Lure of the Wicked Part 22

f.u.c.k.

Her shoulders straightened. She knew her face closed down, could feel her expression sharpening, but it was all she could do to sound nonchalant around the sudden tightness in her throat. "And?"

He took a deep breath. "Is the Church looking for witches in Timeless?"

s.h.i.+tf.u.c.k. "Let me ask you this," she said carefully. "Is there any way that you'd tell me the truth if I asked you if Timeless was harboring witches?"

Phin looked her square in the eye, his own hard. Steady. "I would," he said, so seriously that it took her a moment. Longer than it should have. When it finally made it through to her s.e.x-addled, sh.e.l.l-shocked brain, she nearly fell over from relief.

Instead she sank to the chair behind her, laughter spilling from her chest. "Oh, G.o.d. f.u.c.k, Phin."

"What?" he demanded.

"You would!" It snapped out, half a curse, half a laugh. "Jesus Christ, you would, wouldn't you? What are you going to tell me, that you're keeping a secret coven of witches out to kill your own guests?"

His eyes narrowed. "No."

"Then I think," Naomi replied, ignoring the raw ache clawing at her belly, "that it's safe to say the Church doesn't think you're harboring witches."

Which, she knew even as she refused to say it, didn't mean that witches weren't taking advantage of the Clarkes. That wasn't something she was going to mire Phin and his family down in.

The witch was dead. She'd seen no other signs. Now it was just her and Carson.

Totally different story.

"Then why are you here?" Phin asked. He linked his fingers, watching her with such intensity that her humor faded. Eased into relief so p.r.o.nounced that she thought she'd choke on it. Pressing a hand to her chest, she tried again for tact.

She was f.u.c.king bad at tact.

"I can't tell you everything," she began, and threw up a warding hand as he stood, sheet draping dangerously low on his hips. She jerked her eyes to his. "No, stop. Don't take a step, or I swear to G.o.d, I'm not going to be held responsible for what I do."

He hesitated. But his eyes-those warm velvet eyes-crinkled. "Noted."

"And hike up the sheet," she added waspishly. When he did, muscles moving like liquid steel under his tanned skin, she took a deep breath and reached for just enough truth to give credence to the lies. "The Church sent me here because I needed a break. We do that sometimes," she added dryly. "Vacations. I'm not big on . . . you know. Yoga and stuff."

"I noticed," he murmured.

She ignored that. "But I wanted time away. The Church thought I'd be more than safe up here-no one's even supposed to know I'm here." Lies, lies, and enough truth to fake the rest.

G.o.d, she hated it.

"And last night?"

Naomi touched the bandage under her hastily donned red sweater. "Someone must have recognized me. We're never really alone, you know. Even on vacation, we have partners."

Phin nodded once. "Miles."

She frowned. "You have a good memory for a h.e.l.l of a shock." Then she saw his knuckles, white with strain. Naomi hesitated.

What could she do? Comfort him?

No. She'd be gone soon. And all he'd be left with would be bullets and blood.

And lies.

"Yes," she added before he could reply. "Whoever shot at me"-at you, she corrected silently-"must have recognized me. I'm sure the Mission caught him."

"Him?"

"Or her," Naomi added smoothly.

Phin looked down at the floor. His jaw s.h.i.+fted, shoulders twitching as if he argued with himself about something. About her.

h.e.l.l, she didn't know. Naomi rose to her feet, forced herself not to get closer, then stilled as he jerked his head up, meeting her eyes directly. "So the Church isn't investigating my home?"

She blew out a deep breath. In this, at least, she didn't have to lie. "No," she said softly. Just a s.h.i.+tf.u.c.ker of a rogue agent who decided to sneak his way inside.

Even she couldn't think of a better place to lie low.

Phin moved so suddenly that Naomi froze between flight and fight. He grabbed her waist in his large hands, hauling her against his chest. The sheet caught between them, dipping dangerously low, but all she felt against her palms was warm, achingly familiar skin and the slow, steady beat of his heart. "Don't ever," he said, his eyes filling her field of vision. So serious.

So heartrendingly stern.

She licked her lower lip. "What?"

His lips moved, a tic hard at his jaw. Then, as if shaking away the words he didn't know how to say, he let go of her waist to slide his fingers through her hair. "h.e.l.l with it," he muttered, and crushed his mouth to hers.

The tender ache of her well-used body fled beneath a liquid pool of need, of wanting so tight and sharp and driven that it washed away everything else but him. His lips claimed, possessed. Took from her every f.u.c.king thing she never wanted to give-her capitulation, her craving. Her silent confession.

How badly she wanted more.

He took all that and gave her back all the things she didn't want. Couldn't force herself to name.

And still she drove her tongue into the wild heat of his mouth, rasped against his, her fingers digging into the sculpted planes of his pectorals. His heart slammed into her palm. His groan wrenched from him, his erection pulsing hard and thick against her abdomen, and she thought, What the f.u.c.k are you doing, West?

Dangerous. So desperately dangerous.

Wrenching away, gasping for breath, she pulled back out of his reach and held up both hands as the sheet pooled slowly to the floor at his bare feet.

Gloriously, unabashedly naked, Phin watched her with eyes that glittered as hot as the liquid heat between her legs. Hungry. Demanding.

Naomi forced a laugh. "Food," she said emphatically. "Or I swear, I'm going to die on you, and you'll seriously regret it."

