Page 6 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Four

Sydney

Ten minutes before six, I’m in a cozy room in front of an unlit fireplace, steps away from the check-in desk. My time by the pool proved a waste, if one counts time half-reading, half-people watching a waste. Rhodes never appeared.

In the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the world-renowned spa attracts many of the visitors to the inn, and if I were to guess, that’s why I had the pool to myself.

If I’d known I wouldn’t run into Rhodes, I might have scheduled a massage.

But, given there was no chance of running into him in the women’s area of the spa, I stretched out in a lounge chair and, in a solitary moment, broke down and called Caroline.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Her voice sounded bright and cheery, but in the background I heard a click that I assumed was a door closing.

“Fine. Am I catching you at the office?”

“Home office, today, but Dorian’s working from home today too. He can be loud.”

I smiled at the way she drew out the word loud . It’s been a long time since I lived with someone, and I’ve never lived with someone I was romantically involved with, but I fully expect there would be challenges.

“How’s Dorian?”

Although I’ve been friends with Caroline for years, I’ve never met her husband.

For one, when she and I first met, they’d split.

They only recently reunited. She came to visit me not long ago in D.C.

, but he had meetings or something. But I don’t need to know him to approve of their reunion. She seemed happier, livelier.

“He’s fine. How are you? You’re at the new job, right? Do you like it? How’s the boss?”

“Well, obviously the boss is an improvement over asshat.”

She snorted. “Obviously.”

“But no, I like him. He’s levelheaded. Fair. Trusting. I’m thrilled to be back, doing my old thing.” There was no one around me, but Caroline understood my purposeful vagueness.

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Ah, you know. No guarantees.” Quinn laying it out there and then my poolside nothing served as a cautious reminder. In this situation, failure is a realistic scenario, but failure isn’t acceptable. I’ll find a way.

“If anyone can crack the guy, it’s you,” Caroline said, as if she could read my mind. “Remember the test?” My mind flashed to the evening in a ballroom with classical music and champagne flutes. “You scored higher than anyone. You pulled one over on an instructor.”

Yeah, rumors spread that I slept with him because how else could a woman pull one off on a target aware of the assignment?

The reality? I distracted him and successfully retrieved his phone and returned it. Yes, he was aware of my objective, but diversion is a skill. The others needed more practice. Years have passed since The Farm and our hyped banquet test.

“What’s it like being in the field again?” Caroline joined the CIA knowing she’d never enter the field, as she’d been in the press too often thanks to her marriage to an influential, highly visible man.

“Honestly, there’s no adrenaline rush quite like it.”

“You love it.” I could hear the smile in her words.

“I do,” I admitted. “Thank you.”

She scoffed. “No need to thank me. We wouldn’t have recruited you if you weren’t the best for the job.”

That one comment of hers was something I needed to hear. And, I suppose, Caroline sensing that, is what makes her good at her job too.

After ending the call with Caroline, I showered and dressed for my date and now I wait.

From my perch in the armchair, I have a clear view of the lobby doors, although it’s likely my target will approach from behind, entering the lobby from the labyrinth of hallways that connect the inn.

The Smithsonian article on my phone covers nine mythological sites that archeologists believe are real. Rhodes’ ex-girlfriend once posted a pic of him reading a Percy Jackson novel with the caption, “My man loves his mythology.” And his mother responded with, “That’s my boy” and a heart emoji.

It’s not a lot to go on, but if he approaches from behind and sees my phone, it’s a conversation starter. And maybe reading the Smithsonian magazine will boost my perceived intelligence quotient. With Mr. Stanford, it’s a reasonable assumption he’s judgey over reading habits.

In six minutes, he’ll be late. In a Harvard Business Review article on leading management practices, Rhodes stated he expects timeliness from all employees. “A late arrival to a meeting wastes the time of the participants and costs the company hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.”

On the hike, he didn’t come across as the stiff I expected, but put a suit on him and he’s probably a different man. Of course, as one of the Silicon Valley self-made T-shirt and blazer crew, he’s infamous for eschewing ties.

