Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  I hear a sharp intake of breath. “You thought you could even the score.”

  I don’t answer. It’s a special kind of hell, having someone know you so well.

  After a moment’s pause, my mother speaks again. “Is he rich?”

  “Disgustingly. He doesn’t just own the one restaurant. He owns over twenty of them.”

  I can almost hear the wheels turning in her mind. “And he’s famous, obviously. Or at least infamous. The papers called him a playboy.”

  My low laugh sounds ugly, even to my own ears. “Apparently he goes through women like water.”

  She mutters, “Bastardo.” Then: “A rich playboy with no morals—because we both know he has no morals—must have all kinds of things he doesn’t want people to know. All kinds of things that would surely make him suffer if they came to light.”

  I hear the smile in her voice when she says the word suffer. My mother would have been an excellent mafia doña.

  “Exactly.”

  She exhales. In my mind’s eye, I see her standing at the kitchen sink in her drab housecoat, staring out into the front yard, the long pigtail phone cord wrapped around her wrist. In the old days, when I was a kid, this time of year the grass would be dry and brown, as would the fields beyond the yard, but the sprinkler and irrigation systems I had installed after my first book hit it big ensure that everything is green now.

  Beautiful, abundant green, the color of money.

  “You must be careful, mija.”

  “He’ll never know it’s me, mama. I’ll get close to him, find out what I need to know, and then ruin him. In and out. Quick and deadly.”

  “No, mija. I don’t mean that. You’re smart; I know you can find out what you need to know. You must be careful of something else.”

  The quiet tone of warning in her voice alarms me. “What?”

  “That you don’t get hurt again.”

  Scalding heat flashes over me. “I’m not a child any more, mama,” I reply indignantly. “And you just said I was smart. Why would you think I’d let myself get hurt by him again?”

  There’s a weighty pause. Finally she says, “Look at the picture of the two of you, Isabel. Look at it long and hard. Look at your face. Then tell me why you think I might be worried.”

  Before I can say anything, she hangs up.

  I put the phone back in its cradle. I pick up the newspaper and look closely at the picture of Parker and me. Specifically, I examine my face. And then I see exactly what my mother was talking about.

  The woman in the picture isn’t a ruthless businesswoman with years of professional bitchery under her belt. She isn’t hard. She isn’t calculating. She isn’t, at the moment of the kiss, the mastermind of a wicked plot for revenge.

  She’s undone.

  She’s pressed against the man as if her life depends on it, clutching him, her arms flung around his shoulders, her fingers digging into his suit, his hair. She wears an expression any fool can see is one of utter pleasure, of utter abandon, as if the world itself no longer exists, as if there is only her mouth fused to his, her body pressed to his.

  I mutter, “Damn,” and toss the paper aside. I sit for a while, thinking, trying to decide on the best course of action.

  Then I call Tabby back into the room and tell her to get me Parker’s cell phone number.

  It’s good I talked to my mother. It was hard, but it was also a necessary reminder of everything that’s at stake, of everything he needs to pay for. Now I’m even more determined than before.

  Even if I have to burn the whole world to the ground to do it, that bastard is going down.

  NINE

  ~ Parker ~

  The call comes at exactly the right moment. If I have to endure Elliot Rosenthal droning on for one more minute about current margins versus historical sales data, I’ll be forced to slit my own wrists.

  I fish my cell from my coat pocket. It’s a number I don’t recognize, which makes me frown. No one I didn’t personally give it to has this number.

  “This is Parker Maxwell.”

  “And this is your dance partner, with hat in hand.”

  The throaty voice takes me so thoroughly by surprise¸ I stand without thinking. My executive team, seated around the conference table at my corporate headquarters in Vegas, all look at me. Even Elliot Rosenthal pauses to see what’s going on.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I say to Victoria Price, and then put the phone to my chest. “Continue without me.”

  I bolt out of that boardroom so fast their heads must be spinning.

  I stride down the hallway, find an empty office, and go inside, closing the door behind me. I put the phone against my ear. “Sorry about that. I’m back.”

  “Is this a good time? I can call back later—”

  “No, your timing’s perfect. I was in the most boring meeting ever held. In fact, you’ve just saved me from opening a vein and ruining an old and expensive hand-woven Turkish rug.”

  Her husky laugh gives me chills. Jesus, this woman sounds sexy even when she’s laughing.

  “Well, good. We’re even, then.”

  “How so?”

  “You saved me from a gorilla attack, now I’ve saved you from suicide.”

  “I’d rather have you still owe me one.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because then I could negotiate how you might pay me back.”

  I’m a little surprised by how forcefully that came out; judging by the short silence on the other end of the line, so is Victoria.

  Finally she says, “Oh, I’m more than willing to pay you back. In fact, technically I do still owe you one, since our last meeting ended on such a…strange note.” Just to disarm me completely, she adds softly, “I’m so sorry about what I did. The slap. It’s just that…well, that was probably the hottest kiss I’ve ever had in my life.” Her voice turns flirtatious. “And I do have a reputation to protect, you know. The Queen Bitch can’t be seen with her panties melted off by the kiss of a beautiful stranger, now can she?”

