Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  Seeing the look of lust on his face, I warn, “Remember what I said would happen if you tried to kiss me!”

  Without missing a beat he says, “I’ll take my chances.”

  Then his lips are against mine. The kiss is hot and silky and demanding, and because he tastes so delicious, I moan into his mouth.

  That sound sets off a chain reaction.

  He moans, too, and presses himself harder against me, sinking his fingers into my bare flesh. I arch against him, opening my thighs to allow his erection to rub against my heat as I flex my hips. He makes a noise deep in his throat and, just above my tailbone, slips his fingers beneath my thong. I sink my fingers into his hair and pull, using my nails, scratching him. He slides his hand over the crest of my hip then puts his open palm between my legs. He rubs me through my damp panties.

  I whimper, pushing against his hand.

  He growls, slipping his fingers beneath the silk.

  I mew like a kitten when his fingers find my wet center, again as he circles my clit with his thumb. When his fingers slip inside me, I break the kiss on a ragged gasp.

  “Goddamn beautiful treacherous viper,” he says, breathing heavily, and then takes my mouth again.

  His mouth is devouring, but his fingers are gentle. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  This isn’t the sweet, fumbling teenager I knew, the boy who was more eager than experienced. The boy who cried in happiness after the first time we made love.

  This is a Man with a capital M. Every cell in my body recognizes it, is screaming it so loud they can probably hear it downstairs.

  Parker. Parker. Parker.

  I’m dizzy. Breathless. Aching. Low in my belly, a coil of pleasure winds tighter and tighter. His fingers push deeper. My hand finds his hardness. When I wrap my fingers around his erection, he groans.

  Parker.

  Parker?

  At the same moment I realize the voice in my head calling Parker’s name isn’t a voice in my head, Parker breaks our kiss, panting. He cocks an ear toward the door.

  “Parker, where are you? Someone find the guest of honor. He’s gone MIA!”

  Scattered laughter, a sharp squeal of feedback from a microphone, and we both realize that from somewhere downstairs, the mayor is hailing Parker to come speak to the crowd.

  Parker drops his forehead to my chest. “Jesus Christ. He’s killing me.”

  Me, too, but I’m thankful for the interruption. Another sixty seconds and the Mistress of All Evil would be getting shagged on a velvet sofa by her arch-enemy.

  That’s just unbecoming for a Bitch of my stature.

  I push against Parker’s chest. He withdraws. I sit up, straighten my dress, wipe my swollen lips with my fingertips. Parker runs a hand through his disheveled hair and looks at me.

  “Stay here,” he orders, pointing to the sofa.

  I don’t answer.

  “Victoria.”

  “Your audience awaits, Mr. Maxwell.”

  His face darkens at my cool tone. He stands, pulling me to my feet with him. He winds an arm around my waist and lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Stay. Here.”

  “OK.”

  He considers me in silence. “Was that a lie?”

  “Probably.”

  He curses under his breath. Downstairs, the mayor makes a terrible joke about his wife’s cooking.

  “It sounds dire down there, Parker. You really ought to get a move on. We don’t want to kill your political career before it’s even begun.”

  “I can’t believe you’re smiling when you say that.”

  I push him away. “Believe it or don’t. Not my problem.”

  He makes a sound of exasperation and turns to go. At the door he turns back and looks at me. “Will you be here when I get back?”

  My smile widens. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

  He stares at me long and hard, his eyes burning. In a husky voice he says, “If you’re not, you’ll only spend the rest of the night thinking about what I was going to do to you next.”

  Then he lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks on the fingers that were just inside me.

  He spins on his heel and is gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  ~ Parker ~

  “Ah! Here he is! Call off the search party. The guest of honor has appeared!”

  The mayor beams at me as I stride through the crowd, buttoning my jacket and trying to appear like a sane, responsible adult with political aspirations and not the single-celled organism Victoria Price has reduced me to.

  At this moment, I’m a giant walking cock. Nothing more. Everything I am is between my legs.

