Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  So now it’s tit for tat. I hate this game. Why the hell did I even suggest it in the first place?

  Oh, yeah: I’ve sworn to bury him. I can’t expect not to get a little scratched and bruised while I’m digging the grave.

  Through gritted teeth, I admit, “I have a weak heart.”

  He stops stirring and looks at me. “The woman described by Time magazine as the ‘Heartless Wonder’ takes medication for a weak heart? That’s probably the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Anger rears up inside me, spitting fire. This bastard is calling me out? I feel my face do something strange. My stomach twists like a pretzel. With ruthless coldness, I say, “I might be a heartless wonder, but at least I haven’t ended anyone’s life.”

  Yet.

  Parker stares at me silently for a moment, and then refocuses his attention to the cheerfully sizzling garlic. “I suppose I deserve that.”

  He squeezes his hand around the back of his neck and closes his eyes, and it’s all I can do not to reach out to him and apologize. Which isn’t like me at all.

  Which is why I decide to go with it.

  If I’m going to convince this son of a bitch that I really do have a heart, I’m going to have to start acting like it.

  I take a breath, put my game face on, and try my best to sound contrite. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  He stills, glancing at me.

  “I…very few people know about my heart condition. Three people, to be exact. I hate…I don’t like admitting weakness. It’s embarrassing. And what you said before…well, it just doesn’t seem like something that could be possible for a man like you. It doesn’t fit with what I know of your character. I suppose I’m just shocked.”

  I look away, pretending to be confused and emotional, when what I really am is dying for a bottle of Listerine so I can wash the taste of all this hideous truth from my mouth.

  Slowly Parker reaches for the knob that operates the burner’s gas. He turns it off. He folds his arms across his chest and hangs his head, staring at nothing. “It was years ago. A lifetime.”

  I don’t dare say anything. I stand in silence with bated breath, waiting for more. Waiting for the helpless little fly to wriggle and flail and get himself stuck even deeper in my web.

  “She was the only person I ever loved.”

  Which means, contrary to what he told me time and time again, he never loved me. The bitter bite of bile rises in the back of my throat. “What happened?”

  He shakes his head, struggling for words. “She shot herself.”

  Disappointment cascades over me as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped atop my head. I want to scream. I want to throw something. I want to rage and shout and put my hands around his throat, because he dangled such a tantalizing, ruinous skeleton in front of my face, and now it turns out he didn’t kill anyone at all.

  “But you said ‘I once killed someone.’”

  “I didn’t pull the trigger, but it was my fault. If not for me, she’d still be alive.”

  I close my eyes, sick with defeat. This moron isn’t a murderer. He’s just riddled with guilt over failing to stop some lame-brained bimbo from offing herself! How the hell am I going to ruin his life with that?

  I don’t want to hear any of the ridiculous details, so I say, “This might sound terribly harsh, but you can’t take credit for another person’s suicide. She had to be very depressed in the first place, or at least mentally unstable, to even consider doing something like that. It isn’t your fault, no matter what happened between you. People go through awful breakups all the time and don’t do anything nearly as drastic.”

  His smile is probably the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. “That’s kind of you to say. But it is my fault. She wasn’t depressed. She wasn’t unstable. She was perfect. We were perfect. And then I fucked it up. What she did is because of what I did. Cause and effect, simple as that. Her death is on me. And I have to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life.”

  She was perfect. We were perfect.

  I’m going to puke.

  I don’t know what Parker sees on my face, but whatever it is, it causes him to unfold his arms and close the short distance between us. He reaches for my face, but thinks better of it and lets his hand drop to his side.

  He says hoarsely, “I’ve never told anyone that story.”

  Well, goody for me. Aren’t I special?

  I look demurely at the buttons on the front of his shirt. “And I’ve never told anyone my story. So I guess we’re even.”

  “That’s technically not true.”

  I look up at him.

  “Three other people besides me know about your heart condition, correct?”

  My smile is wry. “Actually, if you want the complete truth, it’s four. I wasn’t counting my doctor before.”

