Page 22 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and leads me away from the whispering crowd to the dance floor. I follow him, trying to arrange my face into a facsimile of trauma. I hope it’s not the face I make when I’ve had too much vodka and too little sleep, because that face is deeply unattractive. Without a mirror, I can’t really be sure.
Then we’re dancing. I have no real awareness of how it happened because I’ve been concentrating so hard on plotting and trying to look distraught, but Parker has me against his body, his hand on my bare lower back. We move smoothly through a sea of other couples as if we’ve been dancing together our entire lives.
After a few silent turns, he says, “Ms. Price.”
“Mr. Maxwell.”
“Lovely to see you again. You look wonderful. That dress is stunning.”
I sniffle but lift my chin, going for an I’m-traumatized-by-what-just-happened-but-don’t-want-you-to-know-it vibe. “Thank you.”
I feel his gaze on me. I look over his shoulder, acting like it’s too difficult to meet his eyes.
“Was he your date?”
I shake my head.
“Good.” Pause. “An ex, I take it?”
I whisper, “Just a mistake.” I produce a shaky laugh. “In business I never make those kinds of mistakes, but in my personal life…” I inhale a long, shuddering breath, and then pause as if I’m struggling for words. “Never mind that. Thank you for coming to my rescue. And now let’s never mention it again.”
His arms tighten around me, as if for added protection. He murmurs, “Of course,” and then we both fall silent.
Well, outside I’m silent. Inside, there’s some kind of rave party going on involving a lot of hallucinogenic drugs and death metal music.
I’m very certain of the path I’m about to go down, of my commitment to make him suffer for what he did to me, but it’s difficult to reconcile my bloodlust for revenge with my hormonal response to Parker Maxwell’s proximity. He’s just so…masculine. Yes, he’s manly, in that way that can’t be learned or faked, or even properly explained. The way he moves and speaks and holds himself, even his damn smell, all seem designed to make a woman’s ovaries start producing eggs overtime.
Because I can’t deny that I’m still profoundly physically attracted to him, that the electric connection I felt when I was a clueless little girl still remains, I hate him all the more.
I close my eyes. When I open them again, Parker is smiling down at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re an enigma, Ms. Price. A puzzle.”
“Oh?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate. I prompt, “In what way?”
His smile fades. The intensity in his eyes is breathtaking. “In every way. I can’t seem to figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out, Mr. Maxwell. What you see is what you get.”
“No. You’re a very good liar, Ms. Price, but what you see is definitely not what you get.”
My breath catches. What does he know about me? Has he discovered something, who I really am?
But he couldn’t. I’ve been too careful. I’ve covered all my tracks. Fifteen years, a new wardrobe, new teeth, a new nose, a new name, a biography scrubbed clean of any damning detail…I’m not that unsophisticated country girl any more, that girl who loved with all her heart and soul.
That girl is dead. There’s only this girl left, the one made of ice and vengeance.
“Do you like puzzles?” I ask quietly, holding his intense gaze.
Parker lowers his head. Into my ear he whispers, “They’re my favorite thing in the world.”
The tip of his nose skims the rim of my ear. This time when I shudder, it isn’t faked.
“Did you get my flowers?” he asks.
