. They look like a group of metal sharks ready to feed.
The whole effect is über-masculine and weirdly threatening.
“Is this your other bachelor pad?”
“This is Metrix Security’s headquarters.”
“Oh. Yes, I guess it makes good sense to keep the diamond at the headquarters of a security company. This place must be as impenetrable as Fort Knox. Or your tooth enamel.”
His only answer is a smile as he exits the car. I undo my seat belt, but before I can open the door, Ryan is holding it open for me, his hand extended to help me out.
“Thank you.”
As we walk hand in hand toward the colossal door, he says, “The camera at the gate has facial recognition software—so nobody who isn’t supposed to get in doesn’t, even if they have the entry code—but there’s also a guy watching the camera who mans the submachine guns set into the walls on either side of the gate.”
“Machine guns?” I repeat, astonished. “Who’re you expecting, the Terminator?”
“Never know who’s gonna come knockin’,” he says darkly. “Better armed to the teeth than caught off guard.”
Our eyes meet. I think of acrid clouds of smoke over avocado fields, the rank, rusty smell of blood on dirt, and shudder. “I couldn’t agree more.”
His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t comment further because the steel door is silently sliding open. It reveals a beast of a man, dressed all in black, a gun strapped to his waist.
“Hey, brother,” Ryan says, breaking into a grin.
In a rumbling baritone, the man replies, “Hey yourself.” His eyes, dark and flinty as obsidian, flick toward me. “Lady Danger. Nice to see you again, sweetheart. Stolen anything since I last saw you?”
“Yes. Bought any clothes that aren’t black since I last saw you?”
Ryan laughs, and so does Connor. They look at each other, something silently passing between them.
“Nope,” says Connor, glancing back at me, his eyes warm. “Don’t hold your breath for it, either. C’mon in, kids, everyone else is already here.”
My brows shoot up. Everyone else?
Seeing my look, Ryan sheepishly explains, “They kind of insisted.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“You didn’t think the crew would let this opportunity pass by to say hello, did you?” Connor throws over his shoulder as he walks away into the gloom of the warehouse.
I stare at his retreating back with rising panic, then I stare at Ryan. “Who are we talking about? The FBI?”
