“Why didn’t he just have you do the job? I’m sure you could’ve rappelled onto the roof from a black helicopter or something macho and melodramatic like that.”
I shrug. “I’m out of the pen testing game. Not enough money in it. Metrix has moved on to higher-level stuff.”
She narrows her eyes at me. Another thing I’d forgotten in the three years since I’d last seen Tabitha West is how brilliantly, lucidly green her irises are. Like an emerald held up to the sun. Like a big cat stalking its dinner in a tangled, primeval jungle, its eyes illuminated in a slanting shaft of light.
Fuck. Now is so not the time to get a boner.
“Such as?”
“Extractions.”
She processes that for a moment, her thumb working the knot between her breasts where the towel edges are joined.
Never thought I’d be jealous of a knot.
“People,” she guesses correctly. “Politicians, royalty, wealthy businessmen, like that?”
I nod.
“Makes sense,” she muses, turning her attention to the view of the city outside the windows. “Kidnappings, natural disasters, hostage situations… There are a million different scenarios where rich people might need their asses saved.”
“Most people think I’m talking about teeth when I say extractions.”
She snaps her head around and stares at me. “I’m not most people.”
“No,” I agree, holding her fierce gaze. “You’re not.”
We stand in silence for just longer than is comfortable, while I wrestle with a surprisingly strong urge to stride over to her, whip off the towel, throw her over my shoulder, and then throw her down on the bed.
My thoughts might show in my expression, because she turns abruptly away.
“I’m going to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in the bar in ten minutes. And don’t touch anything on your way out, jarhead.”
She heads into the bathroom. I call out after her, “Don’t put clothes on for my sake. Make yourself comfortable, sweet—”
The bathroom door slams shut with a window-rattling bang.
Half an hour later, I’m about to go back upstairs and pound on Tabby’s door when she walks into the bar like she owns the fucking place. She stands in the entrance, looking around with her nose in the air. The old guy on the stool next to me spots her and does a double take that might cause him whiplash.
I have to put a hand over my mouth to hide my smile.
I’ll start from the feet up.
Black stilettos that don’t say “fuck me” as much as “fuck you.” Bare legs, tattoo of a green fairy decorating the inside of her left ankle. Black leather miniskirt with suspenders attached. A midriff-baring sleeveless T-shirt the color of Barbie puke that has, stretched out of shape over the fullness of her breasts, the words “Deal With It.” Belly-button piercing with some dangly stuff, like a piece of jewelry. Colorful left arm tattoo sleeve that ends at her wrist. Studded necklace that looks exactly like a dog collar. Hair the color of a fire engine, drawn into a sleek ponytail that shows off aristocratic cheekbones and a long, elegant neck.
Over her right arm is slung a white purse with a giant logo of a cartoon cat on the flap. Because nothing shouts I’m an adult with serious emotional baggage better than Hello motherfucking Kitty.
Tabby spots me. Her lips twist into something that’s probably disgust. I chuckle, watching as she makes her way across the bar toward me while a dozen heads turn in her wake.
Damn. Knows how to use those hips.
She stops next to me and drops her bag on the bar with a hostile thunk.
“You could’ve used this newfangled invention called a phone to contact me instead of wasting your time coming all the way to DC, jarhead.”
“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in all your glory, sweet—”
She gives me a look that could wilt crops.
I amend it to, “Tabby.”
The bartender, a dude with one of those pansy-ass overgroomed mustaches that are all the rage and I fucking hate, walks up smiling.
“What can I get you?” he asks Tabby’s tits.
I growl, “Johnny Walker Blue Label and a strong length of rope.”
The bartender frowns at me. “Rope?”
I lean closer to him. “For a noose.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He laughs—sounds like he’s coughing—and scurries off.
Beside me, Tabby sighs. “Charming as ever, I see.”
“Asshole was being disrespectful,” I mutter, glaring at his retreating back.
There’s a shrug in her voice. “Men can’t help themselves, Connor. Boobs are your gender’s Kryptonite. I don’t take it personally.”
Still bristling, I look at her. “Well, I do. You could be mine, for all that asshole knows.”
She arches one elegant eyebrow. “Sure. In an alternate universe where I don’t have an IQ approaching two hundred points and you’re not a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal with a god complex and one too many pairs of cargo pants, I suppose that could be a possibility.”