Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Oh. Good work. But the photographer still has his—”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Her smile is sphinxlike.

  I stare at her, blinking against the bright light streaming in through the bedroom windows. “How?”

  She purses her lips. After a moment, she says, “You know how in House of Cards when President Underwood asks his minion Doug Stamper to do something unsavory, and he does, and then the President asks if it was done, and Stamper says yes, and the President wants details, and Stamper says something to the effect that it’s better if he doesn’t know in case, you know, there are some legal ramifications later on? Like so the President can claim he doesn’t know anything, because he really doesn’t?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s like that. You really don’t want to know.”

  I sip the coffee, collecting my thoughts. “That sounds rather ominous.”

  She shrugs. “Just another day at work under the Mistress of All Evil.”

  “Very funny.” I take a closer look at what she’s wearing. “Dear God, are those Hello Kitty boots?”

  She sticks out a slender leg, which is clad in a bubble-gum-pink platform boot made of some kind of shiny manmade material, stamped all over with a white cartoon cat with a bow in its hair, holding a lunchbox.

  “Aren’t they adorable? I bought them for the Hello Kitty Con in November. I’ve totally got my whole outfit already planned.”

  I could have gone my entire life without knowing there’s a convention devoted to all things Hello Kitty.

  “They certainly pair wonderfully with the rainbow leggings and the sequined baby doll dress. You look like you’re ready for the Electric Daisy Carnival.”

  The EDC is a giant outdoor concert and festival where twenty-something dance music fans dress in outrageous costumes, get high, and have sex in public. It’s the annual Woodstock for Millennials.

  Tabby laughs, tossing her long red ponytail over her shoulder. “That’s not until June, silly!”

  Undoubtedly she already has tickets.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, down the rest of the coffee, and hand the empty mug back to Tabby. “All right. I’m up. What’s on deck?”

  “Weekly phone conference with Katie at ten-thirty; lunch with your editor at Per Se at one; three o’clock meeting with your PR firm to discuss the next book launch; your trainer’s coming at five; and Alyssa and Jenny are scheduled for six sharp. But you know they’re always fifteen minutes late, so you’ll have a chance to take a quick shower after Duke leaves. They should have you ready to go no later than seven-thirty, so you’ll be on time at eight.”

  Alyssa and Jenny are the hair and makeup girls I have come over when I need to get glamorized for an event. “Remind me; what’s at eight?”

  “The mayor’s cocktail party.”

  “Shit. I thought that was last night.”

  “Do you think I’d let you go tarting around the city last night with Mr. It’s Not Personal if you were supposed to be at the mayor’s?”

  I mutter, “I hate his cocktail parties. Every time his wife gets drunk and tries to follow me into the bathroom to get advice about how to get him to have more sex with her. Like I’m Dr. friggin’ Ruth or something. And his guest list sucks. And his house always smells like hot dogs.”

  “You won’t hate this one.”

  The conviction in Tabby’s voice makes me glance up at her. “Why not?”

  Her sphinxlike smile returns. “This year your friend the mayor has invited a special guest.”

  I cock my head.

  “Who may or may not be testing the waters to see how much local support he can drum up for his upcoming campaign.”

  My brows lift.

  “For Congress.”

  We stare at each other. I say, “Seriously, does the universe love me, or what?”

  “And the new Armani you ordered with the pornographic side slit and the plunging neckline came in this morning.”

  “This is gonna be like shooting puppies in a barrel.”

  I stand, stretch, and smile broadly at Tabby, my feelings of weakness and vulnerability washed away with the morning sun.

  I can do this. What I’ve been feeling around Parker is just nerves. It’s perfectly normal to be unsettled by his reappearance in my life, but now I need to focus on the prize and put those nerves aside.

  Reinvigorated, I head to the bathroom. Tabby follows close behind.

  “Can I make one tiny suggestion?”

  “Not if it involves trying to talk me out of my plan.”

