Wicked Intentions(13)

“Because they’re both prodigies.”

My inner antennae twitch. “Yeah…but how could you know that? You only talked to Tabby for like an hour, and you didn’t even meet Juanita.”

“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 talk 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.”

“Almost as good as being a travel writer.”

She closes her eyes.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. Come here.”

She swirls the bottle thoughtfully. “Only if you promise to be nice.”

I sit up and smile at her. “I’ll be as nice as you want me to be. You know I’m good for that.”

An attractive blush darkens her cheeks.

I hold out my hand. “Angel. Come here.”

She approaches slowly, still swirling the bottle, holding my gaze with a wary look like she’s not entirely convinced I’m not going to suddenly pounce. When she’s close enough, I reach out and grasp her wrist. I pull her between my legs and nuzzle her breasts.

“You hungry?” I murmur. “I can order room service.”

“In a bit.” She taps me on the shoulder with the bottle. “You must be dehydrated.”

“Yeah, I am, actually. Thanks.” I take the bottle from her and swallow the rest of its contents. It’s cold and deliciously tart. I set the empty on the bedside table, lie back on the bed, and pull her down on top of me, because it’s my new favorite thing in the world. I wrap my arms around her and inhale the fresh, peppery scent of her skin.

“So you rescued Juanita,” she says against my neck. “And now she’s on vacation with you?”

“Her and Tabby are inseparable now. Oh—I didn’t mention—we rescued Tabitha, too. Same psycho had both of ’em.”

When Angeline raises her head and stares at me, I shrug. “Like I said, long story. The upshot of it all is that the two of them somehow convinced Juanita’s mother and psychiatrist that it would be good for Juanita to get away on vacation for a while, so here we are. One big, happy family.”

My left ear starts to buzz like it does at high altitude when it needs to pop. I work my jaw, but no luck. Why are my lips tingling?

“I envy your happy family,” Angeline says gently. She presses a tender kiss just below my earlobe. Her voice drops. “And I want you to know this was never the plan. I meant it when I said I don’t do one-night stands. I never mix business and pleasure. Well…until you.”

Business?

The bed does a lazy roll, like we’re riding a wave on a boat.

Heart pounding, I jerk upright. Angeline leaps off me and backs away, keeping a watchful eye on my face. When I try to stand, the room slips sideways. I look at the empty orange juice bottle, her small handbag on the console above the fridge, and, with a bolt of horror, realize what happened.

“Angel! You didn’t!”

“I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m so, so sorry.”

She sounds like she actually means it.

I walk toward her, but in two steps, my balance fails me. I stumble and crash to a knee. The room spins wildly and begins to darken. Everything gets fuzzy around the edges. Indistinct. A sudden hot rush of anger is the only thing keeping my eyes open.

“What is it?” I demand, furious to hear my words slur.

“It’s potent but not harmful, I promise,” she says, wringing her hands. “You’ll wake up with nothing but a headache. There are no lasting effects.”

With the last of my willpower, I force myself to lift my head. I focus on her face. Her beautiful, lying face. “Oh there’s gonna be one lasting effect,” I growl, teeth gritted against the encroaching darkness. “And the next time I see you, woman, I’m gonna tell you all about it.”

She has the good sense to look afraid.

Her face is the last thing I see before the room fades to black and I slump to the floor, unconscious.





Eight





Mariana




Even passed out, he’s attractive.

I roll him onto to his back and check his pulse. Normal. His breathing is deep and even. His mouth is slack. Those beautiful lips beckon me to kiss them, so I do.

Gently brushing a lock of gold hair from his forehead, I whisper, “Lo siento, mi amor. Sleep well.”

It’s a relief to drop the fake French accent.

I tuck a pillow under his head because I don’t want him waking up with a crick in his neck to add to everything else he’ll be mad about. Then I stand and look down at him.

He looks boyish and masculine. Sweet. But with all those muscles and tattoos, and his manhood resting against his thigh, impressively large even when not erect, he looks…

Heartbreaking.

I press a hand over my chest, blink away the moisture in my eyes, and take a deep breath.

There’s no time for regret. For wondering about might-have-beens. It’s time to get to work.

From his drawers, I select a black T-shirt and a pair of his briefs and quickly dress. The gown I wore to dinner isn’t made for climbing balconies, but it does have its purposes. I retrieve it from the floor and rip out the section of hem where I sewed the micro compass. I place it carefully in my mouth, tucked between my cheek and teeth.

I don’t bother with the handcuff key or the razor blade sewn into different spots in the lining of the dress. Neither safeguard has become necessary. I do need the map with my bug-out route through the hills, however, so I find my heels and crack the left one sharply against the wall. The platform sole breaks off. The little folded map flutters out like piñata candy.

I tuck the map into the waistband at the small of my back. It’s not snug enough. I’m wearing men’s underwear, after all—they’re not exactly made for curves. The only other place the map can securely travel during a climb in my present garb is my mouth or my crotch.