His Conspiracy Girl (Emerald City #4) Read online

  She had too. She thought she knew, but the memories paled in comparison. And she wasn’t ready for the night to end. He wasn’t going to take the next step. Every single one of his closed-ended answers had indicated that, and she’d been doing promo films long enough to know a closed-ended answer. But he also hadn’t pulled away. His body-language was open, and as much as part of her was looking for an excuse to back down, the rest of her wanted more than just a taste, especially after the ride and talking to him, and all of it. She never would have done something like this back home, but boldness drove her.

  She stepped closer. Act cool, act confident. Should she lick her lips? Something else? She traced a finger down his arm. “Are you heading back inside, or…?”

  He set his organic hand on her hip, thumb resting above the waist of her jeans and all but searing her through the borrowed shirt. “Probably the second option. I haven’t really figured it out yet.”

  His voice sent a pleasant chill down her back. She wanted to sink into it. Her brain was already tripping several steps ahead, taunting her with reminders of what kind of work fingers like his could do. The kind of stamina and precision a synthetic had. She shouldn’t be turned on by that, but it had been a long time, and she couldn’t help it. Her last boyfriend had left her with certain expectations, performance-wise. Because synthetic limbs had built-in restrictions to keep them from hurting people, it meant things couldn’t get rough in the bedroom, but if she had to pick synthetics or spanking, especially with a one night stand, she’d take the vibrating fingers.

  She leaned into his touch, giving him what she hoped was a seductive look. “Really? Nothing’s coming to mind?”

  He raked his gaze over her face, eyes threatening to peel away her confident mask. He raised his other hand, and ran his finger over her bottom lip. She parted her lips and closed her eyes at the barely there sensation. A whimper escaped her throat, and she looked at him again, cheeks growing warm, when his touch stopped.

  His smile had gone from playful to dangerous, and a spike of desire drove through her. She fumbled for something witty to say, but every word raced from her thoughts.

  “I might be thinking something.” His voice had dropped an octave, and she felt it roll through her as much as she heard it. Her heartbeat increased, and every inch of her pulsed with a hyper-aware sensitivity.

  A heavy pause hung between them, and then he dipped his head. His mouth found hers, feather-light kiss touching her lips. She gasped, and leaned closer to deepen the kiss.

  He pulled back, and disappointment flooded her. But his hand still caressed her waist. His quiet voice wove through the night. “You should know I’m not in the market for any kind of relationship. Not emotionally, anyway.”

  When he shifted his weight, a distant streetlight bounced off something hanging around his neck. She squinted, and sick disbelief crawled into her gut. A gold ring with a tiny diamond hung from the chain. It had to have fallen out during their ride. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “You’re married.”

  He glanced down at his chest, corners of his mouth tugging down. He shoved the chain back under his shirt. “No. Not even close.” His jaw tightened, and he dropped his arm. “Never mind. I need to get home.”

  Single, emotionally attached to someone else, and oh so alluring. Perfect. She grabbed his synth hand before she could talk herself out of it. She knew CyGes did an amazing job with their implants, but it still occasionally caught her off guard that a fake hand felt as real as any real one, from texture to temperature. It was in the little details—speed, precision, stamina—that the differences shone through.

  “Do you have to, really?” She cringed at the plea in her voice, and pushed as much of it away as she could. “I’m sorry if I dragged up bad memories.”

  He didn’t pull away, but he also didn’t move closer. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not looking for anything emotional either.” Did people usually talk about one night stands like this? How awkward. Why couldn’t they just do it then go their separate ways? She traced her thumb over the back of his knuckles. “We can go back to my hotel. Or just hang here and talk a little longer.”

  Wow, talk about desperate sounding. She fumbled internally for the confidence that had driven her to start this entire conversation.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”

  Pride kept her going as much as want. She pulled his hand up and laid tiny kisses along each fingertip. The faint scent of silicone greeted her again, and she tried to be subtle about inhaling. “I didn’t mean to ruin the mood. We can get it back.”

  “Probably not wise.” Despite his words, the determination was gone from his voice. His shoulders relaxed, and his expression softened.

  She pressed her body as close to his as she could be without making contact. She flicked her tongue out over one of his fingers, and a low growl rumbled from his chest. That was a delicious sound. She sucked the finger into her mouth. A hint of plastic mingled with the taste of skin. Damn, she loved that taste. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment.

  Her eyes snapped open, when he jerked his hand away. She was stunned to find him glaring at her, eyes practically a glacier. She frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He put more than a foot between them. “You knew.”

  She raised her eyebrows. What was she missing? “Knew…?”

  He sighed and shook his head, jamming his hands into his pockets. “You knew I’m part synth.”

  She shrugged. “So?”

  “Fuck.” He spoke between clenched teeth. “I’m not a fucking human vibrator. And I’m not interested in being your fetish.”

  The blunt words, as honest as they were, sliced her and dug deep in the resulting wounds. “Excuse me?”

  He spun away, already mounting his bike. “Go find someone else’s bike to ride. I’ve got an appointment in the morning.”

