Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  The sous chef adds, “Or the crème fraîche for the egg caviar.”

  “I see.” I look at Kai. “On a positive note, Darcy LaFontaine says the oysters are superb. And the foie gras was…” I purse my lips and gaze at the ceiling. “How did she put it?” I snap my fingers. “Ah, yes—orgasmic.”

  Kai drops the cleaver. It lands at his feet with a metallic clatter. “Really? She used that word, orgasmic?”

  Now utterly calm as if a switch has been thrown, cutting off the conduit to his rage, he steps over the mess on the floor and comes to stand in front of me. His eyes are bright and hopeful. I wonder when he last ran a comb through his hair.

  “She did indeed. In fact, chef, I know she’s very much looking forward to the next course.” Frowning, I look over his shoulder. “Should I tell her it will be delayed?”

  “No! No, no, everything is perfectly on schedule! The goddess will not wait!” He whirls around and sprints back to the stove, where he begins a frenzy of activity, shouting instructions to the staff.

  I catch the eye of Julian, one of the bus boys who has worked for me for years, and nod at the mess on the floor. With a smile, Julian gets to work. This isn’t the first time he’s cleaned up after Hurricane Kai blew through. I know it won’t be the last.

  One quick glance around tells me everything is back on track, so I leave them to it.

  “I have to admit, you’re pretty amazing at that,” says Bailey when I walk back through the swinging doors to the kitchen. She’s been listening just outside.

  “At what, exactly?”

  She smiles. “Handling people. Especially the crazy ones.”

  When I just shrug, she adds, “Did Darcy really say that? About the foie gras being orgasmic?”

  “No. But judging by the way Kai was practically drooling over her, I thought a little sexual innuendo would go a long way.”

  Bailey chuckles. “Turns out you were right. And did I hear him call her a goddess? This from the man who thinks everyone except his mother and Julia Child are pond scum?”

  We walk together to the doorway that leads from the kitchen to the main room of the restaurant, where we were standing before. When I look at Victoria and Darcy’s table, I’m gratified to find Victoria glancing in my direction. Our eyes meet, but she quickly looks away. A waiter stops at their table, and they exchange a few words. Before he moves away, she bestows upon him a large, toothy smile.

  The better to eat you with, my dear. I wonder if the poor waiter knows he’s serving the Big Bad Wolf.

  Just as I’m about to turn back to Bailey, Victoria lifts her hand to her face. She tilts her head and tucks a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear in a gesture that is graceful and girlish, and also hauntingly familiar.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Where have I seen that gesture before?

  FIVE

  ~ Victoria ~

  By the time Darcy and I reach the end of the meal, it’s nearly midnight, the gentle evening rain has turned into an angry downpour, and my face is aching from hosting three hours of forced smiles.

  And I’m more determined than ever that Parker Maxwell is going down.

  He thinks he’s being stealthy, but I know when I’m being watched. He and his skinny blonde sidekick haven’t stopped sending me furtive glances all night. More than once, I’ve caught them whispering together while looking my way.

  I can’t help but wonder what the deal is with the two of them. If I’m being honest with myself, they’d make a gorgeous couple. All-American Ken and Barbie, complete with golden tans and perfect hair. But I can detect no chemistry between them; there’s no obvious flirtation or stray, admiring glances. If they’re an item, they’re being very discreet.

  Chef Kai, however, is being anything but discreet about his blossoming obsession with Darcy. He’s at our tableside—for the nth time—with a dazzling array of exotic desserts, proffering them to her with a deferential tilt to his head, like the court jester before the queen. I can almost see the stars glittering in his eyes.

  “Häschen,” he implores, “please try a sweet. Or four. You must!”

  Darcy says, “Why don’t you just leave the whole platter, chef? I’ll probably have more than four.”

  Kai’s smile is blinding. After he’s set the platter down on the table and bowed off, I turn to Darcy with a quizzical frown.

  “What did he call you?”

