Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  She smiles at him with all her teeth showing. I resist the urge to cackle like a cauldron-churning witch.

  Parker must sense my pending mental break because he glances at me again. I lift my chin and meet his gaze, concentrating on keeping my hands away from the cutlery. His eyes locked to mine, he says, “First impressions can be misleading, Ms. LaFontaine.”

  With withering disdain, I reply, “Or they can be incredibly accurate.”

  His eyes darken. I feel a distinct shift in his mood, from coolness to heat. Seemingly to himself, he murmurs, “I certainly hope so.”

  Then he blinks, straightens, and turns back to Darcy. “Not. Excuse me, I meant I hope not.”

  Darcy and I exchange a glance. Is he flustered? I sense an undercurrent here, but of what, I’m not yet sure.

  Parker turns to me again. “Victoria Price, is it?”

  As his eyes hold mine, a terrible thought occurs to me: he does recognize me, and this is all a game. A game we’re both playing, because I’m pretending I have no idea who he is, either.

  I ignore his question and look over his shoulder, as if for assistance from some other, more interesting person. “Would you be so kind as to ask Kai to return to our table? I’d like to speak to him about—”

  “You can speak to me about whatever you might need,” Parker interrupts. His gaze drops to my chest. A fraction of a second later, his cheeks turn ruddy. Now I’m certain of the undercurrent I sensed moments before.

  He wants me. The bastard wants me. Me, the girl he so callously kicked to the curb, once upon a million years ago.

  Our gazes lock once again, and hold. I say softly, “Can I now? Whatever I need. Hmm.”

  I look him slowly up and down, taking my time, relishing this, hating him, certain now from the subtle come-on that he has no inkling who I am, even more certain this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for some bloody, take-no-prisoners, magnitude-of-Biblical-proportions revenge.

  Bitches don’t get mad. They get evil.

  Everything that was thrashing and howling inside me turns to steel. My smile comes on slow and deadly. I can almost feel my canines elongate.

  “I take it you’re the maître d’, Mr. Maxwell?”

  His expression sours. “I’m the owner. And call me Parker. Mr. Maxwell is my father.”

  Don’t I know it, you smug son of a bitch. And how is that bitter old bigot doing?

  I relax back into the soft leather of the banquette, cross my legs, and shake my hair off my face. He watches all this with the focused intensity of a predator contemplating a meal.

  “Well, Mr. Maxwell, as Darcy mentioned, your truffles are hideous. I can’t imagine a chef so obviously dedicated as Kai—”

  “Since we’re being so formal, it’s Chef Fürst—”

  “—as our new friend Kai can be responsible for procuring them. Are they your doing?”

  With a subtle smile, Parker repeats, “Hideous? Interesting choice of words.”

  My own smile widens. “Actually, that was just the one word. And you didn’t answer the question.”

  “And you didn’t answer mine.”

  I arch my brows. “Oh? Which question was that?”

  A muscle in Parker’s jaw flexes. He obviously knows I’m baiting him, and obviously doesn’t like it.

  Good. Let him stew. A man as beautiful as he is is undoubtedly used to having women throw themselves at his feet; a challenge will pique his interest. And I want him piqued. I want him so piqued the top of his head gets pointed.

  “It’s Victoria,” he says slowly. “Correct?”

  I send him the sweetest smile I can conjure, which tastes about as sweet as a lemon wedge. “It’s Victoria to my friends. To you, Mr. Maxwell, it’s Ms. Price.”

  Slowly, Parker repeats, “Ms. Price.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Score one for team Parker.

  My lemon wedge smile puckers even more. “Thank you,” I say, brushing off the dig. “And since you’re here, perhaps you could suggest something for our next course that wouldn’t be quite so revolting?”

  “Of course,” he replies in the same smooth tone I used. “The salad is excellent this evening. Just the right amount of cockroach to flavor the dressing.”

  Darcy looks back and forth between us in fascination, her head whipping to and fro as if she’s watching a Wimbledon match.

