Page 13 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
I turn back to Miranda. “Correct.”
“What is your reason for refusal?” she demands.
This entire situation is really starting to chap my ass. “Well, if you must know, I despise him.”
She makes an elegant little movement of her hand as if she’s swatting away a fly. “Your personal feelings about Mr. Hughes are immaterial.”
I can see why this woman has such a bad reputation. I understand that highly intelligent people are more often than not absolute disasters with interpersonal skills. All I have to do is take a look in a mirror to get that. But that isn’t what I take offense to. It’s the arrogance that gets me. The presumption that what she wants is more important than what I want.
Before I can speak, she says coolly, “No, I don’t care about your feelings. And you don’t care about mine, nor should you. We’re strangers, after all. What I do care about is that you are regarded highly by a person I regard highly, and therefore I’m willing to negotiate on price. I authorized Connor to offer you five hundred thousand. Now I’m offering a million. Will that be sufficient?”
I’m surprised she actually stooped to ask my opinion. I take great pleasure in saying, “I’m not interested in the job, Ms. Lawson. At any price.”
Her icy-blue eyes don’t blink. Her elegant features don’t move. But I feel her disapproval, like a glass of cold water poured down my spine. “You,” she says, barely moving her lips, “are being unreasonable.”
If she’s an iceberg, I’m a forest fire. I feel heat sweep up my neck from my chest, feel my ears go hot, feel the pressure build behind my eyeballs. “And you, Ms. Lawson, along with that high horse you rode in on, can go fuck yourself.”
I slap the laptop closed.
Behind me, Connor sighs.
I glare at him. “That was beyond, jarhead, even for you.”
“Well, my finesse didn’t work, so I thought I’d bring in the big guns.”
“Your finesse?” I repeat, astonished. “I didn’t realize you were familiar with the word.”
“The letter,” he replies patiently, as if it should be obvious.
“Ah yes. The letter. I wonder, how many tries did it take before you could actually bring yourself to write the dreaded words ‘I owe you an apology’?”
At the sarcasm in my tone, his brows lift. “You think I lied?”
“I think you’d rather stab yourself in the eye than admit you were wrong.”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the truth.”
I narrow my eyes and inspect his expression, which remains suspiciously bland. I can’t tell if he’s lying.
I hate it that I can’t tell if he’s lying.
He says mildly, “You have trust issues, you know that?”
“Ha! Me? With you? No!”
His smile is wry, that amusement again. He inclines his head, as if to say Fair enough.
“Are we done here? Because I’d really like to get back to my life now.”
“There’s really nothing I can do to persuade you? Nothing you want from me in exchange for doing this job?”
The way he said that last part, the hint of innuendo along with a sparkle in his eyes, makes me grimace. “Please tell me you didn’t just offer to service me sexually. Tell me I’m wrong, jarhead. Restore my faith in humanity and tell me you’re not that much of a pig.”
He makes big, innocent doe eyes at me. “What? Geez, Tabby. Sex on the brain much? How long has it been since you’ve gotten some?”
Then he smiles.
And he does it with his whole goddamn body.
