Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  No one has ever called me pretty before in my life.

  Gasping, I break the kiss and turn my head sharply, my vision blurred with memories. I try to push Parker away, but he holds me tighter, his muscular arms like a vise.

  “Easy,” he says. “Just sit with it for a minute. Don’t run away yet.”

  His tone is the one my father used to quiet the horses during a storm. He’d always go out to the barn to be with them when the weather was nasty, to stroke their sleek necks and murmur reassurances in a loving, soft voice, crooning over and over, “Tranquilo, mi amor. Estoy aqui.”

  My brother and I were left to cower alone in our beds in the dark.

  I keep my eyes squeezed shut because I don’t trust myself to look at Parker. I don’t trust what he might see in my eyes.

  He presses the softest of kisses to my cheek. “So I was thinking we’d get a bite to eat first, somewhere quiet and then see where the evening takes us. Maybe hear some music—I know a great jazz club—or take a walk in the park.” He pauses. “Although those shoes you’re wearing don’t seem like good walk-in-the-park shoes, so maybe we’ll skip that. What do you think? Sound good?”

  He’s being light, casual, letting me know he isn’t going to say anything else about my near-meltdown. About how I just disappeared inside that kiss, how I drowned in it, and came back up for air shaking and gasping.

  I nod.

  “Great. Also, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should probably tell you that this dress of yours, which is really more like visual Viagra than a dress, is going to cause an ocean of drool among all the poor bastards you’ll be passing tonight, so I’m going to have to stick very close to you in order to be ready to lend a gallant hand when you slip on said drool. Which is inevitable, considering the sheer amount of it we’ll be dealing with. So.”

  I laugh a little shakily. “So be prepared to have a Parker barnacle?”

  He nods seriously, though there’s a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Duly noted.”

  I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Parker eases his arms from around me and takes a step back, eyeing me warily as if I might change my mind and bound away like a deer fleeing a guy in a neon vest who’s toting a loaded rifle. But I’m better now. More steady on my feet.

  It occurs to me that I need to find a way to deal with kissing this man if I’m going to make him fall in love with me so I can dump him and then ruin his life. There will probably be a lot of kissing involved. I might even have to sleep with him.

  Realization hits me with such force, I stop breathing.

  I’m probably going to have to sleep with him!

  How is this only occurring to you now? The howl of laughter inside my head is Darcy’s.

  “You have the most interesting internal conversations,” says Parker, watching my face. “Someday I’d love to be in on one of them.”

  I blurt, “I was just thinking about sleeping with you.”

  He stares at me. I’ve never seen such a look of hunger. Softly, he says, “Go on.”

  “I…cannot believe I just said that out loud.”

  Parker hasn’t blinked. His pupils are dilated. I wonder if mine are too.

  “Seriously, let’s just pretend I didn’t say that, okay? Rewind. Erase. Press play again.”

  Aware that I’ve begun to babble, I snap my mouth shut. We stand in silence, looking at each other, until Parker lifts his hand and brushes his thumb over my lower lip.

  “Okay. We’ll pretend you didn’t say it. Please ignore the churro in my pants, because he’s not quite as good at pretending as we are.”

  My gaze involuntarily drops to Parker’s crotch. And there, in all its glory, is one large and determined-looking bulge.

  “I just said ignore it, Victoria, not stare at it. Show some mercy, woman.”

  I press my lips together to keep from smiling. Mercy is the one thing he’ll never get from me.

  Gazing up at him, I capture his thumb lightly between my teeth and nip it playfully. “I can’t help it. Remember I told you how much I love churros? Your churro looks particularly big and yummy.”

  He exhales, hard. “Jesus. I can’t decide if I should laugh, kiss you, or bend you over the counter and have my way with you. That was just evil.”

  I giggle. “Evil’s my specialty. You’ve been warned.”

  He clasps my face in his hands and plants a firm, potent kiss on my mouth. In a husky voice, he says, “If we’re going to dinner, we better get to it, because we’ve got only about thirty seconds left before Mr. Big Yummy Churro takes control of the rest of my body and I rip off your dress. With my teeth.”

  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 i
n 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, as if 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 wineglasses 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 cremini 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 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 watc
h.”

  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 wineglass. “And you’ve been fighting ever since.” When I don’t respond, he says more softly, “And you’re fighting right now. Why?”