Page 8 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
With withering disdain, I reply, “Or they can be incredibly accurate.”
His eyes darken. I feel a distinct shift in his mood, from coolness to heat. Seemingly to himself, he murmurs, “I certainly hope so.”
Then he blinks, straightens, and turns back to Darcy. “Not. Excuse me, I meant I hope not.”
Darcy and I exchange a glance. Is he flustered? I sense an undercurrent here, but of what, I’m not yet sure.
Parker turns to me again. “Victoria Price, is it?”
As his eyes hold mine, a terrible thought occurs to me: he does recognize me, and this is all a game. A game we’re both playing, because I’m pretending I have no idea who he is, either.
I ignore his question and look over his shoulder, as if for assistance from some other, more interesting person. “Would you be so kind as to ask Kai to return to our table? I’d like to speak to him about—”
“You can speak to me about whatever you might need,” Parker interrupts. His gaze drops to my chest. A fraction of a second later, his cheeks turn ruddy. Now I’m certain of the undercurrent I sensed moments before.
He wants me. The bastard wants me. Me, the girl he so callously kicked to the curb, once upon a million years ago.
Our gazes lock once again, and hold. I say softly, “Can I now? Whatever I need. Hmm.”
I look him slowly up and down, taking my time, relishing this, hating him, certain now from the subtle come-on that he has no inkling who I am, even more certain this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for some bloody, take-no-prisoners, magnitude-of-Biblical-proportions revenge.
Bitches don’t get mad. They get evil.
Everything that was thrashing and howling inside me turns to steel. My smile comes on slow and deadly. I can almost feel my canines elongate.
“I take it you’re the maître d’, Mr. Maxwell?”
His expression sours. “I’m the owner. And call me Parker. Mr. Maxwell is my father.”
Don’t I know it, you smug son of a bitch. And how is that bitter old bigot doing?
I relax back into the soft leather of the banquette, cross my legs, and shake my hair off my face. He watches all this with the focused intensity of a predator contemplating a meal.
“Well, Mr. Maxwell, as Darcy mentioned, your truffles are hideous. I can’t imagine a chef so obviously dedicated as Kai—”
“Since we’re being so formal, it’s Chef Fürst—”
“—as our new friend Kai can be responsible for procuring them. Are they your doing?”
With a subtle smile, Parker repeats, “Hideous? Interesting choice of words.”
My own smile widens. “Actually, that was just the one word. And you didn’t answer the question.”
“And you didn’t answer mine.”
I arch my brows. “Oh? Which question was that?”
A muscle in Parker’s jaw flexes. He obviously knows I’m baiting him, and obviously doesn’t like it.
Good. Let him stew. A man as beautiful as he is is undoubtedly used to having women throw themselves at his feet; a challenge will pique his interest. And I want him piqued. I want him so piqued the top of his head gets pointed.
“It’s Victoria,” he says slowly. “Correct?”
I send him the sweetest smile I can conjure, which tastes about as sweet as a lemon wedge. “It’s Victoria to my friends. To you, Mr. Maxwell, it’s Ms. Price.”
Slowly, Parker repeats, “Ms. Price.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Score one for team Parker.
