Lure of the Wicked (17 page)

“Yes,” she added before he could reply. “Whoever shot at me”—
at you
, she corrected silently—“must have recognized me. I’m sure the Mission caught him.”

“Him?”

“Or her,” Naomi added smoothly.

Phin looked down at the floor. His jaw shifted, shoulders twitching as if he argued with himself about something. About her.

Hell, she didn’t know. Naomi rose to her feet, forced herself not to get closer, then stilled as he jerked his head up, meeting her eyes directly. “So the Church isn’t investigating my home?”

She blew out a deep breath. In this, at least, she didn’t have to lie. “No,” she said softly.
Just a shitfucker of a
rogue agent who decided to sneak his way inside.

Even she couldn’t think of a better place to lie low.

Phin moved so suddenly that Naomi froze between flight and fight. He grabbed her waist in his large hands, hauling her against his chest. The sheet caught between them, dipping dangerously low, but all she felt against her palms was warm, achingly familiar skin and the slow, steady beat of his heart. “Don’t ever,” he said, his eyes filling her field of vision. So serious.

So heartrendingly stern.

She licked her lower lip. “What?”

His lips moved, a tic hard at his jaw. Then, as if shaking away the words he didn’t know how to say, he let go of her waist to slide his fingers through her hair. “Hell with it,” he muttered, and crushed his mouth to hers.

The tender ache of her well-used body fled beneath a liquid pool of need, of wanting so tight and sharp and driven that it washed away everything else but him. His lips claimed, possessed. Took from her every fucking thing she never wanted to give—her capitulation, her craving. Her silent confession.

How badly she wanted more.

He took all that and gave her back all the things she didn’t want. Couldn’t force herself to name.

And still she drove her tongue into the wild heat of his mouth, rasped against his, her fingers digging into the sculpted planes of his pectorals. His heart slammed into her palm. His groan wrenched from him, his erection pulsing hard and thick against her abdomen, and she thought,
What the fuck are you doing, West?

Dangerous. So desperately dangerous.

Wrenching away, gasping for breath, she pulled back out of his reach and held up both hands as the sheet pooled slowly to the floor at his bare feet.

Gloriously, unabashedly naked, Phin watched her with eyes that glittered as hot as the liquid heat between her legs. Hungry. Demanding.

Naomi forced a laugh. “Food,” she said emphatically. “Or I swear, I’m going to die on you, and you’ll seriously regret it.”

She didn’t have to feel his heartbeat to know how strongly that kiss affected him, too. Color rode high on his cheeks, and his cock thrust magnificent and hard from the thatch of dark hair she was trying too damn hard not to stare at.

Naomi knew full well what Phin Clarke could do for her.

And she knew
exactly
what she was going to do to him.

Betrayal.

The poor, deluded bastard.

She fled with his laughter still drifting huskily behind her.

He’d get over it, she thought as she retreated. In the sitting room, Naomi moved Phin’s key card into her front pocket, shook out her hair, and knew she’d need a shower before long. The things they’d done, the things Phin had done to her . . . Her breath shuddered out. The man had some hands. Gifted, clever, fearless hands.

A good, bright memory for when she got the hell out.

She crossed the room on soundless feet and waited impatiently for the elevator to respond to the call signal. When it slid open, silent and quick, she made her escape. It was the work of moments to fix the mess Phin had once more made of her hair as the lift glided down.

She wasn’t sure what time it was. The elevators opened to muted quiet, a hush so thick that it wrapped like a blanket of silence around her ears. She studied the garden with its shedding trees and slowly wilting foliage.

She needed to get to the staff floor.

The staff floors were keyed in to the staff. Ergo.

Naomi fished Phin’s card from her pocket and scanned it. The elevator doors slid closed again. Too easy.

Too trusting.

When they opened, Naomi hesitated, checking the digital floor readout. It said she was in the right place, but the hallway looked like any of the others she’d seen. Nice carpet, the same pattern as everywhere else. Nice wallpaper, professional and clean.

Good lighting. Naomi frowned at the sconces lining the wall. She didn’t see any cameras, but she didn’t think it meant anything. Not at this point.

Phin didn’t strike her as stupid. Well, not anymore.

