Page 7 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Here’s the other thing I (insert L-word here) about Darcy LaFontaine: she’s comfortable in her own skin. In spite of being a woman of considerable size, she carries herself as if she’s Marilyn Monroe, Halle Berry, and Penelope Cruz rolled into one. An unabashed bombshell, she’s not afraid to be sexy, or to flirt, or to enjoy food, no matter that we live in a society that demands women starve ourselves down to an acceptable BMI or we’re not worthy of love, much less male attention.
She has enormous appetites, for life and food and men, and her acceptance of who she is inspires me. Every time I’m around her I feel like the best version of myself.
Present moment excluded.
Darcy and Kai exchange pleasantries for a few more moments, and then he struts off, grinning from ear to ear.
Watching him go, Darcy makes an mmm-mmm noise and licks her lips, as if she’s wishing it were he on the menu, and not the hinoki-scented cod.
“I take it we like the chef?”
She picks up her glass of viognier and swirls it around, sniffing the bouquet. “Girl, I would break that schnitzel in half, but he sure is cute. Did you see those dimples?” She makes the yummy noise again. “He’s lucky I swore off chefs or I guarantee I’d be making his skinny ass sing tonight!”
A disturbing visual of his singing ass pops into my head, momentarily silencing the wolves and leaving the serial killers looking confused. I quickly change the subject.
“So what do we know about this place? Aside from it being the hot new scene, that is.”
Now that we’re talking food, Darcy goes straight into business mode. “Opened three weeks ago to rave reviews. I’m highly suspicious of the necessity of yet another Japanese-whatever fusion restaurant, but the chef has an amazing pedigree, and the owner has been involved in the openings of some of my favorite places over the last ten years. Charleen at the James Beard Foundation was quoted as saying the truffle-dusted wagyu was perfection, so…”
With her fork, Darcy delicately spears one of the wafer-thin slices of Japanese imported beef topped with shaved truffles that Kai has left us as his first offering, pops it into her mouth, and closes her eyes. She’s silent for several moments. I don’t interrupt her; I’ve seen this ritual before. It will be repeated with each new morsel she eats for the entirety of the meal. We could be here for hours.
From the corner of my eye, I see Parker weaving through tables. He appears to be staring right at me.
Oh shit, is he headed this way?
; Darcy’s brows knit. She purses her lips. As with Miranda Priestly, Meryl Streep’s character In The Devil Wears Prada, lip pursing is an unequivocal sign of disaster.
And yes—Parker is headed directly toward our table.
And yes—he is staring right at me.
The wolves snap and snarl. The chainsaws rev.
With a grimace, Darcy pronounces, “Funky truffles!” and spits out the masticated piece of beef onto the plate in front of her. It lands with a distinctly unappetizing plop.
Parker stops beside our table. Looking amused as he eyes the piece of chewed meat on Darcy’s plate, he says, “I see my chef was right; the truffles are shitty.”
A punch in my gut, and all the air is sucked from my lungs. That voice. That voice I haven’t heard for eons, deep and rich, calm and commanding, the voice that promised me a thousand whispered times, Bel, my sweet Isabel, I’ll love you until I die.
A wave of nausea hits me when I realize he said “my chef.” Which means he’s either the manager of this restaurant, or the owner.
Which means he probably lives in the city. My city. And has for…how long? My God, how many months, possibly years have I lived near him? Breathing the same air he breathes, walking the same streets he walks, going about my life in blissful, pathetic ignorance?
Trying not to hyperventilate, I remain perfectly still, an icy smile plastered on my face, measuring each inhaled and exhaled breath as if it were my last.
One small mercy: he doesn’t seem to recognize me. He’s stealing glances at me, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. I thank the gods of time, money, and plastic surgery for helping me morph from an ugly duckling into an anonymous swan, because if he said my real name aloud at this moment there would be a violent incident involving my knife and his crotch.
Parker extends a hand to Darcy. It’s tanned and elegant, like the rest of him.
“Parker Maxwell. It’s a pleasure.”
Darcy shakes his hand. “I would say the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Maxwell, but judging by that abortion of an amuse-bouche I was just served, I’m afraid I’ll be spending the rest of the night in search of a nearby vomitorium.”
She smiles at him with all her teeth showing. I resist the urge to cackle like a cauldron-churning witch.
Parker must sense my pending mental break because he glances at me again. I lift my chin and meet his gaze, concentrating on keeping my hands away from the cutlery. His eyes locked to mine, he says, “First impressions can be misleading, Ms. LaFontaine.”