  “Here we are!” says Kai brightly, appearing at our tableside. He’s holding two plates. He’s about to set them in front of Darcy and me when he sees the piece of wagyu sitting in its sad state of mutilation on Darcy’s appetizer plate. He recoils, horrified, and then turns to Parker. Red-faced, he barks something in German.

  It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

  Parker smiles. It’s a lethal smile, not one I’ve ever seen him wear before, and definitely not one I’d like to be on the receiving end of.

  He says, “Chef. Are you unwell? If so, Javier can stand in for you. He’s perfectly capable of running the kitchen tonight. Or any other night, if necessary.”

  Kai’s face turns purple at the threat. His eyes bulge. He begins to sputter, but Parker calmly removes the two plates from his hands and sets one in front of Darcy and the other in front of me. He takes Darcy’s first plate and hands it to Kai, poking the edge aggressively into the shorter man’s chest so he has to take a step back, clutching the plate with his hands.

  With some growling and another few muttered words in German, Kai spins on his heel and stalks off.

  Parker’s dangerous smile still hardens his face. When he looks at me, there’s danger in his eyes, too. It sends a swift, chilling tingle down my spine.

  “Ladies. Forgive the outburst. My chef can be a little…temperamental.”

  Darcy says, “All the best ones are!” She looks at her plate and wiggles her fingers in glee. “Oooh! Oysters with foie gras! If this is as good as it looks, Mr. Maxwell, all is forgiven.”

  Without further ado, she digs in. Parker and I stare at each other in silence.

  Burning, cavernous silence.

  Finally he says, “I’ll leave you to your meals, ladies. If you need anything, please let me know.”

  A final beat of silence pounds between us, and then he turns and walks away.

  Around a mouthful of food, Darcy says, “Girl, don’t be eye-fucking Brad Pitt’s evil twin while I’m trying to concentrate on my oysters. That shit is distracting.”

  Because I’ve already killed my martini, I reach over and grab her glass of wine. I down it in one gulp.

  Darcy sits back in her seat, swallows, and narrows her eyes. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

  I ask innocently, “Like what?”

  “You know him? Pretty boy’s an ex or something?”

  Face, be stone. Be a slab of granite. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  She snorts. “Really? You’re going to lie to your best friend?”

  Instead of denying it, I deflect. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

  “Because your poker face is as shitty as the truffles.”

  Sometimes I forget that underneath the Broadway show that is the fabulous Ms. Darcy LaFontaine, she’s as sharp-eyed and cagey as a bounty hunter. I think she gets it from her mother, a Creole fortune-teller from New Orleans who reads palms and crystal balls, and can tell you anything you want to know about yourself within two minutes of your meeting.

  After she’s pocketed your fifty bucks, thank you very much.

  I exhale a long, unsteady breath. “Let’s just say that our paths crossed once, in a former life.”

  Darcy studies my face. “And it didn’t end well, I take it.”

  “No, it did not.”

  “And judging by his whole ‘Ms. Victoria Price, I presume’ spiel, he didn’t recognize you, I take it.”

  “No, he did not.”

  There’s a long, uncomfortable pause.

  “And that’s all you’re going to tell me, I
take it.”

  I look away, to the wall of windows at the front of the restaurant. Outside in the cold New York evening, it’s begun to softly rain.

  I feel a touch on my arm. I turn to find Darcy gazing at me. After a moment, she says, “You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have. Rightamento?”

  “You know, Gloria,” I reply, voice wavering, “sometimes I think I’d like to marry you.”

  She laughs, squeezes my arm, and signals the waiter for another drink. “Honey, I’d like to marry myself. At least that way I’d know I’d be getting a hot piece of ass every night.”

  I can’t help myself; I laugh. Loudly and unselfconsciously, just as Darcy did when we met at the door and I told her that this place looked like it was hosting a white girl anorexia convention.

  At the end of my laughing fit, when I happen to glance toward the kitchen, Parker Maxwell is standing half in shadow in a doorway, watching me with a look of grave intensity, as if he’s trying to figure out where he’s seen me before, or perhaps contemplating whether or not to put a bullet in my head.

