And now I know exactly how I’m going to hook him: knights in shining armor are the biggest idiots of all.
This will be child’s play.
I’m so excited by the thought of my pending victory that I’m physically aroused. I don’t think my nipples have ever been this hard in my life.
Miles staggers to his feet and hurls another nasty insult my way before stumbling off through the crowd.
Watching him go, I lift a shaking hand to my mouth and stifle a manufactured cry of distress. Immediately, Parker turns to me, his hand extended.
“Come on.”
Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and leads me away from the whispering crowd to the dance floor. I follow him, trying to arrange my face into a facsimile of trauma. I hope it’s not the face I make when I’ve had too much vodka and too little sleep, because that face is deeply unattractive. Without a mirror, I can’t really be sure.
Then we’re dancing. I have no real awareness of how it happened because I’ve been concentrating so hard on plotting and trying to look distraught, but Parker has me against his body, his hand on my bare lower back. We move smoothly through a sea of other couples as if we’ve been dancing together our entire lives.
After a few silent turns, he says, “Ms. Price.”
“Mr. Maxwell.”
“Lovely to see you again. You look wonderful. That dress is stunning.”
I sniffle but lift my chin, going for an I’m-traumatized-by-what-just-happened-but-don’t-want-you-to-know-it vibe. “Thank you.”
I feel his gaze on me. I look over his shoulder, acting like it’s too difficult to meet his eyes.
“Was he your date?”
I shake my head.
“Good.” Pause. “An ex, I take it?”
I whisper, “Just a mistake.” I produce a shaky laugh. “In business I never make those kinds of mistakes, but in my personal life…” I inhale a long, shuddering breath, and then pause as if I’m struggling for words. “Never mind that. Thank you for coming to my rescue. And now let’s never mention it again.”
His arms tighten around me, as if for added protection. He murmurs, “Of course,” and then we both fall silent.
Well, outside I’m silent. Inside, there’s some kind of rave party going on involving a lot of hallucinogenic drugs and death metal music.
I’m very certain of the path I’m about to go down, of my commitment to make him suffer for what he did to me, but it’s difficult to reconcile my bloodlust for revenge with my hormonal response to Parker Maxwell’s proximity. He’s just so…masculine. Yes, he’s manly, in that way that can’t be learned or faked, or even properly explained. The way he moves and speaks and holds himself, even his damn smell, all seem designed to make a woman’s ovaries start producing eggs overtime.
Because I can’t deny that I’m still profoundly physically attracted to him, that the electric connection I felt when I was a clueless little girl still remains, I hate him all the more.
I close my eyes. When I open them again, Parker is smiling down at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re an enigma, Ms. Price. A puzzle.”
“Oh?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate. I prompt, “In what way?”
His smile fades. The intensity in his eyes is breathtaking. “In every way. I can’t seem to figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out, Mr. Maxwell. What you see is what you get.”
“No. You’re a very good liar, Ms. Price, but what you see is definitely not what you get.”
My breath catches. What does he know about me? Has he discovered something, who I really am?
But he couldn’t. I’ve been too careful. I’ve covered all my tracks. Fifteen years, a new wardrobe, new teeth, a new nose, a new name, a biography scrubbed clean of any damning detail…I’m not that unsophisticated country girl any more, that girl who loved with all her heart and soul.
That girl is dead. There’s only this girl left, the one made of ice and vengeance.
“Do you like puzzles?” I ask quietly, holding his intense gaze.
Parker lowers his head. Into my ear he whispers, “They’re my favorite thing in the world.”
The tip of his nose skims the rim of my ear. This time when I shudder, it isn’t faked.
“Did you get my flowers?” he asks.
I have to take a steadying breath before answering. The way his hand is drifting down my spine is supremely distracting. “Oh…were those from you?”
Chuckling, he lifts his head. “And she’s back.”
“Who?” I ask innocently.
“Xena, Warrior Princess.”
In the most coquettish move I can manage without making myself vomit from the sheer saccharine overload, I tilt my head back and peer up at him from beneath my fluttering lashes. This is far more difficult than romance novels make it sound. I worry he might think I’m about to suffer from a fainting spell. I’m sure I look utterly ridiculous, but I forge ahead anyway.
“Why Mr. Maxwell, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He throws his head back and laughs, causing several couples nearby to look at us, startled. “That was terrible. You should never try to be coy. Xena is much better than Scarlett O’Hara.”
I smack him on his tailored lapel. “It’s rude to call a lady out.”
“Then it’s good you’re not a lady, isn’t it?” His grin is so dazzling, a woman gliding by with her partner trips over her own feet.
My mouth is in danger of breaking into a huge grin to match his, but I don’t want him to know I’m having fun, so I scowl at him instead. “And you, Rhett Butler, are no gentleman.”
He stares at me. I stare back at him. After a beat of silence, we both begin to laugh.
“All right, now that we’ve got that established, let’s move on. What are you doing here?”
I shrug. “The same thing you are. Supporting a worthy cause.”
“How disappointing. I thought you might be trying to run into me while giving the impression it was accidental.”