  “OK. But you know what that means, don’t you?”

  The faint lilt of humor in his voice makes me both wary about the direction he’s headed, and relieved that we might be past all this emotional bullshit. “What?”

  “You have to tell me something no one else knows. Only then will we be even.” He reaches up and strokes my cheek. His voice drops. “Make it good.”

  My brows lift. “Better than the heart condition? How many secrets do you think I have, Mr. Maxwell?”

  For the first time since we entered the kitchen, his smile is genuine. “I’d guess you need a closet the size of an airplane hangar to hide all your skeletons, Ms. Price.”

  I can’t help it; I smile back. “That’s a very useful talent, to be so charming while you’re insulting someone. I need to add that to my arsenal.”

  Now he laughs. The sound sends a rash of goose bumps crawling up my arms. He takes my face in both his hands. His voice lowers. “I think your arsenal is plenty well stocked already.”

  “There you go again with the charming insults. Whatever shall I do with you?”

  Parker’s eyes are getting heated. His face is close to mine. I fight the urge to flatten my hands against his broad chest, and instead leave them hanging loosely by my sides.

  “And there you go again, channeling Scarlett O’Hara. What did I tell you about that, Ms. Price?”

  “To the best of my recollection, Mr. Maxwell, you said that Xena, Warrior Princess, was far preferable to my transparent attempts at being coy. Perhaps I should run you through with a sword?”

  He watches my lips with avid attention as I speak. One step closer, and his body is flush against mine. I can’t retreat any farther; the kitchen counter is pressed against my bottom.

  I’m trapped.

  In an incredibly intimate, sexy voice, Parker demands, “Tell me something no one else knows about you, Victoria. Not your doctor. Not your friend Darcy. Not even your mother. Give me something that’s only for me. And then we’ll be even. And then we can really begin.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Begin what?”

  He sweeps his thumb across my lips. “What we both want.”

  “Which is?” My voice comes out breathy. Stupid voice.

  Parker presses his pelvis to mine. His erection leaves little doubt as to what it wants, but just to underscore it, Parker murmurs, “Everything.”

  We’re eye to eye, breathing erratically, both of us unmoving. The tension between us crackles like a live wire. He sees some flicker of doubt in my eyes, or another emotion that makes him warn, “And don’t you dare tell me anything but the entire, unvarnished truth, or I will put you over my knee, and it won’t be for fun.”

  For a brief moment, I close my eyes to escape him.

  When I open them again, I’ve realized I might be getting more than a few scratches and bruises by the time I’ve reached the bottom of this six-foot hole I’m so merrily digging.

  Looking into his eyes, I jump over the edge of the cliff, and confess.

  “I’m afraid of the dark. Clowns and small children terrify me. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to die alone with one too many cats, an
d it will be weeks before my body is discovered because no one in the whole world gives a shit about me, because I’ve been such a complete asshole my entire life.”

  As if he’s just discovered how cold fusion works or he’s found a cure for cancer, a look of wonderment dawns over Parker’s face.

  He breathes, “You’re so goddamn beautiful,” and, for the second time tonight, crushes his mouth to mine.

  THIRTEEN

  These kisses of his, they’re addictive. Sexy, demanding, and so crackalicious I’m certain he could sell them on the street and make millions.

  This time, he breaks away first. We’re both panting, hungry, clutching each other like a pair of horny teenagers.

  I groan at the loss of his mouth. “Why’d you stop?”

  His lids drift open. His voice comes out gruff and intense, more intense even than the look in his eyes. “Because I was about to do something so dirty to you on this counter it would make your friend Gloria Tartenberger issue a permanent shutdown order. I’d have to tear down the entire restaurant and rebuild.”

  Delighted, I laugh. I maintained my control this time, and, inch by wicked inch, he’s losing his. “Now I’m intrigued. Give me a hint.”

  He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Do you know what tastes even better than a spoonful of four-thousand-dollar beluga caviar?”

