Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  It’s all I can do not to double over in laughter. I suck my cheeks between my teeth and stare at him, shaking my head as if I’m dumb with disbelief.

  “You are right,” Lucky says, sitting straighter in the seat. “I cannot let this stand.” He thinks for a moment and then nods briskly. “I will have my people schedule it.”

  “Schedule what?”

  He looks at me. “The duel.”

  An entire city block passes by outside before I’m able to speak again. “I’m sorry. That martini must have really gone to my head. I thought I just heard you say ‘duel.’”

  Lucky gently strokes the back of my hand as if it’s a newborn’s cheek. “I know the manly ways are frightening, Miss Victoria, but you must be strong. This is how we settle the things between the men in my country.”

  “Really? What century is it in Italy now? Because in America I’m thinking it’s the twenty-first.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “The old ways never die. Also I am very good with the guns.” He frowns. “Unless he chooses the swords. In this case I am having a little more worry.”

  He’s serious. He’s actually friggin’ serious.

  I’m not exactly sure how to feel about this development. On the one hand, it’s hilarious. The thought of Luciano calling Parker—or, more correctly, having his people call Parker—to schedule a duel is beyond entertaining. My God, the press would have a field day. I can just see the headlines now: Celebrity Chef Showdown in Central Park! If they televised it, the entire Northern Hemisphere would tune in.

  On the other hand, it’s disturbing.

  What if Luciano hurt Parker? Or even…killed him?

  Why is the thought of Luciano killing Parker disturbing? If anything, that should make you happy.

  Well, because I’m going to kill him, of course! Figuratively, that is. I can’t have someone else destroy him before I can!

  But isn’t the whole point that he’s destroyed, no matter who actually does it?

  No, the whole point is that I get my revenge! Me, not someone else!

  You sure about that, Maleficent? You sure you don’t have a teeny, tiny soft spot for ol’ Mr. I’ve Got a Funny Feeling About You?

  Oh, shut up.

  Even in imaginary conversations in my head, Tabby’s logic is annoying.

  “You know, Lucky, I would never contradict you, because obviously you’re so much smarter than I am, but may I make a suggestion?”

  He inclines his head in a kingly nod. Clearly his nose feels better now that I’m stroking his ego.

  “Well—and of course this is just my silly opinion—if you don’t want people to know about what happened tonight, a duel might not be the best way to go. It’s very manly, and obviously you would kill him—he might even die from sheer terror—but it might be a tiny bit…public. Don’t you think?”

  He purses his lips. I can see he’s not convinced.

  “This attorney I know, she can keep it all very private. You can sue him for millions, ruin his political chances, and have your revenge, all without giving any more people the chance to laugh at you. You can destroy him, and no one outside of that room tonight will ever know what happened.”

  “But a lawsuit is public information, no?”

  Shit. He chooses now to display a glimmer of intelligence?

  “Far less public than a duel. If word gets out that the best chef in the world is going to shoot someone, the television networks will go wild. You know how silly we Americans are about our reality TV. Plus, people might even feel sorry for Parker. Seeing as how you’re going to kill him, I mean. We don’t want him becoming some kind of martyr.”

  I can see that last bit was the nail in the coffin, but just to make sure I haven’t trod on his wafer-thin ego with all my inferior womanly opinions, I demurely add, “But of course you know best.”

  When I bat my lashes like there’s a piece of lint in my eye, he melts. “Ah, belíssima,” he sighs. “You are making someone the very fine wife someday.” He kisses my hand. Hovering above it, he murmurs, “Maybe even me, no?”

  Um, no.

  The universe takes pity on me, because at the precise moment I’m deciding how to deal with that fresh horror, my phone rings. I answer it so quickly I don’t even look to see who it is.

  “Victoria Price speaking,” I chirp, acting all businessy so Luciano takes the hint that he’s supposed to allow me a moment to compose myself after his swoon-inducing declaration. Thankfully he does, releasing my hand and leaning back against the seat, secure in his opinion of the effect he must be having on me with all his powerful machismo.

