Page 29 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rhodes

Syd’s dark eyes flash with recognition. The connection between us strengthens to the point I half-expect to see a ray of light binding us across the oval bar.

A cocktail glass with ice and lime sit beside her laptop.

Seats at the bar are filling up, with only a couple empty barstools.

It’s too early for dinner, given it’s not even five, yet for the twenty- and thirty-something D.C.

crowd, we’re entering prime-time happy hour.

Scanning the room, I’d bet most of the suits are out-of-towners, likely lobbyists, toasting the weekend.

Perhaps some are in town for this weekend’s Bastille Day festivities.

She closes her laptop as I approach, and I’m reminded once again the FBI approached her. But this is Sydney. The woman who met me on a hike and jumped naked into a swimming hole with a rebel yell.

As Miles claimed, I’m growing paranoid. But with reason. Blackmail from the Russian embassy intensifies the suspicion that I’ve become a target.

Or perhaps it’s this version of Sydney Parker, the sophisticated woman in a cream white V-neck silk top that manages to be both refined and sensuous, that intensifies the paranoia.

With the addition of eyeliner, her deep brown eyes appear rounder, her gaze calculating.

Her natural beauty shines through, but this is no longer a twenty-something on vacation.

Seated at the oval bar, I’m reminded she’s a career professional, which means she wants something.

For some, it’s a simple want. A successful company.

Security. For others, it’s a need to feed ambition, to rise in ranks. Pride.

Through pride, the devil became the devil. Pride leads to every vice. C.S. Lewis didn’t mince words.

“That’s a serious face,” Sydney says.

I give myself the time to study her. Lips glossed, makeup tastefully done, shiny hair smoothed.

She’s wearing the clothes the personal shopper selected, so I can’t read into those.

The concern etched in her brown eyes reads as genuine.

Her angled body and openness support the intimacy we’ve built over the last few days.

Yet I can’t shake the gut instinct clawing through my insides, preaching caution.

“Rhodes?”

With a slight shake of my head, an attempt to rid myself of this unease, I pull out the bar stool and keep it light.

“It’s been a day.”

The phrase slips out, and it’s not until after it floats between us I realize how ridiculous a statement that is. I’ve been working for less than two hours. But that’s the statement I uttered on repeat with Sara at the end of a workday.

“Are you done now?”

I lift her mostly empty glass to my nose, inhaling. There’s no scent. I tilt the glass, clinking the ice.

“What is this?”

“Tonic and lime.”

“No alcohol?”

She lifts a shoulder and smiles. Why is she sitting at a bar if she didn’t want to drink alcohol? Why not relax in our suite? And why does someone who claims to be unemployed have what looked like a government-grade secure connection on her laptop?

“You said you live close by?” I know exactly where she resides, but I need a segue to ask the necessary question.

“Commuting distance,” she says. “Do you want a drink? Or did you drink at your meeting?”

I did tell her I was meeting someone for drinks. Is that why she’s down here?

“Location changed. And, no, we didn’t get around to ordering drinks.” The bartender approaches, but I wave him away. “Unless, do you want something?” I ask, catching myself, as I should always ask the lady if she cares for more.

“Rhodes MacMillan.” A firm hand on my shoulder presses down. “I thought that was you.”

“Senator Crawford,” I say, racking my memory for his first name, but coming up blank.

He’s on the Senate Intelligence Committee, and I’ve met with him on several occasions.

Nice enough, midwestern, centrist. Served in the military—National Guard.

Always willing to listen on tech-related bills, but highly opinionated on all matters of defense.

The kind of man who makes it his business to know everyone worth knowing in D.C. ’s intelligence circles.

“What brings you to—” His words cut off mid-sentence, and his entire demeanor shifts. The practiced politician’s smile falters as his gaze locks on Sydney. There’s recognition there, immediate and unmistakable, but something else too. Satisfaction? Surprise?

The flush on Sydney that I’d assumed was makeup drains from her face entirely.

She’s frozen, staring directly at Crawford with the kind of deer-in-headlights look that no amount of training can completely hide.