  I shoot him my most insincere smile.

  He doesn’t smile back.

  I can already tell this is going to get messy.

  FOUR

  ~ Parker ~

  “All right. Tell me what you know about Victoria Price.”

  I’ve got Bailey’s reedy arm in my grip. She’s just tried to brush past me on her way into the kitchen, but I need to know more. And I need to know now.

  Bailey looks down at my hand. With quirked brows, she looks back up at my face. “OK, Tarzan, I’ll tell you. But get your fucking hand off my arm.”

  She’s right; I’m out of line. Every once in a while, Bailey surprises me.

  “I’m sorry.” I release her and hold my palms up in surrender. “Stupid move.”

  “Dick move.” She emphasizes the first word.

  I nod my head. “Agreed. Dick move. I apologize.”

  She looks at me closely for several seconds to see if I’m joking. I must not apologize as much as necessary. Oh shit, am I a dick?

  Oh shit, am I turning into my father?

  The thought drains all the blood from my face. I drop my hands to my sides and look Bailey directly in the eye. “I’m sorry, Bailey. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. I wasn’t thinking, but that’s no excuse.” Something new occurs to me and I stare at her bare arm in horror. “Did I hurt you?”

  Bailey rolls her eyes. “No, you didn’t hurt me, for God’s sake!” She pauses. “Though if you wanted to, something could definitely be arranged.” She sticks out her hip, smartly smacks her behind, and then winks at me.

  That little gem makes me blink for a few seconds before I can compose myself. “I think we’ll call it even on the inappropriate employer-employee behavior for the evening. But I’m flattered. Truly. If I were into beating women, I’m sure that would be an irresistible invitation.”

  “Spanking isn’t the same as beating, boss. And you know, lots of women like a little rough play—”

  “Bailey.”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Stop talking now.”

  She mock pouts. “Oh, so you don’t want to know about Victoria Price?”

  I realize I’m being punished. Not for touching Bailey’s arm, but for showing interest in Victoria Price in the first place. I’m irritated, not with Bailey but with myself. I should know better. Bailey has made her interest in me patently obvious, and even though I’ve made my non-interest perfectly clear, no one likes to have the competition rubbed in her face.

  “Not if you don’t want to tell me. And I have something else to apologize for.”

  Now it’s Bailey’s turn to blink. “What?”

  “That comment I made when she walked in.”

  She makes a very unladylike sound and crosses her arms over her chest. “The one about her looking so fuckable, you mean? Gee, why would you think that would be annoying?”

  Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “You’re right. It was rude, not to mention chauvinistic. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. I’m being a complete idiot. I’m sorry.”

  Bailey takes pity on me. She gives me a friendly little shove with her elbow and chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a guy: you can’t help being a complete idiot. Comes with the junk.”

  She flashes a look to my crotch and then grins.

  I grin back. “I’ll do better. I mean, I’ll try. My junk might get in the way, but give me credit for the effort?”

  I’ll give her this: when Bailey really smiles, she does it with her whole body.

  “Deal,” she says, appeased. “And since you’re being so nice, I will tell you about the ice queen in white. But prepare yourself. It isn’t pretty.”

  She leans around me, peering out the doorway into the restaurant to where Victoria and Darcy sit. I follow her gaze. Victoria turns her head in our direction, and Bailey jumps out of sight behind the wall.

  “Busted,” she breathes, hand over her heart.

  “Bailey, why are you hiding? It’s not like we’re plotting the woman’s death back here.”

  “Ever heard of resting bitch face?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah.”

  “Well, she’s got resting bitch everything. I’m afraid she might turn me to stone with those iceberg eyes.”

  I glance at Victoria. Once again, she’s glaring daggers at me. I say drily, “I’m familiar with the effect.”