  Her sigh is loud and overly dramatic. “No. I know that’s useless.”

  “Speak then, minion.”

  I squeeze a blob of toothpaste onto my toothbrush, run it quickly under the tap, and then stick it in my mouth and begin a vigorous brushing.

  Tabby says, “Well, I was just thinking that since it was pretty intense between you and Parker last night—”

  “How do you know it was intense?” I interrupt. Only it comes out sounding like “Ow ouuno ewuz ennenze?” because my mouth is full of foam.

  Her lips twist into a wry pucker. “I saw the paparazzi pics, boss. Slow dancing? Snuggling under a pile of blankies in the carriage? Lots and lots of kissing while doing both? Pretty steamy stuff.”

  Oh. Right. I spit into the sink and wave my toothbrush, indicating she should continue.

  “Anyway, since it was intense last night, maybe tonight you should throw him for a little loop. Just for shits and giggles. Mix things up.”

  I stop brushing and look at her with my brows lifted.

  She inspects her manicure, and then casually tosses out, “Like for instance if you showed up at the mayor’s with a date.”

  I spit the rest of the toothpaste into the sink, rinse out my mouth and declare, “You, girl genius, are worth every penny I pay you. Who did you have in mind?”

  Because of course she has someone in mind. She wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.

  When she looks back up at me, her green eyes flash. She grins. “Luciano Mancari.”

  I gasp, thrilled. “Oh my God. You’re even more evil than I am!”

  She giggles. “I thought you’d like that.”

  “Like it? I love it!” I run over to her and give her a hug. Suddenly we’re giggling maniacally together like two despots plotting a nuclear war.

  Luciano Mancari has been trying to get me to go on a date with him for six months, since I met him at a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend. He’s extremely gorgeous, extremely Italian, and—best of all—extremely successful.

  He even has his own television show: Mangia with Mancari.

  He’s a celebrity chef.

  He’s also got an ego the size of Canada, an IQ the size of a flea, and an eye that could be called roving, only that would be like calling Godzilla a cute little lizard. No human person with a vagina is safe from his lascivious gaze.

  He keeps his hands to himself, however. He just likes to look.

  And look.

  And look.

  No matter. I’m not in the market for a husband, or even a lover. I just want to prance around with him on my arm for a few hours to piss Parker off. Nothing motivates a man like the thought that his territory is being poached.

  Tabby turns and leaves, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll get him on the phone. Call you when I have him.”

  “Wait—one more thing.”

  She turns back.

  “See if you can find out anything about a girl Parker dated who killed herself.”

  She grimaces. “What the hell?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know either. He mentioned it to me last night. Could be something I can use.”

  She shrugs. “OK. I’ll add it to my checklist of chaos.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  After she leaves, I take off my pajamas, turn on the shower, and step into the hot spray, smiling to myself and whistling a happy tune.

  I’m really looking forward to tonight.r />
  * * *

  Nine and a half hours later, glossed and gussied, I step through the tall glass doors of the lobby of my building. Across the drive, Luciano leans against the back door of a ridiculously long stretch limo, smoking a cigarette. He looks me up and down, taking his time, his gaze clinging to my every curve, and then flicks his cigarette away. Smiling, he holds out his hand.

  “Buonasera, belíssima.”

  I walk slowly toward him, my hips swaying. The Armani fits like a glove. A five-thousand-dollar glove with a slit so high it’s more like an open invitation to take a gander at my lady bits.

  “Buonasera, Luciano,” I purr. “How nice to see you again.”

  While ogling my cleavage with one eye and my legs with the other, he kisses my hand. I try not to gag. When he straightens, his dark eyes are half lidded, as if he’s already fucked me. He says something in Italian that sounds suspiciously dirty, but I don’t speak the language so I can’t be sure. I just smile and allow him to help me into the limo.

