Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  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, though 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.

  14

  Victoria

  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.”

  “Oh. Good work. But the photographer still has his—”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Her smile is sphinxlike.

  I stare at her, blinking against the bright light streaming in through the bedroom windows. “How?”

  She purses her lips. After a moment, she says, “You know how in House of Cards when President Underwood asks his minion Doug Stamper to do something unsavory, and he does, and then the president asks if it was done, and Stamper says yes, and the president wants details, and Stamper says something to the effect that it’s better if he doesn’t know in case, you know, there are some legal ramifications later on? Like so the president can claim he doesn’t know anything, because he really doesn’t?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s like that. You really don’t want to know.”

  I sip the coffee, collecting my thoughts. “That sounds rather ominous.”

  She shrugs. “Just another day at work under the Mistress of All Evil.”

  “Very funny.” I take a closer look at what she’s wearing. “Dear God, are those Hello Kitty boots?”

  She sticks out a slender leg, which is clad in a bubble-gum-pink platform boot made of some kind of shiny manmade material, stamped all over with a white cartoon cat with a bow in its hair, holding a lunchbox.

  “Aren’t they adorable? I bought them for the Hello Kitty Con in November. I’ve totally got my whole outfit already planned.”

  I could have gone my entire life without knowing there’s a convention devoted to all things Hello Kitty.

  “They certainly pair wonderfully with the rainbow leggings and the sequined baby doll dress. You look like you’re ready for the Electric Daisy Carnival.”

  The EDC is a giant outdoor concert and festival where twenty-something dance music fans dress in outrageous costumes, get high, and have sex in public. It’s the annual Woodstock for Millennials.

  Tabby laughs, tossing her long red ponytail over her shoulder. “That’s not until June, silly!”

  Undoubtedly she already has tickets.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, down the rest of the coffee, and hand the empty mug back to Tabby. “All right. I’m up. What’s on deck?”

  “Weekly phone conference with Katie at ten thirty. Lunch with your editor at Per Se at one. Three-o’clock meeting with your PR firm to discuss the next book launch. Your trainer’s coming at five, and Alyssa and Jenny are scheduled for six sharp. But you know they’re always fifteen minutes late, so you’ll have a chance to take a quick shower after Duke leaves. They should have you ready to go no later than seven-thirty, so you’ll be on time at eight.”

  Alyssa and Jenny are the hair and makeup girls I have come over when I need to get glamorized for an event. “Remind me, what’s at eight?”

  “The mayor’s cocktail party.”

  “Shit. I thought that was last night.”

  “Do you think I’d let you go tarting around the city last night with Mr. It’s Not Personal if you were supposed to be at the mayor’s?”

  I mutter, “I hate his cocktail parties. Every time his wife gets drunk and tries to follow me into the bathroom to get advice about how to get him to have more sex with her. Like I’m Dr. friggin’ Ruth or something. And his guest list sucks. And his house always smells like hot dogs.”

  “You won’t hate this one.”

  The conviction in Tabby’s voice makes me glance up at her. “Why not?”

  Her sphinxlike smile returns. “This year your friend the mayor has invited a special guest.”

  I cock my head.

  “Who may or may not be testing the wat
ers to see how much local support he can drum up for his upcoming campaign.”

  My brows lift.

  “For Congress.”

  We stare at each other. I say, “Seriously, does the universe love me or what?”

  “And the new Armani you ordered with the pornographic side slit and the plunging neckline came in this morning.”

  “This is gonna be like shooting puppies in a barrel.”

  I stand, stretch, and smile broadly at Tabby, my feelings of weakness and vulnerability washed away with the morning sun.

  I can do this. What I’ve been feeling around Parker is just nerves. It’s perfectly normal to be unsettled by his reappearance in my life, but now I need to focus on the prize and put those nerves aside.

  Reinvigorated, I head to the bathroom. Tabby follows close behind.

  “Can I make one tiny suggestion?”

  “Not if it involves trying to talk me out of my plan.”