  “I dunno. Let’s look it up.” She digs her cell phone from her handbag and taps in a few words. After a moment she says, “According to Google translate, he called me ‘little rabbit.’” She grimaces. “Is that supposed to be sexy? Rabbits aren’t very sexy.”

  “Bugs Bunny is kind of sexy.”

  Darcy ignores me. “And ‘little?’” She harrumphs. “I haven’t been little since I was born. Not even then, actually.”

  “I think it’s cute, Darse. It’s a pet name. Literally.”

  She laughs, shakes her head, selects an item from the platter, and pops it into her mouth. She chews for a moment and then moans in ecstasy.

  “Watching you eat is almost pornographic.” I sip my espresso. When Darcy clutches the edge of the table and starts to dry hump the booth, I try not to choke.

  “Bring it home, baby!” she cries, pounding a fist on the table. “Give it to mama!”

  I start to laugh, she throws her head back and whoops in faux climax, and then an amused voice says, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Darcy falls still. She looks at Parker, standing at our tableside. Without an ounce of chagrin, she says, “Mr. Maxwell. You’ve caught me in flagrante delicto with a pastry, I’m afraid.” She smiles at him. A fine dusting of confectioner’s sugar highlights the bow of her lips. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “He’ll be thrilled to hear it. I think you’ve made his entire year tonight. I’ve never seen him so…” Parker glances at me. His voice drops. “Enamored.”

  I stare at him over the rim of my espresso cup. Neither of us looks away. All the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  Darcy delicately pats her mouth with her napkin. “I have that effect on people. And if you came over to find out what I’m going to write about the food, I’m sorry, but you’ll be disappointed. You’ll have to wait for my article, just like everyone else.”

  “It isn’t your article I’m interested in,” Parker murmurs. He sends me a smile of such carnal suggestion my stomach turns.

  Or does it drop? Flip? I can’t decide what exactly my stomach is doing. Whatever it is, it’s strange, and I don’t like it.

  Parker isn’t looking at Darcy, so he doesn’t notice the outraged Oh no you didn’t! glare she sends him. I know it’s not because he’s dissed her; it’s that she’s being protective of me.

  She might have a point. Either Parker has figured out who I am and has some nefarious plan in mind, or he’s a womanizing a-hole of epic proportions. Who would be more concerned with flirting than making a good impression on the food critic who could potentially write a highly unflattering piece on his restaurant, and cost him money?

  A womanizing a-hole of epic proportions, that’s who.

  I’m thankful I’m not one of those women who blush or giggle uncontrollably in uncomfortable situations. No. I am a woman who has turned eye contact into a contact sport. I hold Parker’s gaze. A violent smile hovers at the corners of my lips. Something crackles between us, bright as danger.

  I say, “We’re ready for the check whenever you have a chance, Mr. Maxwell.”

  Parker lifts an eyebrow. “Leaving so soon?”

  I don’t have to look around the restaurant to know that Darcy and I are one of the last tables here. I simply widen my murderous smile and remain silent.

  After a time, he says, “Well, it was my honor to have you. The meal’s on the house.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t possibly let you do that,” I say.

  Now Parker smiles. “Of course you could. It’s my pleasure.”


  Darcy bats her lashes at him. “You’re not trying to buy a good review, are you Parker?”

  Parker’s smile dies. Stiffly he turns to her. “Pandering isn’t my style, Ms. LaFontaine.” Without another word, he stalks off.

  Bemused, Darcy watches him go. “Proud much, Captain America?”

  Yes, I want to say. He’s always been like that. Even when he was seventeen years old, he was proud, stubborn and easily insulted. If egos were animals, his would be a Siamese cat.

  He was never vain, though. Or pretentious, or arrogant, even though he was the wealthiest and best-looking kid in town.

  All this tripping down memory lane is giving me a headache.

  “Well, if we don’t need to wait for the check, I think I’ll hit it, Darcy. I’m exhausted.”

  She examines me carefully from the corner of her eye while pretending to pick over the dessert platter. “Hmm.”