  I have no idea how I’m going to get up in front of this crowd and string a coherent sentence together. I can still taste her. I can still feel her body beneath me. I can still hear those erotic, enticing moans working from her throat as I sank my greedy fingers into her slick heat.

  Jesus. The way she responded to me. The way I responded to her. Our chemistry is thermonuclear. I’m lucky I don’t have an enormous sticky spot on the front of my slacks right now.

  “Thank you, David,” I say graciously. “I’m afraid I took a wrong turn on the way to the men’s room.”

  The gathered crowd chuckles. The mayor looks relieved. I smile widely, accept the mic he’s holding out to me, and turn to the crowd. “I’ll keep this brief so everyone can get back to their cocktails.” Cock. Oh, for the love of God. “Most of you know me. Some of you don’t, and I hope to remedy that this evening. New York has been my home for the last six years, and of all the places I’ve lived in the world, I can honestly say this is where I feel most connected. This is where I feel most…”

  Victoria appears at the top of the stairs. She’s looking right at me. She’s wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. She licks her lips, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and begins to descend the staircase. Her gorgeous bare legs gleam in the light, courtesy of the most perfect hip-high slit ever created in the history of dressmaking.

  “Alive.”

  The word is spoken before I have time to think. Looking amused, Victoria arches a brow and then shakes her head, her smile turned acerbic.

  Is she mocking me?

  I want to toss this mic into the crowd, sprint across the room, grab her, throw her over my shoulder, carry her into the nearest room, and fuck her until we both come so hard we pass out.

  Only once before in my life have I felt this level of heat, of utter, soul-shaking need.

  I screwed that up royally. I won’t allow myself to make the same mistake twice.

  “There are many things to love about my adopted home, but first and foremost, the people are what make it so special.”

  Almost to the bottom of the staircase, Victoria laughs. She shakes her head again as if bemused by my audacity—because we both know I’m speaking directly to her—and flashes me a look that could be either derision or desire.

  Fuck. I have to have her. I have to have her now.

  Abandoning the prepared speech that I can’t remember anyway, I blurt, “It’s my commitment to the amazing people of New York that’s led me to the decision to run for a seat in Congress, representing this great state.”

  The room erupts into applause and cheers. Now on the bottom step of the staircase, Victoria, still holding my gaze, stifles a fake yawn.

  I’m going to spank you so damn hard you won’t be able to sit for a week, you impossible, infuriating woman.

  Two can play at this game.

  I say loudly into the microphone, “Marie-Thérèse, will you please join me?”

  Victoria stiffens. Her eyes gain a murderous light. Marie-Thérèse makes her way through the crowd, smiling broadly, and I can tell Victoria wants to turn away but can’t. She watches with glittering malice as Marie-Thérèse approaches and takes my outstretched hand.

  And I feel a satisfaction so profound it’s almost sexual.

  I was right. Victoria is jealous.

 
; It’s her eyes that always give her away. Her expression might be bored, her indifference feigned, even her words smoothly lying. But those knife blade eyes always tell me the truth.

  I imagine if she knew that, she’d put them out with acid.

  I drape my arm around Marie-Thérèse’s shoulders. She clasps me around the waist, gazing up at me adoringly. Victoria’s hand, white-knuckled, curls around the polished wood staircase balustrade.

  “My mentor, the late Alain Gérard, once told me that the true meaning of life could be found only in service to others. He embodied the values of selflessness and service, and this legacy lives on his daughter, Marie-Thérèse, whom I’ve recently appointed head of The Hunger Project, my foundation that serves the underprivileged children of the rural South.” I look down at her with fondness. “She and I are siblings of sorts, though of course I’m much older and therefore, in her view, very uncool.”

  She smiles and pokes me in the ribs. Across the room, Victoria looks confused.

  This is starting to be a hell of a lot of fun.

