Page 24 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Nineteen

Sydney

The Willard InterContinental is known as “the residence of presidents,” and I suppose I should have expected the tech titan Rhodes MacMillan would choose to stay at such a prestigious location, yet it’s not what I would have predicted from the outdoorsy, laidback guy I’ve spent the last several days with in the mountains.

The lobby’s high ceilings and marble columns command respect, and the traditional furnishings speak of times of grandeur.

The air feels different here—cooler, crisper, with the subtle scent of lemon polish and old money.

My footsteps echo against the marble, a stark contrast to the soft crunch of mountain trails.

Even the light is different, filtered through crystal chandeliers rather than forest canopy, casting everything in a formal glow.

I’ve visited the hotel before, driven by it countless times, but I’ve never stayed overnight.

Hotel guests dressed in a mix of business casual and expensive-looking suits meander through the lobby.

“Yes sir, it appears,” the woman behind the check-in desk squints, leaning closer to the monitor, “you have a delivery awaiting in your suite. Suite 7.” She beams as if she’s announced we’ve been given access to Shangri-La. “How many room keys would you like?”

“Two, please.”

“Excellent. Simply hold the card up to the pad. You’ll need your card in the elevator as well to gain access to your suite. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“No, we’re good.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay. Jonas will escort you to your suite.”

The valet whisked away our luggage, leaving us clutching our computer bags, the last remnants of our separate lives before this weekend together. Of course, my bag is a tote bag with a laptop tucked inside, whereas Rhodes carries a charcoal gray backpack.

Rhodes takes my hand and we follow Jonas, a middle-aged man with a thick moustache and a rounded middle. Based on his jolly demeanor, he doesn’t mind wearing a polyester uniform and stiff, shiny black dress shoes all day.

When we arrive at the elevator, the attendant shows us how to press the card to the pad before hitting our floor, as if the technology is new and he expects we need the explanation.

In the reflection of the brass-plated elevator doors, I catch sight of Rhodes and me, holding hands.

The clothes we’re wearing feel far more casual than the guests in the lobby.

We’re still dressed for a vacation in the mountains.

Of course, Rhodes’ black T-shirt probably cost several hundred dollars, the same for the faded jeans he’s wearing and the sneakers.

There’s not a logo on him, but his outfit feels expensive.

And of course, there’s his watch—a brushed steel Rolex submariner, with a chunky body and pedigree that compliments his stealth wealth.

Growing up, my parents took me to hotels like this on vacation, hotels listed on the Forbes recommended list, so I’m not in awe. Knowing what I know about Rhodes, I wonder, should I act like I’m impressed?

Our gazes meet in the reflection, and a warmth spreads through me that settles the second-guesses. Above all else, we’re having fun. Our reflection is that of a couple on a weekend getaway, and I suppose, that’s what we are.

If I wasn’t here for KOAN, would I be acting any differently?

Without a doubt, yes, I would. For one, I definitely wouldn’t get in a plane and go away with a random guy.

On my own, when not on a job, I would’ve taken his phone number and suggested we meet up again at some unnamed time in the future, and scoffed at cutting my vacation early, no matter how much I wanted to spend time with the guy.

I don’t lose my head or let fluctuating hormones alter my direction.

Yet here I am. Fortunately, I want to spend time with Rhodes. He joked I’m like a drug to him, but it’s a contagious sensation. An unsettling one, but I don’t need to stress. True to my disciplined nature, I’ll stay on task.

I’ll enjoy my time with him, and as planned, say goodbye on Sunday. And what about that resume? Am I going to push for a job with ARGUS? If Brie, our West Coast operative, gets discovered, is that what Hudson will want? I should regroup with the team.

I scanned the lobby and didn’t see anyone I recognized. But that doesn’t mean a KOAN operative wasn’t there.

The elevator doors open, and I’m reminded that Quinn aimed to plant listening devices in the suite. Did they succeed?

Let’s hope not. I don’t particularly treasure the idea of facing colleagues after they’ve overheard me having sex.

Jonas opens the suite with a flourish, revealing a circular entry with a crystal chandelier in the center and a wooded mural scene painted on the wall behind a sofa curved to align perfectly with the rotunda.

A brass rack of clothes and stacked Neiman Marcus boxes greet us.

The scent of new fabric and tissue paper mingles with a distinct fragrance—something floral with hints of sandalwood.

My fingers brush against silk, satin, and other luxurious textures as I circle the rack.

My parents took me to nice hotels, but they never brought a retail store to us.

The gentle rustling of protective garment bags sounds almost obscenely loud in the hushed opulence of the suite.

“Your delivery, sir.” Jonas announces. “Your luggage is in the bedroom. May I give you a tour?”

Rhodes passes him something, I presume cash. “We’re good, thank you. I’ve stayed here before. I’m familiar with the layout.”

“Excellent, sir. Please let us know if we can be of assistance.”

And with that, Jonas exits.

“What is all this?” I ask, circling the rack, noticing some garments have protective liners while others don’t, but everything looks expensive..

“I said I’d take care of everything.” Pride oozes from his smile.

“There’s a formal event tomorrow night and I was hoping you’d be my plus one, and…

” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal, “some of the restaurants in town have dress codes. There should be shoes and whatever else. My instructions were to send anything you might need for a weekend in D.C. and to provide options.”

Even knowing he’s wealthy, this level of casual extravagance catches me off guard. “That’s why you said not to worry about going back to my place.”