Bye-bye Superman, hello cocky bastard. Making matters worse is that he nailed it. I say acidly, “Not even you are worth twelve thousand dollars a ticket, Mr. Maxwell.”
He smirks. “Oh, but I assure you, I am.”
“Ha! Egotistical much? Are you always this smug?”
He appears to give it serious thought. “No. Sometimes I’m just right.”
I laugh again. He twirls me around, moving us neatly out of the path of a man weighing more than the two of us combined, and his wife, a sweating, red-faced dowager who looks in imminent need of a doctor. Saved once again.
“So tell me, Mr. Maxwell—”
“Please, call me Parker.”
For some reason, he looks pained. I think of how he’d said at the restaurant that Mr. Maxwell was his father. I remember his face then. It’s the same expression he’s wearing now, almost…ashamed. I feel a brief flicker of pity for him, but strangle it.
“All right. Parker. Tell me, will your date be angry you’re dancing with me and not her?”
His brows arch. “What makes you think I have a date?”
“Excuse me. Dates, plural.”
“If I had any clue what you’re talking about, I’d gladly answer, but unfortunately I don’t.”
“No? Because your brunette friend over there by the potted palms is staring at me like I’m her arch enemy from beauty school, and your other friend, the blonde with the alarmingly large boobs, has just sent me her third scalding voodoo glare. I think she’s about to go to the ladies’ room and make a wax figurine of me to stick some pins into.”
Laughing, he spins me away, and then pulls me back against his chest. He tightens his arm around my waist and flattens his big hand over the small of my back. That hand feels even more scalding that the blonde’s glare. We whirl around and around, until I feel a little dizzy.
“I came here alone, Ms. Price. Those
are just two mistakes I saw coming a mile away.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. I’m embarrassed I told him Miles was a mistake. It was the truth, albeit calculated, aimed at trying to get him to feel sorry for me, but now I feel exposed by it. I feel the most awful, terrifying thing in the world, something I never thought I’d feel again:
Vulnerable.
Seeing my discomfort, his look sharpens. “I’m not judging you. I know it’s harder for a woman than a man…especially one as famous as you, as successful… It can’t be easy for you to have a relationship…”
When I blink, surprised in equal parts that he’s being not only nonjudgmental but also understanding, he sighs and shakes his head.
“Jesus, I’m fucking this up. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to throw that in your face. Sometimes I open my mouth without thinking.”
“Well, I envy you that. I can’t remember the last time I spoke without thinking.”
I pause, shocked. Actually, I can remember, because I just did.
Parker looks at me for a long, silent moment, and then murmurs, “So she can tell the truth, after all.”
A feeling starts in my stomach, slow to spread at first, then going everywhere at once. Part dread, part astonishment, part pure, unadulterated joy, it makes all my limbs feel weightless, and my heart beat a million miles per hour.
I have just been seen. Not looked at, but seen.
I glance away, desperate to regain control of myself, desperate to hide. Parker slows, and then stops, until we’re standing still in the middle of a sea of dancing people. When he takes my face in his hands, it’s so unexpected I freeze.
In a voice unaccountably raw and dark he says, “You don’t have to hide from me.” His gaze drops to my mouth. He bends his head toward mine.
Oh God. What’s happening?
He’s kissing me. I’m being kissed by the man I hate more than anyone else on the planet, and holy fuck does it feel good.
It feels so good I break away, breathless, and tuck my face in the space between his neck and shoulder. I smell him, skin and musk and a hint of spicy cologne, the scent of memory.
The scent of a long-lost home.
One second or a hundred years later, I hear a flurry of fast mechanical clicking. Light flashes beneath my closed lids. When I open my eyes and look around, I’m staring at a group of photographers.
I come back to myself as if a bucket of ice water has been dumped over my head.
I jerk out of Parker’s arms. He simply stares at me, his eyes shining. The cameras sound like gunfire. The photographers jostle and swarm. I do the only thing I can think of.
I slap his face. Hard.
Then I turn and walk stiffly off the dance floor, managing not to break into a flat-out run, but only just.
EIGHT
Playboy and Ice Princess Take Off Gloves at Charity Gala
Friday evening at Cipriani, the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s annual fundraising gala was held. In past years the event has hosted some colorful entertainment, but nothing compares to this year’s fireworks show provided by Victoria Price and Parker Maxwell. Guests were shocked when Mr. Maxwell shoved Miles Campbell, CEO of Global Oil, and sent him tumbling to the floor after apparently exchanging heated words with Ms. Price. They were even more shocked when Ms. Price later shared a passionate kiss with Mr. Maxwell in the middle of the dance floor¸ and then slapped him across the face.
No word yet if Mr. Campbell will be filing charges for assault, but this unlikely love triangle has everyone’s tongues wagging, and our editors at the Post salivating for more.
As it’s been doing for the past several hours, the phone on my desk is ringing. As I’ve been doing for the past several hours, I ignore it. I toss the newspaper aside and lean back in my chair. The beginning of a monster headache pounds at the base of my skull.
It’s Sunday morning, and the shit has just hit the fan.