  Her sigh is loud and overly dramatic. “No. I know that’s useless.”

  “Speak then, minion.”

  I squeeze a blob of toothpaste onto my toothbrush, run it quickly under the tap, and then stick it in my mouth and begin a vigorous brushing.

  Tabby says, “Well, I was just thinking that since it was pretty intense between you and Parker last night—”

  “How do you know it was intense?” I interrupt. Only it comes out sounding like “Ow ouuno ewuz ennenze?” because my mouth is full of foam.

  Her lips twist into a wry pucker. “I saw the paparazzi pics, boss. Slow dancing? Snuggling under a pile of blankies in the carriage? Lots and lots of kissing while doing both? Pretty steamy stuff.”

  Oh. Right. I spit into the sink and wave my toothbrush, indicating she should continue.

  “Anyway, since it was intense last night, maybe tonight you should throw him for a little loop. Just for shits and giggles. Mix things up.”

  I stop brushing and look at her with my brows lifted.

  She inspects her manicure and then casually tosses out, “Like for instance if you showed up at the mayor’s with a date.”

  I spit the rest of the toothpaste into the sink, rinse out my mouth and declare, “You, girl genius, are worth every penny I pay you. Who did you have in mind?”

  Because of course she has someone in mind. She wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.

  When she looks back up at me, her green eyes flash. She grins. “Luciano Mancari.”

  I gasp, thrilled. “Oh my God. You’re even more evil than I am!”

  She giggles. “I thought you’d like that.”

  “Like it? I love it!” I run over to her and give her a hug. Suddenly we’re giggling maniacally together like two despots plotting a nuclear war.

  Luciano Mancari has been trying to get me to go on a date with him for six months, since I met him at a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend. He’s extremely gorgeous, extremely Italian, and—best of all—extremely successful.

  He even has his own television show. Mangia with Mancari.

  He’s a celebrity chef.

  He’s also got an ego the size of Canada, an IQ the size of a flea, and an eye that could be called roving, only that would be like calling Godzilla a cute little lizard. No human person with a vagina is safe from his lascivious gaze.

  He keeps his hands to himself, however. He just likes to look.

  And look.

  And look.

  No matter. I’m not in the market for a husband or even a lover. I just want to prance around with him on my arm for a few hours to piss Parker off. Nothing motivates a man like the thought that his territory is being poached.

  Tabby turns and leaves, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll get him on the phone. Call you when I have him.”

  “Wait—one more thing.”

  She turns back.

  “See if you can find out anything about a girl Parker dated who killed herself.”

  She grimaces. “What the hell?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know either. He mentioned it to me last night. Could be something I can use.”

  She shrugs. “Okay. I’ll add it to my checklist of chaos.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  After she leaves, I take off my pajamas, turn on the shower, and step into the hot spray, smiling to myself and whistling a happy tune.

  I’m really looking forward to tonight.

  Nine and a half hours later, glossed and gussied, I step through the tall glass doors of the lobby of my building. Across the drive, Luciano leans against the back door of a ridiculously long stretch limo, smoking a cigarette. He looks me up and down, taking his time, his gaze clinging to my every curve, and then flicks his cigarette away. Smiling, he holds out his hand.

  “Buonasera, belíssima.”

  I walk slowly toward him, my hips swaying. The Armani fits like a glove. A five-thousand-dollar glove with a slit so high it’s more like an open invitation to take a gander at my lady bits.

  “Buonasera, Luciano,” I purr. “How nice to see you again.”

  While ogling my cleavage with one eye and my legs with the other, he kisses my hand. I try not to gag. When he straightens, his dark eyes are half lidded, as if he’s already fucked me. He says something in Italian that sounds suspiciously dirty, but I don’t speak the language, so I can’t be sure. I just smile and allow him to help me into the limo.

  Luciano sits next to me on the wide leather seat, the driver shuts his door, and we pull away. Then he turns to me and says in his formal, accented, slightly incorrect English that so many women find irresistible, “I am very pleased you have finally decided to accept my offers for a date, Miss Victoria. I am always finding you so very beautiful woman.”

