Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  That’s as blatant a proposition as I’ve ever heard. I’m thrilled he’s so affected by me.

  I’m far less thrilled by how affected I am by him.

  But if there’s anything life has taught me, it’s that every worthy endeavor is difficult, challenging, and usually painful. Nothing truly valuable comes easy. A battle easily won is no battle at all.

  And we are at war, he and I. Blood will be shed. By the end of it, we’ll both bleed.

  But he’s the only one who will be dead.

  I stand on my tiptoes, brush my breasts against his chest, and whisper in his ear, “Let’s go have dinner, then. I’m hungry. But maybe we’ll save the dress-ripping for dessert.”

  I turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the kitchen, chuckling to himself and muttering, “So goddamn evil.”

  Oh Mr. Maxwell, I think, smiling, you really have no idea.

  * * *

  “So, where are you taking me?”

  Parker, who’s spent more time with his eyes on my legs than the road, says, “You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

  We’re in his sleek black Porsche Panamera, which smells like money. On the way down in the elevator in my building, he held my hand. He held it all the way through the lobby and out to the valet, until he had to release it in order to drive.

  “Oh, a surprise. I love surprises.”

  He smiles. “I’ll remember that. Right—we’re here.”

  We slow to a stop at a curb. When I look out the window, I really am surprised. We’re at Xengu, which, by the looks of it, is deserted.

  “It looks closed.”

  When I turn back to Parker, he’s grinning. “I said we were going someplace quiet, didn’t I?”

  Now I’m really confused. “Your restaurant is closed on Friday nights? Isn’t that the busiest night of the week for you?”

  “No, we’re open on Friday nights, just not this Friday night. I canceled all the reservations. All seven hundred of them.”

  My mouth is open, but no sound comes out.

  Parker’s grin grows blinding. “Which was totally worth it just to see that look on your face.”

  “Parker…I’m…that’s…wow.”

  He laughs. “And now the woman who gives extemporaneous speeches to thousands of people is speechless. I love it. You’re really good for my ego, you know that?”

  I say drily, “As far as I can tell, your ego is doing just fine on its own, Mr. Maxwell.”

  He takes my hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I canceled all those reservations, Ms. Price?”

  “Let me guess. You didn’t want an audience in case I decided to slap you again?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Because I didn’t want any distractions while I was getting to know you better, like I told you I wanted to.”

  The heat in his gaze makes me want to squirm in my seat. “We could have just ordered in if you were interested in my scintillating conversation.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have been able to cook for you.”

  My brows shoot up. “Cook for me? Are you being literal? You’re actually going to make our meal?”

  He pretends to be offended. “What makes you think I can’t cook?”

  I almost say Because you didn’t even know how to boil water when we were together, but catch myself in time. I smile sweetly at him and extricate my hand from his. “Oh, nothing. I’m sure the can of SpaghettiOs will be delicious.”

  He chuckles. A valet opens my door and helps me from the car. He also politely averts his gaze from my crotch area, which I try to cover with my handbag, which is approximately the size of a postcard, and therefore pretty useless at crotch-covering. But then Parker is beside me, leading me into the restaurant with his hand on the small of my back, and I forget all about my overexposed hoo-ha because I’m too busy gaping in shock.

  “Well,” I say after a moment. “Your florist must really be happy to know you.”

  The entire restaurant is filled with bouquets of white roses. Dozens and dozens spray from vases placed on every table, the hostess stand, the bar—every flat surface available. White rose petals are also scattered all over the carpet, a fine drizzle, like the floor has been dusted with snow. The only light comes from the hundreds of candles flickering on tabletops and in niches on the walls.

  It’s over-the-top romantic.

  It’s not at all what I was expecting.

  The son of a bitch has really outdone himself.

  He moves slowly around me, watching my face. He murmurs, “Totally worth it.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re quite the handful, aren’t you?”

  Smiling, he moves closer. “Are we talking about my churro again? You’re really obsessed with it, aren’t you, Ms. Price?”

  “Not as obsessed as you are with my legs, Mr. Maxwell. I thought we were going to be involved in a traffic accident on the way over.”

  He’s standing so close I feel the heat of his body.

  “It’s actually not your legs I’m obsessed with.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s your skin. Your skin is so beautiful, it makes me want to cry.”

  “Oh dear God. I know that’s from a song. C’mon, you’ve got to have better material than that. I thought you were supposed to be this big playboy womanizer, and you hit me up with that? For shame.”

  His smile is amused. “You’re inconveniently intelligent, Ms. Price.”

  I lift my chin and saunter past him, headed for the bar. “You’d better up your game, hotshot, or I’ll send you back to your beauty school bimbos from the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s party. Now make me a drink.”

  I try not to smile at the sound of his laughter, which I like far too much.

  I take a seat at the long, polished oak bar. Parker strolls around to the other side. Without a word, he takes a bottle of Grey Goose from one of the shelves on the wall behind the bar, scoops ice into a stainless steel mixer, pours some vodka into the mixer, puts the cap on, and shakes the hell out of it. He then takes a bottle of vermouth and a martini glass, swirls the vermouth in the glass, and then dumps it out into the sink, adds the chilled vodka, and presents it to me.