  “After you’ve dropped your injured puppy dog off at the veterinarian, I’m coming over. We need to talk.”

  It’s Parker. Judging by the growl in his voice, he isn’t happy. My heart begins to thump.

  “Oh, hello, Mom! So good to hear from you. Now isn’t a great time, though. I’m on a date with the most amazing man.”

  Luciano’s smile is the absolute definition of smug.

  “Victoria.”

  What is it about the way Parker says my name that makes all my girly bits get tingly? I close my eyes, blocking out everything but the sound of his voice.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “I’m. Coming. Over.”

  Oh, that tone. It promises everything. All my tingly bits collectively throb. And then, as I’m simultaneously enjoying the throbbing and wishing it would stop, inspiration hits.

  “No. I’ll come to your place.”

  The line crackles with electricity. Parker’s voice drops low, low, low. “If you come to my house tonight, Victoria, you’re not leaving until tomorrow morning.”

  Suddenly my throat is dry. My hands shake. And my heart, which was simply thumping before, now starts to hammer so hard I have to press a hand over my chest.

  I say, “Give me the address.”

  He does, and then demands, “When?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “If you’re not there—”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Something in my voice must set his mind at ease, because he says, “Ten o’clock, then,” and hangs up.

  After I tuck the phone back in my bag, Luciano asks, “You don’t know your mother’s address?”

  I laugh breathlessly. “She just moved.”

  He doesn’t question me. He simply nods, appeased, while I marvel at the adrenaline crashing through me in wave after glorious wave.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.

  NINETEEN

  Parker lives in an ultra-modern, brand-new skyscraper on Park Avenue. The building itself looks like something out of a movie about New York in the year 2300, all sharp points, odd angles and glittering glass, reminiscent of a giant icicle.

  No wonder I like it.

  It’s two minutes to ten. I’ve been home, changed out of the pornographic slit dress and into a more comfortable skirt and blouse, and gotten an update from Tabby about Marie-Thérèse. Apparently she’s the spawn of the late Alain Gérard and his fourth wife, a model who was thirty years younger than he. When Parker lived with Gérard, Marie-Thérèse was all of ten years old. They stayed close when he returned to the States, so close that he’ll be walking her down the aisle at her wedding in September.

  Which means he was telling the truth. She is like his little sister.

  Which means I was needlessly, stupidly jealous, but even worse—Parker knew it.

  And rubbed it in my face.

  I admit I probably deserved it, but that’s not the point. The point is that I experienced the feeling in the first place, that my enemy correctly guessed I was experiencing that feeling, and that he proceeded to not only call me on it but also twist the knife a little deeper when he brought her up on stage with him, knowing it would infuriate me.

  In other words, the son of a bitch played me.

  He didn’t let me dangle for long. He gave her a brotherly forehead kiss and said they were like siblings.
But I refuse to give him credit for gently playing me. I could tell by the look on his face he was having fun at my expense.

  He enjoyed my jealousy.

  The more I thought about that, the more furious I became.

  I march into the lobby of the building and approach the smiling young man at the front desk. In my best sword-wielding Xena voice, I bark, “My name is Victoria Price and I’m here to see—”

  “Yes, Ms. Price. You can go right up. Mr. Maxwell is expecting you.”

  He gestures to the elevator bank. His smile never wavers, even when I narrow my eyes at him.

  This guy is good.

  I turn and walk stiffly to the elevators. The fortieth floor is already selected. The elevator doesn’t go higher. On the ride up, I pace inside the car like a caged animal, imagining every nasty thing I’m going to say to Parker.

  When the elevator doors open, he’s standing right there, barefoot, in jeans and a black T-shirt, breathtakingly handsome…and smirking. He looks at his watch.

  “Exactly ten o’clock. Your punctuality is a compliment, Ms. Price. Just couldn’t keep away one moment longer?”

  “Don’t you dare smirk at me, you smug bastard! I have half a mind to—”

  He steps inside the elevator, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me.

