Page 104 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Watching her go, I experience the sudden, gut-wrenching premonition that it will be the last time I’ll ever see her. My entire body goes cold.
“Are you all right? Your face is white.”
Parker stares down at me with concern. I realize I’m standing there frozen and have stopped breathing. I put a hand over my throbbing heart and weakly laugh.
“Oh…yes, I’m…sorry, I just realized I haven’t eaten in hours! I’m famished!”
I turn to him with a bright smile and fake words, swallowing the silly lump in my throat. I’m being overly dramatic. Imagining things. I need to put my game face on and concentrate.
“I can fix that,” says Parker with that strange, sly confidence.
My weird feeling of doom intensifies.
He gently takes me by the arm and steers me through the lobby to the valet area outside. The porter who took our bags bounds up like an overexcited Labrador.
“Your car is ready, sir!” He gestures to a black sedan parked right in front. It’s sleek, long, and beautiful. A driver in a dark suit stands next to the passenger door, waiting.
And my brain executes a sprint so quick it could win an Olympic gold medal.
It can’t be he couldn’t have holy Mother Mary what could this possibly mean Tabby was right this is fucked!
I ask indifferently, “New car?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” Parker leans closer to my ear. When he speaks again, his voice is incredibly sexy. “You did say you wanted one.”
I did. I remember it perfectly, primarily because it’s not often I demand a black-on-black Rolls-Royce with blacked-out rims during sex.
Not often as in never. I should’ve tried it years ago.
“A Phantom, no less. How did you guess I wouldn’t be satisfied with a Ghost?”
Parker’s lips quirk into another of his secretive smirks. “My personal motto is, ‘Be all in or get all out; there is no halfway.’ The Phantom is definitely all in. Plus, a Ghost just didn’t seem like your style. Not when a much more expensive model was available.”
I wonder if, in addition to my heart problem, I’ve developed a nasty case of asthma, because every breath I take is like trying to drag air through a straw full of sand. My game face is firmly in place, however, so I manage a smile as enigmatic as Parker’s. “So you’re all in, are you? I should expect that Caribbean island next?”
“Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I have no quick response because my brain gives up on this conversation and decides it’s time for a nap.
I’ll never win with logic, anyway. The only thing that’s going to carry me through this weekend is sheer animal cunning, which is something different altogether.
Looking at Parker—at his perfect hair, chiseled jaw, cocky grin—I smile again, only this time it’s real. “I should warn you, Parker; bitches aren’t kept. They do the keeping.”
His grin turns wolfish. “I can hardly wait.”
We approach the car. The driver opens the rear passenger door for me, murmuring, “Ms. Price.” I settle myself into butter-soft leather and try not to cackle hysterically when I see a picnic basket between the seats that looks right out of a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale.
Which one of us is Little Red Riding Hood, and which is the Big Bad Wolf?
Judging by Parker’s smile alone, I’d say I’m the one in the red cape.
Parker enters from the other side, the driver shuts my door and gets in the front, and then we’re off.
We don’t speak as Parker opens the wicker basket, removes two crystal champagne flutes and a bottle of Dom, and pours a measure in each glass. He hands me one. I decide I’d rather not be the little girl in the cape who’s about to be devoured, so I raise my glass and make a toast thick with threat.
“Here’s to those who wish me well, and those
who don’t can go to hell.” Without waiting for Parker’s response, I tip my head back and swallow the contents of my glass.
Parker chuckles. “My sentiments exactly.” He downs his champagne, sets the glass back in the basket and removes a plastic-wrapped cheese board. “Gouda?” he inquires, so innocently I know I’m in real trouble.