She didn't have to feel his heartbeat to know how strongly that kiss affected him, too. Color rode high on his cheeks, and his c.o.c.k thrust magnificent and hard from the thatch of dark hair she was trying too d.a.m.n hard not to stare at.

Naomi knew full well what Phin Clarke could do for her.

And she knew exactly what she was going to do to him.

Betrayal.

The poor, deluded b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

She fled with his laughter still drifting huskily behind her.

He'd get over it, she thought as she retreated. In the sitting room, Naomi moved Phin's key card into her front pocket, shook out her hair, and knew she'd need a shower before long. The things they'd done, the things Phin had done to her . . . Her breath shuddered out. The man had some hands. Gifted, clever, fearless hands.

A good, bright memory for when she got the h.e.l.l out.

She crossed the room on soundless feet and waited impatiently for the elevator to respond to the call signal. When it slid open, silent and quick, she made her escape. It was the work of moments to fix the mess Phin had once more made of her hair as the lift glided down.

She wasn't sure what time it was. The elevators opened to muted quiet, a hush so thick that it wrapped like a blanket of silence around her ears. She studied the garden with its shedding trees and slowly wilting foliage.

She needed to get to the staff floor.

The staff floors were keyed in to the staff. Ergo.

Naomi fished Phin's card from her pocket and scanned it. The elevator doors slid closed again. Too easy.

Too trusting.

When they opened, Naomi hesitated, checking the digital floor readout. It said she was in the right place, but the hallway looked like any of the others she'd seen. Nice carpet, the same pattern as everywhere else. Nice wallpaper, professional and clean.

Good lighting. Naomi frowned at the sconces lining the wall. She didn't see any cameras, but she didn't think it meant anything. Not at this point.

Phin didn't strike her as stupid. Well, not anymore.

And this late into the game, any cameras that caught her wouldn't matter. The hotel's security would be five steps behind her and answering to the Church by the time they figured out anything was wrong.

Not her problem.

The carpet dampened any noise her footfalls might have made, and she hurried down the hall with her ears straining for any signs of life. Everything was so quiet. The first door she found was narrow, marked clearly with a bra.s.s nameplate.

Maintenance. No, not there.

She pa.s.sed more like it, each named for the necessary tasks. Organized to the extreme.

Finally, just as she was about to give up and try the next floor, she found it. Three doors, two on one side and a third on the other, each labeled with the same bra.s.s plates. She eyed each. All three Clarkes had their own offices.

Which was likely to hold files?

Remembering Phin's neatly hung s.h.i.+rt and arranged shoes, she shook her head. His office, like the others, boasted a thumb lock.

Wordlessly, she grabbed her comm unit and dialed in to Jonas's direct line. She clipped the mic to her ear and waited.

"Naomi! Man, I'm so glad to hear your voice."

"Ugh." Jonas had always been a morning person. "I need to get past a fingerprint lock," she said, deliberately ignoring his jovial greeting. "If I hook you in, can you override it?"

"Does it rain all the time in the shattered Northwest?" Jonas replied, and she heard the clattering echo of his fingers flying over computer keys. "First, though, how are you?"

Used. "Bullet crease, but that's it. I'm going to have to answer some questions today, so the sooner you hurry this up . . . ?"

"All right, all right," Jonas replied, relief clear over the line. "I'm just- You know."

She knew. Her mouth twisted.

"Now, there's a short panel in the side of your unit. Slide it off."

Naomi's fingers struggled with the tiny piece. When it cracked open, a p.r.o.nged bit of metal fell into her palm. "Okay?"

"Somewhere on the lock, there should be a jack. Insert that bit and let me know when it's ready." He spoke slowly, easily, his tenor rea.s.suringly steady.

"You sound like an info-feed line." She ran her fingers over the lock casing, bent until she could see the underside.

"And that's why you love me," Jonas said cheerfully. "Is it in yet?"

"Baby, you say all the sweetest things." Naomi whistled softly as she found the tiny hole in the casing, ringed by bands of metal. The tiny device slid right in, clicked faintly. "It's in."

"Hold on while I do that thing I do so very well."

Biting back a smile, she waited as the lock's digital screen jerked sharply, fuzzed, and went abruptly black. She didn't touch it, barely breathing as she listened to him work over his keyboard like a performing pianist.

The screen blinked back on, flas.h.i.+ng yellow. She heard the tumblers spin inside the door, heard them slide back and click into place. "And access granted," Jonas said in her ear.

"You're a wonder." Naomi turned the doork.n.o.b. It spun easily, opened just as easily. Phin wasn't stupid, no. But maybe a little too confident in tech that people like Jonas ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"Anything else?"

"Nope, I'll be in touch soon."

"Good. We need to get the report from last night."

Naomi frowned. "Is Miles okay?"

"Not even a scratch," Jonas rea.s.sured her. "Mighty ticked, though."

"Yeah." Naomi rolled her shoulder. The one that should have hurt. "He can join the club. Have you run the blood?"

"No match," Jonas said with a sigh. "We're looking at a relative unknown."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Hopefully that was the last of the witches," Jonas said, optimism practically leaking into her ear. "Good luck. Get to it and keep in touch."

"Thanks," she muttered. She turned off the comm, frowning at the neat stack of plastic containers arrayed against the far wall. The room boasted only a desk, a monitor, three chairs, and that overwhelming stack of boxes for furniture.

The office was clean. Way, way too clean. Nicely decorated in more masculine tones of dark wood and shades of burgundy and dark, damask gold, but too clean.