Page 55 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Your therapist?” he asks sweetly.
“Funny. I’m gonna give you my number, and you’re gonna give it to Mariana.”
His expression sours. Before he can tell me to go jump off the nearest bridge, I add, “In case of an emergency, she can call me twenty-four seven on that number. I mean it. Day or night. From anywhere in the world, she can call me, and I’ll come.”
I grab a pen from a cup next to the cash register and scribble my number on a yellow Post-it note, then stick it to the center of Reynard’s tie. He peels it off with two fingers, his pinky held out and his lip curled. I’m surprised he doesn’t pinch his nose.
He mutters “Stupendous” and puts the Post-it between the pages of a book he lifts from under the counter. Then he tosses the book back into place with derision, dusting off his hands.
Cheeky son of a bitch.
“Number two, I want you to tell me who did that to her neck so I can have a talk with him. And by talk, I mean beat him to a pulp.”
Reynard freezes. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. McLean,” he says with a strange stillness in his entire aspect, even his voice.
I send him a hard stare. “I’m not playing any game, Reynard. I’ve never been more serious in my life. Someone hurt my girl. That shit doesn’t stand. He’s lucky if I leave him breathing.”
He blinks rapidly, as if clearing his vision. “Your…girl?”
I make a dismissive gesture, then park my hands on my hips. “She’s not a hundred percent on board with the program yet, but I’ll get her there. I’m irresistible, as you can tell.”
His laugh is faint and disbelieving. He reaches for the porcelain teacup sitting to his left on the counter and gulps from it, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he reaches under the counter again, this time to produce a slender silver flask. He uncaps it, pours a small measure of what looks like whiskey into the tea, then decides to drink directly from the flask instead.
“She loves you, you know,” I say, watching as he violently coughs, spraying a mist of golden liquid over the counter. When his coughing fit is over, he stares at me with watering eyes and an open mouth.
Man, I dig shocking the shit out of people.
“At least I’m assuming you’re the person Mariana was talkin’ about when she turned down my offer to take her back to the States with me because it would be a death sentence for someone she loved. She ran straight here like she was runnin’ home. Figured this had to be her safe place.”
He makes a strangled sound and clutches his throat. “Take her with you?” he wheezes.
“And you, if she wants. Both of you would have my protection.”
He looks me up and down with wide eyes, like I’m off my fucking rocker.
“Christ,” I say, insulted. “The two of you are really shit for my ego, you know that?”
“She took advantage of you. She lied to you. Why on earth would you offer to take her anywhere but prison?” Reynard asks, like he really can’t fathom it.
I shrug. “Because I care about her.”
He gapes at me. “Are you on drugs?”
“She moves me, Reynard. You have any idea what it takes for a man like me to be moved? By anything? Ever?”
His face goes through several different expressions before settling on something I can’t quite comprehend. There’s a darkness there, an old memory maybe, something rattling around in a grave.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, actually, I do.”
I sense an opening and press my advantage. Leaning closer to him, I say, “Let me hel—”
The bell over the door in front of the shop jangles.
Reynard looks over my shoulder. Instantly, his eyes shutter. Something about his posture changes, softens. Even his face somehow becomes more indistinct. Suddenly, I’m looking at Average Joe again, the man you couldn’t pick out of a crowd, who could easily vanish into it instead.
In a voice meant to carry, he says, “You just have to continue east for two more blocks, sir. The entrance to the tube is on Chancery Lane. You can’t miss the signs.”
His eyes convey a warning as real as his words are fake.