“Yep.” He has his phone in his hand and has already stepped past what must be tens of thousands of dollars of clothes, shoes, and whatever else he had sent up. “We’ll send back what you don’t like.”

“How did you know my size?”

He has the wisdom to appear abashed. My brain kicks into gear. He used ARGUS to check my purchasing habits. Is that possible?

I wait…patiently watching him squirm.

He rubs the back of his neck. He’s uncomfortable.

“Don’t read anything into this.”

My arms cross over my middle. It’s a defensive position, but my instinct tells me to shift, to appear more open, less like I’m appalled. I lower my arms and that feels unnatural, so I sit, knees slightly apart. This position might not be best either.

“My ex was your size.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re completely different people, but she was about your size.”

Am I his ex’s size? It’s hard to tell in photographs. Maybe .

But no. There are shoe boxes in that stack. He totally used ARGUS. But copping to a similarity to an ex is preferable to sharing that he owns the world’s best detective, and that he might be using it in ways that shred privacy laws.

“How much did all this cost?” I tilt my head thoughtfully while gesturing to the extravagant display.

I may be without a long-term relationship in my past, but I’ve dated enough to know that what he’s done here is not normal.

Even with my Ivy League connections, I’ve never seen anything quite like this.

With one last brush of his hand over the back of his head, he assumes the seat beside me but leaves enough space between us that our thighs don’t touch.

This way, when he leans over, he can comfortably talk without being in my space.

The velvet sofa sighs beneath his weight.

His cologne—subtle notes of cedar and something uniquely him—drifts toward me, familiar now after days in his company.

The temperature between us seems to rise despite the precisely controlled climate of the suite, a reminder of the chemistry that’s complicated everything from the start.

“My company. I mentioned it?”

“Yes, you did,” I answer, aiming for both curious and skeptical with my features. “You said your company does well. How well?” I dramatically widen my eyes, pretending to be dismayed and suitably surprised.

“I’ve done well. This is technically my third company.

The first was something small and a hobby when in undergrad.

But the others, my second company especially, they’ve done well.

When I contacted the professional shopper, she understood the task should be completed without allowing costs to impede decisions. ”

“Wow.”

“Don’t look at me differently, okay?”

A sharp pang of guilt cuts through my chest. He’s being vulnerable with me, worried that his wealth will change how I see him, and here I am—the perfect example of someone who knew exactly who he was before we even met.

But I’m doing my job. I can give him what he’s looking for—genuine assurances that his success won’t change how I treat him.

Because it won’t. The man sitting beside me, nervous about my reaction, is the same person I loved getting to know in the mountains.

“That’s one of the things…” he pauses, rubbing his thumb over his index finger, gaze downward, “when we met, you didn’t know who I was. Believe it or not, that’s a rare thing.”

He can never learn about KOAN.

I never planned on telling him, of course, but the potential damage of my deception suddenly feels overly personal—making this assignment increasingly complicated.

He lifts my hand and tangles his fingers with mine.

“You’re so different from anyone I’ve met.”

I have been myself with him, my real self. I so much want to deserve the compliment.

But you haven’t been honest with him.

This is the part of the job that sucks—the moment when someone’s trust in you becomes a weapon you’re wielding against them.

But I force myself to remember why I’m here.

The man who just bought me tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes has access to surveillance capabilities that could topple governments.

Finding my dress size is harmless—charming, even.

But if those same capabilities are being used to sell classified information to the highest bidder; if he’s providing kill lists to foreign governments who want to eliminate assets and whistleblowers; then the man I’m falling for is responsible for the deaths of people like me.

People who put their lives on the line for a better world.

The thought sits like a stone in my stomach, but I can’t ignore it. Not when the stakes are this high.

“I love that you’re so open, so real. You probably don’t even care about any of this stuff, and it makes me like you even more. But my ex would’ve flipped out with worry over how she presented herself and…I really want you to go with me to the event tomorrow night. Will you?”

The chandelier light catches the slight movement of his throat as he swallows, waiting for my answer.

Outside the window, a distant siren wails—a reminder of the bustling city that surrounds us, so different from the quiet mountain retreat where we met.

The plush carpet beneath my feet feels too soft, too manufactured after days of natural terrain.

“Go with you to the event?”

He nods.

“I already figured we’d be together this weekend,” I force out, hoping for a natural sound.

“Good.” He checks his watch. “Shit. I’ve got to go. I’m late.”

“Oh. Want me to join you? What should I wear?”

“This one’s a meeting. Boring. Stay here and relax.” He hops up, selects a sports jacket to wear over his T-shirt, and rubs the back of his neck again. The movement is definitely his discomfort tell. “Are we okay?”

I nod, and he gives me a thumbs up. An actual thumbs up in the air.

I call out to him as he’s approaching the door.

“You do realize I’m going to Google you the moment you leave this room, right?”

He stops, frowning.

Our eyes connect and he senses I’m teasing, because a smile slowly overtakes his frown. The air between us vibrates with unspoken things—my secrets, his wealth, the growing complexity of whatever is happening between us.

Really, I only threw Google out there to open the door for more questions. And with us going to an event tomorrow night, I have a green light to be as knowledgeable as possible in preparation for the people we’re meeting. He knows I’m CIA-trained.

“As long as you promise not to look at me differently, Google away,” he says, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. His hand on the polished brass doorknob, the slight creak as it turns—these small sounds echo in the room as loudly as my own heartbeat in my ears.

The question, “What does that mean?” dies on my lips. There’s no need to push that hard into the lie.