Her fingers tighten around her laptop case.

Then, as if waking from a dream, she blinks, smiles a polite, fake smile, and gathers her laptop.

“Senator Crawford, Sydney Parker,” but the way he’s looking at her, and the way she reacted to him, I’d bet money these two know each other.

“I didn’t recognize you, Sydney,” Crawford says, adjusting the lapel on his suit coat.

“I’ll see you back…,” Sydney’s voice drops to such a low decibel I can’t hear the rest of her words, but I read her lips. She’ll see me back in the room.

And then she’s gone with Senator Crawford and I both following her with our gaze. Crawford’s expression morphs into one of appreciation for her backside and I clear my throat, noting his gold wedding band.

I hate politicians.

“Is she still with the CIA?” he asks.

No is on the tip of my lips, but after her run-in with the FBI today, and her sitting out here at a bar, I’m uncertain of anything.

“Why?”

“Are you with her?”

Once again, I find myself uncertain how to answer. If he’s looking for me to say she’s a friend so he can pursue her, then fuck that.

“Why?”

“Oh. It’s nothing. I have nothing but admiration for her,” he says.

The words themselves are unoffensive, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye that puts me on edge. The expression is akin to gloating, but I could be misreading what’s nothing more than yet another pompous asshole.

What connection would the senator have to a CIA office? Did she leave because she was uncomfortable? It shouldn’t take long to uncover the answer if it’s a documented connection.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he says.

“Is that right?”

“I heard ARGUS is looking at expanding its footprint. Have you considered Kentucky?”

If I were in a jovial mood, I’d outright laugh.

“Tornado-prone, high heat.” The answer is obvious. Weather risks can’t be ignored.

“Thought you might say that, and I understand the appeal of Iceland. But we’ve got a couple of congressmen that would love the opportunity to make a pitch. We’ve got low taxes and a commerce group willing to make an offer you can’t refuse.”

Oh, but I can. Instead of stating the obvious, I choose the diplomatic path.

“I’ll be happy to make introductions to the executive team scouting locations.”

“Excellent. I’m sure you see the wisdom of leaving a state with high taxes and an affinity for?—”

“If you’ll excuse me.” I don’t want to hear him bash California.

Our location was chosen for the talent pool, and while San Francisco might not be my favorite, I’m not moving our headquarters to Kentucky.

Ever. This is the part of the job I hate, and the reason I pay others to deal with the salesmen.

“Will I see you tomorrow night at the ball?”

“I’ll be there.”

He casts a glance across the space and jerks his head, acknowledging another suit. “I’m meeting someone. We’ll speak?—”

“How do you know Sydney?” The question is left field, but I’m not seeking the answer as much as the reaction.

“We’ll speak tomorrow night,” he says, stepping away, then stopping. “Are you, is she…” he closes his eyes and tilts his head, apparently struggling to formulate his question. “Will she be in attendance tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” I answer, although her being disinvited is no longer a zero-sum possibility.

“She’s a good girl,” he says, almost to himself.

He nods and heads to his awaiting friend.

A good girl.

In what way? A CIA way? An assistant way? Did they date?

What the hell is going on?

I ask the bartender if Sydney owes anything, and he says no, that she’s already paid.

I open a billfold and drop a ten, then head out of the hotel bar to the elevator bank.

On my way, I pull my phone and message Daisy.

Me

Do the deep dive on Sydney Parker.

Within seconds, a response comes through. I pause outside the elevator bank, gesturing for a female hotel guest to enter, and I step away.

Daisy Jonas

Completed yesterday. Penn and CIA personnel file checks. No social media presence, but that’s expected.

She means because of her employment with the CIA.

Me

See if you can find a connection to Senator Crawford. Also, any FBI connections.

Daisy Jonas

Any connection between a CIA officer and the FBI?

Is this your version of ruining a good thing?

I roll my eyes.

I don’t run from relationships. As Miles pointed out, I fall into them the way one falls into an unclimbable well. But something is off here.

