I turn away, but he grasps my arm, sets his wine on the counter, takes my wine from my hand and sets it on the counter, and then takes me by the shoulders and forces me to face him. I churlishly look at my shoes instead.
In a low, urgent voice, he says, “I don’t know you well. Hell, I don’t really know you at all. But I do know I want to be one of the people you don’t lie to.”
Surprised, I glance up at him. His eyes are intensely focused on mine.
I decide to challenge him. “Why?”
His jaw works. There’s a moment when I think he won’t answer, but then he says, “Because every time you walk into a room, it’s like déjà vu. Every time you laugh, it makes me happy. Every time I see you, I get this feeling… I don’t know. I don’t know.” He stops, frustrated. “I can’t describe it.”
He doesn’t know me. A tremor of relief runs through my body. His hands move from my arms to my shoulders, and he steps closer.
“You act like you can’t stand me, but you kiss me like you’re starving. You look at me like you want to carve out my heart, but when I touch you, you tremble.”
“In anger.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Don’t lie to me!”
I turn my head. He takes my jaw in his hand and, with gentle pressure, turns my head back, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are angry but unguarded. I see how much he means what he’s saying. I see exactly how much he wants me to be truthful with him, exactly how confused my mixed signals make him.
And—bitch that I am—I plot anew.
“Okay. I’ll tell you the truth. But you go first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me something no one else on earth knows about you. Tell me a secret. Something you wouldn’t want anyone to know. Something…bad. If you do that, then I won’t lie to you anymore.”
His eyes darken. He remains silent a long, tense moment, staring at me. Though he’s not saying anything, I feel great emotion warring in him. I sense he’s trying to decide whether or not to trust me, whether or not he wants me enough to give in to my demand. Finally, after several excruciating moments, he drops his hands to his sides, looks at his shoes, and inhales a deep breath.
Then he looks up. Staring straight into my eyes, he says in a halting whisper, “I…once…killed someone.”
12
Victoria
That’s so far beyond anything I’m prepared for, I stand with my mouth open, staring at him stupidly, blankly, unable to form any words except, “Huh?”
“I said I—”
“Yes, I got it. I just…don’t get it. That can’t possibly be true.”
Parker swallows. He runs a hand through his hair. He steps away, putting distance between us, his expression pained. Frozen, I watch as he turns again to the stove, lowers the heat beneath the skillet, and tosses in a pinch of fresh garlic from a small jar on the counter top. It sizzles and pops in the oil. He takes a wooden spatula from a ceramic crock and begins to stir briskly.
He just confessed to murder and now he’s browning garlic? Who the hell am I dealing with, Hannibal Lecter?
Parker says solemnly to the pan, “That medicine you take, Coumadin. What’s it for?”
He noticed the specific brand of my meds. Another bombshell, though not nearly as big as the first. I steady myself, careful to breathe normally. Careful not to bolt, because I won’t get far in these shoes.
Besides, I’m not afraid of him. I should be—he’s just told me he’s a killer—but his melancholy demeanor suggests that whatever happened, he really regrets it.
Plus, there’s a butcher’s block of cleavers on the counter within arm’s reach. If he decides he’s made a terrible mistake with his confession and the only way to remedy it is by bashing me upside the head with the skillet, chopping me into bits, and stashing my dissected corpse in the walk-in freezer, he’ll get a belly full of steel before he’s gone a single step.
“It’s a blood thinner.”
Parker stirs and stirs, his gaze focused on the pan. “For what?”
I struggle for a moment, hating this unspoken tug-of-war, hating how exposed and helpless I feel knowing that my mortal enemy now knows my greatest weakness. However, I know I won’t get anything more from him unless I give him what he wants, which, at the moment, is more information about my medication.
So now it’s tit for tat. I hate this game. Why the hell did I even suggest it in the first place?
Oh yeah: I’ve sworn to bury him. I can’t expect not to get a little scratched and bruised while I’m digging the grave.
Through gritted teeth, I admit, “I have a weak heart.”
He stops stirring and looks at me. “The woman described by Time magazine as the ‘Heartless Wonder’ takes medication for a weak heart? That’s probably the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Anger rears up inside me, spitting fire. This bastard is calling me out? I feel my face do something strange. My stomach twists like a pretzel. With ruthless coldness, I say, “I might be a heartless wonder, but at least I haven’t ended anyone’s life.”
Yet.
Parker stares at me silently for a moment and then refocuses his attention to the cheerfully sizzling garlic. “I suppose I deserve that.”
He squeezes his hand around the back of his neck and closes his eyes, and it’s all I can do not to reach out to him and apologize. Which isn’t like me at all.
Which is why I decide to go with it.
If I’m going to convince this son of a bitch that I really do have a heart, I’m going to have to start acting like it.
I take a breath, put my game face on, and try my best to sound contrite. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
He stills, glancing at me.
“I… Very few people know about my heart condition. Three people, to be exact. I hate… I don’t like admitting weakness. It’s embarrassing. And what you said before… Well, it just doesn’t seem like something that could be possible for a man like you. It doesn’t fit with what I know of your character. I suppose I’m just shocked.”