  “No, what?”

  One of his hands drifts from my waist, cups my ass cheek, and squeezes. “A spoonful of four-thousand-dollar Beluga caviar eaten out of a freshly waxed pussy.”

  His words are so carnal, his voice so hot and dark, my breath catches in my throat. My fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders. A shiver of desire runs through my body.

  He chuckles. “I see you like the idea.”

  No—I capital L-word the idea. I’m veering dangerously close to coming right out and asking him for it, so I keep my tone light and playful to throw him off.

  “It sounds a little unhygienic, actually. I don’t think my gynecologist would approve. Besides, how do you know I’m not rocking some major seventies bush beneath my panties?”

  In one swift, heart-stopping move, his hand slides lower, slips beneath the hem of my microscopic skirt and pulls it up, exposing my naked bottom. Above my tailbone, he slides a finger between my thong and my skin.

  “These panties, you mean?”

  He jerks on the silk. It rubs against the most sensitive part of my body. I jump¸ gasping, my eyes wide.

  His hot breath fans over my neck. His lips move against my earlobe when he speaks. “These wet panties I’ve been wanting to bury my face in since you walked into the kitchen at your house?”

  He jerks on the fabric again, dragging it right over my clit, eliciting a low moan from me. I struggle to maintain my breathing, my sense of control. “They’re not wet.”

  A deep, dangerous sound rumbles through Parker’s chest. “No more lies, Victoria.”

  I close my eyes. Then I whisper, “It’s not a lie. My panties aren’t wet; they’re soaked.”

  With that, I pull away.

  He allows it, but I’m not convinced he won’t lunge at me. The look in his eyes is nothing short of ravenous.

  I turn and casually retrieve my glass of cabernet from the counter. Then I stroll back to the table, sit down, cross my legs and take a swallow of the wine, looking at him over the rim of the glass with big, innocent Bambi eyes.

  His smile is amused. “You like to play games, don’t you?”

  “Only games I can win.”

  Parker runs a hand through his thick hair. That vein in his neck is throbbing wildly again. He doesn’t answer me. Instead he turns back to the pan of olive oil and garlic on the stove and relights the burner. I spread a chunk of triple crème Saint-André on a rosemary cracker and take a bite, all while trying valiantly to corral my hormones. This is about as effective as trying to herd cats.

  The man is. Smoking. Hot.

  I push away the whirlwind of memories crowding my mind. I push away the desire crashing through me, heating my blood, making it pulse, scalding, through my veins. I push away all thoughts of how big his back and shoulders are, how strong, how much I’d like to peel that shirt off him and sink my teeth into his flesh.

  Instead I sit, poised, for all outward appearances unruffled, munching calmly on a cracker and sipping a fine cabernet, while inside I’m a boiling vat of noxious chemicals.

  My talent for maintaining a false tranquility comes from years of practice. It’s second nature now.

  As is my talent for deception.

  Watching Parker calmly stirring his browning garlic, I’m beginning to realize he and I have much more in common than I thought.

  * * *

  The meal is exquisite.

  Parker feeds it to me, forkful after forkful, an odd and completely sensual experience. I’ve never been hand-fed before, am not quite sure what to make of it, but after the first few awkward bites I surrender to the sheer bliss of the food that’s hitting my tongue and begin to enjoy it. For every two bites I take, he takes one. For every few swallows of wine I take, he takes one. I doubt he’s trying to get me drunk, but by the time the meal is over and we leave the restaurant, I’m feeling a little tipsy, and tell him so.

  “I know just what you need.” He smiles and helps me into the Porsche. He closes the door behind me with a firm thunk, as if sealing my fate.

  We go dancing.

  It’s a jazz club right out of a noir movie set in Paris in the forties, smoky and somehow illicit, the entrance unmarked, the music mingling with the smell of sweat and cigars in the air. I adore it. Parker commandeers a private table in a shadowed, elevated corner in the back of the room, where we can see everything without being seen, where we can smile our secret smiles and play our secret games and act like none of it matters.

