Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  A knot of pain appears beneath my sternum. Then, like a flower, it begins slowly to bloom. “Muscular dystrophy?”

  Tabby glances up at me. She nods. In typical Tabby fashion, she then provides a dictionary definition that she no doubt memorized in one glance.

  “It’s a group of diseases that cause progressive weakness and loss of muscle mass, eventually leading to the death of muscle tissue, and possibly to the loss of the ability to walk, breathing problems, heart problems, and, in severe cases, even death. You know it, I’m sure?”

  Oh, I do know it. I know all about it. I know MD like I know my own face in the mirror. Unable to sit any longer, I stand and move to the windows that form the east wall of the room. In the glass, my reflection is as pale as a ghost.

  Accustomed to my inability to sit still for any length of time, Tabby continues reading. If she notices my sudden pallor and tension, she doesn’t let on.

  “Born in Laredo, Texas, to Bill Maxwell, the import-export mogul, and his wife, Dorothy, a homemaker, Parker was named after jazz great Charlie Parker, one of his mother’s idols.”

  But not his father’s.

  Unlike Parker’s father, his mother held no prejudice against anyone for the color of his skin. She had a generous, open heart, but also was as tough as nails. If she said her child would be named after a black musician, that’s what was going to happen, no matter how much her husband screamed.

  And scream he did. And retaliate, in his own petty way. Bill Maxwell never once called his son by his given name. It was always “Boy.”

  I ruthlessly smother the memory of what Bill Maxwell always called me.

  “Though the family was wealthy, his mother insisted that Parker go to public schools, which he did until his senior year. He then moved to England and attended Oxford University. Did so well he finished his degree a year early.”

  The air takes on a distinct chill. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself.

  England. So that’s where you went.

  Tabby muses, “That’s a weird transition. The public school–educated son of a Texas business tycoon goes to college in England? Do Texans even know where Oxford is?”

  Old Bastard Bill was a bigot, but he wasn’t dumb.

  “Excuse me?” Tabby says.

  I realize that last thought was spoken aloud. I turn from the window and wave my hand. “Nothing. Sorry. Go on.”

  Looking at me strangely, Tabby hesitates for a moment before continuing. “After graduation, Parker moved to France, where he met world-renowned chef Alain Gérard via a car accident. Parker was riding in a taxi that hit Gérard’s car, and though he was injured himself in the crash, he came to the aid of the older man and administered CPR. They became extremely close friends, with Gérard even inviting Parker to live with him at his home in Paris, which he did for a year while nursing the chef back to health.”

  I roll my eyes at the window. “Barf.”

  “What?”

  “Feeding impoverished children? Giving millions to fight muscular dystrophy? Saving the life of an elderly man while injured, and then acting as nursemaid for said elderly man for another year?” I shake my head. “He’s too perfect. That bio is obviously fake.”

  I hear an amused laugh. I turn to find Tabby grinning at me, her head cocked so her bangs fall to the side and her bright green eyes, for once, are clearly visible.

  “So you two have something in common.”

  I glare at her. “I didn’t hire you for your sense of humor, Tabitha.”

  “No, you hired me because I’m a highly talented hacker who specializes in making inconvenient personal information disappear, because I’m an incredible girl Friday, and because I can keep my mouth shut tighter than a nun’s snatch.” She smiles. “Also probably because of my superior fashion sense.”

  I snort. “Oh, definitely that.”

  Tabby’s fashion style can best be described as Harajuku girl meets Harlem hooker. Today she’s sporting thigh-high electric pink stockings paired with black gladiator platform boots, a miniscule plaid schoolgirl’s skirt, and a tight, sleeveless Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt that bares her midriff and does nothing to conceal the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra.

  And let’s not forget the black leather fingerless gloves.

  She has multiple tattoos, piercings in unmentionable places, and a highly questionable fondness for Hello Kitty accessories, and is also the smartest human being I’ve ever met. She dropped out of MIT because it was too easy and she got bored.

  She’s the other capital B noun I most admire: Badass.

