Page 22 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Seventeen

Sydney

“Well, look who it is.”

“Checking in,” I respond to Quinn in a hushed voice.

“Why are you whispering? Is he near?”

“I’m in the women’s changing room at the spa. It’s a cell phone free zone.” The scent of eucalyptus drifts from the steam rooms, and soft instrumental music plays overhead.

“Ah. Well, I’ve been tracking you, so I knew you were on the property.

Or at least your phone is. You know, we pulled on-site surveillance at your recommendation—and I agreed with you.

But it doesn’t work if you don’t check in.

I’m tracking a device. Not you. It’s not foolproof. There’s no video or audio on you.”

“I hear you. But I couldn’t get away to message.”

“If he checks your call history, who you are going to tell him this call is to?”

“My friend.” She can’t see me, but I shrug. What else would I say? “What information will he find if he researches this number?”

“He’ll learn it was activated a week ago. This is a KOAN-issued line.”

“Can’t you adjust the history?” I exhale frustration. “You should’ve thought of that.”

“Hey.” Her tone is sharp. “I did. But we’re a new team on our first rendezvous.

And you’re straying off plan by using your personal cell.

If he digs into your call history, bail.

Even if I were to alter your history, there’s a good chance my alteration wouldn’t match what ARGUS has already downloaded. ”

“Fully aware.”

My personal cell was a last-minute decision, made at the same time I jumped script and used my real identity.

I stand by my decision. It’s one thing to fake an identity for a foreign government pulling from known data sources.

It’s quite another to fake it for the owner of an AI surveillance firm with unknown capabilities.

And the reality is, if it comes down to him doing background on each number I call, then it’s time to exit.

“If he asks, tell him I’m a friend from the CIA and my number changes regularly.”

A woman in a plush robe pads past in spa slippers, the soft slap of her footsteps on heated stone floors barely audible over the gentle hum of ventilation systems.

“That should throw him enough to get you time to get out of there. Because if he’s asking?—”

“It means I’m blown. I understand.”

“I take it since you’ve been with him constantly, then D.C. is on?”

“Yes.”

“Deets?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow on his private plane. Wheels up at 12:30.”

“As expected. Staying where?”

“InterContinental.”

“I’ll see if I can locate his reservation. I’m gonna guess you’ll be in one of the suites. Maybe Thomas Jefferson? We’ll see what surveillance we can put in place.”

“He has drinks scheduled with an Evie Thompson on Friday. She texted him.”

“Texted? Or does he use a messaging app?”

“Text. On the number I gave you.”

Clicking sounds come across the line. She’s looking her up.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“If I’ve got the right one, she’s an Assistant DA. Will you join them?”

“He hasn’t said. He said he has some things to take care of and some meetups. He said it like he’ll need to do them on his own.”

“I could see how Evie Thompson would find ARGUS’s information beneficial. She works in the Violence Reduction and Trafficking Offenses Section in D.C. Human trafficking. I’m going to look into her further. Anything else?”

Over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve learned we are highly compatible in bed, on the sofa, the shower, and on the kitchen counter, and he has a mild obsession with Dave Grohl—not celebrity worship, but the kind of deep musical connection that reveals something vulnerable about him.

It’s the only time I’ve seen him completely unselfconscious, air-drumming to “Everlong” like he’s seventeen again instead of a tech billionaire who usually controls every detail of his image.

“He hasn’t been working. He’s on vacation.”

“How are you holding up?” This time, I don’t pick up a judgmental tone. For a techie, she’s a good handler.

“I’m good.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I’m hopeful this weekend will provide some insight. If it doesn’t, I’ll likely bail at the end of the week. He’s offered to help me find a job?—”

“Another person on the inside.” She sounds impressed. “That would be a huge score.”

“He’s not talking about a job at his company. But would you mind looking at my resume? Spruce it up, so when I share it with him, it’s impressive. Who knows? He said he wouldn’t hire me in his company, but if my qualifications appear desirable enough…”

“I’ll see what I can find on who they’re hiring. Why wouldn’t he hire you? Is he pulling the I-don’t-date-employees card?”

“You mean like someone else we know?”

“Syd.”

I stifle an amused snort. “We didn’t really talk about it, but I think that’s what he was implying.”

“It’s a good policy. Anyhoo, our West Coast peep stole a colleague’s ID card. She might use it tonight—if the employee doesn’t notify HR it’s missing. If she does, I'm betting today is her last day in the office. There’s no way video surveillance won’t ID her.”

“Why the push?”

“She’s confirmed her consulting firm’s access is limited. It’ll be six months minimum before the project’s completed, and that’s a lengthy engagement for the chance that she’d be offered a permanent job.”

“Go big or go home.”

“Right now, you’re our one in. If they catch her tonight, they’ll be on edge.”

“Come on, now. As a company? They’ve got to live on edge. We’re not the only ones attempting a breach. A blocked attempt is just another day in Candy Land for those guys.”

“Good point. Okay. So, how do you want to make contact?”

“I’ll call you?”

“Negative. Your call history is too easy to check. We’re sending two guys to D.C. They’ll have eyes on you when you’re out and about, but they’ll likely lose visuals over the course of the weekend. The real purpose is having backup nearby if needed.”

“They’re staying at the same hotel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I can leave written messages at the front desk for them.”

