Page 21 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
And there on the far side of the room, by an artfully arranged stand of potted palms, is Parker. He’s holding a drink, looking like a supermodel assassin in a perfectly cut black suit, with slicked back hair.
Two young women flank him. One, a voluptuous bleach blonde, is leaning so close her breasts practically rest on his arm. The other, a brunette wearing a red skirt almost short enough to pass for a belt, bats her lashes suggestively at him while she sucks on the straw in her drink.
Parker happens to turn his head and look in my direction. Across the room, our eyes lock. His smile comes on slow and heated. I lift my chin and sniff as if I’ve just smelled something bad, and then look away, mentally rubbing my hands together in glee.
“Victoria!”
I turn to the voice. My glee evaporates. With zero enthusiasm, I say to the man standing before me, “Hello, Miles.”
Otherwise known as Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury.
Shit.
He’s tall and good-looking, and a fabulous dresser. I’ll give him that. But the salacious, chop-licking look he’s giving me sends creepy crawlies up my arms. I can’t believe I had sex with this guy. He’s got all the charm of an open grave.
He steps closer, his eyes half lidded. “You haven’t returned my calls.”
&nbs
p; He smells like a brewery. I smile tightly, edging away. “Oh, I’ve just been busy. You know how it is. It’s good to see you, though. Enjoy your evening.”
I turn, but he grips my arm so suddenly I’m caught off guard. He pulls me roughly against his chest and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Busy, were you? D’you know the last time I was blown off?”
I stiffen and snap, “Let go of me, Miles!” I try to pull away but can’t; he’s too strong.
Ignoring my instruction, he answers his own question. “Never. Nobody blows me off. I’m the goddamn head of a billion dollar corporation! Nobody fucks me and then leaves me in bed without a backward glance like I’m a fifty-dollar whore. Who the hell do you think you are?”
He laughs. It’s an ugly, unstable sound that convinces me he’s drunk. Then he snickers. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a bitch.”
I want to yank my arm away and scratch his eyes out, but an older couple standing nearby is staring at us, and I don’t want to make a scene. There are reporters here. Photographers. Speculation about my personal life is in the papers enough as it is.
I say in a voice meant only for him, “You have two seconds to let go of my arm before I knee you in your tiny, useless dick. Now fuck. Off.”
His fingers tighten so hard around my arm I gasp in pain. He snarls, “You frigid cunt.”
Then suddenly Miles is flat on his ass on the floor.
Bristling, hands curled to fists, Parker looms over him, glaring down. He says, “One more word and you’ll be waking up in the hospital. Or hell.”
His voice is calm. His face holds no expression. But oh, God, his eyes. There’s murder in his eyes. It sends a thrill straight down to my toes.
Not a thrill of fear. A thrill of exhilaration, as if I’m at the crest of an insanely tall roller-coaster, about to plunge over the edge and throw my arms in the air.
Why? Because he stood up for me.
He thinks he just rescued a damsel in distress, but what he really did is prove unequivocally that he’s got a hero complex, a hair-trigger temper, and a total disregard for social convention. He obviously couldn’t care less that dozens of people are now standing around gaping at us, arrested by our little melodrama. He’s too concerned with protecting my virtue.
And now I know exactly how I’m going to hook him: knights in shining armor are the biggest idiots of all.
This will be child’s play.
I’m so excited by the thought of my pending victory that I’m physically aroused. I don’t think my nipples have ever been this hard in my life.
Miles staggers to his feet and hurls another nasty insult my way before stumbling off through the crowd.
Watching him go, I lift a shaking hand to my mouth and stifle a manufactured cry of distress. Immediately, Parker turns to me, his hand extended.
“Come on.”
