But … she was eighteen. And … maybe older?
Wasn’t she?
“Of course, you’re a grown woman. You don’t take shit from anybody. And you go wherever you want, every day.”
Could it be true? Oh, please let it be true. She wouldn’t ask for anything else if she was safe. Being alone wasn’t so bad if she was safe. She wasn’t greedy. She hated greed. She’d never ask for more than she earned.
“You deserve everything in the world, Delaney, and wanting to be safe and happy isn’t greedy. Won’t you please come back to bed? You’re only wearing one sock.”
One sock? But that was ridiculous. And these thoughts—these tiresome, constant worries she had—they weren’t ridiculous. They were scary. They were real. If something was ridiculous, it must be a dream.
So this was a dream.
This was a wonderful dream.
“Okay,” she said, and the ridiculous man who chased away the scary stuff seemed pleased, and that was nice, too. She let out a small giggle, but the ridiculous man didn’t mind at all, which was more proof—not that it was needed!—that he was ridiculous.
More proof this was one of the nicest dreams ever.
Almost as good as the ones where she could fly away.
“C’mon, honey. You and your one sock, won’t you come back to bed?”
Well, sure. Grand idea! One sock! Ridiculous man!
“Okay,” she agreed, and felt herself tucked in and kissed, very lightly, on the forehead. A ridiculous spot for a kiss! Which was the point!
Better than the dreams where she could fly. And once she’d decided that, she tumbled back down into sweet dark sleep.
Forty-two
When she woke, it was just getting dark. Napped the afternoon away. Never get to sleep tonight. Oh, well. I was going to have trouble sleeping anyway.
She rolled over on her side and saw Rake was awake and looking at her. “There you are,” he said, smiling.
“Here I am,” she agreed. She stretched, not caring that the sheet was around her knees—she never understood when women got modest about their bodies after sex. A classic case of locking the barn door after the horse ran off. And then had the best sex of its life.
Besides, he liked her body and she enjoyed how his gaze dropped to her breasts when she stretched. That was all right; she pretty much thought he had the best body she’d ever seen, too. All long gorgeous lines, broad shoulders, long muscular legs, flat stomach, defined biceps, big hands, big—oofta.
“Hungry? You must be.”
“Yes, but it’s time to finish our talk. Tomorrow’s going to be here way too soon.”
Her stomach didn’t sink; it plunged. He was talking in that awful new voice again, only now the calm, sorrowful tone was laced with regret. For what they had done? For what was coming?
“Okay,” she said, and pulled the sheets up to her neck. Suddenly it was no good being exposed; she hadn’t felt a bit vulnerable when his glorious thick cock was filling her up, and before that his fingers and tongue, Christ, good-looking men were almost always shitty in bed, but Rake was the exception—but she sure did now. She didn’t want a bedsheet, she wanted a parka.
And all he was doing was holding her hand.
“You know I’m fluent, and not just in Italian.”
“Sure.” Of course she knew. It was cool, but annoying. Rake was hot enough without being able to whisper sweet nothings in French or order blood sausage in German or curse at Peeps in Italian.
(She had no idea what “Fanculo, Peeps, e leccare le mie palle!” meant, but Sofia’s and Teresa’s eyes went big when Rake let loose, and the two of them had heard everything. His shame-faced apology right afterward just made everything funnier.)
“The thing about languages,” he went on, “they’re codes. That’s all. You just have to figure out what the letters stand for, right?”
“Sure.”
“And for some people, that’s easy. Me, I’m great at figuring out languages, but I suck at poker and chess.”
“Okay.” Wary now. Which felt like the appropriate response.
“But the wiring that makes me good at languages but terrible at chess makes me good at crossword puzzles, Sudoku—stuff where the object is filling in the blank.”
“Okay…”
“And passwords. I’m really good at those. Because those are codes and puzzles.”
She froze. As far as clichés went, it was pretty accurate: She actually felt everything in her lock up, like she’d been plunked down in the middle of a blizzard.
“You didn’t—” No. Impossible. It was long and dumb and had no significance except to her, and the odds that he guessed were billions to—
“I knew your laptop password had twenty-two letters. And now and again I saw which letters you were hitting, though you were careful never to let me see you put the whole thing in. We were
(past tense? yes, of course)
sharing a room, after all. And I didn’t have a laptop of my own, or a phone until recently, to distract me, so there wasn’t much to do in here except worry about Lillith and listen to you type and think about your password.”
Definitely should have tried to seduce him, then. To think I didn’t dare!
“I didn’t think you’d put in twenty-two numbers—you’d need a password to mean something. So what could be important to you? What does Claire Delaney care about? Not money—you don’t give a shit about it … unless someone goes back on their word. Baby-sitting random millionaires? I’m pretty sure I’m the only one. The other girls sure seemed to think so— No,” he said, seeing her expression. “They didn’t rat you out. I’m fun, I’m laid-back, and when I ask questions, it’s not at all threatening. And they keep forgetting I’m fluent. Which is just fine.”
She sat there, brain empty. Absolutely no idea what to say, or even think.
“So!” he continued briskly. “Twenty-two letters, and some of them were C and H and M and E and I and A and B.”
“You still couldn’t have—” It was actually hard to talk; her lips had gone numb.
“C-H-A-R-I-T-Y-B-E-G-I-N-S-A-T-H-O-M-E-I-C-U.” When all she did was gape like a trout, he elaborated: “Charity begins at home. I see you.” He shook his head, amused. “You really hate when they renege.”
“Yes,” she managed. Cracked it. Cracked it in two days and never said a word. Cracked it for fun, to pass the time, and never said a word. “Blake’s a fool to underestimate you.” She managed to look at him and said it, one of the biggest truths of her life: “I was, too.”
“Thanks.” He seemed pleased, which was a sizable improvement over pissed.
“I can’t really tell you every—”
“Hacks and hits. That’s what you do. All around the world.”
“Yes.” His eyes. Oh his blue, blue eyes that held reproach, but not as much as she deserved. “Since before I could vote.”
“Which one was I?”
“What?”
“A hack or a hit?”
“No. Oh, no! You’re a side project.” She bit her lip, hard. “I’m sorry, let me rephrase—sometimes I take on work outside the charities.”