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“When do you get off work?” he demanded.
She thought about it for a moment. “Tomorrow—that is, today, I guess, I’ll probably get off some time after midnight. Not before.”
He was appalled. “Midnight? What the fuck do you do there until fucking midnight?”
“Calm down,” she soothed. “It’s a farewell banquet. I organized the event weeks ago. Some big shot cardiologist is retiring. Midnight is a hopeful estimate, with all the stuff I have to take care of afterwards.”
He thought about it, and realized that maybe it was better that way. He couldn’t get away from those monitors before midnight anyway. Maybe later. This way, he knew where the hell she was. The burr beacons he’d slipped into her purse and inside her phone case would help too.
“Will you meet me after?” he asked.
She looked puzzled. “Sure. Here, you mean?”
He shook his head. “No, not here. At a hotel. My neck is prickling. I don’t like being in one place for too long. He’ll get a fix on me.”
She nodded, clearly humoring him. He tried not to be annoyed.
“I’ll find a place, get checked into it. I’ll text you the hotel and the name I’m checked in under. When you get off work, go straight there. Don’t go home. You’ll have to wait for me for a while.”
“Good Lord,” she murmured. “So cloak and dagger.”
“Tell them you’re my wife,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Is that necessary?” Her voice rose to a squeak.
“Yeah,” he said grumpily, but he couldn’t explain to her why.
It was hard to put in words. Calling her his wife created a barrier of privacy, illusion though it was. If the desk clerks were judgmental, suspicious women, or horny, dirty-minded men, or any combination thereof, calling her his wife would quell their inevitable speculation as to why a woman might meet a man at midnight at a hotel.
The fact that their speculation would be balls-on accurate was entirely beside the point. It was still none of their fucking business.
He didn’t want to thrash through all that jealous bullshit with her, though, so he retreated into a growling sulk. “What, do you not want to claim me as a husband?” he snarled. “Foul-mouthed, tattooed lowlife that I am?”
Her lips pursed in an attempt not to smile. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m just surprised. You actually said the W word and the H word.”
He acknowledged that with a shrug. “I’ve got too much else to be scared of right now,” he said dryly. “Later for that, OK? When I finally manage to kill the filthy son of a bitch, we can celebrate by having a big, screaming argument about my commitment issues. Sound good?”
She snorted. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“But for now…” He fished around on the floor next to the bed for the string of condoms, and stood up, tearing one loose. She sucked in a breath as he rolled it over his cock one-handed, grinning at her.
“Just what do you think you’re going to do with that thing?” she demanded. “Nick, you have got to be kidding.”
He lifted up the covers and slid between the sheets, gathering her hot warmth into his arms. “I’m not doing anything,” he said innocently. “It’s just, you know. A precaution. In case of…accidents.”
“Accidents? Hah,” she quavered, and cried out as he rolled on top of her and entered her, in one long, hard, relentless shove.
“Oops,” he murmured. “Sorry. I was afraid this might happen.”
She exploded into giggles, and the little shudders vibrated through his body, particularly the part he’d just slid inside her.
Hugging him, squeezing him. God, he loved to make her laugh.
CHAPTER17
Zhoglo flipped through the printouts of the information that Mikhail had downloaded on Rebecca Cattrell. It was enough for his purposes. Address, place of work, employment history, driving record, banking and credit card information, tax data, medical records—a wealth of detail that bordered upon the tedious. The age of the internet and the services of a competent hacker had rendered this cat and mouse game almost too easy to be entertaining.
Almost. He was sure he would manage to glean some enjoyment from the proceedings. He had been delighted to discover the existence of a brother and sister. The parents were long gone, but younger siblings would do nicely for the eventual mental torture part of his game. Almost as well as children of her own would have done.