  “Oh,” he says, holding up a finger. “Wait.” He retrieves a bottle from a refrigerator under the counter, opens it, spears three olives with a wooden cocktail skewer, and sets the garnish in my drink. Then he pours some of the juice in and stirs it with the skewer.

  I say, “A filthy Grey Goose martini with three blue cheese olives. Have you been conducting surveillance on me, Mr. Maxwell?”

  “It’s my job to notice what the customers like.”

  “So I’m a customer now. Interesting.”

  “You’re not a paying customer, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Oddly enough, it does. I like knowing you haven’t taken any of my hard-earned money.”

  His smile is knowing. “Of course you do.”

  I take a sip of the martini—which is ice-cold and delicious—and ignore the way he’s looking at me, as if he knows all my secrets and is just waiting to see when I’m going to figure that out.

  He opens a bottle of cabernet, grabs two wine glasses from a hanging rack, and motions toward the kitchen. “Shall we?”

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to play sous chef, because honestly I couldn’t cook to save my own life. The only thing I know how to make is a reservation.”

  “Then it’s good you have a friend in the restaurant business.”

  I slip off the stool, careful not to spill a drop of my delicious martini. “Is that what we are, Mr. Maxwell? Friends?”

  On opposite sides of the bar, maintaining eye contact, we slowly walk toward the kitchen. He says, “For the moment. Although if you keep calling me Mr. Maxwell, I might have to take you over my knee.”

  My laugh is low and husky. “Promises, promises.”

  I’m gratified to see a flush of color creep up his neck.
>
  In the kitchen, a table for two awaits, complete with crisp white linens, a low centerpiece of roses, a breadbasket, and a pair of lit white taper candles. Parker sets the wine and glasses on the table and pulls out my chair.

  I ease myself into it, pretending not to notice the way his eyes are devouring the sight of my bare thighs. “This must really go over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I gesture at the table, the kitchen. “This whole shut-down-the-restaurant-and-play-chef thing. I’m sure the women you do this for must really eat it up. No pun intended.”

  A muscle in his jaw flexes. His look turns dark. “I’ve never done this for a woman before,” he says, and turns away.

  Right. Because his back is to me, I roll my eyes.

  Parker, stiff-shouldered, goes to one of the large stainless steel refrigerators against the wall and brings out a rectangular wood tray, wrapped with plastic. He sets it on the table, along with a small plate containing a chunk of pale yellow butter dusted with black flakes.

  He points at the tray. “Manchego, Saint-André, and Humboldt Fog cheeses, accompanied by a foie gras terrine, orange marmalade, Marcona almonds, and fresh figs.” He points at the butter. “And salted truffle butter for the bread.”

  I would normally make a smart remark about shitty truffles at this point, but I’m too busy wondering if it’s a coincidence that my three favorite cheeses, along with all my favorite accompaniments to those cheeses, are staring up at me from a bamboo tray. When I glance up at Parker, his face gives nothing away.

  “Thank you,” I say, equally straight-faced. “This looks lovely.”

  He inclines his head. Behind his stoic demeanor, I sense irritation mingled with mischief. It’s an interesting mix, and my intuition tells me to sniff a little closer. I decide to probe.

  “So what else is on the menu for this evening, if I may be so bold?”

  He gazes down at me, his eyes unreadable. “Tuna tartar, Scottish salmon with mashed leeks and asparagus, sautéed crimini mushrooms, and tres leches.”

  He’s just recited a list of all my favorite foods.

  I stare back at him, careful to keep my expression neutral. “I thought you said you hadn’t been conducting surveillance on me.”

  His smile is enigmatic. “It turns out Google is an incredible source of information.”

  My brows shoot up. “You’re actually admitting you Googled me?”

  “You’re saying you didn’t Google me?”

  “Of course not.”

  I say it with convincing force, not only because I’m a good liar, but also because it happens to be true. I didn’t Google him; Tabby did.

  “Good,” he says. “You can never believe what you read on the Internet, anyway.”

  That statement stops me cold, as does the pointed look he follows it with. We gaze at each other. I wonder if he can hear my heart jackhammering away inside my chest.

  He turns away again and begins to assemble food on the counter. He pulls items from the refrigerator and takes pans down from hanging racks, getting ready to begin cooking. I take a moment to compose myself, and then pour two glasses of cabernet and join him at the stove.

  I hold out a glass to Parker. “Do you mind if I watch?”

  He takes the glass from me. That faint gleam of mischief returns to his eyes. “I’d love for you to watch.”

  He’s not talking about cooking. That much I know. Everything this man says carries a subtext within a subtext beneath a hazy veil of misdirection and innuendo. It’s maddening.

  “You should’ve been a politician.” I sip my wine as he sets a skillet on the stovetop, pours in a dollop olive oil, and lights the burner beneath the pan.

  “Funny you should say that. I’ve recently decided to run for Congress.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Dead serious I’m afraid.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the political type.”

  He glances at me. Damn, those eyes are gorgeous.

  “What type did you have me pegged for?”

  Ruthless, lying, self-serving asshole. I smile my most innocuous smile. “Why, the entrepreneurial type, of course.”