And this late into the game, any cameras that caught her wouldn’t matter. The hotel’s security would be five steps behind her and answering to the Church by the time they figured out anything was wrong.

Not her problem.

The carpet dampened any noise her footfalls might have made, and she hurried down the hall with her ears straining for any signs of life. Everything was so quiet. The first door she found was narrow, marked clearly with a brass nameplate.

Maintenance. No, not there.

She passed more like it, each named for the necessary tasks. Organized to the extreme.

Finally, just as she was about to give up and try the next floor, she found it. Three doors, two on one side and a third on the other, each labeled with the same brass plates. She eyed each. All three Clarkes had their own offices.

Which was likely to hold files?

Remembering Phin’s neatly hung shirt and arranged shoes, she shook her head. His office, like the others, boasted a thumb lock.

Wordlessly, she grabbed her comm unit and dialed in to Jonas’s direct line. She clipped the mic to her ear and waited.

“Naomi! Man, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“Ugh.” Jonas had always been a morning person. “I need to get past a fingerprint lock,” she said, deliberately ignoring his jovial greeting. “If I hook you in, can you override it?”

“Does it rain all the time in the shattered Northwest?” Jonas replied, and she heard the clattering echo of his fingers flying over computer keys. “First, though, how are you?”

Used
. “Bullet crease, but that’s it. I’m going to have to answer some questions today, so the sooner you hurry this up . . . ?”

“All right, all right,” Jonas replied, relief clear over the line. “I’m just— You know.”

She knew. Her mouth twisted.

“Now, there’s a short panel in the side of your unit. Slide it off.”

Naomi’s fingers struggled with the tiny piece. When it cracked open, a pronged bit of metal fell into her palm. “Okay?”

“Somewhere on the lock, there should be a jack. Insert that bit and let me know when it’s ready.” He spoke slowly, easily, his tenor reassuringly steady.

“You sound like an info-feed line.” She ran her fingers over the lock casing, bent until she could see the underside.

“And that’s why you love me,” Jonas said cheerfully. “Is it in yet?”

“Baby, you say all the sweetest things.” Naomi whistled softly as she found the tiny hole in the casing, ringed by bands of metal. The tiny device slid right in, clicked faintly. “It’s in.”

“Hold on while I do that thing I do so very well.”

Biting back a smile, she waited as the lock’s digital screen jerked sharply, fuzzed, and went abruptly black. She didn’t touch it, barely breathing as she listened to him work over his keyboard like a performing pianist.

The screen blinked back on, flashing yellow. She heard the tumblers spin inside the door, heard them slide back and click into place. “And access granted,” Jonas said in her ear.

“You’re a wonder.” Naomi turned the doorknob. It spun easily, opened just as easily. Phin wasn’t stupid, no. But maybe a little too confident in tech that people like Jonas ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Good. We need to get the report from last night.”

Naomi frowned. “Is Miles okay?”

“Not even a scratch,” Jonas reassured her. “Mighty ticked, though.”

“Yeah.” Naomi rolled her shoulder. The one that should have hurt. “He can join the club. Have you run the blood?”

“No match,” Jonas said with a sigh. “We’re looking at a relative unknown.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Hopefully that was the last of the witches,” Jonas said, optimism practically leaking into her ear. “Good luck. Get to it and keep in touch.”

“Thanks,” she muttered. She turned off the comm, frowning at the neat stack of plastic containers arrayed against the far wall. The room boasted only a desk, a monitor, three chairs, and that overwhelming stack of boxes for furniture.

The office was clean. Way,
way
too clean. Nicely decorated in more masculine tones of dark wood and shades of burgundy and dark, damask gold, but too clean.

Pristine, even.

Did the man even use this thing?

Circling the desk, Naomi gave it a brief look-over and shook her head at the chair tucked neatly into place, the complete lack of fingerprints on the monitor, and the clean keyboard built into the polished surface of the desk.

Phin Clarke was a neat freak. Given the state of her suite this morning, this didn’t surprise her. Even the leather chair lacked the kinds of nicks and scratches that the Mission office collected like blue ribbons.