  Bailey says, “She’s known as the Queen B. And not bee like the insect, or Jay-Z’s wife. The letter B, as in beyotch. She first made her money with a self-help book she wrote called Bitches Do Better, which became a number one New York Times bestseller when she was only twenty-one. Then she wrote half a dozen more Bitch books, started doing speaking engagements, and became a life coach for some über-swank clients. Teaching them her bitchy secrets for success, apparently. Which all must be pretty damn lucrative because she lives in a penthouse in the Flatiron district that cost twenty-five million bucks.”

  Here Bailey pauses.

  “What else?”

  “Well…she has a bit of a reputation.”

  “Over and above being the reigning Queen B? I can hardly wait. Does she skin kittens alive?”

  “More like she skins men alive. Or, more precisely, eats them alive. Loves ’em and leaves ’em, wham, bam, thank you man, your money’s on the dresser. Never sticks around for more than a few dates, never commits. She’s never been married or engaged, never been in a long-term relationship as far as anyone knows.” As an afterthought, she adds, “Like you.”

  I ignore that last bit. I know a minefield when I see one.

  “Not to bring up a sore subject, but earlier you said she didn’t like to fuck. And now you’re telling me she’s a man-eater? I don’t see how those two lines ever cross.”

  Bailey rolls her eyes as if I’m the biggest idiot to ever walk the earth.

  “What?”

  “You really don’t know anything about women, do you?”

  “Of course I do. Don’t expect them to be interested in sports, on time, or rational. What else is there to know?”

  More eye rolling. “You’re hopeless, Parker.”

  “Moving on—how do you know all this about her?”

  In the following pause, two spots of color stain Bailey’s cheeks. Her lashes sweep downward. “I may have Googled her after she came in.”

  I look back to Victoria’s table. She’s ignoring me now, but I have the impression she knows I’m looking at her. The woman has the most smug, secretive smile I’ve ever seen.

  A successful, intelligent, beautiful woman with a Mona Lisa smile, arctic laser beam eyes, and a reputation for being not only a ruthless bitch but also a voracious lover?

  The way my mouth has begun to water, you’d think someone waved a meatball sandwich under my nose.

  “Uh-oh.” Bailey’s tone is wry.

  I glance at her. “What
?”

  “You’ve got that look.”

  “What look?”

  She sighs and pushes away from the wall. “The same look you had when bitchface walked in the place. That hound-eyed, pricked-eared, nose-in-the-air-scenting-prey look. That it’s on look. Honestly, Parker, you’re thirty-four. When are you going to get tired of the chase and find some nice girl to settle down with?”

  No nice girl deserves a man like me, I think, turning my attention back to Victoria Price and her disdainful profile. A grim, determined smile curves my lips.

  A Queen Bitch, however, is another story.

  An ear-splitting shriek emits from the kitchen, followed by a loud crash. Bailey and I share a look, and then I stride into the kitchen to find out what’s going on.

  Chaos is what’s going on.

  Wild-eyed, Kai stands in front of one of the four large industrial stoves. Six pans with various steaming foods sizzle on the burners. Strewn all around him in a scattered mess on the floor are a variety of pots and pans, stainless steel bowls, and cooking implements. Flattened against the doors of the Sub-Zero refrigerator a few feet away are the sous chef and the pastry chef, both of whom are gaping in terror at Kai.

  Who is brandishing a large cleaver.

  “I cannot work under these conditions!” he screams, punctuating every other word with a shake of the gleaming knife. “I am Kai Fürst, not a gottverdammte line cook at a diner!”

  I inquire, “Trouble, gentlemen?”

  Two new cooks and a server who’d been trapped in a corner between Kai and the door take the opportunity of my appearance to make a run for it. They bolt from the kitchen. The rest of the kitchen staff, who are far more experienced than the three who just fled, simply watch with mild interest while continuing their duties.

  The pastry chef, a twenty-year-old recent graduate of the Culinary Institute in Napa, looks a bit green. He’s also shaking. Apparently he hasn’t yet learned that executive chefs at top fine dining establishments are typically insane.

  He stammers, “C-chef isn’t h-happy with the crust on the ganache t-tart!”