Page 86 of Only the Wicked
“You look out for yourself. And can I give you some advice?”
“Sure.”
“If you find yourself in a precarious position, reach out to your dad. Whatever disagreement you’ve had, he loves you. You will be his priority. Always.”
At least, that’s the way it should be. With a demure smile and a nod, she turns to weave her way through the sidewalk pedestrians.
Ten minutes later, I’ve dictated a number of messages, conferred with Daisy, and I’m pushing the revolving door into the Willard InterContinental. As the air-conditioning blasts my skin, it occurs to me I should’ve also encouraged Evie to dictate her emails. Typing them out is inefficient.
The cool lobby air is a relief after the D.C. heat, but it does nothing to settle the unease that’s been building since my conversation with the Russians. Blackmail attempts, FBI agents approaching Sydney, and now Evie’s theory of corruption reaching the highest levels of government. Too much is happening at once for my comfort, and my instincts are screaming that something’s off.
My gaze sweeps the round bar until I locate a transformed Sydney in a creamy outfit that sets off her silky shoulder-length hair. Hell, the creamy white stands out against the mahogany bar like a ray of light. The rest of the room blurs as she comes into focus. Laptop open, she’s intent on the screen, and it allows me a moment to take her in. The healthy tan and energetic glow are more at home in the woods, on a trail, than in a stuffy bar, but I’m glad she’s here, with me.
Four days in, and I am so fucked.
And if she’s working with the FBI, I might be fucked in more ways than one.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Rhodes
Syd’s dark eyes flash with recognition. The connection between us strengthens to the point I half-expect to see a ray of light binding us across the oval bar.
A cocktail glass with ice and lime sit beside her laptop. Seats at the bar are filling up, with only a couple empty barstools. It’s too early for dinner, given it’s not even five, yet for the twenty- and thirty-something D.C. crowd, we’re entering prime-time happy hour. Scanning the room, I’d bet most of the suits are out-of-towners, likely lobbyists, toasting the weekend. Perhaps some are in town for this weekend’s Bastille Day festivities.
She closes her laptop as I approach, and I’m reminded once again the FBI approached her. But this is Sydney. The woman who met me on a hike and jumped naked into a swimming hole with a rebel yell.
As Miles claimed, I’m growing paranoid. But with reason. Blackmail from the Russian embassy intensifies the suspicion that I’ve become a target.
Or perhaps it’s this version of Sydney Parker, the sophisticated woman in a cream white V-neck silk top that manages to be both refined and sensuous, that intensifies the paranoia. With the addition of eyeliner, her deep brown eyes appear rounder, her gaze calculating. Her natural beauty shines through, but this is no longer a twenty-something on vacation. Seated at the oval bar, I’m reminded she’s a career professional, which means she wants something. For some, it’s a simple want. A successful company. Security. For others, it’s a need to feed ambition, to rise in ranks. Pride.
Through pride, the devil became the devil. Pride leads to every vice. C.S. Lewis didn’t mince words.
“That’s a serious face,” Sydney says.
I give myself the time to study her. Lips glossed, makeup tastefully done, shiny hair smoothed. She’s wearing the clothes the personal shopper selected, so I can’t read into those. The concern etched in her brown eyes reads as genuine. Her angled body and openness support the intimacy we’ve built over the last few days. Yet I can’t shake the gut instinct clawing through my insides, preaching caution.
“Rhodes?”
With a slight shake of my head, an attempt to rid myself of this unease, I pull out the bar stool and keep it light.
“It’s been a day.”
The phrase slips out, and it’s not until after it floats between us I realize how ridiculous a statement that is. I’ve been working for less than two hours. But that’s the statement I uttered on repeat with Sara at the end of a workday.
“Are you done now?”
I lift her mostly empty glass to my nose, inhaling. There’s no scent. I tilt the glass, clinking the ice.
“What is this?”
“Tonic and lime.”
“No alcohol?”
She lifts a shoulder and smiles. Why is she sitting at a bar if she didn’t want to drink alcohol? Why not relax in our suite? And why does someone who claims to be unemployed have what looked like a government-grade secure connection on her laptop?