  She glared at his rapidly vanishing back, as he peeled off and tore down the road. Hurt and embarrassment warred for her attention. She kicked both aside and smothered them with anger.

  Asshole.

  Chapter Three

  Camden paced the length of his living room, in front of the picture window overlooking the ocean. The morning sun crested the other side of the high rise, casting a stream of gold across the water. Built-in shocks and repressors kept his feet from coming down too heavily on the floor, so the people who lived below the penthouse suite never knew when he was on edge.

  His pacing would seem insignificant soon enough. When the film crew showed up, he suspected the place would be louder than underneath a Mag-Line station. The incident the night before had made it difficult to sleep, and exhaustion was making him question if it had been wise to agree to this entire thing.

  Why did last night bother him so much? He’d been hit on by women with the fetish before. Online, in person… Everywhere. He always shrugged it off. Why couldn’t he let it go this time?

  A chime echoed through the room, bouncing off glass and steel, and ringing in his head. He pushed his daunting discontent aside, and moved to answer the door and presumably let the film crew in. This would be worth it. Telling his story, making sure his sister and niece’s memories were captured for the world to see.

  When he answered the door, his jaw dropped, and any greeting—polite or otherwise—died in his throat. Ana stood on the other side. Her hair was down that morning, framing her face in soft lines, and her jeans and shirt had been replaced with a cream colored skirt and wine-top. The storm-green eyes were a giveaway it was her, and her gaze was locked on his face, clouds erupting from it.

  The corners of her mouth pulled up, and she cleared her throat. She extended her hand. “Mister Hillesland? I’m Morgana Ellers, from CyGes. Thank you for seeing us so early. Can my film crew come in and set up?”

  He ignored her hand and stepped aside, opening the door wider. She narrowed her eyes for a moment, but pasted her frozen smile back in place and st
epped around him. “Thank you.”

  It was her. The information echoed in his head, looking for a home. In the background, she instructed a couple of light guys and someone with a tripod about where to plant themselves. The fucking biographer was… He pushed the thought aside, before it could grow into something he wasn’t prepared to deal with just then. It was just another reason to get this over with as soon as possible.

  “Away from the window.” Her clear voice carried over his chaotic thoughts. “There’s enough white in here that counter-balancing the light shouldn’t be an issue. Mister Hillesland?”

  His head snapped up, gaze meeting hers at the sound of his name. “Camden, please.”

  Her lips drew into a tight line, going almost white. Her nostrils flared. “Right.” Her tone was clipped. “Camden. Do you have blinds? Anything we can use to keep the light in this room neutral, as the day goes on?”

  She had wanted to use him the night before. All but thrown herself at him. She was only here because he’d allowed CyGes to film him. And she was going to pull attitude? That was enough to kick him into action. He grabbed a remote off the long, high counter separating the kitchen from the living room. With a couple of clicks, the glass frosted over, and the image of a solid, white wall swam in to replace it.

  “Of course.” He kept his tone as cool as hers. “You said it was Morgana, right? Can I call you that, or do you prefer something else? Something shorter?”

  She never should have given him the name Ana last night. She’d thought she was being coy with a random stranger she’d never see again. She’d only meant to keep him from linking her full name back to her profession. Too late for that now. “Morgana is fine.” She nodded at the rest of her crew. “Todd is the tall guy near the lights. Matt is on cameras, and Shane is running the audio.”

  He knew it was just three new names, but he wasn’t going to remember them. He hoped he could hide that over the next few days. He was horrible with names. Except Morgana’s. It was etched in a storm-green script across his mind. “Right. Perfect. Where should I be?”

  She nodded at the couch. “End furthest from the window. Any issues with our starting as soon as we’re set up?”

  He should snap back. Antagonize her a bit more. But the fight wasn’t there. He sank onto the cushion instead. “No problems.”

  Boredom drifted in while he watched the four set up screens, lights, and a tripod. Someone would look through a lens or viewfinder, and then everything would get rearranged again. He flopped his head back, and stared at the ceiling. “Do you mind if I grab my glasses and plug in? Maybe get some work done?”

  The implants in the side of his head weren't unique to him, but they were still rare. He was sure one day they'd be the norm, though. Thanks to the newest tech on the markets, he could have gone one step further and eliminated the need for any hardware, but he already had too much CyGes tech in his body. He rose to go grab the equipment.

  “Sit.” Her single word was a sharp bark in the midst of the moving.

  He sank back down, eyebrows raised.

  She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and turned to her crew. “Finish setting up. We’re going to do pre-interview prep.”

  He straightened up, eyes wide, when she sat next to him, just a few inches between her leg and his. She rested her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. Her voice was muffled. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Yeah, well—” His angry retort faded in his throat. With all the tension and abrasion in the air, he hadn’t expected an apology. “Good.”

  She exhaled softly, and turned to face him. When she shifted her weight on the couch, her knee brushed the side of his leg. The hypersensitive silicon nerve endings sent sparks of heat through him, and he pushed the reaction back. This was a bad time for his mechanical parts to betray him.

