“Yeah, but you still think I’m cute. Which means there’s somethin’ seriously wrong with you. Which makes us a perfect match.”
She starts to laugh and can’t stop. I go right on talking.
“Then you’ll decide if your one-night stand rule applies to the beginning of a long-distance relationship with the man of your dreams. And I’m just pointin’ out here that it wouldn’t be a one-night stand if it’s at the start of a relationship. Anyway. Whatever you decide, we’ll spend some time, get to know each other better, share a few stories, make out. Probably mostly make out.”
She continues to laugh. I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“So whaddya say, Angel?”
When she finally catches her breath, her eyes are alight, her cheeks are pink, and her smile is as brilliant as the sun. “Okay, cowboy,” she says. “You’re on. But don’t even think about stepping out of line with me, because I’m a knife-fencing expert. Put a hand where it isn’t wanted, and you’ll lose it.”
Now I’m the one laughing, but not because I don’t believe her. I do. And this is major progress.
It’s the first thing she’s told me about herself that’s the truth.
Three
Mariana
There’s a part of me that’s thrilled about the way things are going. Ryan’s making this all extremely easy on me, that’s for sure. But there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that’s worried.
I like him.
For someone in my line of work, that can be deadly.
It’s not just the way Ryan looks or kisses, or his straightforward, no-bullshit style. It’s not only his wacky sense of humor or his obvious intelligence. It’s all that, plus he’s this big, macho Marine with a cocky swagger who’s strong enough to survive gunshots but touches me with true gentleness, both with his hands and his eyes.
The man has a sensitive side.
There’s nothing more irresistible to my cynical heart than rugged masculinity paired with tenderness. Every other man I know is ruthless to his core.
It’s times like these I wish I weren’t so observant.
“Dinner’s at eight,” Ryan says, smiling his signature cocksure smile. “What room you in, Angel? I’ll pick you up.”
No matter how much I like him, the odds of me letting this man into my room are about as good as the odds that lightning will strike me dead where I sit. “Let’s meet in the lobby.”
Before he can ask why, I lean forward and kiss him.
It proves an effective distraction.
He takes my face in his hands—another thing I like more than I should—and softly groans into my mouth as our tongues sweep together. Dangerous adrenaline floods my veins. I try to maintain intellectual distance, like an outside observer, but the man is a champion kisser. His lips are filled with mind-altering chemicals. They must be, because within seconds, I’m lost, clinging to him like I’m drowning and he’s the only thing that can save me from going under the next big wave.
“I dig the little noises you make,” he whispers, gently biting my lower lip as he cradles my head.
“Noises?” I repeat, too blissed out to be horrified I might be making some kind of unattractive animal sounds into his mouth.
When was the last time I was kissed like this?
Never.
“Little growly kitten noises.” He kisses one corner of my mouth, then the other. He whispers hotly into my ear, “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make when I have my face between your legs.”
I summon a vivid picture of myself naked on my back in a bed, Ryan’s golden head between my thighs, writhing and screaming my way through a thermonuclear orgasm. I try not to pant.
He allows me to pull away, but the expression on his face is dark and intense. I think he might grab me at any moment and haul me off into the bushes, caveman style.
Over the roar of my pulse, I say coolly, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cowboy. You’re still in the friend zone. Any more assumptions about where this is headed and the friend zone is where you’ll stay.”
I amuse him, evidenced by his gruff chuckle and jaunty salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
I toss my hair and rise from the barstool. Instantly, he’s on his feet, too.
“See you at eight,” I say.
He looks crestfallen, like a little boy left alone at the playground. “You’re leavin’ already? It’s not even four!”
Mierde. Why does he have to be so adorable? The contrast between his sweet, boyish side and his macho, mouthy side is maddeningly disarming. “I have some work to finish up this afternoon. My article’s due to my editor today, and I haven’t wrapped it up yet.”
He looks at me for a beat. His expression changes into something unreadable. Gone is the little boy. In his place is a man who is watchful and speculative, his eyes the chilly blue of an iceberg. It’s the wolf I saw earlier, the one lurking behind the swagger and smiles.
“Of course,” he says, without a shred of emotion in his voice. “I understand. Duty calls.”
This time when he smiles, it sends a shiver down my spine.
I dig some cash from the clutch I brought with me to the pool and leave it on the bar for the conch croquettes. Ryan looks skyward and sighs. He picks up the money and waves it in my face. Confused, I take it.
“Don’t insult me, Angel. And before you get any other dumb ideas, I’m buyin’ dinner, too, compris?”
My heart skips a beat. “You speak French?”
His shrug is the picture of nonchalance. “A little,” he says. “Used to date a French girl.”
Sure you did. I narrow my eyes. His cool smile grows suspiciously wider. Suddenly, I feel like we’re in the middle of a film noir standoff, two spies on opposite sides of a bridge waiting to see who’ll draw their gun first.
“See you at eight, Angel.” Ryan kisses me on the cheek, slaps me on the ass, and saunters off, whistling, toward the pool.
I watch him go, convinced I have made a miscalculation.
I’m dealing with something far more dangerous than a wolf.
* * *
Back in my room, I unlock the safe and remove the burner phone I bought at the airport. I dial a number I know by heart. There’s a distant hiss, then a click as the line is answered.
“Reynard,” says a cultured British voice.
“It’s Dragonfly,” I say, relieved. Reynard always answers the line, and he’s as reliable as Big Ben, but there are so few reliable things in this world, I still can’t take him for granted.
“My darling!” he says, pleased. “Have you completed your article already?”
“I need to check a source.”
A short pause follows. “I see. One moment.” Fingers tap a keyboard thousands of miles away. “Proceed.”