  “Shall I go on?”

  Sighing, I return to my chair. “Skip to the juicy parts. Any dirt? Arrests? Felony convictions?”

  Her level green gaze bores into mine. “Don’t you want to know about his wife?”

  I blanch. “He’s married?”

  A satisfied smile spreads over Tabby’s face. “Nope. But now I know for sure this isn’t about you possibly investing in Xengu like you told me last night. There’s something else about this guy you’re interested in. This is personal, isn’t it?”

  Excited at the prospect, she leans forward, her eyes bright and inquisitive.

  I stare back at her without blinking. “How long have I employed you, Tabitha?”

  “Five years, six months, fourteen days,” comes the immediate answer. She checks her watch, a pink plastic affair with the Hello Kitty logo splashed all over it. “And three hours.”

  “Five years,” I repeat coolly. “And in all that time, have you ever known me to take a personal interest in a man?”

  She hesitates, her smile fading. “Well…no.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  She turns the iPad to face me. Displayed above the list of facts she’s compiled in her research are two pictures. One shows Parker in a formal business pose, in suit and tie, standing with his arms folded over his chest and his legs spread as he stares unsmiling into the camera. A team of uniformed chefs stands in a line behind him. It’s obviously a publicity shot. He looks handsome but distant, the epitome of a focused, successful entrepreneur.

  The other picture is a close-up of his face. Casual and unposed, it was taken outdoors; the sun gleams in his hair. His eyes are half-closed against the light. His head is tilted back a little, and he’s wearing a boyish, unselfconscious grin, looking at whoever took the picture with a dreamy glint in his eyes.

  His gorgeous, come-hither bedroom eyes.

  Hazel. Such a lackluster word for the glory of gold, brown and emerald mixed together in one ever-shifting canvas, like dappled sunlight on leaves.

  Tabby says, “You’re telling me this face does nothing for you? Holy mother of all vibrators! This face could make even the icicles in your vagina melt!”

  I have to press my lips together so I don’t smile. She knows many of my secrets, but the effect Parker Maxwell has on my vagina is one she’ll never be privy to.

  “Tabitha. Please. Continue before I reconsider that last raise I gave you.”

  She lifts one shoulder and says casually, “OK. The icicles remain icy.”

  “That’s the nature of icicles.”

  “No, the nature of icicles is to melt.”

  “Tabitha.”

  She twirls the end of her ponytail between her fingers and smiles at me. “It’s sweet how you call me Tabitha when you’re mad at me. Kind of like you’re my mom or something.”

  “If I were your mother, I would have given birth to you when I was nine years old. Not everyone over thirty is ready for the retirement home, girl genius.”

  Tabby, not yet twenty-five, doesn’t look convinced.

  “Parker Maxwell,” I prompt, in a tone that brooks no argument.

  She turns the iPad around with a sigh that sounds distinctly discontent. “Right. Parker Maxwell. Where was I? Oh, now this is interesting. When he returned to the States after his stint in France, he disappeared for two years. Just dropped off the face of the planet. No work history,
no known address, no nothing. Then out of the blue one day he opens his first restaurant, to huge acclaim. Then another. Then another, et cetera, repeat ad nauseam for ten-ish years. Which brings us to now. Twenty-three successful restaurants, over four hundred employees, a multimillion-dollar empire, homes in New York, Aspen and the Caribbean, a list of ex-girlfriends that reads like a Victoria’s Swimsuit catalogue lineup, a charity foundation or two, and not a single friend in the world.”

  I’d been examining my manicure as she recited the list of his accomplishments, but now I look up, startled. “What do you mean, not a single friend in the world?”

  “Just what I said. The guy’s a total loner. You’d think a rich playboy would hang out with all the other rich playboys in his spare time, but the only thing your Mr. Maxwell does in his spare time is work.”

  My lips twist. “And date supermodels.”

  She gives me a look. “From what I can gather, his requirements of a ‘date’ are exactly what yours are: look pretty, be quiet, give me some head, get the hell out.’”

  “I do enjoy these charming little observations of yours. Anything else?”