Crawford doesn’t come off as sleazy. He’s more the confident, arrogant, southern frat boy type.

Could it be I’m reading into things? Looking for an issue where there is none? Cold feet because my last relationship exploded spectacularly?

An elevator opens and I enter.

On the way up, out of habit, I open the Bloomberg app and skim through the headlines.

When I open the door to the suite, Sydney rises from a sofa, touching her fingers in front of her waist. She’s barefoot and is a mix of the woman I met on vacation and the woman at the bar.

“I can explain,” she says.

The soles of my shoes click against the tile floor, beating out a slow, steady rhythm.

My instincts didn’t fail me. Something is up.

When I’m within striking distance, I say, “Okay.”

“I had an affair with Senator Crawford. About a year ago. I didn’t know he was married.”

Whoa .

The unexpected answer sinks in. Unexpected, but it’s not a personal insult. She volunteered the information. An affair…

“You didn’t know a US Senator was married?” Does she expect me to believe a woman with CIA training wouldn’t pick up on his marital status? How naive does she believe I am?

“My specialty is Europe. Not the United States,” she says in a tone that’s not particularly apologetic.

I narrow my eyes, attempting to control a surge of anger that I’m fairly certain is unjustified, but I’m not absolutely certain.

“At first, I didn’t know he was a senator.”

I raise an eyebrow, calling bullshit.

“He’s young,” she says. “Most of the senators are geriatric.”

She has a point there. In his forties, Crawford is decades younger than the average.

“Much like you and I, neither of us shared where we worked. I didn’t see him often. We weren’t serious. He was someone I saw occasionally. I wasn’t aiming for a serious relationship and when I learned he was married, I should’ve stopped it earlier than I did.”

I hear the honesty in her words and the self-reproach.

“But you didn’t?”

If she wasn’t into him, why keep seeing him?

“Did he say anything?”

I scratch my jaw to distract from the annoyance that she almost sounds hopeful.

“Said you were a good girl.”

I let the words sit there between us.

The tension proves too much. I need space. I step away, taking a seat on the sofa across from her.

“Why tell me? Did you believe he’d tell me?”

“It was awkward. I thought you might have picked up on something. If I didn’t say anything and then later you found out, it might make it a bigger deal than it is. And it’s not a big deal. It happened long before I met you.”

Logical. I rub the back of my neck, kneading the tight shoulder muscle, considering. She likely made the wise choice, telling me immediately. If I’d pushed Crawford, one never knows. While he probably wouldn’t have copped to it directly, a prick like that is more than happy to insinuate.

She also spoke with an FBI agent. Did she date him too?

“Did you run into anyone you know downstairs?”

With a tilt of her head, she avoids my gaze. “No.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.

Is Daisy right? Is this me sabotaging a good thing? Or is the former CIA officer up to something and she sat down at the bar to meet with an FBI agent?

If that’s the case, why? What exactly am I suspecting?

I’ll need to see the tapes. See how long they talked. Check her facial expression. Check his.

“What’s going on?” Unease rings through her tone and I open my eyes, taking in the kindred spirit I met on a hike, the carefree woman who, what? We had fun together.

“Nothing,” I answer. “Work stuff.”

Another frequently used line that will buy me time.

I pat the cushion beside me.

“We haven’t talked about our exes,” she responds, not taking the seat. Her chin’s held high and her arms cross her middle, a defensive posture I recognize from years of meetings. “I wasn’t hiding my past from you. I didn’t do anything wrong. He deceived me.”

I’ve known her for less than a week. I can’t be angry that I didn’t know about a past affair. She could’ve come up here and lied, and she didn’t.

“Nevertheless, it’s a part of my past that I prefer to remain private. It’s a shameful action I regret and I hate that you know.”

I’ve done things I’m not proud of, too. But this conversation isn’t about my mistakes. I pat the cushion again and say, “It’s over, right?”

“Long ago,” she confirms, her tone lighter.

“Then get over here. Take off those clothes. Let me see the lingerie I bought you.”