I look away, pretending to be confused and emotional, when what I really am is dying for a bottle of Listerine so I can wash the taste of all this hideous truth from my mouth.
Slowly Parker reaches for the knob that operates the burner’s gas. He turns it off. He folds his arms across his chest and hangs his head, staring at nothing. “It was years ago. A lifetime.”
I don’t dare say anything. I stand in silence with bated breath, waiting for more. Waiting for the helpless little fly to wriggle and flail and get himself stuck even deeper in my web.
“She was the only person I ever loved.”
Which means, contrary to what he told me time and time again, he never loved me. The bitter bite of bile rises in the back of my throat. “What happened?”
He shakes his head, struggling for words. “She shot herself.”
Disappointment cascades over me as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped atop my head. I want to scream. I want to throw something. I want to rage and shout and put my hands around his throat, because he dangled such a tantalizing, ruinous skeleton in front of my face, and now it turns out he didn’t kill anyone at all.
“But you said ‘I once killed someone.’”
“I didn’t pull the trigger, but it was my fault. If not for me, she’d still be alive.”
I close my eyes, sick with defeat. This moron isn’t a murderer. He’s just riddled with guilt over failing to stop some lame-brained bimbo from offing herself! How the hell am I going to ruin his life with that?
I don’t want to hear any of the ridiculous details, so I say, “This might sound terribly harsh, but you can’t take credit for another person’s suicide. She had to be very depressed in the first place, or at least mentally unstable, to even consider doing something like that. It isn’t your fault, no matter what happened between you. People go through awful breakups all the time and don’t do anything nearly as drastic.”
&
nbsp; His smile is probably the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. “That’s kind of you to say. But it is my fault. She wasn’t depressed. She wasn’t unstable. She was perfect. We were perfect. And then I fucked it up. What she did is because of what I did. Cause and effect, simple as that. Her death is on me. And I have to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life.”
“She was perfect. We were perfect.”
I’m going to puke.
I don’t know what Parker sees on my face, but whatever it is, it causes him to unfold his arms and close the short distance between us. He reaches for my face, but thinks better of it and lets his hand drop to his side.
He says hoarsely, “I’ve never told anyone that story.”
I look demurely at the buttons on the front of his shirt. “And I’ve never told anyone my story. So I guess we’re even.”
“That’s technically not true.”
I look up at him.
“Three other people besides me know about your heart condition, correct?”
My smile is wry. “Actually, if you want the complete truth, it’s four. I wasn’t counting my doctor before.”
“Okay. But you know what that means, don’t you?”
The faint lilt of humor in his voice makes me both wary about the direction he’s headed and relieved that we might be past all this emotional bullshit. “What?”
“You have to tell me something no one else knows. Only then will we be even.” He reaches up and strokes my cheek. His voice drops. “Make it good.”
My brows lift. “Better than the heart condition? How many secrets do you think I have, Mr. Maxwell?”
For the first time since we entered the kitchen, his smile is genuine. “I’d guess you need a closet the size of an airplane hangar to hide all your skeletons, Ms. Price.”
I can’t help myself. I smile back. “That’s a very useful talent, to be so charming while you’re insulting someone. I need to add that to my arsenal.”
Now he laughs. The sound sends a rash of goose bumps crawling up my arms. He takes my face in both his hands. His voice lowers. “I think your arsenal is plenty well stocked already.”
“There you go again with the charming insults. Whatever shall I do with you?”
Parker’s eyes are getting heated. His face is close to mine. I fight the urge to flatten my hands against his broad chest and instead leave them hanging loosely by my sides.
“And there you go again, channeling Scarlett O’Hara. What did I tell you about that, Ms. Price?”
“To the best of my recollection, Mr. Maxwell, you said that Xena, Warrior Princess, was far preferable to my transparent attempts at being coy. Perhaps I should run you through with a sword?”
He watches my lips with avid attention as I speak. One step closer, and his body is flush against mine. I can’t retreat any farther. The kitchen counter is pressed against my bottom.
I’m trapped.
In an incredibly intimate, sexy voice, Parker demands, “Tell me something no one else knows about you, Victoria. Not your doctor. Not your friend Darcy. Not even your mother. Give me something that’s only for me. And then we’ll be even. And then we can really begin.”
My mouth goes dry. “Begin what?”
He sweeps his thumb across my lips. “What we both want.”
“Which is?” My voice comes out breathy. Stupid voice.
Parker presses his pelvis to mine. His erection leaves little doubt as to what it wants, but just to underscore it, Parker murmurs, “Everything.”
We’re eye to eye, breathing erratically, both of us unmoving. The tension between us crackles like a live wire. He sees some flicker of doubt in my eyes or another emotion that makes him warn, “And don’t you dare tell me anything but the entire, unvarnished truth, or I will put you over my knee, and it won’t be for fun.”
For a brief moment, I close my eyes to escape him.
When I open them again, I’ve realized I might be getting more than a few scratches and bruises by the time I’ve reached the bottom of this six-foot hole I’m so merrily digging.
Looking into his eyes, I jump over the edge of the cliff and confess.
