Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  I bolt upright in the seat. “At his house!”

  “He’s got a safe. I’d bet my favorite Hello Kitty handbag on it.”

  “A safe? What am I, a bank robber now? How the hell am I going to get into a safe?”

  “Why don’t you try some of those feminine wiles I see you practicing in front of the mirror all the time?”

  Deliberating, I chew my lip. “Or maybe you could get me some roofies. Or mollies, whatever they’re called. Something to knock him out while I search for a key.”

  Luciano turns to me with wide eyes. I smile at him, pat his hand, and whisper, “Not you, darling.”

  His answering smile is grateful, if a little frightened. He goes back to being slumped against the door.

  Tabby says haughtily, “I don’t do drugs, Victoria.”

  “But you must know people! From like, the underground. Your Electric Daisy Carnival friends!”

  “If you think the EDC is the underground, we’ve got way more serious problems than breaking into a safe.”

  “Fine, Burning Man. Whatever.”

  Tabby says, “I’m hanging up on you now.”

  “Wait!”

  Once again she sighs. “What?”

  I look at Luciano. “Do you know anything about stopping relentless blood flow?”

  I can almost hear her eyes bug out of her head. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. And do not bring a corpse back to this house, Victoria. I signed up to help you hide figurative skeletons, not literal ones. And by the way, dead bodies tend to stink after a few days. The scent of decomposing flesh will clash with your Chanel No. Five.”

  With that, she hangs up on me.

  “Ingrate,” I mutter, shoving the phone back in my clutch.

  Luciano whimpers. “Belíssima, I must go to the hospitals. I am having very much pain in my face. I think my nose is broken.”

  I certainly hope so. “Driver?” I lean forward, raising my voice so the driver can hear me through the lowered glass partition. I direct him to take me home and then take Lucky to the hospital.

  Lucky bristles. “I am needing the medical help before he drives you home, belíssima!”

  I smile sweetly at him. “I think the hospital’s on the way.”

  His watery-eyed glare is clearly disbelieving. I could care less but decide to try to smooth his feathers in case I ever need him again. I take his handkerchief, dunk it in the champagne’s ice bucket, and then carefully wipe away the blood from his chin and upper lip.

  “Here, pinch your nostrils. I think that might help stop the bleeding.”

  Lucky takes the handkerchief, holds it to his nose, and applies pressure, wincing and moaning like the giant wuss he is. I fell off my horse and broke my nose when I was twelve and didn’t whine half as much.

  “And don’t worry. I have an excellent attorney for you. She’s a client of mine, a real bulldog.”

  Confused, he blinks.

  “You’re pressing charges, of course.”

  He blinks again. “Charges?”

  I do my best impression of someone who’s righteously indignant. “Against that beast, Parker Maxwell! What he did to you was clearly assault!”

  It wasn’t anywhere near assault. But at the very least, a lawsuit against Parker will raise some interesting questions from his soon-to-be constituents. The fact that he didn’t lay a finger on Luciano is unimportant. The fact that he’s had two public altercations in the past month isn’t. Far better men than he have had political careers derailed for less.

  Lucky frowns and lowers the handkerchief. “But I am thinking I don’t really want to have people knowing about this. It is an embarrassment to me, no? Everyone laughed.” His face darkens. “I don’t like it when people laugh at me.”

  Oh dear God, save us from a man’s fragile ego.

  I take his hand gently in my own and stare deeply into his eyes. “Lucky. Parker Maxwell thinks he can do whatever he wants to you. He thinks he was in a fight with you…and he thinks he won.”

  I watch that sink in and then pounce. “You can’t let an inferior man get away with insulting the great Luciano Mancari like this. An inferior American man. He didn’t just insult you—he insulted all your countrymen. He insulted Italy!”

  Luciano’s face grows even darker. He snarls, “And he insulted my mother!”

  Now it’s my turn to blink. “Your mother?”

  “Si! He said she was a goat!”

  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 s
orry 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.

  19

  Victoria

  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 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 not only to call me on it but also to 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 on to 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 on to 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.