  It catches me completely off guard. I freeze, caught between anger and pleasure. Then heat explodes inside me like a bomb.

  I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him back.

  He pushes me against the elevator wall and pins me there, devouring my mouth, his tongue invading, his hands gripping my head. I’ve never had a kiss like this in my life. We’re both ravenous, insatiable, blind with lust. We don’t break for air until an alarm rings—it’s the elevator, buzzing for someone to select a floor.

  Without a word, Parker swings me into his arms. I hang onto his broad shoulders as he strides from the elevator into the dark silence of his home. Floor-to-ceiling windows spectacularly display the cityscape glittering outside and give enough light to show the modern furnishings. We move into the living room, passing a grand piano, and continue past a large, open kitchen.

  “Where are you taking me?” I whisper.

  “Bedroom.”

  The need in his voice gives me chills.

  I could object. I don’t. I could tell myself it’s because I know exactly what I came here to do, which is snoop and sneak until I find his ruinous secrets, but I’d be lying.

  Right now, I don’t give a shit about his secrets. I’ll worry about them later.

  Right now, I just want him to fuck me into next week.

  Parker kicks open his bedroom door, crosses to his bed in a few long strides, tosses me down on the mattress so I bounce, once, and then swiftly crawls over me so he’s hovering inches above me, his bent legs on either side of my hips, his arms braced beside my head.

  Looking into my eyes, he says, “No more bullshit. No more games. No more of this Luciano Mancari crap. I want you so fucking badly I’ll do almost anything to have you, and I think you want me the same way. But I won’t beg. I won’t be lied to. And I won’t be led around by my balls. I want it only if it’s real. So decide right now if you can give me real. Yes or no.”

  My breath is ragged. I feel as if I’m standing at the top of a high, windy cliff, looking down to waves crashing over rocks far below. “Parker—”

  “Yes or no.”

  His intensity scares me. So does the knowledge that he can’t be manipulated. He sees right through me. If I’m going to do this thing, if I’m really going to move forward with my plan for revenge, I have to accept the possibility that it might cost me a hell of a lot more than I’ve bargained for.

  It might cost me what’s left of my cold, dead heart.

  What the hell. I’ve lived through worse.

  In the faintest of whispers, I say, “Yes.”

  Parker’s reaction is instantaneous. He breathes, “Thank fuck,” and crushes his mouth to mine once more.

  I pull him down atop me. He gives me his weight. I wrap my legs around his waist. One of his hands slides up my thigh, pushing my skirt to my hips, and I flex my pelvis, wanting, wanting, wanting. A moan escapes my throat.

  Parker rears back and rips open my blouse. I gasp in shock as buttons go flying.

  “No bra,” he growls, and then cups both my bare breasts in his hands, latches onto one of my rigid nipples with his gorgeous, hot mouth, and sucks.

  The sound I make is purely animal. I arch into his hands, my head thrown back, my eyes closed, lost.

  He pinches the nipple he’s not sucking on, rolling it between his fingers. I grind my pelvis against his, feeling the length of his hard cock, desperate to have it inside me. “Please, Parker,” I whimper. “Please.”

  Instead of giving me what I want, he breaks away from my breast, shoves my skirt all the way up to my waist, yanks aside my panties, and buries his face between my open thighs.

  When his lips close over my swollen clit and he suckles it, hard, I cry out. My body bows against the bed.

  “Yes. Give it to me,” he murmurs, and then sinks two fingers inside me and goes right back to sucking.

  I.

  Am.

  On.

  Fire.

  I moan wantonly, brokenly. His name escapes my lips over and over as I writhe against the delicious heat of his mouth. I sink my fingers into his hair and pull, grinding my hips into his face, pleasure building and building, coiling, tightening, all my muscles clenched and my nipples throbbing.

  “Oh, God. Parker!” I gasp, stiffening, my eyes now open wide.

  In convulsions that shake the whole bed, I come.