“I’m afraid of the dark. Clowns and small children terrify me. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to die alone with one too many cats and it will be weeks before my body is discovered because no one in the whole world gives a shit about me, because I’ve been such a complete asshole my entire life.”
As if he’s just discovered how cold fusion works or he’s found a cure for cancer, a look of wonderment dawns over Parker’s face.
He breathes, “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
For the second time tonight, he crushes his mouth to mine.
13
Victoria
These kisses of his, they’re addictive. Sexy, demanding, and so crackalicious, I’m certain he could sell them on the street and make millions.
This time, he breaks away first. We’re both panting, hungry, clutching each other like a pair of horny teenagers.
I groan at the loss of his mouth. “Why’d you stop?”
His lids drift open. His voice comes out gruff and intense, more intense even than the look in his eyes. “Because I was about to do something so dirty to you on this counter, it would make your friend Gloria Tartenberger issue a permanent shutdown order. I’d have to tear down the entire restaurant and rebuild.”
Delighted, I laugh. I maintained my control this time, and, inch by wicked inch, he’s losing his. “Now I’m intrigued. Give me a hint.”
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Do you know what tastes even better than a spoonful of four-thousand-dollar beluga caviar?”
“No, what?”
One of his hands drifts from my waist, cups my ass cheek, and squeezes. “A spoonful of four-thousand-dollar Beluga caviar eaten out of a freshly waxed pussy.”
His words are so carnal, his voice so hot and dark, my breath catches in my throat. My fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders. A shiver of desire runs through my body.
He chuckles. “I see you like the idea.”
No—I capital L-word the idea. I’m veering dangerously close to coming right out and asking him for it, so I keep my tone light and playful to throw him off.
“It sounds a little unhygienic, actually. I don’t think my gynecologist would approve. Besides, how do you know I’m not rocking some major seventies bush beneath my panties?”
In one swift, heart-stopping move, his hand slides lower, slips beneath the hem of my microscopic skirt, and pulls it up, exposing my naked bottom. Above my tailbone, he slides a finger between my thong and my skin.
“These panties, you mean?”
He jerks on the silk. It rubs against the most sensitive part of my body. I jump, gasping, my eyes wide.
His hot breath fans over my neck. His lips move against my earlobe when he speaks. “These wet panties I’ve been wanting to bury my face in since you walked into the kitchen at your house?”
He jerks on the fabric again, dragging it right over my clit, eliciting a low moan from me. I struggle to maintain my breathing, my sense of control. “They’re not wet.”
A deep, dangerous sound rumbles through Parker’s chest. “No more lies, Victoria.”
I close my eyes. Then I whisper, “It’s not a lie. My panties aren’t wet. They’re soaked.”
With that, I pull away.
He allows it, but I’m not convinced he won’t lunge at me. The look in his eyes is nothing short of ravenous.
I turn and casually retrieve my glass of cabernet from the counter. Then I stroll back to the table, sit down, cross my legs and take a swallow of the wine, looking at him over the rim of the glass with big, innocent Bambi eyes.
His smile is amused. “You like to play games, don’t you?”
“Only games I can win.”
Parker runs a hand through his thick hair. That vein in his neck is throbbing wildly again. He doesn’t answer me. Instead he turns back to the pan of ol
ive oil and garlic on the stove and relights the burner. I spread a chunk of triple crème Saint-André on a rosemary cracker and take a bite, all while trying valiantly to corral my hormones. This is about as effective as trying to herd cats.
The man is. Smoking. Hot.
I push away the whirlwind of memories crowding my mind. I push away the desire crashing through me, heating my blood, making it pulse, scalding, through my veins. I push away all thoughts of how big his back and shoulders are, how strong, how much I’d like to peel that shirt off him and sink my teeth into his flesh.
Instead I sit, poised, for all outward appearances unruffled, munching calmly on a cracker and sipping a fine cabernet, while inside I’m a boiling vat of noxious chemicals.
My talent for maintaining a false tranquility comes from years of practice. It’s second nature now.
As is my talent for deception.
Watching Parker calmly stirring his browning garlic, I’m beginning to realize he and I have much more in common than I thought.
The meal is exquisite.
Parker feeds it to me, forkful after forkful, an odd and completely sensual experience. I’ve never been hand-fed before, am not quite sure what to make of it, but after the first few awkward bites I surrender to the sheer bliss of the food that’s hitting my tongue and begin to enjoy it.
For every two bites I take, he takes one. For every few swallows of wine I take, he takes one. I doubt he’s trying to get me drunk, but by the time the meal is over and we leave the restaurant, I’m feeling a little tipsy and tell him so.
“I know just what you need.” He smiles and helps me into the Porsche. He closes the door behind me with a firm thunk, as if sealing my fate.
We go dancing.
It’s a jazz club right out of a noir movie set in Paris in the forties, smoky and somehow illicit, the entrance unmarked, the music mingling with the smell of sweat and cigars in the air. I adore it. Parker commandeers a private table in a shadowed, elevated corner in the back of the room, where we can see everything without being seen, where we can smile our secret smiles and play our secret games and act like none of it matters.
Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set Page 10