Page 40 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I decide to challenge him. “Why?”
His jaw works. There’s a moment when I think he won’t answer, but then he says, “Because every time you walk into a room it’s like déjà vu. Every time you laugh it makes me happy. Every time I see you I get this feeling…I don’t know. I don’t know.” He stops, frustrated. “I can’t describe it.”
He doesn’t know me. A tremor of relief runs through my body. His hands move from my arms to my shoulders, and he steps closer.
“You act like you can’t stand me, but you kiss me like you’re starving. You look at me like you want to carve out my heart, but when I touch you, you tremble.”
“In anger.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Don’t lie to me!”
I turn my head. He takes my jaw in his hand and, with gentle pressure, turns my head back, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are angry but unguarded; I see how much he means what he’s saying. I see exactly how much he wants me to be truthful with him, exactly how confused my mixed signals make him.
And—bitch that I am—I plot anew.
“OK. I’ll tell you the truth. But you go first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me something no one else on earth knows about you. Tell me a secret. Something you wouldn’t want anyone to know. Something…bad. If you do that, then I won’t lie to you anymore.”
His eyes darken. He remains silent a long, tense moment, staring at me. Though he’s not saying anything, I feel great emotion warring in him. I sense he’s trying to decide whether or not to trust me, whether or not he wants me enough to give in to my demand. Finally, after several excruciating moments, he drops his hands to his sides, looks at his shoes, and inhales a deep breath.
Then he looks up. Staring straight into my eyes, he says in a halting whisper, “I…once…killed someone.”
TWELVE
That’s so far beyond anything I’m prepared for, I stand with my mouth open, staring at him stupidly, blankly, unable to form any words except, “Huh?”
“I said I—”
“Yes, I got it. I just…don’t get it. That can’t possibly be true.”
Parker swallows. He runs a hand through his hair. He steps away, putting distance between us, his expression pained. Frozen, I watch as he turns again to the stove, lowers the heat beneath the skillet, and tosses in a pinch of fresh garlic from a small jar on the counter top. It sizzles and pops in the oil. He takes a wooden spatula from a ceramic crock and begins to stir briskly.
He just confessed to murder and now he’s browning garlic? Who the hell am I dealing with, Hannibal Lecter?
Parker says solemnly to the pan, “That medicine you take, Coumadin. What’s it for?”
He noticed the specific brand of my meds. Another bombshell, though not nearly as big as the first. I steady myself, careful to breathe normally. Careful not to bolt; I won’t get far in these shoes.
Besides, I’m not afraid of him. I should be—he’s just told me he’s a killer—but his melancholy demeanor suggests that whatever happened, he really regrets it.
Plus, there’s a butcher’s block of cleavers on the counter within arm’s reach. If he decides he’s made a terrible mistake with his confession and the only way to remedy it is by bashing me upside the head with the skillet, chopping me into bits and stashing my dissected corpse in the walk-in freezer, he’ll get a belly full of steel before he’s gone a single step.
“It’s a blood thinner.”
Parker stirs and stirs, his gaze focused on the pan. “For what?”
I struggle for a moment, hating this unspoken tug-of-war, hating how exposed and helpless I feel knowing that my mortal enemy now knows my greatest weakness. However, I know I won’t get anything more from him unless I give him what he wants, which, at the moment, is more information about my medication.
So now it’s tit for tat. I hate this game. Why the hell did I even suggest it in the first place?
Oh, yeah: I’ve sworn to bury him. I can’t expect not to get a little scratched and bruised while I’m digging the grave.
Through gritted teeth, I admit, “I have a weak heart.”