  She consults the iPad again. “Hobbies include racing his collection of vintage Porsches, crashing his collection of vintage Porsches…and working.”

  I smile to myself. He never was a very good driver. He was always too easily distracted, most often by his hand on my leg, or my mouth on his neck—

  Tabby clears her throat.

  My head snaps up. “Yes? What?”

  Tabby pauses for what feels like a long time. “Are you OK?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you look a little flushed. And you don’t flush. Like, ever. I didn’t think it was physically possible.”

  Oh damn. Smart people can be so inconvenient.

  “I’m fine, Tabitha.”

  She mutters, “And we’re back to Tabitha.”

  I check my Rolex. “I’ve got another call in five minutes. Is there anything else you found?”

  Tabby gives me a look that says she knows I’m blowing her off, she knows I know she knows it, and she’s going to let it go. She stands. “Nothing of real interest. Perfect credit, no criminal record, no bankruptcies, no litigation, no known tattoos, allergies, health problems, or kink fetishes.”

  When she sees my raised brows, she shrugs. “You did say everything.”

  “OK. Thanks. Did you compile the list I asked for?”

  “Of all the charity events in the city next Friday? Yeah, I did. Short list. I’ll email it to you.”

  “Great. Thanks, Tabby.”

  She rises to leave. I flip through my Rolodex, searching for the number of my next appointment. Just before she’s about to cross the threshold, my desk phone rings. The readout says it’s the concierge downstairs. I hit the speaker button to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Price, this is Carlton at the concierge. We have a delivery for you. May we send it up?”

  “I wasn’t expecting a delivery.”

  “It’s flowers, ma’am.”

  I look up to find Tabby gazing at me from the doorway with an amused expression. For some reason I feel as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

  “Send it up, Carlton. Thank you.” I disconnect the call. Then I ignore the way Tabby is smirking.

  Then, a few minutes later when the elevator doors open to reveal four of the front desk staff carrying huge bouquets of white roses, I ignore Tabby’s cheerful, “Gee, I wonder if they’re from Mr. It’s Not Personal?”

  “Put them on the dining table, please,” I direct the guys.

  “Sure thing, Ms. Price. Where do you want the rest of them?”

  “The rest of them? There are more?”

  The young man in the navy suit who is the manager of the front desk nods. “There are a lot more. Eleven more, I think.”

  “Wow,” drawls Tabby, inspecting one of the extravagant bouquets. “This guy isn’t kidding.”

  Once again, I ignore her. To the manager I say, “Fine, put the rest of them anywhere you can find a space in the living room and office. I’ll move them later.”

  He nods and ushers the other three men out. One of the bouquets has a card attached, which Tabby removes and hands to me. It reads, “One dozen roses for every hour I’ve thought of you since we met.” Then his initials and his phone number, and two final words: “Call me.”

  He’s playing right into my hands…so why does that final instruction bother me so much?

  Then it hits me: because it’s an order he fully expects will be obeyed. He thinks he’s in control.

  “Bossy son of a bitch,” I mutter, and tear the card into little pieces.

  “Careful, Icicles!” says Tabby brightly on her way out of the room. “That looked suspiciously like an emotion.”

  I call after her, “You’re fired!” She laughs, and then she’s gone.

  Of course she knows she’s not fired.

  Who would hide all my skeletons then?

  SEVEN

  Six days later—and three hours late—I arrive at the New York chapter of the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s annual gala, wearing ten thousand dollars of Bulgari diamonds and a long, skintight white Armani gown that exposes the entirety of my bare back, all the way down to the dimples above my tailbone.

  The entry ticket cost more than my diamonds. That son of a bitch better be here tonight, or I’m anonymously mailing him a steaming bag of horse poop.

  Tabby has assured me she has an Internet source for it.

  My arrival is a calculated risk. Though Parker didn’t specify which charity event he was attending tonight, the other possibilities that Tabby emailed me didn’t seem nearly as probable as the one he gives millions to each year. I suppose I could have done some reconnaissance, maybe had Tabby call Parker’s office and pretend to be an assistant from the charity confirming his reservation, but honestly I felt like gambling.