  Aww. That was kind of sweet. Too bad I can’t stand him.

  “Thank you, Luciano—”

  “Please.” He touches my arm. “Call me Lucky. This is more personal, no?”

  No. This is more like a character in a Jackie Collins novel.

  I smile. “Of course.”

  His gaze drops to his hand on my arm and then drifts over to my crossed legs, on spectacular display courtesy of the giant side slit. He folds his hands in his lap but doesn’t stop looking at my legs, which gives me ample time to study him.

  He’s a classically handsome man, with a perfect nose, full lips, a thick head of dark hair swept back from his face. His skin is flawless, the color of a Starbucks macchiato. He carries himself well, casually, wearing a beautiful bespoke black suit as if he were born in it, like a second skin.

  All that beauty, and yet he’s entirely uninspiring.

  I remember exactly this expression he wears. It’s one of gentle disinterest, even when he’s paying close attention to something, like my legs. It’s as if his mind is on the constant verge of slumber. It’s impossible to engage with him, because, as Gertrude Stein once famously said, “There is no there there.”

  He’s empty.

  He’s perfectly made for television, all bright and shiny on the outside, on the inside gossamer thin. “All sizzle and no steak,” as my father would have put it.

  In comparison, Parker Maxwell is a goddamn filet mignon.

  The thought makes me chuckle. Luciano glances up at me. A furrow appears between his sculpted brows.

  “Are you finding me funny, Miss Victoria?”

  “Oh no, Lucky, not at all! I was just thinking about your show last week. That woman you brought up from the audience to help you with the Bolognese sauce was so sweet. I thought she was going to faint from standing so close to you!”

  He’s surprised and pleased. I can tell by his expression. “You watch my show?”

  I act astonished. “I never miss it! It’s my favorite!” I add in a confidential whisper, “It’s so much better than Emeril’s.”

  I bat my lashes at him. He beams back at me. And we’re off.

  I’ve never watched his show. Tabby gave me the CliffsNotes version while I was getting my hair done so I’d have something to talk to him ab
out. I knew this would be a winning topic.

  Luciano says with confidence, “Certo. This is because he is an American, no? From the South—a racist.” He makes one of those dismissive hand gestures smug Europeans make when they’re referring to Americans. “Cooking these disgusting crawfish creatures from the swamps. How anyone thinks this is real food, I cannot know. Estúpido.”

  Fury blasts through me like a cannonball. I nearly swallow my tongue.

  Number one: I happen to love crawfish. I grew up eating them. My mother, bless her heart, isn’t a great cook, but she made do with what was available and we could afford. We had wire funnel traps in the pond on our property and had crawfish boils nearly every weekend in the summer.

  Number two: I despise the assumption that being from the South equals being a racist. Racism isn’t about where you were born. It’s about how small your heart is.

  Number three: He has no idea—nor has it occurred to him to ask—whether I am from the South or enjoy crawfish. On top of that, he’s insulted my country. Or my nationality. Certainly my national pride, at the very least.

  If I get the chance tonight, I’m going to trip him and make him fall flat on his beautiful face.

  I give him my most winning smile. “Oh, Lucky, you’re so smart. And so fortunate to be from a country that doesn’t bother itself with silly things like economic stability and women’s rights!”

  He looks at me as if the sun is shining out of my head. “Yes,” he breathes, his eyes wide, “this is what I am saying all of the times!” His look grows solemn. “You are very intelligent for a woman.”

  I’m sure my smile would kill a more discerning man. He just accepts it as his rightful due and pats me on the arm, like I’m a mentally impaired servant who’s just said something surprisingly astute.

  I make a noise that was meant to be a casual laugh, but sounds instead as if I’m retching. Concerned, Luciano pours me a glass of champagne from the chilled bottle in the built-in bar along one side of the limo. He hands it to me, and I guzzle it.