Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  Not often as in never. I should’ve tried it years ago.

  “A Phantom, no less. How did you guess I wouldn’t be satisfied with a Ghost?”

  Parker’s lips quirk into another of his secretive smirks. “My personal motto is, ‘Be all in or get all out, there is no halfway.’ The Phantom is definitely all in. Plus, a Ghost just didn’t seem like your style. Not when a much more expensive model was available.”

  I wonder if, in addition to my heart problem, I’ve developed a nasty case of asthma, because every breath I take is like trying to drag air through a straw full of sand. My game face is firmly in place, however, so I manage a smile as enigmatic as Parker’s. “So you’re all in, are you? I should expect that Caribbean island next?”

  “Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I have no quick response because my brain gives up on this conversation and decides it’s time for a nap.

  I’ll never win with logic, anyway. The only thing that’s going to carry me through this weekend is sheer animal cunning, which is something different altogether.

  Looking at Parker—at his perfect hair, chiseled jaw, cocky grin—I smile again, only this time it’s real. “I should warn you, Parker, bitches aren’t kept. They do the keeping.”

  Rule #7, and one of my personal favorites.

  His grin turns wolfish. “I can hardly wait.”

  We approach the car. The driver opens the rear passenger door for me, murmuring, “Ms. Price.” I settle myself into butter-soft leather and try not to cackle hysterically when I see a picnic basket between the seats that looks right out of a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale.

  Which one of us is Little Red Riding Hood and which is the Big Bad Wolf?

  Judging by Parker’s smile alone, I’d say I’m the one in the red cape.

  Parker enters from the other side, the driver shuts my door and gets in the front, and then we’re off.

  We don’t speak as Parker opens the wicker basket, removes two crystal champagne flutes and a bottle of Dom, and pours a measure in each glass. He hands me one. I decide I’d rather not be the little girl in the cape who’s about to be devoured, so I raise my glass and make a toast thick with threat.

  “Here’s to those who wish me well, and those who don’t can go to hell.” Without waiting for Parker’s response, I tip my head back and swallow the contents of my glass.

  Parker chuckles. “My sentiments exactly.” He downs his champagne, sets the glass back in the basket, and removes a plastic-wrapped cheese board. “Gouda?” he inquires, so innocently I know I’m in real trouble.

  You want me to eat your cheese? I’ll eat your cheese, you sneaky prick. I’ll eat your cheese, and then I’ll eat your heart, and for dessert I think I’ll eat your black, selfish soul.

  I purr, “I’d love some Gouda.”

  We trade a pair of sinister grins and settle in for the ride.

  After a ride to JFK in the Rolls, a flight on a private jet, and a winding drive from a colorful port town through a dense, tropical jungle in a Jeep with no windows and a canvas roof, we’ve finally arrived at the mysterious place of no secrets.

  Casa de la Verdad, reads the wooden sign nailed to the lintel above the front door.

  Literal translation: House of Truth.

  Carrying my bags, Parker steps past me with a sideways glance, smiling. “Told you.”

  “Oh, you’re good.”

  I shake my head in disbelief, taking in the place. It’s a classic Caribbean-style home—saffron-hued, open air where walls should be, white linen curtains blowing in the gentle trade winds—perched atop a hill surrounded by lush vegetation. The moon is high and the crickets are singing. Palmetto palms rustle in the breeze. Down a small path beside the circular driveway, wooden stairs lead to a private beach. Hidden lamps spread pools of golden light over the scarlet bougainvillea that cascades in waves over the walls surrounding the high side of the property. The other side looks straight out to the sea. I close my eyes and inhale the sweet, heady scent of orchids and night-blooming jasmine.

  It’s heaven.

  Except it’s named House of Truth, so it’s possibly my own personal hell.

  Parker unlocks the front door and heads inside. He calls over his shoulder, “Are you just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open, Cruella, or are you coming in?”

  My lips pinch in displeasure at the way he pronounces his pet name for me. His voice is light and playful, familiar, as if we’ve been going on vacation with each other for years. Even more disturbing is how chipper he seems. There’s such bounce in his step, the man is practically floating.