Frowning, she turned toward the rows of boxes. Each boasted a label, a panel with neat, printed block letters, but they made no sense to her. A code. Some sort of personal security process.

Not stupid at all. “Damn.”

“Can I help you find something?”

Naomi spun, one hand automatically reaching for the gun that wasn’t tucked at her shoulder. Her fingers closed on the bandage under her sweater, her heart pounding as she met Gemma Clarke’s assessing brown eyes.

The woman leaned against the doorjamb, her tailored suit sunshine gold and accented by an ivory blouse. Her hair was pinned up, so much nicer than Naomi’s messy knot.

Swallowing hard, Naomi lowered her hands to her sides. “Mrs. Clarke.”

Phin’s mother stepped into the room, surveyed it quickly. Finding nothing out of place, that astute gaze slid back to her. Narrowed. “What are you looking for?”

She could lie. Very little could explain her presence in a locked office, but she could lie about what she intended.

But looking into Gemma’s shrewd eyes, she knew it wouldn’t matter. “Mrs. Clarke, I can explain.”

“I expect you to,” the woman said, her tone not entirely friendly. “But first, I would like to know why my son performed a rather dignified walk of shame into the family wing this morning.”

Oh. “Fuck,” she muttered.

Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. I would also like to know why the Church saw fit to infiltrate”—she held up a hand as Naomi opened her mouth—“yes, I mean
infiltrate
my business with spies.”

Naomi fisted her hands against her hips. “What did Phin tell you?”

“I don’t want you to repeat what you told my son,” Gemma said, and her tone was as matter-of-fact as her regard. The woman had a bullshit meter Naomi could only envy. “I want to know what your mission is, and how it’s going to interrupt our lives.”

Naomi took a deep breath. “It won’t,” she said, and added quickly, “at least not any more than it already has. I just need a few things and then I’m out of your hair.”

“Such as?”

“I need the guest lists for the past two weeks. Day-trippers and residents.”

Silence greeted her candid relay. Silence, and one shaped brown eyebrow.

Naomi had slept with this woman’s son. She’d spent the night screwing him until they were both blind with exhaustion. Even now, her body ached, pulsed with the memory of it.

And Gemma knew. It probably didn’t make her look very good in the woman’s eyes.

Not that she gave a damn what anyone else thought.

She shifted uneasily. “Look,” she said, spreading her hands, “I’m here to put a stop to something that might be a problem. I don’t want to cause trouble, I want to
stop
it.”

Gemma’s mouth thinned. “Does this problem have anything to do with the body found this morning in the laundry facility?”

“What the hell are you—” Naomi frowned. “A body?”

The woman propped a round hip at the edge of the desk. She didn’t bother softening her tone. “One of my maintenance employees, Miss Ishikawa. Mark Vaughn. He was found with his skull caved in, quite dead and buried in a vat of towels.”

Maintenance. Naomi thought fast. “Does maintenance have key cards to every room?”

“Of course.”

Shit, shit, fucking two-timing luck. That answered
that
. The bastard witch had easy access to her room. But why? She set her jaw. “Yes,” she lied. “He’s one of the reasons I’m here. How long has he worked here?”

“Three weeks.”

Was the timing right? Naomi took a step forward, stopped abruptly and stared at the ceiling. “Did he have any friends?”

Gemma watched her, wary. “Not many. A few of the other employees.”

“Does maintenance have the run of the building?”

“They have to,” Gemma replied, and her brow furrowed as Naomi’s fist punched through the air.

“That’s it!” she crowed. Carson bribed the witch into letting him in. It had to be as simple as that. Once the maintenance man was no longer useful—trying to kill her twice was about as
fail
as she could imagine—Carson must have just taken a copy of the man’s maintenance keys and called it good.

But a hunter working with a witch?

And why remove him from the armoire?

Shit. She’d figure that out later. “Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” she said in more even tones, “I can tell you it’s only getting worse. I think that my target, Joe Carson, has already tried to kill one guest, and succeeded in killing your man.” Lies upon lies. She was so fucking good at them anyway. “Gemma, believe me, I’m not out to hurt you.”

“Aren’t you?” The woman adjusted the rolled up cuff of one sleeve, smoothing the wide, flat fold. “How is your shoulder, my dear?”