  Two things happen in quick succession. The first: I laugh. I can already tell she’s going to give as good as she gets, and I love it. The second: I picture her naked, standing before me with her panties melted in a puddle around her feet, and my cock acts as if it’s just heard the call to arms, and springs to attention.

  I walk slowly to the office windows and gaze out at the hazy desert skyline, trying to ignore the throb beneath my zipper. By now, I could give zero fucks about the board meeting I ideally won’t be returning to, because I never want this call to end.

  I match her flirty tone. “The hottest kiss you’ve ever had, hmm?”

  She makes a girlish noise, part shy laugh and part embarrassed groan, and it’s so unexpectedly erotic I almost groan myself. What the hell is she doing to me?

  She’s getting under my skin, is what she’s doing to me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, not since the moment I laid eyes on her. And then that kiss. Jesus. It’s probably the hottest kiss I’ve ever had, too.

  It was definitely worth the slap. In fact, if she said the only way I’d be able to kiss her again is if she tied me up and played Fifty Shades of Grey with a leather belt across my ass, I’d beg, “Yes, please. Now, please.”

  I had such a raging hard-on for so long after she left me high and dry on the dance floor I thought I might have to consult a doctor.

  Victoria asks in a teasing voice, “Is someone fishing for a compliment?”

  “Definitely. Hit me.”

  “Well…OK.” Her voice grows husky. “I really like the way you taste.”

  Fuuuuuuuuck.

  I blow out a hard breath and adjust myself. “You’re not playing fair. I do have to leave this empty office I’m in at some point and return to the real world, you know. I’d rather not do it with a conspicuous bulge in my pants.”

  “Speaking of bulges, was that a churro in your pocket last Friday night, or were you just happy to see me?”


  “I don’t know what a churro is. I hope it’s something enormous.”

  She laughs. “Oh, it is. It’s a delicious, thick, long, fried dough pastry covered in sugar.” She pauses. “It’s my favorite thing to eat.”

  I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. Deep, belly-shaking laughs, the kind I can’t remember the last time I had. “Why Ms. Price, are you trying to have phone sex with me?”

  She giggles. “I don’t know, Mr. Maxwell. Would you mind if I were?”

  Instantly my laughter dies. “No. I’d fucking love it.”

  The pause that follows is so filled with sexual tension, every nerve in my body starts to tingle.

  She says, “I know your reputation with women.”

  Her voice has lost all its humor, all its lightness. It’s gone totally dark. I instantly recognize that we’re done joking around. She’s laying something out on the line now. She’s testing me.

  This is one test I’m determined not to fail.

  “And I know your reputation with men. But I don’t care about anyone else you’ve been with, or anything else that happened before we met. All I care about is getting to know you better. Getting to know you—the real you, beneath the beautiful. I want to know the woman I saw on the dance floor, the one who comes out only when she thinks no one’s looking. The one with the sad eyes, who hides and plays make-believe and kisses like it’s her last two minutes on earth.”

  I hear her inhale a low, shaky breath. With crossed fingers and a pounding heart, I wait for her to speak.

  “I don’t do relationships, Parker. I don’t do the connection thing. The getting-to-know-you thing. I don’t know how.”

  “Me neither. I’m not asking for any guarantees. Just a chance.”

  Silence.

  “How about a date?” I ask. “One date, nothing more. No thinking beyond that.”

  More silence.

  “You did say you still owed me one,” I remind her. “Consider it payment. If you don’t enjoy yourself, all bets are off. I promise I’m not a stalker.” I pause. “Unless you like stalkers.”

  I’m gratified to hear her soft laugh.

  “Not particularly.”

  “It’s a deal, then?”

  After a moment, she relents. “One date.”

  Though inside I’m cheering, I pretend to be hurt. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Victoria. It’s not like you’re being led to the gallows.”

  Her “hmm” doesn’t sound convinced.

  I check my watch. “I can be back in New York in four hours. What time should I pick you up?”

  “Wait, you’re not in New York? Where are you?”

  “Vegas. Not that it matters. If I was on the moon I’d find a way to make it back for our date tonight.”

  Now she laughs with a little more gusto. “Tonight? I never said anything about tonight! It’s a Monday, pal. I’ve got work to do tomorrow!”

  I grin. “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “No, no way. I’m booked this week. I might be open Saturday night, but I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you—”

  “Don’t say no to the man with the delicious churro in his pants, Victoria,” I growl.

  Her answering laugh is so genuine and free it makes my grin grow until my face hurts.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what. There’s a cocktail party I’m supposed to go to on Friday, but this person gives the worst parties, and I suppose I can blow it off. Just this once. For the man with the delicious churro in his pants.”

  The flirtatious tone is back. Along with it comes an overpowering feeling of triumph, like I’ve just scored the winning touchdown.

  “Friday, then. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  She agrees, and we say our good-byes.

  I stand in the empty office for another ten minutes before heading back to the conference room, a big shit-eating grin on my face.

  The span between a Monday and a Friday has never been so long.

  TEN

  ~ Victoria ~

  “How do I look?”

  “The same as you always look.”

  “Which is how, exactly?”