  He’s obviously got a major trick stashed up his sleeve.

  Maybe Tabby was right. Maybe this is fucked up, and the weekend will end in a fiery blaze and enough regret that I’ll be eating it for breakfast for the rest of my life—along with my ration of prison gruel—but I’ll be damned if I’ll let on that he’s getting under my skin. I might have little candor, less compassion, and a total lack of moral turpitude, but one thing I do have in spades is backbone.

  If life has taught me anything, it’s that the whole idea of the meek inheriting the earth is utter bullshit. The only thing the meek will inherit is whatever the strong deign to throw their way.

  Devour or be devoured. There’s no greater law.

  Staring at Parker’s receding back, I mutter, “Let’s get this barbeque started,” and then follow him inside.

  The interior of the house is even more beautiful than the outside. Travertine floors, soaring ceilings, and muted tropical-print furniture all scream expensive, understated elegance. Though I don’t want to admit it, I’m impressed.

  “Your decorator is very good.”

  I accept the glass of Chablis Parker offers me as I walk into the large, open kitchen. A picture window above the sink displays a moonlit view of the ocean so gorgeous it looks fake. Though the temperature is at least eighty degrees, a cluster of fat gray clouds lurks on the horizon, promising rain.

  “Thank you. But I don’t have a decorator. I did all this myself.”

  I rest my hip against the counter opposite him and don’t bother keeping the disbelief from my voice. “Really? In all your spare time between chasing women, running your restaurant empire, and planning your new career as congressman? Impressive.”

  “What can I say? I’m multitalented.”

  His smile is devastating. There should be a law against this kind of beauty, the kind that stuns and disarms a woman in one fell swoop. Because I feel as if I might spontaneously combust, I look away and take a big swallow of the wine.

  “I’m going to start on dinner. Grilled steaks and a green salad good for you?”

  I wonder what kind of miracle worker he employs who runs fresh steaks and vegetables out to a remote seaside hideaway on a moment’s notice. I should hire this person.

  “Steaks sound wonderful.”

  “Good. We’ll eat on the lanai.” He peers out the window. “Looks like we have a while before the storm hits.”

  I follow his gaze, my brow wrinkling. Those clouds on the horizon now look a lot more sinister. “Storm? I thought summer was hurricane season?”

  The devastating smile makes an encore. Parker moves closer to me, reaching out to brush his fingers along my cheekbone. “Don’t tell me the Queen B is afraid of a little thunder and lightning.”

  I look up at him, feeling my heartbeat kick up a notch, noting the mischief in his eyes, along with a deep, surprising tenderness. The tenderness in his caress is surprising too. There’s an unexpected protectiveness in the way he strokes my skin. It’s almost paternal, as if he’s both proud of and worried about me.

  All things considered, it’s highly suspicious.

  “No more than the next girl standing on the highest spot on land during an electrical storm.”

  I hold still as he moves closer, takes my wine and sets it on the counter, snakes an arm around my waist, and pulls me against him. He cups the bac
k of my neck and lowers his head so our foreheads are touching. “I’ll never let anything hurt you, Victoria, no matter how bad the weather gets.”

  There’s something unequivocal in his voice, something clear and absolute, like a promise.

  Like a vow.

  “Parker—”

  He doesn’t let me finish. He takes my mouth in a kiss that sends a flame roaring along my nerve endings, head to toe. I inhale, arching against him, taking his scent into my lungs, feeling the strength and heat of him against my body, feeling my resistance crumble.

  Why? Why with him? Of all the men in all the world, why does my body burn for this one, ache for this one, want this one with a ravenous desire that borders on greed?

  Well, you dumb cow, it could be the fact that he’s the only man you’ve ever loved.

  The thought sends a bolt of pure terror through me. I jerk out of Parker’s arms.

  “Whoa,” he says softly, watching my face as I settle a few feet away, trembling and pale. “Easy, tiger. What just happened?”

  I close my eyes and moisten my lips, determined my heart will not fail me now and explode like it’s threatening to. “I…sometimes you…we…”

  I can’t find the words. I drop my face into my hands and groan.