  Luciano sits next to me on the wide leather seat, the driver shuts his door, and we pull away. Then he turns to me and says in his formal, accented, slightly incorrect English that so many women find irresistible, “I am very pleased you have finally decided to accept my offers for a date, Miss Victoria. I am always finding you so very beautiful woman.”

  Aww. That was kind of sweet. Too bad I can’t stand him.

  “Thank you, Luciano—”

  “Please.” He touches my arm. “Call me Lucky. This is more personal, no?”

  No. This is more like a character in a Jackie Collins novel.

  I smile. “Of course.”

  His gaze drops to his hand on my arm, then drifts over to my crossed legs, on spectacular display courtesy of the giant side slit. He folds his hands in his lap, but doesn’t stop looking at my legs, which gives me ample time to study him.

  He’s a classically handsome man, with a perfect nose, full lips, a thick head of dark hair swept back from his face. His skin is flawless, the color of a Starbucks macchiato. He carries himself well, casually, wearing a beautiful bespoke black suit as if he were born in it, like a second skin.

  All that beauty, and yet he’s entirely uninspiring.

  I remember exactly this expression he wears. It’s one of gentle disinterest, even when he’s paying close attention to something, like my legs. It’s as if his mind is on the constant verge of slumber. It’s impossible to engage with him, because, as Gertrude Stein once famously said, “There is no there there.”

  He’s empty.

  He’s perfectly made for television, all bright and shiny on the outside, on the inside gossamer-thin. “All sizzle and no steak,” as my father would have put it.

  In comparison, Parker Maxwell is a goddamn filet mignon.

  The thought makes me chuckle. Luciano glances up at me. A furrow appears between his sculpted brows.

  “Are you finding me funny, Miss Victoria?”

  “Oh, no, Lucky, not at all! I was just thinking about your show last week. That woman you brought up from the audience to help you with the Bolognese sauce was so sweet. I thought she was going to faint from standing so close to you!”

  He’s surprised and pleased. I can tell by his expression. “You watch my show?”

  I act astonished. “I never miss it! It’s my favorite!” I add in a confidential whisper, “It’s so much better than Emeril’s.”

  I bat my lashes at him. He beams back at me. And we’re off.

  I’ve never watched his show. Tabby gave me the CliffsNotes version while I was getting my hair done so I’d have something to talk to him about. I knew this would be a winning topic.

  Luciano says with confidence, “Certo. This is because he is an American, no? From the South—a racist.” He makes one of those dismissive hand gestures smug Europeans make when they’re referring to Americans. “Cooking these disgusting crawfish creatures from the swamps. How anyone thinks this is real food, I cannot know. Estúpido.”

  Fury blasts through me like a cannonball. I nearly swallow my tongue.

  Number one: I happen to love crawfish. I grew up eating them. My mother, bless her heart, isn’t a great cook, but she made do with what was available and we could afford. We had wire funnel traps in the pond on our property, and had crawfish boils nearly every weekend in the summer.

  Number two: I despise the assumption that being from the South equals being a racist. Racism isn’t about where you were born. It’s about how small your heart is.

  Number three: he has no idea—nor has it occurred to him to ask—whether I am from the South, or enjoy crawfish. On top of that, he’s insulted my country. Or my nationality. Certainly my national pride, at the very least.

  If I get the chance tonight, I’m going to trip him and make him fall flat on his beautiful face.

  I give him my most winning smile. “Oh, Lucky, you’re so smart. And so fortunate to be from a country that doesn’t bother itself with silly things like economic stability and women’s rights!”

  He looks at me as if the sun is shining out of my head. “Yes,” he breathes, his eyes wide, “this is what I am saying all of the times!” His look grows solemn. “You are very intelligent for a woman.”

  I’m sure my smile would kill a more discerning man. He just accepts it as his rightful due and pats me on the arm, like I’m a mentally impaired servant who’s just said something surprisingly astute.

  I make a noise that was meant to be a casual laugh, but sounds instead as if I’m retching. Concerned, Luciano pours me a glass of champagne from the chilled bottle in the built-in bar along one side of the limo. He hands it to me, and I guzzle it.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  When I’m finished, I hand the glass back to him.