  Twelve thousand bucks seems like a good deal if it ends with me sending a bag of poop to my mortal enemy.

  But¸ alas, the caca will have to wait for another time, because I spot him the moment I walk in the door.

  The party is in full swing. This year the gala is taking place at the venerated Cipriani Wall Street, a luxurious event space sporting monolithic columns, Greek Revival architecture, and a seventy-foot ceiling with a spectacular Wedgwood dome. It’s packed with elegantly dressed people who are eating, laughing, and drinking. A ten-piece band plays on a riser on one side of the dance floor, which is filled with couples. The party atmosphere is enhanced by dramatic violet lighting on the walls and enormous pink orchid arrangements, which are everywhere.

  And there on the far side of the room, by an artfully arranged stand of potted palms, is Parker. He’s holding a drink, looking like a supermodel assassin in a perfectly cut black suit, with slicked back hair.

  Two young women flank him. One, a voluptuous bleach blonde, is leaning so close her breasts practically rest on his arm. The other, a brunette wearing a red skirt almost short enough to pass for a belt, bats her lashes suggestively at him while she sucks on the straw in her drink.

  Parker happens to turn his head and look in my direction. Across the room, our eyes lock. His smile comes on slow and heated. I lift my chin and sniff as if I’ve just smelled something bad, and then look away, mentally rubbing my hands together in glee.

  “Victoria!”

  I turn to the voice. My glee evaporates. With zero enthusiasm, I say to the man standing before me, “Hello, Miles.”

  Otherwise known as Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury.

  Shit.

  He’s tall and good-looking, and a fabulous dresser. I’ll give him that. But the salacious, chop-licking look he’s giving me sends creepy crawlies up my arms. I can’t believe I had sex with this guy. He’s got all the charm of an open grave.

  He steps closer, his eyes half lidded. “You haven’t returned my calls.”

&nbs
p; He smells like a brewery. I smile tightly, edging away. “Oh, I’ve just been busy. You know how it is. It’s good to see you, though. Enjoy your evening.”

  I turn, but he grips my arm so suddenly I’m caught off guard. He pulls me roughly against his chest and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Busy, were you? D’you know the last time I was blown off?”

  I stiffen and snap, “Let go of me, Miles!” I try to pull away but can’t; he’s too strong.

  Ignoring my instruction, he answers his own question. “Never. Nobody blows me off. I’m the goddamn head of a billion dollar corporation! Nobody fucks me and then leaves me in bed without a backward glance like I’m a fifty-dollar whore. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He laughs. It’s an ugly, unstable sound that convinces me he’s drunk. Then he snickers. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a bitch.”

  I want to yank my arm away and scratch his eyes out, but an older couple standing nearby is staring at us, and I don’t want to make a scene. There are reporters here. Photographers. Speculation about my personal life is in the papers enough as it is.

  I say in a voice meant only for him, “You have two seconds to let go of my arm before I knee you in your tiny, useless dick. Now fuck. Off.”

  His fingers tighten so hard around my arm I gasp in pain. He snarls, “You frigid cunt.”

  Then suddenly Miles is flat on his ass on the floor.

  Bristling, hands curled to fists, Parker looms over him, glaring down. He says, “One more word and you’ll be waking up in the hospital. Or hell.”

  His voice is calm. His face holds no expression. But oh, God, his eyes. There’s murder in his eyes. It sends a thrill straight down to my toes.

  Not a thrill of fear. A thrill of exhilaration, as if I’m at the crest of an insanely tall roller-coaster, about to plunge over the edge and throw my arms in the air.

  Why? Because he stood up for me.

  He thinks he just rescued a damsel in distress, but what he really did is prove unequivocally that he’s got a hero complex, a hair-trigger temper, and a total disregard for social convention. He obviously couldn’t care less that dozens of people are now standing around gaping at us, arrested by our little melodrama. He’s too concerned with protecting my virtue.