  He makes a noise deep in his throat, a humming that reverberates through my core, making me shudder even more. The orgasm lasts and lasts, explosive, ripping through me like a detonation. It’s a high, brilliant peak, a breathless, intense blast of pure pleasure.

  I lose all track of time and place, all memory or comprehension. I am a creature, ravenous and wild, unashamedly reveling in the best damn orgasm I’ve ever had.

  When it subsides and I’m left a limp-noodled mass of arms and legs, Parker turns his head and gently sinks his teeth into the flesh of my thigh.

  “Fucking beautiful,” he whispers. He pulls my panties down my legs, tosses them aside, and then rips open the fly of his jeans. His cock—big and stiff—springs free. He pulls a condom from his back pocket, tears the foil open with his teeth, rolls it down his swollen length, and positions himself between my legs.

  And I can’t help it; I groan in disappointment.

  Parker tenses, breathing hard. “You weren’t a foregone conclusion, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was only hoping, not expecting.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What then?”

  I sink my fingers into the hard muscles of his ass. “I wanted you bare.”

  With a moan, he shoves inside me.

  He fits his mouth to mine. I taste myself on him. I pull my knees up and rock my hips, feeling him hot and hard deep inside, filling me, stretching me. He fucks me slowly, kissing me and fondling my breasts, bringing me quickly back up to that bright peak again, so quickly I’m dizzy and gasping for breath.

  “Come on my cock, baby,” he whispers, gazing down at me. “Give it to me again.”

  I’m flying. Flying and burning and suddenly there’s water in my eyes and my throat is closing up and my chest feels like there’s a thousand pound weight on it—oh God, what’s happening?

  I turn my head, desperate to escape those eyes of his that always see right through me, but he won’t allow it. He grasps my jaw in his hand and turns my head back so I’m forced to look at him.

  “Don’t hide. Let me in. Let me see you. Please.”

  It’s that soft, pleading “please” that does it.

  I come again, silently this time, though no less savagely. Throughout it I look at him, feeling raw and bloodied as a scraped nerve, until finally I can
’t contain the feelings inside me anymore. Water slips from the corners of my eyes.

  He whispers, “Yes. God, yes. That right there. I’d kill to keep you looking at me like that forever.”

  I say his name. It’s like fitting a key into a lock.

  He starts to thrust faster. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. His arms are tense and corded. His breaths come in harsh pants. He moans, long and low, and I know he’s close.

  I pull his head down and say into his ear, “Fuck me hard, lover. Come inside me.”

  Grunting in pleasure, he bites me on the long muscle above my clavicle. He slides one hand under my ass and uses it to lift me as he pumps into me, deeper, harder. My breasts are flattened against his chest, my fingernails bite into his flesh, my legs tremble as my thigh muscles tense.

  Then he stiffens, throws his head back and, with a shout, comes.

  It’s a beautiful thing to watch. His eyes are closed. His lips are parted. Even in the spare light I can see his face is flushed with color. I feel him throb and twitch deep inside me, and I experience an emotion I’m entirely unfamiliar with. It feels like I’m being stabbed over and over, right through the center of my chest.

  A little sound escapes my throat. Parker opens his eyes and looks down at me. His eyes are shining. He leans down and kisses me softly on the lips, cheeks, eyelids, his warm breath washing over my face. Balancing himself on his elbows, he cradles my head in his hands. Against my chest, I feel his heart thrumming a crazy, irregular beat.

  We’re quiet for several minutes, our arms around each other, letting our breathing return to normal. Finally he says, “OK, that was seriously fucking amazing.”

  I manage to keep my voice steady when I reply, “Or seriously amazing fucking.”

  He chuckles, nosing my hair away from my ear. “Both. Jesus.”

  “You don’t have to call me Jesus. Your Royal Highness will do.”

  He chuckles again and kisses a path from my ear all the way down my neck. Without withdrawing from me, he rolls to his back, his arms around my waist, and settles me atop him so I’m straddling him, looking down, my hair falling into my face. He reaches up and brushes it back with both hands. To avoid the softness in his eyes that’s almost killing me, I sigh.