  “More?” he inquires.

  I nod. “I love champagne. The only thing I love more than champagne is limoncello.”

  I really don’t like champagne or limoncello, but every single thing I’ve said so far to Luciano has been a lie, starting with, “How nice to see you again,” so I’m just going with the flow. I can’t remember if I’m on lie number eight or nine now. It might be fun to try to keep track.

  At the very least it will be interesting, which is more than I can say for my companion.

  Luciano snaps his fingers. “Ah! Fantastico! I make my own limoncello! You will come to my restaurant after this cocktail party and try it.”

  He pronounces that last part as if it’s a kingly decree. Obviously I have no say in the matter. I wonder how this man ever gets a real date.

  I spend the remainder of the ride listening to Luciano expound at great length about the process of making limoncello, which is as thrilling as watching paint dry. By the time we arrive at the mayor’s house, my eyes are nearly crossed with boredom. I smile gratefully at the driver, who helps me from the car with a smirk that hints he has the same opinion of his employer as I do. Then I take Luciano’s arm and walk up the grand marble staircase that leads to the mayor’s front door.

  And who is standing at the front door but el diablo himself—with his arm draped possessively around the shoulders of a gorgeous young woman.

  FIFTEEN

  As if I’ve been kicked in the stomach, my breath leaves my body with a grunt.

  Naturally, Luciano doesn’t notice my sudden distress.

  “Ah! My dear friend!” he exclaims. He raises his hand and charges toward the mayor, who is welcoming people as they arrive. Luciano drags me along by my elbow. He strides through the small, well-dressed crowd standing on the wide patio, knocking people aside with zero regard to their exclamations of surprise and irritation.

  When we reach the threshold, Luciano releases me long enough to pump the mayor’s hand enthusiastically. Then he throws his arms around him and gives him a dramatic hug, followed by an even more dramatic Italian male greeting that involves a lot of cheek-kissing and back-slapping. The mayor—a small, balding man with owly eyes—looks stunned
by all the attention.

  Then Luciano remembers me. “May I please present to you the belíssima Miss Victoria Price, a woman who has very much smart ideas to go along with her other beni pregiati!”

  Jesus, did he just say I was pregnant?

  Luciano yanks me forward by the wrist. In my heels, I nearly stumble, but catch myself in time. I wrench my wrist from his grip, pull myself to my full height, shoot Luciano a deadly glance, and then smile sweetly at the mayor.

  “David. So wonderful to see you. Thank you for inviting me. I always look forward to your parties.”

  The mayor warmly clasps my extended hand and smiles back. “Victoria, thank you for coming! Christine will be so pleased you’ve arrived. She says you’re her favorite guest. She was just asking for you, as a matter of fact.”

  Wonderful. I’ve got another drunken bathroom hijack from the mayor’s wife in my immediate future.

  Beside me, Luciano blinks. “Oh, you know the mayor?”

  No, my entire life didn’t start until you drove up tonight in your stupid limo, dickweed.

  “We’ve known each other for years,” I reply cheerfully, and am happy to see a flicker of disappointment cross Luciano’s perfect features.

  The mayor says, “Victoria, Luciano, have you met Parker Maxwell? He’s my special guest this evening.”

  When he turns to Parker with a smile, I’m finally forced to look at him.

  When I do, he’s staring back at me with hard eyes, a hard jaw, and lips so thinned they’re barely visible. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting to see me. Even more obviously, he isn’t pleased. His gaze cuts to Luciano, who immediately plasters himself to my side.

  For the first time tonight, Luciano and I have something in common: the look of disgust we both give Parker.

  Oh, the pleasure is all yours, is it? I think, steaming. Oh, you’d like to be one of the people I don’t lie to, would you? Oh, every time I laugh it makes you happy, does it, you lousy, lying louse?