And here he is the very next day with his arm wrapped around a hot little piece he’s probably said the exact same shit to. I wonder if they had sex right before they came to the party.
Everything inside me vibrates at a high, dangerous frequency, like some kind of unstable Dr. Frankenstein electrical experiment, ready to blow all the fuses in the house before birthing a monster. These genteel partygoers are lucky there aren’t any sharp objects within easy reach, or they’d be witnesses to a bloodbath.
“I know him,” says Luciano with acidic disdain.
I’d like to kiss his cheek. Instead I clasp his hand in mine and pull him closer. He gladly obliges, but then becomes distracted by my cleavage, which he stares at, all else forgotten.
I say brightly, “We’ve actually never met. Though your reputation precedes you, Mr. Maxwell.” I glance at the beautiful young brunette beside him. My laugh is low, throaty, and full of malice.
In a voice so terse the word is almost spat, he says, “Victoria.” He doesn’t acknowledge Luciano, or introduce his date, who has lifted her chin and squared her narrow shoulders. I look at her. Like a shark, I show my teeth. She blanches and shrinks closer to Parker.
The mayor looks back and forth among the four of us, confused by the odd tension.
“Ahem. Well, won’t you all please come inside?”
He stands aside, arm held out, all polite smiles and warmth. I jerk on Luciano’s hand to rouse him from his breast-induced coma and stride forward into the mayor’s home without looking back, dragging him behind me.
The house is crowded with waiters passing hors d’oeuvres and guests milling around the rooms in chatting groups. Warmth hits me along with a confusion of scents, perfume and food and cigarettes, and above it all, the din of voices and music. I spot two bars on opposite sides of the grand, vaulted living room, and head for one. Luciano, with his long legs, easily keeps up with me.
I arrive at the bar slightly winded, and bark my order to a bartender who looks all of twelve years old.
“Belíssima, are you all right?” Luciano touches my cheek. “Your face is like the ripe tomato.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Parker. He’s a head taller than everyone else, looking around the room as if searching for something. I turn away.
“If you must know, Lucky, I thought the way that Parker person looked at you was very disrespectful. It really made me mad. I mean, you’re Luciano Mancari!”
He puffs out his chest. “Do not let him anger you, Miss Victoria. This man has very much jealousy of me. It has always been so.”
“Oh? You know each other?”
The teenage bartender hands me my martini and I take a sip. It’s not nearly as good as the one Parker made me, which kicks my anger up a notch.
Luciano shrugs. His gaze drifts over to a woman standing nearby. Her breasts are high up on her chest, taut and shiny. They’re obviously new. As he speaks, he continues to stare at them.
“He owns restaurants. But he is not a chef, an artist, you see? He is like a merchant. Only concerned with money. No talent is there, just this want for the money. He is very American in this way.”
I’m not just going to trip this idiot tonight. I’m probably going to push him into the mayor’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“Well, he obviously wishes he could be you.”
Luciano finally tears his gaze from the shiny objects, and glances at me. His smile oozes self-importance. “This is one of the great challenges for me, belíssima. For every gift, there is a price, no? And for me, with all my gifts, the price is this constant jealously from lesser men.”
I stare at him. “You poor thing.”
Luciano’s dark eyes warm with something that looks suspiciously like admiration. He leans close to my ear and says, “You are different kind of woman than I maybe think before. Not so strong American hustler woman. More traditional. Understanding of the man. This job you have, this bitches thing, I guess this is funny thing for you, no? Like job you have until later, when you find right man and can be married?”
He pulls back and looks at me, smug, his brow cocked, smiling an I’ve got you pegged, don’t I? smile, and I just about lose my shit and toss my martini in his face.
I don’t, however. I simply say with total honesty, “Lucky, I have never met a man like you in my entire life.”
For this, I’m rewarded with a dazzling grin. He shakes a finger in my face. “Aha! She is seeing so clearly! She cannot hide from Luciano Mancari!”