Another minute ticks by. If he’s late, then either he holds a distinct set of standards to his private life, he handles himself differently on vacation, or that entire article was bullshit.

The bell over the door rings, and he enters. Is he coming in from the parking lot? Where did he spend the afternoon?

I check the time. Five fifty-nine.

His dark, hooded eyes scan the lobby. Earbuds protrude from both ears. There’s an iPhone in his hand, and his dark gray trench coat falls mid-thigh. He’s changed into jeans, a heathered gray tee, and hiking boots. He wore running shoes when he went hiking.

What’s he been doing this afternoon?

He nods and says something to someone. Where I’m sitting, I can’t see the check-in desk, but based on the angle of his body, presumably, he’s chatting with the person behind the desk.

Static lifts several of his dark brown strands. Cut short on the sides, and longer on the top, he’s got one of those hairstyles that say I’m a businessman, but I’m not one of the zero-nonsense types. If you want me to model, I can do that too.

The idea of this man doing something as plebeian as modeling is laughable, and I grin at the thought—though honestly, with that face and those shoulders, he’d probably be damn good at it—and then his gaze falls on me.

The lobby chatter fades to white noise, the scent of dinner from the restaurant sharpens, and the space between us seems to contract.

My skin thrums, and I catalog the reaction: elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, the kind of physiological response I’ve been trained to recognize and control. Except I’m not controlling it.

Lost in his focus, my mind momentarily blanks.

His gaze drops and the oxygen whooshes back into my lungs. Sounds clink around us, louder than before, and the scent of melted butter, fresh thyme, and something sweet baking in the distance reminds me I’m genuinely hungry.

With a swift movement born of habitual habit, his earbuds are gone and deposited in a pocket.

I push up from my chair, the mythology article forgotten. Wasted effort.

He smiles, softening his expression. The crinkling around his eyes highlights the inner warmth of his brown eyes that shift to moss green in the light. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” I double-check the chair I occupied.

Phone? Check. Handbag? Check.

“Do you have a coat?”

“It’s summer,” I say, blinking.

“Can get chilly at night.”

His business trench belongs in the city, not out here in a small mountain town. I doubt it provides much warmth, but it adds to his business vibe. And maybe date vibe?

I glance down at the outfit I chose. A short capped-sleeve Prana dress that hugs my curves loosely and falls to my calves with gold-buckle Birkenstocks that balance outdoorsy and feminine.

These clothes are from my wardrobe, but I selected them for our date as they fit the part of a young woman on vacation in the Highlands.

“The temperature will drop into the sixties. Do you want to get a cardigan? I mean, you can take my coat, but it will swallow you.”

At six-two, he’s tall, but at five-seven, I’m no shorty.

“And frankly, I’m enjoying the view too much to cover it up.”

Did he actually just say that? I blink, processing what is, in all fairness, a slightly cheesy comment. Completely uncalled for, heat rises along my neck and cheeks, while a visual of the jean jacket I didn’t pack that would’ve gone so well with this dress flashes.

“I’ll grab my fleece,” I say.

“Come on.” He steps to the door, leaving me to follow. “I’ve got a solution in mind.”

I follow him through the cozy lobby with dark wood and small windows that make you wish it was winter and outside a snowstorm raged.

But when we step outside, we’re greeted with a touch of humidity and a golden evening sun.

A profusion of red, blue, and white flowers bloom in window boxes and baskets in storefronts all along idyllic Church Street.

There’s a subtle chill in the air, but it’s still undeniably warm, possibly exacerbated by the undercurrent running through my veins. A challenge, that’s what’s contributing to the heat. It’s the excitement and intense awareness of a mission.

He stretches an arm out, exposing a Garmin. “There’s a shop we can catch before it closes.”

He holds out a hand, and I dutifully take it. My legs stretch to match his long strides as we slow for a passing car, but the Subaru stops, waiting for us to cross.

Warmth circles my fingers, but it’s more than warmth. Tingles glide along the underside of my arm.

It’s a compromising reaction.

This is a job. Yet my gaze falls to our connection, to his capable hands and long fingers with trimmed nails and confident hold.