  Without taking his gaze from mine, he takes a long swallow of wine, lowers the glass, and licks his lips. “Is there anyone in your life you don’t lie to?”

  I look at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Hmm. Yes, actually there are several. My gynecologist. My accountant. And my mother.” The vivid image of my mother’s face sobers me, robbing the playful tone from my voice. “I could never hide anything from her, even if I wanted to.”

  He cocks his head, studying me. “So the Queen B has a mother. Somehow I imagined you brought yourself into being through sheer force of will.”

  I look at him sharply, all teasing gone. Now we’re getting into more dangerous territory. Truthful territory. I have the horrifying thought that maybe Parker has his own Tabitha on payroll, someone who knows how to dig deep and uncover ancient, damaging lies.

  If he does, and he or she is good at his or her job, this hide-and-seek game we’re playing is already over. And Parker’s won.

  If he has, I’m going down swinging.

  “That, too,” I say quietly, holding his gaze. “Because I was forced to. Because something terrible happened to me, and by extension to my whole family, and I had two choices: lie down and die, or stand up and fight. I decided to fight.”

  He looks at me closely, examining my face, my stiff posture, my fingers white-knuckled around the stem of the wine glass. “And you’ve been fighting ever since.” When I don’t respond, he says more softly, “And you’re fighting right now. Why?”

  I turn away, but he grasps my arm, sets his wine on the counter, takes my wine from my hand and sets it on the counter, and then takes me by the shoulders and forces me to face him. I churlishly look at my shoes instead.

  In a low, urgent voice, he says, “I don’t know you well. Hell, I don’t really know you at all. But I do know I want to be one of the people you don’t lie to.”

  Surprised, I glance up at him. His eyes are intensely focused on mine.

  I decide to challenge him. “Why?”

  His jaw works. There’s a moment when I think he won’t answer, but then he says, “Because every time you walk into a room it’s like déjà vu. Every time you laugh it makes me happy. Every time I see you I get this feeling…I don’t know. I don’t know.” He stops, frustrated. “I can’t describe it.”

  He doesn’t know me. A tremor of relief runs through my body. His hands move from my arms to my shoulders, and he steps closer.

  “You act like you can’t stand me, but you kiss me like you’re starving. You look at me like you want to carve out my heart, but when I touch you, you tremble.”

  “In anger.”

  “Bullshit,” he snaps. “Don’t lie to me!”

  I turn my head. He takes my jaw in his hand and, with gentle pressure, turns my head back, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are angry but unguarded; I see how much he means what he’s saying. I see exactly how much he wants me to be truthful with him, exactly how confused my mixed signals make him.

  And—bitch that I am—I plot anew.

  “OK. I’ll tell you the truth. But you go first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me something no one else on earth knows about you. Tell me a secret. Something you wouldn’t want anyone to know. Something…bad. If you do that, then I won’t lie to you anymore.”

  His eyes darken. He remains silent a long, tense moment, staring at me. Though he’s not saying anything, I feel great emotion warring in him. I sense he’s trying to decide whether or not to trust me, whether or not he wants me enough to give in to my demand. Finally, after several excruciating moments, he drops his hands to his sides, looks at his shoes, and inhales a deep breath.

  Then he looks up. Staring straight into my eyes, he says in a halting whisper, “I…once…killed someone.”
<
br />   TWELVE

  That’s so far beyond anything I’m prepared for, I stand with my mouth open, staring at him stupidly, blankly, unable to form any words except, “Huh?”

  “I said I—”

  “Yes, I got it. I just…don’t get it. That can’t possibly be true.”

  Parker swallows. He runs a hand through his hair. He steps away, putting distance between us, his expression pained. Frozen, I watch as he turns again to the stove, lowers the heat beneath the skillet, and tosses in a pinch of fresh garlic from a small jar on the counter top. It sizzles and pops in the oil. He takes a wooden spatula from a ceramic crock and begins to stir briskly.

  He just confessed to murder and now he’s browning garlic? Who the hell am I dealing with, Hannibal Lecter?

  Parker says solemnly to the pan, “That medicine you take, Coumadin. What’s it for?”

  He noticed the specific brand of my meds. Another bombshell, though not nearly as big as the first. I steady myself, careful to breathe normally. Careful not to bolt; I won’t get far in these shoes.

  Besides, I’m not afraid of him. I should be—he’s just told me he’s a killer—but his melancholy demeanor suggests that whatever happened, he really regrets it.

  Plus, there’s a butcher’s block of cleavers on the counter within arm’s reach. If he decides he’s made a terrible mistake with his confession and the only way to remedy it is by bashing me upside the head with the skillet, chopping me into bits and stashing my dissected corpse in the walk-in freezer, he’ll get a belly full of steel before he’s gone a single step.

  “It’s a blood thinner.”

  Parker stirs and stirs, his gaze focused on the pan. “For what?”

  I struggle for a moment, hating this unspoken tug-of-war, hating how exposed and helpless I feel knowing that my mortal enemy now knows my greatest weakness. However, I know I won’t get anything more from him unless I give him what he wants, which, at the moment, is more information about my medication.