Anyone that insults my country, my intelligence, my feminist ideals, all women in general, and a favorite childhood food, and refers to both himself and me in the third person in one sentence automatically gets an honorary spot on my Hate With Every Fiber of My Being For All Time list. Now if he’d just kick a small animal he’d earn himself top billing.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you,” says a deep voice. When Luciano and I turn, Parker stands there, staring at us. The bimbette is nowhere to be seen.
“Ah. It is you.” Luciano sneers, and then drapes his arm over my shoulders. “Have you come to see how a real man treats a woman?”
Parker’s cheeks grow ruddy. I expect steam to emit from his ears at any moment, and allow myself a toxic smirk.
He looks at me and says with soft, dangerous intensity, “Can I have a word?”
“I’m so sorry, but as you can see, I’m busy at the moment.”
We stare at each other. Luciano clears his throat. Parker and I continue to stare at each other.
Luciano says, “Maxwell, why don’t you go look for pennies people have dropped on the ground?”
“And why don’t you go look for your manhood, Mancari.”
Confused, Luciano blinks. “What?”
Parker steps closer, his eyes blazing. “Because I’m about to turn you from a rooster to a hen, you preening little prick.”
I simply can’t help myself; I laugh. Luciano looks at me in shocked betrayal. I reassuringly squeeze his arm.
“These American men are so vulgar, aren’t they, Lucky? I’ll bet in Italy no gentleman would say anything like that in front of a lady.”
From the pride in Lucky’s eyes, I can see I’ve been redeemed. He says, “Of course not. Vulgarity is the sign of the lower classes.” He sneers again at Parker and then says something in Italian.
Shockingly, Parker answers right back—in Italian.
Whatever he said makes Luciano go apoplectic. He stiffens, drops his arm from my shoulders, and shrieks, “You dare!”
He lunges at Parker.
I jump out of the way with a yelp. Parker steps swiftly aside as Luciano dives for him. Momentum carries Luciano past Parker. He slams into a waiter holding a tray of food, and they both crash to the floor. Luciano hits his head on the marble with a crack, and falls still. A crowd gathers. The waiter struggles to rise, bits of deviled egg smeared all over his jacket. Facedown, Luciano moans.
I take the opportunity to down my martini and ask the bartender for a refill.
Parker comes up beside me. Tall and imposing, he faces me as I give him the cold shoulder. “This is a very dangerous game you’re playing, Victoria.”
His voice is unexpectedly rough. Without looking at him, I reply, “Don’t you dare talk to me about games, Parker.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Two men are trying to help Luciano to his feet, without success. He keeps falling down, his feet unwilling to stay put beneath him. The gathered crowd is whispering. Giggling.
“Please don’t insult my intelligence. I’ve had enough of that already tonight.”
“Oh, are you referring to your date? The one with the room-temperature IQ?”
I turn and glare at him. “You’re insulting my date? Is yours even of legal voting age?”
He looks at me with such fire in his eyes I’m surprised I don’t ignite. He takes me firmly by the upper arm and turns away from the bar.
“I haven’t gotten my
drink yet!”
“You’ll get it later. There’s something else you need first.”
When I hiss like an angry snake, he pulls me against his hard body and says into my ear, “That spanking you’ve had coming since we met. You need it. Now.”
I don’t have time to pick up my jaw from the floor before Parker has led us across the room, up a curving staircase, and into a shadowed upstairs hallway, deserted of everyone but us.
SIXTEEN
Parker pulls me into the first room at the top of the stairs. It’s a library, dimly lit, with a single banker’s lamp on an oak desk across the room, bathing the room in a deep green glow. The walls are packed floor to ceiling with books. Two overstuffed armchairs flank an occasional table. A burgundy velvet sofa faces an unlit fireplace. I don’t have time to see more, because as soon as we’re inside, Parker turns, grasps me by my upper arms, pushes me against a wall of books, and kisses me.
God, the way he tastes. Heavenly.
