“Okay. Well…if you guys ever break up…and you’re in the area again…”
I smile back, nodding, wondering how long it will take him to try to connect with Dena Johnson on Facebook or Instagram and get the surprise of his life.
I’m giving it an hour.
I murmur a good-bye, head out to my rental car, and tear out of the parking lot, tires squealing. In twenty minutes, I’m back in my suite at the Four Seasons Hotel. There’s a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice waiting in my room. The note accompanying the bottle reads:
A little gift to take the sting out of failure. Yours, Roger Hamilton.
I laugh for longer than I probably should, but honestly, showing a man his weaknesses after he’s insisted he doesn’t have any is a perversely satisfying part of this job. I can’t wait to demonstrate to the vastly overconfident CEO of GenCeuticals—Roger Hamilton, my client—exactly how much of a non-failure today was.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall. And nothing is ever completely secure, no matter what fail-safe systems you think you’ve put in place.
I kick off my heels, strip out of the loathsome tailored suit I wear only on jobs, ignore the champagne, and pour a sparkling water into one of the crystal flutes beside the ice bucket. I get into the bathtub, where I luxuriate in victory and soak until I’m almost a prune. Then I climb out, dry off, wrap the fluffy white towel around my body, and head to the bedroom.
Where I find a man—a huge, tanned, dark-haired beast of a man, clad all in black—sprawled in the middle of my bed with his arms propped behind his head and his giant booted feet crossed at the ankle.
I scream and drop the glass. It shatters against the marble floor.
The beast grins, revealing a set of perfect, gleaming white teeth.
“Howdy, sweet cheeks. It’s nice to see you again too.”
Two
Connor
“Son of a bitch!” Tabby shouts, red-faced, and I just can’t help myself.
I burst out laughing.
It becomes immediately apparent that’s the wrong thing to do when she picks up a glass paperweight from the coffee table and hurls it at me. It smashes into the wall inches above my head, dislodging a shower of plaster, and then lands on the spot where my face was half a second ago.
“Temper,” I chide, now standing beside the bed with my arms folded over my chest. “Tsk, tsk.”
“I’ll give you a fucking tsk,” she growls, grabbing a cut-crystal ashtray.
“Whoa!” I throw my hands up. “Jesus, sweet cheeks, who shit in your cornflakes?”
She does this puckering thing with her whole face—like a scowl only times ten—that’s supposed to look menacing but instead is cute as fuck.
“That would be you, jarhead! I hoped I’d never see you again!” She cocks her arm, readying her aim. “And what the hell are you doing in my hotel room?”
The last part is shouted so loud, people in the lobby can probably hear it.
“To talk business.” My gaze drops to the towel she’s clutching against her chest. Her grip is so tight, her knuckles have turned white. I let my eyes drift farther down, taking in dangerous curves and lean legs and bare toes—painted black, naturally—and drawl, “Though if you had any other ideas, I’d be open to hearing ’em.” I meet her gaze to find her glaring at me. I crack a cocksure grin. “That bed’s mighty comfy.”
The ashtray sails through the air. It misses my left ear by a breath and smashes into the wall. I turn and inspect the damage, and then turn back to her with my cocksure grin still firmly in place.
“You’re a shitty aim, sweet cheeks.”
Her nostrils flare. Her chest heaves. She says in a low voice with an edge like a blade, “Call me sweet cheeks. One. More. Time.”
I laugh again. I’d almost forgotten how much fun it is to piss this woman off.
Red hair and long legs flying, Tabby darts over to the dresser next to the bed, grabs a lamp with an inconveniently heavy-looking ceramic base, whirls around, and brandishes it at me like a weapon. She yells, “Get out!”
I rest my hands on my hips and look down my nose at her. “You would bash me with a lamp after I got you the GenCeuticals job?”
She freezes. Her expression registers horrified disbelief. “What?”
“Seriously, Tabby. You think a guy like Roger Hamilton would pay a woman eighty thousand dollars to conduct a penetration test if someone he trusted implicitly hadn’t suggested it?”
“You’re the Special Ops guy he mentioned he had on retainer?”
I nod.
Tabby closes her eyes. “Motherfucker.” Defeated, she lowers the lamp to the dresser.
I feel kinda bad for how hard she’s taking the news, so I add a bit of truth to lessen the sting. “If it makes you feel any better, I thought walking right through the front door and pretending to be an executive was a ballsy move. Brilliant. And unexpected. Hamilton will shit his pants.”