  “So tonight I’m very proud and grateful to stand before you and announce my candidacy for the House of Representatives of the United States Congress, so that I may continue to honor the memory of my mentor by serving others, giving a voice to the voiceless, and using my practical business experience and passion for this community to make it a better place for all.”

  As the crowd applauds and whistles, I plant a chaste kiss on Marie-Thérèse’s forehead, and look at Victoria, making sure she sees that there’s nothing whatsoever romantic about the gesture.

  What does the Queen B do in return for this olive branch I’m extending?

  She golf claps.

  Three slow, sarcastic claps, her eyes half lidded, with a mercenary smirk on her face that would look at home on a barracuda.

  My fingers tighten around Marie-Thérèse’s shoulders. She glances in the direction I’m looking, and shudders.

  “That woman is scary,” she whispers through her smile.

  “She’s all bark and no bite,” I reply through one side of my mouth, nodding at the crowd. “A pussycat.”

  Marie-Thérèse snorts. “Cats have long claws and sharp teeth, and kill billions of small mammals a year. They’re basically cute serial killers.”

  As people move forward to shake my hand and offer congratulations, I watch from the corner of my eye as Victoria locates the still-wobbly Luciano Mancari, takes him by the arm, and leads him to the front door. Over her shoulder she pauses to confirm I’m watching, and then sends me a withering smile.

  My chest tightens in anger. I have to concede that Marie-Thérèse is probably right.

  EIGHTEEN

  ~ Victoria ~

  The first thing I do when I’m back inside Luciano’s ridiculous limousine is call Tabby. The second thing I do is shush Luciano as he slumps, moaning and holding his face, against the door.

  His nose is a bloodied mess. Leave it to the Italian stallion to use his schnoz to break his fall.

  “Tabby!” I shout into my cell when she answers.

  “Uh-oh. I can already tell things aren’t going well in the evil empire. Should I send out the flying monkeys?”

  “You can find out everything and anything about Marie-Thérèse something-or-other, daughter of the late French chef Alain Gérard, and do it before I get back.”

  She makes a noise of disbelief. “Back? You left like an hour ago!”

  I ignore that. “And what have you found out about the other stuff?” I glance at Luciano, who now appears to be crying. I want to smack him upside the head.

  “If by ‘other stuff’ you mean the dirty deets about Parker Maxwell, unfortunately nothing at all. The boy’s clean as a whistle. Not even a traffic ticket.”

  “Are you sure? You dug deep? Deeper than deep?”

  “I’m looking into some other avenues, but so far we’ve got nada.”

  I curse. “And his father?”

  “Nope. His dad retired about ten years ago. The only thing he seems to do is play golf. His mother’s the president of the Laredo opera, heads up all the charity events at their church. The Maxwells are practically the friggin’ Cleavers, boss.”

  “Drat!”

  There’s a weighty silence on the other end of the line. “You didn’t just say ‘drat,’ did you? Because if you did, I might have to hand in my resignation. ‘Drat’ is totally cliché, even for a super villain like you. Especially for a super villain like you. You’d never hear Darth Vader saying—”

  “Can we please forgo the Star Wars references and get back to the fact that you have to find me something I can work with?”

  Tabby makes a disgruntled noise. “Maybe there’s nothing there. You ever think of that?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone has something they’re hiding. It’s just a matter of finding out where they’re hiding it.”

  “I know. I was just trying to be positive.”

  “Or negative, in this case!”

  “Well, if it were me and I had some dead bodies to hide, I’d bury them in my own backyard, if you get my meaning.”

  Beside me, Luciano withdraws a monogrammed handkerchief from his coat pocket and uses it to dab delicately at his swollen, bloody nose. When he whimpers, I shoot him an exasperated glare.

  “Don’t be obtuse, Tabby. I’m in no mood.”

  She sighs. “Look, if he’s really smart, he’ll have burned, shredded, or paid someone like me to scour the interwebs clean of any incriminating evidence. So the best place to find something is going to be right in the dragon’s lair, so to speak.”