Two silent minutes later he releases my hand and swings open the door to Lulu Bleu and holds it for me.

“I’m fine,” I insist, attempting to cover my frustration at his insistence I need a sweater with a soft smile.

He rolls his eyes, grins, and steps inside, leaving me on the sidewalk.

What is he doing?

I scan the street and the handful of pedestrians. Sun shines on the windshields of the cars parked along the street, blocking any view inside, but there’s an SUV I recognize at the far end.

The back up is unnecessary.

He’s not dangerous. He’s not that kind of criminal.

With an internal huff, I swing the door open to join my date. He holds up a cropped camel-colored cardigan that’s several shades lighter than my chestnut sundress.

“Will this work?”

It’s cute. I check the brand. I’m not familiar with it, but it doesn’t strike me as crazy expensive. It’s soft, not itchy. I reach for the price tag, but he lifts it out of my reach and passes it to the young woman at the register.

“We’ll take this.”

He flashes his phone at a reader, and hits confirm. The woman at the register blushes, smiling at him like he’s bought it for her, as she undoes a small gold clip that holds the price tag.

“Would you like a bag?” she purrs.

“No, she’ll wear it out.”

“Would you like your receipt? Texted?” Her addendum rings several octaves higher.

It takes effort to control the eye roll. Yes, he’s got charisma in spades. He’s attractive. But really? She’s probably almost twenty years younger than him and she’s hoping to score a date when he walked into the store with another woman and bought said woman a sweater. Have some dignity.

“No, thank you. Have a nice evening,” he says with all the grace of a southern gentleman.

I hold the door for him and he steps through it, bracing his arm against the door for me. Out on the sidewalk, he gestures.

“This way. We have reservations.”

“That wasn’t really necessary,” I say, glancing at the sweater he’s holding in his far hand.

“Well, after dinner, I figured we might walk around. There’s a fire pit on the hotel property.”

“Near one of the outdoor bars.”

“Exactly.” He smiles. “If dinner goes well.”

My stomach flutters, and I’m cognitively aware it’s the physical reaction of a real date, which this is not.

“What’d you do this afternoon?” The question comes out cocked and poorly timed.

“Oh, I went on another hike. Drove around. Checked out a few properties for sale.”

“Are you considering moving?”

He shrugs. “I like it here. Plus I tend to look at real estate everywhere I go.”

“What did you say you do?”

He pauses outside the door to On the Veranda, a cute restaurant with a black awning.

“I didn’t.” He’s smiling, like he’s fully entertained, even happy.

“Realtor?” I ask, playing it up.

“Programmer.”

“Ah. I didn’t peg you as a nerd.” He throws his head back, barking out a laugh. “Although, the business overcoat…” I lightly touch the fabric.

“I have meetings in D.C. Had to pack clothes that worked for this jaunt and…” He angles his head to the back of the restaurant, and I presume he thinks he’s nodding in a northern direction, indicating D.C.

“Carry-on suitcase only?”

He side-eyes me.

What am I saying? He flew a private plane.

But I don’t know that.

“If I could get by with only a duffel, that’s what I’d carry.” He stops, hands in his pockets, watching me. “I have a favor to ask.”

I tilt my head, curious. “Okay?”

“It might come off as strange, but…can we steer clear of work conversation? I need a break from it.”

The request surprises me—most successful men I’ve encountered love talking about their achievements. “That’s not strange at all. What would you rather talk about?”

“Anything else.” His gaze rises skyward and his eyelashes flutter closed.

For a man, he has noticeably long, thick eyelashes.

When he opens his eyes, there’s an earnestness I didn’t pick up on before.

“I haven’t taken a vacation in years. Real vacation, where I’m not checking emails or thinking about quarterly projections or…

” He trails off, then refocuses on me with renewed intensity.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He steps closer, and I catch a hint of his cologne—something woody and expensive. “I need this. A night out with an adventurous, stubborn—” He looks at me with a pointed grin. “—kindred spirit.”

“Kindred?” I raise an eyebrow. “We just met.”

“Did we?” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “Can we just…for tonight, pretend we’re going to spend forever right here? No past, no future obligations. Just this.”