Wicked Intentions(6)

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.”

“That’s my perfume. It’s Caron’s Poivre. You like it?”

I lightly bite her neck. “It’s edible. Like you.”

A little shudder runs through her body. She pulls away and tilts her head toward the restaurant. “Shall we?”

“Yes. But don’t be surprised if I drag you off halfway through dinner. This dress is testing the limits of my self-control.”

Her smile is pleased. Apparently, devastation of the male population was her goal when she dressed. Nailed it.

She takes my arm. We stroll toward the restaurant while I enjoy the unexpected pleasure of being the envy of every man in sight. Even some of the women look like they’d like to take my place. The rest look like they’re hoping Angeline will trip.

“So, did you finish your article?”

There’s not a quiver in her voice when she answers. “I did.”

“How’d it go?”

From the corner of my eye, I see her mysterious smile. “There are always some unexpected difficulties near the end, but nothing insurmountable. I think my editor will be very pleased with how it turns out.”

“Turns” out, not “turned” out. Which indicates the work is still in progress, but she just said she finished it.

Interesting. I make a vague “hmm” sound and settle my arm around her waist. Our steps fall in sync like we’ve been walking together for years.

When we reach the restaurant, I check in with the hostess. She says the rest of our party is in the bar, so we head over, holding hands.

“Hiya, kids,” I say when we reach them. “This is Angeline.”

I introduce her to Tabby, who’s wearing ponytails and what looks like a turquoise tube sock for a dress, Connor, in his usual all-black ensemble of T-shirt, cargo pants, and boots, and Darcy and Kai. Juanita is nowhere to be seen.

After the introductions are made and everyone has said a friendly hello, I ask Tabby, “Where’s Juanita?”

“She found an MMA match on cable. I left her in front of the TV with Elvis and enough Red Bull and Cheetos to last a lifetime.”

“Elvis?” Angeline asks.

Tabby nods. “The rat she never goes anywhere without.”

When Angeline’s brows lift, Tabby grins. “It’s a long story. I love your dress, by the way.”

“And I love your Tinker Bell tattoo,” Angeline counters, looking at Tabby’s ankle. “She was always my favorite Disney character.”

“Mine, too!” Tabby says, smiling. “She’s badass.”

“But also fragile. She can’t exist unless Peter believes in her. Faith is the only thing that keeps her alive.”

I see it the instant Tabby’s curiosity kicks into gear. If she were a cat, her ears would’ve just pricked and her tail would’ve begun twitching. “All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.”

Without hesitation, Angeline responds. “Never say goodbye, because goodbye means going away, and going away means forgetting.”

Tabby claps her hands and hoots. “Oh my God! I think I love you, Angeline!”

I look at Connor. “Brother, you have any idea what’s happening?”

“White girls be crazy, Ryan, you know this,” Darcy says dismissively, and downs the rest of her martini.

“Let’s eat,” says Kai, stroking Darcy’s arm and staring up at her in adoration. “My Häschen needs fuel for later.”

They exchange a pair of truly lascivious smiles. Before the conversation can get any weirder, I motion for the hostess to seat us.



* * *

An hour later, dinner is over, Kai and Darcy are fondling each other under the table, and Tabby and Angeline have become fast friends.

“You do not like Hello Kitty!” pronounces Tabby. She’s been peppering Angeline with questions for the past twenty minutes as Connor and I listened, stealing amused glances at each other.

Angeline nods, swallowing another spoonful of her dessert. She delicately pats her lips with her napkin. “I know you probably think it’s silly, but I was obsessed with her for my entire teenage years. I had this backpack I carried everywhere. It was pink, with little butterflies and flowers—”

“And Kitty was wearing an embroidered kimono,” interrupts Tabby in a low, thrilled voice. “I had the exact same one.”

Angeline blinks. “You like Hello Kitty?”

Tabby pounds both fists on the table and shouts, “I fucking love her!”

They beam at each other.