  If she noticed the reaction, she didn’t call him on it. Her voice was low, barely carrying over the chatter of her crew. “First of all, whether or not you believe me, I’ve never done that before. Second, you were as willing to leave with me as I was with you, and how was I supposed to know you’re sensitive about your gift?”

  He’d followed the apology, and logic had started to creep in. Her words made sense, and if he was honest with himself, he was as guilty of using her for her body as she was him. But she’d completely lost him with her last sentence. “My gift?”

  She nodded. “They’ve given you top of the line tech. You’re a walking picture of perfection, thanks to their work and innovation. It’s not only another chance at life, but a chance at a better life than most people could ever hope for.”

  Fucking hell, she sounded like one of their commercials. He looked at her in disbelief. “Did you memorize a pamphlet to prep for this?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t appreciate what they’ve done for you?”

  Killed his family a decade ago? Tried to buy his silence ever since? Manipulated every regulation and senator who stood in their way? No, he wasn’t so appreciative of that. But the expression on her face had shifted, her frown lines had vanished, and the rebuttal died in his thoughts. Telling her any of it wouldn’t do any good. He realized he was looking at a believer. “No wonder they picked you to film this documentary. You’re perfect for it.”

  Her smile turned genuine, calling to the same thing that had attracted him to her the night before. The slight parting of her lips, the emerald sheen in her eyes. Not that it mattered now. She leaned forward, and the front of her shirt tugged open, revealing a hint of smooth skin. “You think so?”

  He wasn’t going to look. He’d keep his eyes on her face. Except that was almost as dangerous as the taunting hint of cleavage. He leaned back into the arm of the sofa, trying to look casual. “Absolutely. I’m sure you’ll do the film the justice it deserves.”

  The corners of her eyes pulled up some more. Wow, that was gorgeous. He squashed the thought. She gestured to one of the guys—Shane maybe?—attention never leaving Camden. “Thanks. I was so excited they signed off on the project. A decade. So incredible. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, since I started researching your story.”

  Of course she’d been excited. Because she had a silicone fetish. Bad path to go down. Shane approached with two mics. They were about the size of his thumb—smaller than the clips he used to attach them to Morgana and Camden’s shirts. Each one would be tuned to a unique frequency, and feed directly to the camera, Shane’s earpiece, and most likely directly to a computer to record sound.

  “So we’re good now? We can do this?” All the animosity was gone from Morgana’s voice. Apparently talking business had brightened her up.

  The faster they got this over with, the better. He gave her what he hoped looked like a genuine smile. “Sure. Let’s get started.”

  Unwelcome disappointment slithered through him, when she stood and moved into the matching chair next to him. One of the cameras was shifted to be on her, and the other followed him, as he turned in his seat to face her.

  She fluffed her hair, and crossed her legs at the knee. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions—I have a list, but not a script. Treat this like you would any conversation, and we can edit whatever we need to during post-production. Don’t feel you have to censor yourself.”

  It was about time. In the past, he’d always kept his thoughts about the situation to himself. But today, and for the length of this documentary, he wanted the unfiltered truth out there. It was the best way to do this.

  *

  Morgana had been completely thrown off-guard when he’d answered the door. More than fifty percent of the population had some kind of implant, and at least half of those had prosthetics, so there was no reason for her to think a random stranger in the bar would be her documentary subject.

  She’d heard the guy was a shut-in, and his greeting when she and her crew had shown up at his door had done confirmed that.

  Now he sat across from her, watching her expectantly, organic fingers drummi
ng on his knee. And looking as good as she he had the night before. Something wasn’t fair about that. She was grateful that this being an interview gave her permission to stare, as she launched into her opening question. “Camden. Ten years, and you’ve never granted an in-person interview before, or allowed anyone to take your picture. And now you’re letting us film entire portions of your life. What changed?”

  His entire frame stiffened. He took a deep breath, and relaxed his posture. “I want the world to know about those in the accident who weren’t as fortunate as me. Those who—” He swallowed, and his jaw clenched. “Those who didn’t survive to be a poster boy for CyGes.”

  She kept her expression calm and soft, always aware of the nearby cameras. At least he’d gotten straight to what she really wanted to ask about. Guilt was already creeping in for what she was going to do, but she could almost convince herself it was okay, if he was the one who broached the subject. “Like your sister and niece?”

  “Exactly like them.” His tone was causal, but his back was ramrod straight, and his jaw clenched. “Both were good, amazing people. No one remembers their names but me. I’d like the world to know who they were.”

  She had expected him to be antagonistic. Her boss had told her the guy had been a conspiracy nut, back in the day, and Camden hadn’t exactly been sociable since she and her people had arrived. But this honest, raw side of him gnawed at her. She’d been told to make the story good. To make the public see all sides of Camden. No one wanted boring documentaries. They wanted drama and grit, and to know this was devouring him.

  “Stop hesitating.” Matt’s quiet insistence echoed in her earpiece. He was far enough away Camden wouldn’t hear him, but even without his prompting she knew she had to do this.

  “Who they were, before you coerced them to move to a city your sister wanted nothing to do with? Before you dragged them away from their hometown? Or after?” The words cut, moving past her lips, and she wished she could take them back. Instead, she kept her tone smooth and professional.