  I sigh. “I’m fine. Honestly. But the sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can forget about seeing him, and the sooner my headache will go away. Don’t worry about me. You know I’ve got skin like stainless steel.”

  She sends me a pointed look. “Even stainless steel eventually rusts.”

  I lean over and kiss her cheek, catching the sweet scent of the organic coconut oil she uses to soften her skin. “Good night, Grandma.”

  She cackles. “Good night, John Boy.”

  I send my driver a text that I’m ready to be picked up, slide from the booth, gather my handbag and cashmere throw, and then slowly walk through the restaurant toward the front door with my head held high and my behind swaying. I don’t look back.

  I’m unfamiliar with the man Parker has grown into in the past fifteen years, but my hunch, knowing men the way I do, is that he isn’t used to having women be indifferent to his advances. My other hunch is that his pride won’t like it, or let it slide. If I’m right, he’ll do something to try to catch my attention before I get in the car.

  I stand just inside the door, staring out into the driving rain, pretending to be lost in thought while I’m really counting down from ten.

  Four. Three. Two—

  “I hope you enjoyed your meal, Ms. Price.”

  One of the more difficult things I’ve done in my thirty-three years: not smirked at this moment.

  I turn and look at Parker from over my shoulder. I’d forgotten how tall he is; I’m gazing quite a way up. “It was…interesting.” Dismissively, I turn back to the window.

  Parker moves a step closer. He stands beside me. His shoulder is almost touching mine. I’m hyper-aware of the distance between us, of the almost-but-not-quite-ness of his proximity. It’s breathtakingly difficult to stand still, even more difficult to keep my tongue and my fists in check.

  He’s still in as much unwitting danger as he has been all night. There’s no guarantee that I won’t snap at any moment, turn, and drive my thumbs into his eye sockets.

  Beside me, he stares silently out into the rain. I’m startled when he says in a quiet, melancholy voice, “I’ve always loved the rain. Some of my best memories involve rainfall.”

  It hangs there between us. I can’t tell if he’s baiting me or just making conversation. I hardly know up from down right now.

  Because I lost my virginity to this man during a thunderstorm when I was sixteen years old. In a barn, of all places. I can still smell the hay and the horses, hear the thunder, see the brief, brilliant flicker of lightning illuminate the night. I can still see him above me, staring down at me with wonder in his eyes.

  I can still feel his mouth on my skin.

  Some new emotion rises up inside me. It shaves a hair off my hostility, and brings the hot prick of tears to my eyes. I don’t recognize this emotion, but I hope never to feel it again.

  I swallow around the rock that’s formed in my throat. “I hate it. It’s rained on all the worst nights of my life.”

  I feel his piercing sideways glance. I wish the earth would experience an extinction level event and I’d be conveniently rescued from the acute misery of this moment. A giant asteroid would do the trick.

  Then—mercifully—a sleek black Mercedes pulls around the corner. It rolls to a stop in front of the curb.

  “That’s me.” Grateful for the reprieve, I turn to Parker and extend my hand. “Thank you for dinner. I appreciate your generosity.”

  Another trait he’s had since adolescence. And another thing I’d forgotten until now: how he was always so giving, always so thoughtful, always so concerned with everyone else.

  Until he wasn’t.

  Parker takes my hand and holds it. His eyes burn into mine. “Ms. Price. It’s been a singular pleasure meeting you.”

  His hand is big and warm. I like the feel of it entirely too much. Coolly, I withdraw.

  “Mr. Maxwell. Good evening.”

  I turn for the door. Parker opens it for me before I can even reach for the handle. When he sees me exit the restaurant, my driver leaps from the car and opens the rear door.

  Parker walks me from the restaurant to the car with an umbrella he’s magically procured from somewhere, held over my head, protecting me from the rain. I step carefully over a puddle. Blocking the driver, Parker takes hold of my hand as I lower myself into the car.

