Wicked Pleasure

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u872f47ce-49ad-5575-8505-d58d75d2453f)

IT HAD BEEN a long time since she’d crashed a party.

AJ weathered yet another snooty look from yet another glittering society princess, dripping diamonds and sipping Dom. She waited until Socialite Barbie passed before she looked down at herself.

She’d miscalculated a little there, AJ conceded, tugging discreetly at the hem of her dress—short, tight and black. Club wear might get her the right kind of attention when she went dancing—which was to say she never sat out a song or paid for a drink—but tonight, she stuck out like a poor relation. She’d been so busy hacking her way into this shindig that she hadn’t paid too much attention to the dress code.

She should have bought something new. Something fancier.

This was a Liam Kearney event, after all. The tech magnate was known for his lavish lifestyle, his womanizing ways and his profligate parties.

Also, his tech was fucking epic.

AJ let her gaze wander over her lush surroundings. Lucrative, too, judging by his fancy digs.

She’d never been to a real Beverly Hills mansion before. The place had the works: tennis court, fountains, greenhouses, indoor/outdoor pool (currently full of bikini-clad models, natch), and most importantly, fancy French doors that led to Liam Kearney’s office.

AJ reached into her shiny little purse thing, pulled out a tube of lipstick and did a quick reapplication in the ugly but ornate mirror hanging on the wall beside her. Probably cost more than her rent, she thought with derision, careful to angle the opening of her purse away from the closest of the six hidden cameras she’d located in her visual sweep. She placed the lipstick back inside, surreptitiously starting the stopwatch on her phone as she withdrew her hand.

He might have gaudy taste in mirrors, but his surveillance was expertly placed. Not that she’d expect anything less from the man who’d practically redefined cybersecurity. The whole place was wired up tight, and it was impressive as hell. Good enough to keep most professionals out.

AJ tucked the satin bag back under her arm.

Of course, she wasn’t most professionals.

She took a couple of steps before she paused and pretended to fix her shoe, grabbing the doorknob for support. It turned easily in her hand, without setting off any audible bells or whistles. With a quick glance to make sure no one was paying attention, AJ slipped into the room, closing the door behind her.

Four, no five, discreet cameras took immediate notice of her. With that kind of setup, a silent alarm was probably overkill, she figured, sizing up the place, but she wouldn’t rule out the possibility yet.

The office itself was modern and stylish with six big, evenly spaced windows that you could see through from the street (provided you were packing a pair of decent binoculars and had the skills to avoid the omnipresent private security patrol), and a computer setup with enough monitors to impress any fourth-rate TV show set decorator, but shit for doing any real work.

AJ stopped at a bookshelf crowded with tech awards and press clippings, careful to make sure whoever was monitoring the feed mistook her for an idly curious partygoer and not the security threat she was.

Despite herself, she was a little impressed by the shiny hardware. From national commendations for tech innovation to entrepreneur of the year, the man had won every accolade there was.

She picked up a heavy silver frame and stared at the photo of young Liam as a newly minted CEO. He looked...scrappy. Determined. Not so much happy as hungry, and she respected that.

He’d been eighteen years old when he’d launched Cybercore.

It was beyond impressive. Also the recipe for a million photo ops.

She set the frame back on the shelf.

No thanks.

AJ preferred to make her mark on the tech industry in less...public ways.

As though she had all the time in the world, she meandered toward the desk.

From the imposing black leather chair to the Cybercore logo spinning on each of the high-res monitors, everything about the room screamed Inner Sanctum of a Tech Mogul.

AJ didn’t buy it for a second.

She was good, yeah. Hell, she was the best, but the fact that she’d just waltzed into this “office” without tripping anything direr than a couple of security cams told her this room was just a showpiece—a quick stop for nosy houseguests who wanted to see where the magic happened.

This was not where Liam worked, and this was definitely not where he stored anything of importance.

Which meant that her gut had been right when she’d spent hours yesterday poring over the blueprints of his mansion.

The office was a decoy; the server was in his bedroom.

AJ rolled her eyes, because of course it was.