  Then his hands are on me. He gathers me into his arms, tucks my head into his shoulder, rocks me gently, and whispers, “I know. It’s overwhelming for me too.”

  Inside my head, a bell rings. It’s the opening bell for the final round of the heavyweight title fight between my mind—a ruthless savage—and my broken, senseless, longing heart. A heart I was convinced was dead and buried until Parker Maxwell walked back into my life and resurrected the pathetic, ragged shreds of it.

  I’ve been without hope for so long, without love for so long, shunning all but the most casual of encounters for so long—insert tab A into slot B, run like hell, repeat—that this banquet of emotion Parker is feeding me has set every circuit to overload. One minute I’m cool, calm, in control…and the next I’m exploding like the fireworks finale on the Fourth of July.

  Into his chest, I whisper, “I hate that you make me so weak.”

  A little tremor goes through his body. “There’s strength in surrender.”

  “There’s destruction in surrender.”

  His voice comes out husky, rough with emotion. “It’s not a zero-sum game, Victoria. If we both surrender, it’s a win-win.”

  I pull away from him again and stand near the big stainless steel refrigerator with my fists balled, my chest heaving. I say bitterly, “There’s no such thing as win-win. Someone wins and someone loses. Anyone who thinks differently is a child.”

  “Or in love,” he replies, his voice soft.

  I inhale sharply. His words reverberate through me like a gong. I whisper, “Don’t.”

  He stands motionless. His beautiful mouth takes on a hard slant. “Remember where we are, sweetheart: Casa de la Verdad. This is a no-bullshit zone.”

  His eyes dare me to contradict him, but we both know I can’t. Even if my lips aren’t speaking the words, my body tells him exactly how I feel about him every single time he touches me. So I do the only thing I can: turn my back to him, wrap my arms around myself, and change the subject.

  “I think I’ll freshen up while you cook, if you don’t mind.”

  My voice is surprisingly steady, probably because I’m not looking at him. Note to self, avoid all eye contact for the next forty-eight hours.

  “Sure.” His tone is soft again. Caressing. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes. The master’s upstairs at the end of the hallway.” I hear him open a cabinet, remove something, close it. He adds quietly, “Can’t wait to wake up in bed tomorrow morning and find you still there.”

  Oh, dagger to the heart. This is why I avoid the truth at all costs. It hurts like a motherfucker. Honesty is just one big cesspool of need and weakness, with the power to strip you bare and leave you whimpering like a baby.

  If I ever build myself a Caribbean vacation home, I’m naming it House of Death to Honesty and painting the whole thing black.

  I walk stiffly to where Parker left my bags in the entry, pick them up, and go upstairs.

  32

  Victoria

  In the elegant master bathroom, I run myself a bath in the tub that rivals the size of a spa’s. While it’s filling, I hoist my overnight bag onto the king-size bed and unzip it so I can unpack.

  Atop my clothes sits a smiling white stuffed animal with a pink bow perched between its pricked ears. A pink ruffled dress decorates its chubby body.

  Touched, I pick it up and squeeze it. “Aww, Tabby.”

  This isn’t the first time she’s done this. She is deathly afraid of flying—her parents died in a plane crash when she was little—and has developed all kinds of superstitions around air travel. I suppose a Hello Kitty plush doll is as good as a rabbit’s foot for good luck.

  God knows I’ll need it.

  I prop the stuffed cat against the lamp on the nightstand beside the bed, hang my few dresses and other things in Parker’s cavernous walk-in closet, and head to the bathroom, where I strip, leaving my clothes in a careless pile on the floor. I step into the steaming heat and release a soft groan when my aching feet hit the hot water. I lower myself into the bathtub, stretch out my legs, and close my eyes.

  Okay, so this hideous House of Truth might have one redeeming virtue.

  Rattled from what just happened downstairs, I mentally review my game plan. Unfortunately, it primarily consists of waiting to see what Parker’s got up his sleeve. In the meantime, I’ll continue my nocturnal snoop fests. I’ve got tonight and tomorrow night to see what I can find in this tropical getaway of his. Though I already checked behind all the paintings in the master bedroom for a safe. No luck.