Tabby hands me a much-needed mug of coffee. “I told you it was bad. I’ve already fielded calls from your literary agent, four of your clients, and TMZ.”
I sip the hot liquid gratefully for a moment, and then sigh. “It’s not really bad until my mother calls.”
Tabby perches on the edge of the desk, swinging one long leg back and forth. “Maybe she won’t see it.”
We both know that’s wishful thinking. My mother religiously scours every newspaper, magazine, and trash-talking rag for any mention of my name. When she sees my name next to Parker’s, it’s going to be World War III.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she hunted him down and put a bullet through his head.
“Well, you looked amazing, anyway. That dress was kick ass.” Tabby pauses. “So are you going to see Mr. It’s Not Personal again, or was the slap an actual fuck-you, and not just your usual warm and fuzzy way of thanking a man for flowers?”
I massage my temples. “Can you please wait until after I’ve had my coffee to be clever? I can’t deal with clever without caffeine.”
“Sure.” She checks her watch. “I’ll give you three minutes. That’s as long as I can hold off the clever. There’s so much of it, it tends to come bursting through.”
I drink my coffee. Tabby stares at me. The phone on my desk stops ringing, and then, after a momentary pause, begins to ring again.
Tabby waits until it stops to say, “You know, when I was doing my research on him, I thought it was really interesting that he’s originally from Laredo, Texas. Like you. And he went to J.B. Alexander High School. Like you.”
Her stare is piercing. When I don’t reply, she adds, “If there’s anything there, I need to know, Victoria. I have to know what to stay on top of. Your name has now been linked with his in the press, and if there’s some past connection that could be unearthed—”
“It’s him.”
Surprised, Tabby blinks. “Him? Him who?”
I lower my head and look at her. “Him.”
Her lips part. Her eyes go wide. She whispers, “Holy fucking shit.”
“Exactly.”
“Does he know it’s you? You you?”
When I shake my head, she heaves a relieved sigh. “So then he doesn’t know about—”
“No.” It comes out hard and clipped, with an edge like a razor.
Tabby stands and slowly walks around the desk. Looking out the window to the bright morning light, she asks, “Are you going to tell him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She turns to look at me. “Then what’s this about?”
I take a long swallow of my coffee. After a moment I say softly, “Justice.”
“In other words, revenge.”
I remain silent. Though I’d denied to Tabby that there was anything personal between Parker and me only last week, I knew she’d eventually figure it out. But the article in the Post—and every other stalkerazzi rag—has forced my hand.
Maybe it’s better this way. Tabby’s right. She needs to know what she’s dealing with if she’s going to have to make things disappear.
I wonder if Parker has things in his past he needs to make disappear. I wonder about that gap of his that Tabby told me about, the two mysterious years when it seemed he’d vanished from the earth.
Now I realize that my prior plan of getting him to fall for me and dumping him has been entirely too simple. I need to up the ante.
I need to ruin his life.
An eye for an eye, darling bastard.
“Tabby, I need you to dig deeper on him. Find out everything. Go back as far as you can. There’s got to be something there, something I can use. Look at his family, his father in particular. There’s no way he’s clean. Just get me anything I can use. Anything at all.”
“Use to do what?”
“To get us square.”
The phone starts to ring again. I glance at the caller ID and groan. “I need to take this.”
I can tell Tabby wants to say more by how reluctant she is to rise from her chair. To avoid any further con
versation, I pick up the phone.
“Hola, mama. ¿Como estas?”
The stream of shrieked curses that spews from the earpiece is so loud I yank it away, wincing. Wisely, Tabby leaps up and hustles from the room, closing my office door behind her.
She’s heard my mother’s tirades before. She knows how bad it can get.
“Mother, please,” I say in English. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” she cries, outraged. “You tell me to calm down when I see a picture in the newspaper of my daughter kissing el diablo himself?”
I sigh, close my eyes, and rub my forehead. Here we go.
She continues in English, punctuating every few words with a Spanish curse. “You see that pendejo after all these years and you don’t chop off his pecker, you kiss him? Que chingados? Have you lost your mind? You should’ve shot that puto! Yours wasn’t the only life the hijo de puta ruined, Isabel!”
Pain. Rage. Shame. How wonderful it is to be reminded that your own stupidity was the cause of so much chaos. Of so many shattered lives.
I whisper, “I know, mama.”
“Your father, your brother, me, Eva…we all suffered because of him! Our whole family suffered! And you most of all! How many letters did you send him, mija, how many times did you try to tell him—“
I leap to my feet and slam my fist on the desk so hard the computer monitor jumps. “Mama! I know!”
My mother falls silent. In the stillness of the room, all I hear is the sound of my own ragged breath.
She says quietly, “Then tell me what that kiss was, Isabel. Tell me what you think you’re doing. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re doing exactly the same thing you did when you were fifteen: falling for a liar.”
Slowly I lower myself to my chair. My voice comes out hollow as a bell. “By accident, I found out he owns a restaurant in New York. I went for dinner, and he was there. And he didn’t recognize me.” My voice breaks. I take a few shallow gulps of air before going on. “But he seemed…he’s attracted to me. To Victoria. And I thought…”
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