“Ryan McLean. Unsure if it’s M-C or M-A-C. Male, thirty-four, American, from Perry, Georgia. Served in the Marines. Unsure of the service dates. Blond hair, blue eyes, approximately six foot two, two hundred twenty pounds. Multiple tattoos. Perfect teeth.”
More typing. I know it won’t be long, but I’m impatient anyway, tapping my foot on the plush carpet as I wait.
Finally, a low chuckle comes through the phone. “Oh my. That’s quite a smile. I’ve seen sharks less deadly. Careful, my darling, this one’s got a serious bite.”
“Tell me.”
“Ryan Tiberius McLean—”
“Tiberius?” I’m incredulous. “He was named after a Roman emperor? Who does that to their child?”
“May I continue, or would you like to amuse yourself by repeating everything I say and asking rhetorical questions?”
I smile but don’t laugh. Under no circumstances does one laugh at Reynard. “My apologies. Please continue.”
“As I was saying. Ryan Tiberius McLean, born August tenth, nineteen eighty-three, to Betty Anne Rasmussen, a homemaker, and Thomas Robert McLean, a peach farmer.” Reynard’s pause drips with condescension. “Humble beginnings, indeed.”
<
br /> I don’t point out that my father was a farmer too. Avocadoes. To this day, I still can’t bear to look at them. They’ll forever be paired in my memory with gunfire, bodies, and blood.
“August tenth,” I muse. “So he’s a Leo. That fits.”
Reynard sighs. I can almost hear the eye roll. “My darling. Astrology isn’t an actual science.”
“I know, but there could be something to it. If you met him, you’d agree he’s very lionlike.”
Though Reynard doesn’t reply, I know exactly what he’s doing at this moment. He’s shaking his head in silent disappointment. I miss him with a sudden, violent ache.
He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got.
Reynard continues, sounding bored. “Two older siblings, Missy and Cleo—you’re right, these names are dreadful—graduated Perry High School top of his class, football scholarship to Georgia State…” Reynard pauses. “Both parents killed in a drive-by shooting on a vacation to Los Angeles to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary.”
The breath leaves my chest in an audible rush. The room starts to spin. The words get stuck in my head, replaying over and over until I want to press my hands over my ears and scream.
Parents killed. Shooting. Parents killed. Shooting. Killed.
Killed.
Killed.
I sit heavily on the edge of the bed and swallow back the hot, acid sting of bile.
If Reynard guesses the effect those words have had on me, he doesn’t mention it. He continues in the same monotone as before.
“Graduated Georgia State and entered the United States Marines. Seems your Mr. McLean excelled there. Commendations galore, rose rapidly through the ranks, selected for Special Ops, etcetera, etcetera… Oh, this is interesting. Areas of specialty include reconnaissance, close-quarter battle tactics, and edged weapons.”
“He’s a knife-fighting expert,” I say dully. “Why does God hate me, Reynard?”
“Again with the rhetorical questions. I wasn’t quite finished, my darling.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me there’s more.”
“You’ll love this. After aging out of Special Ops and leaving the corps, he was recruited by a private security firm—”
“Security firm?” My eyes bulge in horror.
“Wait for it…where he provides armed security services for high-profile clients, federal and local governments, law enforcement and intelligence agencies, and multinational corporations. Looks like he’s primarily doing extractions now. Retrieving the Russian oligarch’s kidnapped daughter from the clutches of the Serbian Mafia, that kind of thing.”
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.
When they stop beside me, Darcy huffs and gives me a side-eyed look. “What’re you doing over here lurking by the plants?”
“I’m not lurking. I’m waiting.”
Darcy looks at Kai and waggles her eyebrows salaciously. “For Miss Thang.”
Kai grins at her. “Love is a cruel master, mein kleines Häschen.”
I don’t allow myself to react to him calling her his little bunny rabbit in German. These are my friends, after all
. It would be impolite to fall down laughing.
But then the conversation comes to a screeching halt because the elevator doors open again. Angeline steps into the room, and all the air goes out.
I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the gut. “Holy shit,” I say faintly.
Darcy and Kai turn to look in the direction I’m looking. When Darcy sees Angeline, she turns back to me, cackling. “This bitch ain’t playin’! Good luck, sucker. We’ll be at the bar.”
She pats me on the shoulder, then drags Kai off toward the restaurant, leaving me standing alone with my mouth open like I’m trying to catch flies.
Angeline is a supermodel, and the lobby is her runway. Scarlet lips, scarlet dress with a slit from ankle to hip, long legs flashing in slow motion. Glossy hair tumbling over her shoulders. Dangerous eyes. A radiant smile. Impressions hit me one after another as she moves toward me. The long skirt of her dress billows behind her like a sail.
Her waist is narrow, her hips are round, and my dick and my brain are in total agreement: she’s a fucking knockout.
When she reaches me, she rests her hands on my shoulders and kisses me lightly on both cheeks. I’m wrapped in the scent of her skin, fresh and peppery, like watercress.
“You look wonderful,” she says softly, holding my gaze. “Have you been waiting long?”
Against impossible odds, I regain the power of speech. “Only my whole life.”
She laughs, thinking I’m joking.
I make a motion with my index finger, indicating she should turn around. I have to see this masterpiece from all angles. She takes a step back and twirls. It looks professional, like she’s been performing spins in front of a camera for years. Two guys near the front desk who are watching look like they’re having heart attacks.
“That’s some dress, Angel.”
“This old thing?” She bats her lashes at me. It’s my turn to laugh.
I grab her, pull her against my chest, bury my face in her hair, and inhale deeply. “Have you been rolling around in a clover field?” I murmur against her neck. “You smell like spring. And spices.”
Wicked Intentions: The Wicked Games Series, Book 3 Page 3