“But they can’t reach you that way. You’re a runner, right?”

“Yes.”

“Let me check area maps and come up with a contact plan. You’ve still got your rental car, right?”

“Yep.”

“Tell him you have to return the car. If that buys you solo time, swing by here and we’ll review the D.C. plan.”

“Sounds good.”

“How are you for clothes?”

“He’s seen my suitcase. He knows what I packed.”

“He also knows you live in Maryland, right? He has your home address?”

“I haven’t given it to him, but yes, it’s easy enough to find.”

“Has he mentioned stopping by your place? Are you concerned?”

“I understand we’re proceeding with caution, but my operational assessment is that Rhodes poses minimal direct physical threat. He’s not the type to personally get violent—white collar all the way, no background with weapons or physical confrontation.”

“Wealthy, powerful men like him are dangerous in a different way. They don’t need to be personally violent when they can afford to delegate problems. You can’t underestimate what someone would do to protect their company. Their net worth. Their reputation.”

She’s correct. My training taught me to distinguish between personal capability and institutional power.

Rhodes might never lay a hand on anyone, but that doesn’t mean he’s harmless—it just means he’d handle threats the way he handles everything else, with money and influence.

The real risk isn’t Rhodes losing his temper and attacking me.

It’s Rhodes calmly making a phone call to people who specialize in making problems disappear.

A flash of last night, his expression as he pulsed inside me, the way he clung to me as he gasped for air—the physical attraction is real. His guard was down. He trusts me. He’s not suspicious.

He won’t find out. He can’t. I won’t dwell on the possibility, not out of fear of a violent reaction, but because my duplicitous activity would hurt him, and that’s a result I plan to avoid.

The call ends and I deposit my phone in my assigned spa locker, the soft click echoing in the cedar-lined space that smells of lavender and expensive skincare products. Quinn’s little don’t-underestimate-him speech rubs me the wrong way.

I roll my shoulders back and consciously relax my jaw, forcing my body language to shift from receiving intel to woman enjoying a spa day. I’d like to call Caroline for a friendly chat to clear my head, but I won’t. The fewer calls I make, the better.

I pour myself some cucumber water from the glass dispenser and sink into a heated lounge chair by the fireplace.

The plush blanket is impossibly soft against my skin, and I close my eyes, letting the gentle crackle of flames and distant sound of a water feature wash over me.

There’s a lot going on here, but I know exactly what I’m doing.

I’m not some rookie operator stumbling through her first honey trap.

I was CIA, trained at The Farm where half the candidates wash out.

I survived what broke others. Quinn might run tech, but she hasn’t been in the field, hasn’t made the hard calls I’ve had to make.

She doesn’t understand that sometimes you need to get close—really close—to extract the truth.

If Rhodes is using ARGUS to expose operatives—or if someone else within the company is—they need to be stopped.

My methods might blur lines, but I’ll get results.

I’ve always been the best at what I do, and that’s why Caroline recruited me and Hudson selected me for this investigation. When I commit, I deliver. Always have.

But Quinn’s points were solid. As a professional, I must remember that while I don’t believe Rhodes would physically harm me, that doesn’t mean he’s innocent.

Men like Rhodes believe that their wealth insulates them from consequences.

His confidence, nay, his arrogance, is critical to his success.

I can’t lose sight of the reason I signed on to this op.

The mission justifies the means. It always has. And if I happen to enjoy certain aspects of this particular operation more than usual? Well, that’s just a bonus—a bonus with an end date.

When I step outside of the women’s spa area, leaving behind the sanctuary of heated floors and whispered conversations, two powerful hands grip my white terry cloth robe and pull me into a hard chest. The sudden shift from the spa’s hushed atmosphere to Rhodes’ immediate presence makes my pulse spike.

“What’ve you been doing in there?” The question is more of a growl.

“Resting. What about you?” I raise an eyebrow. “Did you get bored?”

“You could say that.”

“Is it that pesky addiction?”

“You?” He grins. “You are my new addiction. Are you ready to go back to the villa?”

A woman perusing beauty products on the far wall peers in our direction. The scent of expensive moisturizers and the soft lighting designed to make everyone look younger doesn’t disguise the curiosity in her eyes.

I whisper, “I’ll change and meet you.”

“There’s a steam room on your side, right?”

“Yes,” I answer slowly, sensing where he’s going with this.

“Want me to join you?”

“You can’t,” I say with a wide grin.

“Hmm. There are things we can do in a steam room.”

I back away from him, shaking my head disapprovingly. “Go change.”

He places his palm over his heart. “Two days in and you’re already wanting me to change. Ow.”

“I’d never ask you to change.” I look straight into his dark, mossy, amused eyes, and it hits me that I’m speaking the absolute truth.

Whatever he’s doing with his company is completely separate from who he is as a person.

And he’s pretty fantastic. That is, if he’s not selling state secrets that get people killed. “You’re perfect.”

“If that’s the way you see me, then it’s best we’re parting ways on Sunday. Wouldn’t want you to learn the truth.”

Right back at you, MacMillan.

He blows me a kiss, walking backwards, and nearly plows over an older woman.

I can’t stifle the giggles as I walk away, listening to his profuse apologies.

It’s not until I’m away from him, back in the eucalyptus-scented solitude of the changing room where the soft music fails to lighten the weight of my deception, that my heart grows heavy.