  We order champagne. We hold hands. We dance, not speaking, our bodies swaying to the beat, our eyes closed. As the night wears on, he looks at me often in silence, a strange light in his eyes, an intimate yearning I escape by averting my own eyes, taking a drink, forcing a laugh.

  When the club closes at three, we’re the last to leave. Standing outside in the chill, Parker settles his jacket around my shoulders and I’m wrapped in his warmth, his scent. Neither one of us wants to go home, so we act like silly tourists and hire a horse-drawn carriage to take us on a meandering circuit of Central Park. Bundled beneath blankets, we talk in hushed voices about everything and nothing as the horse chuffs and shuffles, his breath steaming the air. Then there is birdsong, a lightening in the sky, and I realize with deep surprise we’ve stayed up all night.

  With an even more profound sense of surprise, I realize I don’t want the night to end.

  When Parker pulls the Porsche into the valet drive at my building, I’m tense and unhappy, filled with regret. I didn’t expect this night to be so…so…

  Perfect.

  “She was perfect. We were perfect.”

  Parker and his perfect, dead love. The memory of his sorrow-filled words about her is what finally snaps me out of my ennui and gets me refocused on the goal:

  His obliteration.

  “Thank you,” I say as the elevator doors open in the vestibule in the lobby. “I had a wonderful evening.”

  “You’re not inviting me up.”

  He sounds resigned, thought not particularly disappointed. He’s the type of man who likes to chase things, after all. An easy victory would be a hollow one.

  “Some other time, perhaps. I’m tired. It’s been a pleasure, though.”

  He touches my face. He enjoys doing that. Enjoys watching his fingers drift over my cheekbone toward my mouth, the same way he enjoyed it when we were young and he called me by another name.

  I wonder how many other women he’s enjoyed it with, too.

  “So I’ve passed muster? There will be another time?”

  I smile. Our gazes hold. “We’ll see.”

  He steps closer. “That’s not a no. I’ll take it as
progress. And Victoria…” he brushes his lips against my mouth. He whispers, “The pleasure is all mine.”

  After an abrupt, hard hug, he’s gone, striding away through the lobby, his shoes echoing off the marble, his stride long and sure.

  I enter the elevator and hit the button for the penthouse. As the doors close, I stare at myself in the mirrored panels. My reflection mocks me.

  Like the woman in the picture in the newspaper, I’m unrecognizable. My face is soft and unguarded. My eyes are missing their usual hawk-like shine. Once again, because of Parker, I am weakened. Lessened.

  Vulnerable.

  I turn my back on that vulnerable woman in the mirror.

  But not before flipping her the bird.

  FOURTEEN

  I’m awakened by someone tapping me on the forehead. When I crack open an eye, Tabby stands beside my bed, holding a steaming mug of coffee, grinning.

  Cheerfully, she says, “Here’s a sight I never thought I’d see: Maleficent switched places with Sleeping Beauty.”

  I grumble, “Go away.”

  “It’s almost ten o’clock, boss.”

  “Maybe I need a day off.”

  “You don’t take days off.”

  “Maybe I’m sick.”

  “Psh. You never get sick. Besides, I know what you were up to last night. Dinner, dancing, and a romantic turn around Central Park with the man you’ve sworn vengeance on?” She makes a clucking noise, like a hen. “No wonder you’re so tired. All that evil-doing must be exhausting.”

  Grouchy and grainy-eyed, I sit up in bed and take the coffee from her hands. It’s strong and black, just how I like it. “Please tell me you didn’t attach a GPS device to my shoes.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I’m a hacker, boss, not Jason Bourne.”

  “Then how do you know what I was doing last night?”

  “Well, if you must know, you had a tail from TMZ the entire time.”

  When I nearly choke on my coffee, she calmly adds, “But don’t worry. When I got a ping on your name from their servers, I crashed their system and corrupted about fifty terabytes of data, so that story’s toast. Along with a whole bunch of others.”