  I bolt upright in the seat. “At his house!”

  “He’s got a safe. I’d bet my favorite Hello Kitty handbag on it.”

  “A safe? What am I, a bank robber now? How the hell am I going to get into a safe?”

  “Why don’t you try some of those feminine wiles I see you practicing in front of the mirror all the time?”

  Deliberating, I chew my lip. “Or maybe you could get me some roofies. Or mollies, whatever they’re called. Something to knock him out while I search for a key.”

  Luciano turns to me with wide eyes. I smile at him, pat his hand, and whisper, “Not you, darling.”

  His answering smile is grateful, if a little frightened. He goes back to being slumped against the door.

  Tabby says haughtily, “I don’t do drugs, Victoria.”

  “But you must know people! From like, the underground. Your Electric Daisy Carnival friends!”

  “If you think the EDC is the underground, we’ve got way more serious problems than breaking into a safe.”

  “Fine, Burning Man. Whatever.”

  Tabby says, “I’m hanging up on you now.”

  “Wait!”

  Once again she sighs. “What?”

  I look at Luciano. “Do you know anything about stopping relentless blood flow?”

  I can almost hear her eyes bug out of her head. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. And do not bring a corpse back to this house, Victoria. I signed up to help you hide figurative skeletons, not literal ones. And by the way, dead bodies tend to stink after a few days. The scent of decomposing flesh will clash with your Chanel No. Five.”

  With that, she hangs up on me.

  “Ingrate,” I mutter, shoving the phone back in my clutch.

  Luciano whimpers. “Belíssima, I must go to the hospitals. I am having very much pain in my face. I think my nose is broken.”

  I certainly hope so. “Driver?” I lean forward, raising my voice so the driver can hear me through the lowered glass partition. I direct him to take me home and then take Lucky to the hospital.

  Lucky bristles. “I am needing the medical help before he drives you home, belíssima!”

  I smile sweetly at him. “I think the hospital’s on the way.”

  His watery-eyed glare is clearly disbelieving. I could care less, but decide to try to smooth his feathers in case I ever need him ag
ain. I take his handkerchief, dunk it in the champagne’s ice bucket, and then carefully wipe away the blood from his chin and upper lip.

  “Here, pinch your nostrils. I think that might help stop the bleeding.”

  Lucky takes the handkerchief, holds it to his nose and applies pressure, wincing and moaning like the giant wuss he is. I fell off my horse and broke my nose when I was twelve and didn’t whine half as much.

  “And don’t worry. I have an excellent attorney for you. She’s a client of mine, a real bulldog.”

  Confused, he blinks.

  “You’re pressing charges, of course.”

  He blinks again. “Charges?”

  I do my best impression of someone who’s righteously indignant. “Against that beast, Parker Maxwell! What he did to you was clearly assault!”

  It wasn’t anywhere near assault. But at the very least, a lawsuit against Parker will raise some interesting questions from his soon-to-be constituents. The fact that he didn’t lay a finger on Luciano is unimportant. The fact that he’s had two public altercations in the past month isn’t. Far better men than he have had political careers derailed for less.

  Lucky frowns and lowers the handkerchief. “But I am thinking I don’t really want to have people knowing about this. It is an embarrassment to me, no? Everyone laughed.” His face darkens. “I don’t like it when people laugh at me.”

  Oh dear God, save us from a man’s fragile ego.

  I take his hand gently in my own and stare deeply into his eyes. “Lucky. Parker Maxwell thinks he can do whatever he wants to you. He thinks he was in a fight with you…and he thinks he won.”

  I watch that sink in, and then pounce. “You can’t let an inferior man get away with insulting the great Luciano Mancari like this. An inferior American man. He didn’t just insult you—he insulted all your countrymen. He insulted Italy!”

  Luciano’s face grows even darker. He snarls, “And he insulted my mother!”

  Now it’s my turn to blink. “Your mother?”

  “Si! He said she was a goat!”