Page 9 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
My lemon wedge smile puckers even more. “Thank you,” I say, brushing off the dig. “And since you’re here, perhaps you could suggest something for our next course that wouldn’t be quite so revolting?”
“Of course,” he replies in the same smooth tone I used. “The salad is excellent this evening. Just the right amount of cockroach to flavor the dressing.”
Darcy looks back and forth between us in fascination, her head whipping to and fro as if she’s watching a Wimbledon match.
“Here we are!” says Kai brightly, appearing at our tableside. He’s holding two plates. He’s about to set them in front of Darcy and me when he sees the piece of wagyu sitting in its sad state of mutilation on Darcy’s appetizer plate. He recoils, horrified, and then turns to Parker. Red-faced, he barks something in German.
It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
Parker smiles. It’s a lethal smile, not one I’ve ever seen him wear before, and definitely not one I’d like to be on the receiving end of.
He says, “Chef. Are you unwell? If so, Javier can stand in for you. He’s perfectly capable of running the kitchen tonight. Or any other night, if necessary.”
Kai’s face turns purple at the threat. His eyes bulge. He begins to sputter, but Parker calmly removes the two plates from his hands and sets one in front of Darcy and the other in front of me. He takes Darcy’s first plate and hands it to Kai, poking the edge aggressively into the shorter man’s chest so he has to take a step back, clutching the plate with his hands.
With some growling and another few muttered words in German, Kai spins on his heel and stalks off.
Parker’s dangerous smile still hardens his face. When he looks at me, there’s danger in his eyes, too. It sends a swift, chilling tingle down my spine.
“Ladies. Forgive the outburst. My chef can be a little…temperamental.”
Darcy says, “All the best ones are!” She looks at her plate and wiggles her fingers in glee. “Oooh! Oysters with foie gras! If this is as good as it looks, Mr. Maxwell, all is forgiven.”
Without further ado, she digs in. Parker and I stare at each other in silence.
Burning, cavernous silence.
Finally he says, “I’ll leave you to your meals, ladies. If you need anything, please let me know.”
A final beat of silence pounds between us, and then he turns and walks away.
Around a mouthful of food, Darcy says, “Girl, don’t be eye-fucking Brad Pitt’s evil twin while I’m trying to concentrate on my oysters. That shit is distracting.”
Because I’ve already killed my martini, I reach over and grab her glass of wine. I down it in one gulp.
Darcy sits back in her seat, swallows, and narrows her eyes. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
I ask innocently, “Like what?”
“You know him? Pretty boy’s an ex or something?”
Face, be stone. Be a slab of granite. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
She snorts. “Really? You’re going to lie to your best friend?”
Instead of denying it, I deflect. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
“Because your poker face is as shitty as the truffles.”
Sometimes I forget that underneath the Broadway show that is the fabulous Ms. Darcy LaFontaine, she’s as sharp-eyed and cagey as a bounty hunter. I think she gets it from her mother, a Creole fortune-teller from New Orleans who reads palms and crystal balls, and can tell you anything you want to know about yourself within two minutes of your meeting.
After she’s pocketed your fifty bucks, thank you very much.
I exhale a long, unsteady breath. “Let’s just say that our paths crossed once, in a former life.”
Darcy studies my face. “And it didn’t end well, I take it.”
“No, it did not.”