He breaks away, breathing hard. “Luciano Mancari? Is that your idea of a joke?”
“It’s my idea of a gentleman! You don’t see him dragging me off by my hair like a caveman!”
He doesn’t like this response. He growls, “When I go caveman on you, Victoria, you’ll know it!” He kisses me again, harder this time, his hands pressed against my head, his tongue invading my mouth.
I give myself a few seconds to enjoy it before I pull away, cock back my arm, and slap him across the face.
His head snaps back. His eyes glow with anger. That familiar vein in his neck throbs wildly, an erratic pulse that matches the pounding of my heart.
In a harsh, barely controlled voice, he says, “I’d appreciate it if you could find another way to deal with how uncomfortable you are with how much you like kissing me.”
“You smug son of a bitch!”
“You coward.”
I gasp, enraged. “You…you…philanderer!”
His chuckle is dark. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black, baby.”
Baby. I can’t decide if him calling me that makes me want to sigh or scream.
We stare at each other. The moment stretches out. The tension rises until it becomes almost unbearable. Then, without a word, he gathers my wrists in his hands, presses them over my head against the books, and presses his chest against mine. He rests his cheek against my temple. I feel how hot his face is, how bunched with tension the muscles are in his jaw.
“You did so well yesterday, Victoria,” he murmurs into my ear. “All that truth-telling. Did the nasty little lies get worried they’d never come out to play again and force you to act like that asshole you’re afraid you’ll die as?”
I’m so angry my entire body trembles. I want to kick myself for being stupid enough to tell him the truth about anything, even if it was part of a plan to disarm him. This man can’t be trusted with even a single grain of truth.
“How dare you throw that back in my face?” I say through gritted teeth.
He moves his face from my ear and stares into my eyes. “Because I’m going to call you out on all your bullshit. Because I won’t be one of your whipping boys. Because I’m not a man you can fool.” He adds sourly, “Belíssima.”
My laugh might very well be the bitchiest sound ever to leave my body. “You’re calling me out on my bullshit? Mr. ‘every time I see you I get this funny feeling’? What a crock of shit!”
“I didn’t say it was a funny feeling. I said it was a feeling. And it’s one I can’t describe, because I’ve never felt it before, and that’s the goddamn truth!”
“Oh, really? All these indescribable feelings and not even twenty-four hours later you show up with Lolita on your arm? Who do you think you’re dealing with here, Parker? I practically invented the word deception!”
His eyes flash. His hands tighten around my wrists. “Holy fuck. You’re jealous of her, aren’t you?”
“Screw you.” I turn away, avoiding his eyes.
A tremor passes through his chest. After a moment, I realize it’s laughter.
He’s laughing at me.
Furious, humiliated, wanting to scratch out his eyes only I can’t because he’s got my hands pinned over my head, I glare at him.
Still laughing, he says, “You arrive with your stupid, pretty pet on a leash—a pet I’m ninety percent sure was selected just to annoy me—and have the balls to be jealous of Marie-Thérèse?”
I sneer. “Nice name. Did you pick her from the French section of the kiddy porn catalog?”
His laughter dies. “That’s not funny. She’s like my little sister.”
“That’s disgusting!”
He stares at me a beat. Then he says firmly, “Right.”
He grasps both my wrists in one of his big hands, turns, and marches over to the velvet sofa with me in tow, ignoring my howls of protest. He sits down on the sofa, hauls me facedown over his lap, and, before I have time to realize what he’s doing or even catch my breath, he drags my dress up over my legs, exposing my bare bottom.
He smacks me smartly on the ass with his open palm.
I jerk. My eyes fly wide open. A scream lodges inside my throat. I turn my head and glare at him over my shoulder.
I will murder you where you sit.
Seeing the look on my face, Parker’s expression hardens. He says, “You should know: you really deserve this.”
In quick succession, he rains down four more sharp, stinging smacks on my behind.