  He bends down to look at me. Rain pours off the umbrella, soaking his lower legs, trousers and shoes. He ignores it. Looking deep into my eyes, he says in a low voice, “I want to see you again. There’s a charity gala I’m attending next Friday evening. Come with me.”

  I must be coming down with something. I haven’t felt this fevered and shaky in years.

  “How do you know I’m not married?”

  A smile flickers over his mouth. His thumb brushes my knuckles, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

  “I could be in a serious relationship.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Oh no? And how would you know that?”

  His smile deepens. In the low light, his eyes gleam as if he’s running a fever, too. “Because if you were, Ms. Price, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”

  The nerve. The self-absorbed, stuck-up, egomaniacal nerve of this man!

  It doesn’t help matters that I suspect he’s right.

  I say icily, “Perhaps you need your eyes examined, Mr. Maxwell. Or your head.”

  He chuckles. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  I withdraw my hand from his grip and grant him my profile. “It’s neither. Have a nice life, Mr. Maxwell.”

  I tell the driver I’m ready. Parker chuckles again, and then straightens. “You do the same, Ms. Price.”

  He closes the door.

  The car pulls away from the curb. I don’t look back. But I do wait several moments before I open my handbag, pull out my compact mirror, and hold it up to my face. Through the rear window, I have a perfect view of the restaurant receding into the night, and of Parker Maxwell standing at the rain-swept curb under the shadow of an umbrella, watching me go.

  For the first time in hours, I can breathe. I wait until the subtle tremble has left my hands, and then I settle back into the seat and start to plot.

  Let the games begin.

  SIX

  The next day promptly at noon, Tabby knocks on my office door, and then sticks her ponytailed head inside. When she sees me on the phone and starts to back out, I wave her in. I’m almost done with my weekly ten-thirty appointment, and I want to get started on the project I gave to Tabby last night after I returned from dinner.

  “We’ve touched on this before, Katie. You know what to do when these thoughts paralyze you.”

  There follows a short silence. Then my client says, “You know, Victoria, just once I’d like you to just tell me what to do, instead of making me do all the thinking for myself.”

  “My aim as your life coach is to develop rather than impose. Remember how furious you used to get when Brokaw tried to tell you what to do at NBC?”

  She sighs. �
�I wish I knew you then. You’d have saved me fifteen years of ulcers.”

  “Just trust the process. Ask yourself the core questions and re-evaluate the situation. Then decide what to do.”

  “You’re not even going to give me a hint?”

  I laugh. “Not even a little one. I have complete faith in your ability to work this out. And good luck with the Clinton interview. I know you’ll be amazing.”

  “Thanks, Victoria. Same time next week?”

  “Same time next week. ’Bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  I set the phone in the cradle and look up to find Tabby gazing at me with a wry smile.

  She says, “I’m sure Hillary Clinton will perform much better in her interview than Sarah Palin did back in ’08.”

  I smile, leaning back in my chair. “A crowbar would’ve performed better than that. You’re running for Vice President and you don’t prepare for an interview with America’s Sweetheart?” I shake my head. “Palin should have hired me.”

  “You’d have agreed to work with her?”

  Tabby seems surprised, which surprises me. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “She’s just so…Republican.”

  I raise my brows. “And?”

  “And you’re not.”

  “You know very well I’m not a member of any political party, Tabby. Or religious party, for that matter. All that divisiveness is bad for business. Now, enough chatter. Sit down and tell me what you found.”

  Dutifully, Tabby plops her slight frame down into the chair across from my desk. She flips open the iPad she’s carrying, taps the screen, and then begins to read aloud.

  “Parker Jameson Maxwell, age thirty-four. American restauranteur and philanthropist, owner of over twenty restaurants in the US, including his extravagant flagship in Las Vegas, Bel—”

  “Philanthropist?” I interrupt. “Please don’t tell me he founded a fair trade coffee organization called Maxwell House.”

  Tabby laughs, swiping at her bangs. “No. He founded The Hunger Project, a charity that provides school meals for forty thousand underprivileged children in the South. He also gives millions every year to the Muscular Dystrophy Association.”