Page 105 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
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 quite 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.”