Livid, I squeal and buck, trying to squirm free, but he’s got one hand flattened across my shoulders and holds me in place with surprising ease. The other hand—the traitorous, hateful hand that just smacked me and that I’ll be cutting off at the first opportunity—tightens around my hip.
He flips me onto my back.
Blood pounds in my head, in my face, in every limb in my body. Parker leans over, presses his weight into me, and takes my face in his hands. He slides a leg over both of mine so I’m pinned.
I hiss, “If you try to kiss me right now I’ll bite off your goddamn tongue!”
He’s breathing hard. I can’t tell if he’s furious, excited, or both.
Like me.
“You didn’t like that?”
“No!”
“Good. You weren’t meant to.”
I close my eyes. My breath is ragged; I can hardly drag enough air into my lungs to keep my head from buzzing. “No one has ever done that to me before. Not even my father.”
He whispers, “I’m sorry.”
I open my eyes. Parker stares at me. I have to admit, he does look sorry.
Slowly he moves one of his hands from my face. It drifts over my shoulder, down my bare arm, over my waist to the top of my thigh—exposed by the stupid, ginormous slit in my dress—and then gently slides up and around. He cups my bottom. I gasp as he strokes my stinging behind with the softest of touches.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
“No, you’re not.”
Why am I not pushing him away? I should be pushing him away. But the way that feels, oh, Lord…
He’s silent a moment, caressing my burning skin. “I’m mostly sorry.”
We’re both still breathing heavily. I become aware of his growing erection, pressing into my thigh.
“Should I kiss it and make it better?”
“No. I’m too busy hating you at the moment.”
His gaze drops to my lips.
“Don’t you dare kiss me.”
“I really want to, though.”
“No.”
“What if I let you insult me a little more? Maybe you can call me a few more names, make yourself feel better.”
He’s still staring at my mouth. He moistens his lips. In response, my nipples harden.
“Let me try it out. Here goes: you’re a smug, no-good, lying, egotistical, heartless, money-grubbing bastard with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever.”
His brows lift. “Money-grubbing? Now you’re just bei
ng petty.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
His hard cock twitches against my thigh. “Excuse me. Please proceed.”
“You’re overconfident. And bossy. And…mean.”
Parker’s eyes soften. His caresses on my warm behind are getting a little firmer, a little more sensual than soothing. “Are you feeling better yet?”
I swallow. My voice drops. “No.”
He bites his bottom lip. We stare at each other, our faces inches apart. His erection is now insistently throbbing against my leg.
I wish I could ignore it. Instead—much to my chagrin—I’d like to take it out and have a play date.
All thoughts of Luciano and Marie-Thérèse are now toast.
I whisper, “And you’re…scary.”
Parker knows exactly what I mean by that. His brows furrow. He breathes, “Oh, baby.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Why?”
Now it’s my turn to bite my lip. “Because I like it too much.”
He gazes at me, unblinking, his gorgeous hazel eyes both hot and soft. “So that feeling I was telling you about yesterday? The one I can’t describe, that you called a crock of shit?”
“Yeah?”
He whispers, “It’s back. And it’s bigger than ever.”
Because that really throws me for a loop, I decide to distract him. “Bigger than ever like the churro in your pants?”
My little plan works; Parker’s smile is wicked. “The very same. I believe you said it was your favorite thing to eat?”
“Churros in general, not yours in particular.”
He chuckles. “Ouch. You sure know how to make a man feel special, Cruella.”
“And you sure know how to push all my buttons. Which I hate, by the way.”
“No, you don’t. You love it.”
I roll my eyes. “Ugh. The ego has landed.”
Parker growls, “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
I freeze. “Um. No?”
“Yes, you did.”
He pinches my behind. I gasp, both because I’m surprised and because it feels good. He says, “Do I need to give you another spanking?”
I wriggle beneath him, an involuntary little twitch of my traitorous hips, which brings my crotch into direct contact with the steel rod trying to escape from his trousers. His breath hisses through his teeth as he sharply inhales.
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