  “I thought I’d bring you your wine.”

  My eyes fly open.

  Parker stands in the open bathroom door, holding my glass of Chablis. His gaze shifts from my face to my breasts—my nipples peeking just above the lapping water—and then travels slowly down the length of my body to my feet propped on the ledge. His eyes cut to mine.

  The heat in his gaze puts the temperature of the water to shame.

  “Thank you.”

  I want to sit up and cover myself, but don’t. The urge is ridiculous—I’ve had the man’s genitals in my mouth, for goodness’ sake—but I feel exposed and vulnerable just lying here, allowing his eyes to drink me in and pierce me through like knives.

  He demands, “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

  My heart flutters. I swear if I survive this weekend, I’m getting a transplant.

  “It’s more like what I’m feeling.”

  “Which is?” He takes a step inside the room.

  A flush of warmth spreads up my chest, and I know it’s not from the water. Real, honest-to-God, genuine emotion is coursing through me, which is a disaster in the making. Especially if I admit it.

  Distract him. Distract yourself. Get on safer ground—sex!

  I lower my voice and say, “Hungry.”

  There is a direct, invisible line from his tongue—which travels slowly between his lips—to my pussy. I press my thighs together and hot water sloshes over my nipples, sending another pulse of pleasure down between my legs.

  Parker takes another slow step toward me, and then another. He kneels beside the tub and holds out the wineglass. “Me too.”

  I lean forward and tilt up my chin. He presses the glass against my lips and lifts it. I allow him to pour a sip of cool, crisp wine into my mouth. I swallow, lick my lips, and smile. “Well, it’s been a while since you’ve eaten.”

  Hazel eyes flash, and then Parker’s mouth is against mine.

  I hear the clink as he sets the wineglass on the tile floor, feel one of his hands slide into my hair, pulling. The other slips beneath the surface of the water and grips my thigh. His hand slides down my flesh, and his fingers stroke over the entrance to
my sex. I moan into his mouth.

  “You’re right. It’s been way too long,” he rasps against my lips.

  He hauls me out of the water until my butt is balanced on a four-inch ledge of porcelain. He pushes my legs open, grips my hips in his big hands, and buries his face between my slick, trembling thighs.

  I moan, rocking my hips against his mouth. I sink my fingers into the plush thickness of his hair and keep rocking, helpless to resist the waves of pleasure pulsing through me. He slides two fingers inside me, and I suck in a breath.

  “God. Yes. Yes, Parker.”

  Suckling me, he makes a noise like a growl in his throat. He slides his fingers in and out, in and out, pressing my inner walls in slow, tortuous circles, until I’m breathing in short gasps, my back arched and my eyes closed, my nipples hard as diamonds.

  When he slows for a moment, his tongue gentling, I look down at him.

  He’s looking up at me with eyes that are half-lidded, burning. “Does kitty need to be fed?” He flicks his tongue over the sensitive head of my clit. When I do nothing but softly groan, he does it again, slower, this time in a swirling circular motion that makes me whimper.

  “Kitty likes her French kisses,” I pant. “Please don’t stop.”

  Parker’s lips curve to a satisfied, seductive smile. “Ah, she said please.” He closes his eyes, presses his mouth against my core, and sucks so strongly, my back bows and the cry that rips from me echoes off the bathroom walls.

  I come, screaming his name.

  It isn’t part of my plan, my wanton cries of pleasure that form the shape of his name, but it’s so damn good—he’s so damn good—I can’t help myself. His name falls from my lips over and over, a delirious chant as I writhe against his face, my fingers clenching his hair, my legs straining.

  Just as I’m about to collapse into the tub, spent, Parker lifts me up under my arms.

  In a voice as rough as sandpaper, he demands, “Wrap your legs around my waist.” When I do, he takes several short strides over to the wall, pins me against it, holds me up using only one arm, and tears down his fly. His erection presses against my wetness, and the head of his cock catches in the right spot and slips inside me. I make a noise that’s part impressed laugh and part groan.