  Darcy, lounging barefoot on the tufted leather settee in my expansive walk-in closet, crunches into an apple, and then chews thoughtfully for a moment. “A brown chick in a white outfit that cost more than my first car.”

  I turn from the mirror I’ve been fretfully examining myself in front of, and rest my hands on my hips. “A confidence builder, you’re not. Seriously, Darse, how do I look?”

  I execute a slow turn. She purses her lips, eyeing me up and down.

  “You look hot, girl. What do you want me to say, I’m in love with you? Please let me have sex with your vagina?”

  I throw my hands in the air. “You’re hopeless.”

  She stretches out her legs and examines her hot pink pedicure, lurid as a bloodstain against her dusky skin. “Since when do you need me to tell you how you look, anyway?”

  “Since I’m going on a date with el diablo,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  I wave a hand at my reflection. “Nothing. Forget it. If this doesn’t do the trick, nothing will.”

  Darcy cocks her head and pins me in a one-eyed stare. “What trick is that?”

  I don’t answer.

  It’s Friday night. Parker is due at my house in twenty minutes. I’ve invited Darcy over for some moral support, but have told her only that I’m getting ready for a date. Not a date with whom.

  I don’t want her to try to talk me out of it.

  Darcy rises from the settee, tosses the apple into a mirrored trashcan in the corner, saunters over, and stands beside me. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a really formidable stink eye, one even my mother would be proud of.

  “What’re you up to?”

  I pretend innocence. “Moi?”

  I slip into the pair of high-heeled, crystal-encrusted Alexander McQueen sandals I’ve chosen to go with my killer Balmain minidress. The dress is long-sleeved, high-necked, and otherwise demure, but so short my hoo-ha is in danger of making an unscheduled appearance if circumstances necessitate my having to remain anything but perfectly upright. I’m vaguely worried about getting into and out of Parker’s car, but have decided to deal with that moment when it arrives.

  “Yes, vous,” says Darcy, still eyeballing me. “I know a setup when I see one. I grew up on the streets of N’awlins, remember, girl? If my mother taught me anything, it’s what a woman looks like when she’s about to take an unsuspecting pigeon for everything he’s got.”

  I turn to my jewelry display, a column of velvet-lined rolling shelves that stretches almost to the ceiling. From one of the drawers I select a pair of drop earrings, but then put them back.

  If Parker decides to nibble on my earlobes, I don’t want anything getting in the way.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.

  Darcy sighs. “The shitty truffle poker face is back. You’re lying again, skinita.”

  She’s trying to call me skinny. Skinita is not the word for skinny in Spanish. Or any other language, as far as I know.

  “Oh, just relax, Gloria. You’ll find out soon enough!”

  As if on cue, the phone rings. I pick up the extension in the closet. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Price, it’s Carlton from downstairs. I have a Mr. Maxwell for you?”

  I freeze. He’s here already? He’s twenty minutes early!

  “I see. Send him up, Carlton.” I put the phone down, trying to ignore the thunder and lightning storm that has just exploded inside my body.

  Darcy, who has coordinated her pedicure with a flamboyant fuchsia caftan and a matching hair scarf wrapped so that it towers about a foot over her head, narrows her eyes at me. “You have two seconds to tell me what you’re up to before I revoke your best friend card.”

  I chew a nonexistent hangnail on my thumb, buying time, but she doesn’t release me from her las
er beam gaze, so I finally relent.

  “Remember Captain America from Xengu?”

  She snorts. “You mean the one you were sucking face with in the middle of the dance floor at Cipriani?”

  I cringe. “You saw that?”

  “I don’t live under a rock.”

  Right. The whole world probably saw that picture. I take a deep breath. “Well, he’s the one who’s taking me on a date tonight.”

  Her brows shoot up, almost disappearing beneath the edge of the scarf. “Oh, reeeallly.” Without blinking, she stares at me, waiting for me to say something else.

  “And he’s here. Like, now. I have to go get the door.”

  I turn and scurry away. Darcy follows hot on my heels.

  “If I’m not mistaken, and I never am, this is the same Captain America you said you had a ‘past’ with?”

  She’s behind me, but I know her, and I can tell she’s making air quotes around the word past. I keep walking.

  “A past that didn’t end well? That he apparently didn’t even remember because he didn’t recognize you? And last week you kissed him in front of four hundred people and then slapped him silly, and now he’s here to take you on a date and you’re wearing a coochie-grazing dress, fuck-me heels, and a face like the wolf that ate Red Riding Hood’s grandma, and you have no idea what I’m talking about?”

  We’re in the hallway now, headed past the sunken living room.

  “You see why I didn’t want to say anything? You’re overreacting.”

  She barks a laugh. “Overreacting? Girl, I know you. If I thought you owned guns, I’d be calling the police right now to report a pending homicide.”

  The doorbell rings. I pull up short, my hand at my neck, a cat’s angry hiss rising in my throat. Slowly Darcy walks around to face me, a wry twist on her lips. She jerks her chin at me.

  “This is bad juju, V. I can see it a mile away. Do not answer that door. Tell the Captain you fell and broke your ankle, or choked on a chicken bone, but don’t go on a date with him tonight. Or any other night. This won’t end well.”