Page 28 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
She smiles. “That’s because you’re a man.”
“Wait. You’re telling me women don’t have names for their unmentionables?”
She laughs, shaking us and the bed. “Unmentionables? Been reading one too many Victorian romances, have we?”
I purse my lips, assuming a prim librarian’s expression. “I also enjoy needlepoint and decoupage, dearie.”
“Sure you do,” she says. “In between target practice and shopping for hotel room security devices.”
“Thought we weren’t gonna talk about work, Angel,” I murmur. When she heaves a sigh that sounds almost regretful, I add, “Unless you’re ready to tell me what you really do for a living.”
“Mon Dieu,” she mutters. “Could you please stop being so observant?”
I chuckle. “So don’t be sweet, and don’t be observant. You want a clueless asshole, that it?”
“They’re generally a lot easier to handle,” she grouses.
“But much more boring.”
“And far less dangerous.”
That gives me pause. When I speak, my voice comes out husky. “You’re not in danger from me in any way.”
She turns her face to my neck. “Silly man,” she whispers. “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve run across in years. Maybe ever.”
Pressure swells inside my chest. A sensation of warmth spreads through my limbs. I close my eyes and smell her hair because I can, because she’s lying naked in my arms, probably more naked than she allows herself to be with anyone else.
I feel privileged. And I want more.
“So when I visit you in Paris—”
She laughs softly. “You’re unbelievably stubborn.”
“As I was saying, when I visit you in Paris, the first place I wanna take you is this bistro on Rue Vertbois that has decaying nineteenth-century décor, incredibly snobby waiters, and the most indecently huge portions that they don’t allow you to share.”
“L’Ami Louis,” says Angeline, nodding. “I love that place. The confit de canard can make you cry.”
I smile at the ceiling. For the same reasons I don’t believe she’s a writer, I don’t believe she lives in Paris, but only someone who’s spent a lot of time in the city could nail that description. And her Parisian accent, which only rarely slips.
Most notably when crying out my name when she comes.
When my dick stirs at that thought, she laughs. “Have you eaten a large quantity of oysters lately?”
“Hmm?” I’m distracted, smoothing my hands down her back. Her skin is smooth as glass.
“Never mind.” She abruptly changes the subject. “I’m curious about the girl who was with you at the pool. Juanita.”
I tilt my head on the pillow but can’t see the expression on her face. “What about her?”
After a long silence, she replies. “She reminds me of someone I used to know.”
I wait but she remains quiet, so I decide I have nothing to lose by telling her Juanita’s story. And judging by the odd tone in Angeline’s voice, I might have some valuable information to gain.
“She’s Tabby’s neighbor. The youngest of seven kids who all still live at home. Mother always working, no dad in the picture. Tabby sort of took her under her wing. Believe it or not, they have a lot in common.”
“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.”
