Page 4 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Which is when I see him.
Him.
And the safe, carefully constructed world I’ve inhabited for the past fifteen years ends with the abruptness of two fingers snapping.
TWO
~ Parker ~
I notice her the instant she walks in my front door.
So does my cock: it practically sits up and begs.
“Oh, no,” says my number two, Bailey, following my gaze. “Not yet, Parker. We’ve got a million things to get done tonight before you go trolling for your next conquest. We’re almost out of caviar and salmon, the burners on the second stove aren’t working, and Kai is having a meltdown about the quality of the truffles. He says he didn’t study at Le Cordon Bleu so he could come work for you and cook with shitty truffles. He’s threatening to walk out. Which would be a major disaster, considering Darcy LaFontaine is supposed to show up any minute—”
Gasping, Bailey grabs me. “Oh, God, that’s her!”
I would growl at Bailey to stop digging her acrylic talons into my arm, but I can’t take my eyes off the woman who just walked into my restaurant.
She’s an absolute stunner.
“The gorgeous brunette in white is Darcy LaFontaine? Hmm. Not what I pictured.”
“Gorgeous?” With a sniff, Bailey releases me. “I wouldn’t call her gorgeous.”
I chuckle. “That’s because you don’t have a dick.”
Bailey turns and glares at me. As it’s one of her favorite things to do, I ignore it. She’s been trying to get me to sleep with her for years, but she’s too good an employee for me to take the bait. I don’t shit where I eat, so to speak.
Also, she’s clingy. I’ve seen how she is with some of her boyfriends, and I’d chew my arm off before I’d volunteer for that. No matter how pretty they are—and Bailey is very pretty, in a willowy, Gwyneth Paltrow kind of way—needy women have always turned my stomach.
The brunette in white doesn’t look needy. Though elegantly dressed, she somehow looks tough. Sharp, smart, and I’ll-cut-you tough. In fact, the look she’s just sent me seems to indicate she’d like to rip out my throat.
Interesting.
“Seriously, Parker, what’s so gorgeous about that girl?” insists Bailey, clearly disgruntled. “Aside from that killer Armani sheath she’s wearing—OK, those Louboutins are pretty awesome, too—she’s just not that pretty.”
Translation: I’m jealous of her in every way. I want to wear her skin.
Instead of calling Bailey on that, I say, “She looks like she loves to fuck.”
Bailey’s mouth drops open. Her head swivels around and she stares at me. “What?”
I’m still staring at the brunette. So is nearly every other male around her. Dressed in crisp, pristine white in a sea of dark suits and cocktail dresses, she stands out like a star. I know women, and I know that choice of dress is deliberate; she likes to draw the eye. Everything about her says Look at me.
And goddamn, I just can’t stop.
“The way she stands, moves, holds herself. Her energy. I can tell; she loves men, and she loves to fuck.”
Executing a swift, one-hundred-eighty-degree turn in attitude, Bailey sticks up for the mystery woman. She snaps, “I don’t think she looks slutty at all, Parker. She looks…” She searches for the word for a moment, and then pronounces, “Classy.”
“I never said she didn’t. Now get your ass in gear and tell Kai if he walks out on me I’ll break his kneecaps. Then call Le Cirque and ask Giovanni to send over some truffles and caviar; he owes me a favor. As for the salmon, get the word out to the wait staff that we’re out. Suggest the monkfish. And suggest we’re almost out of that, too.”
Bailey frowns. “But we have plenty of monkfish.”
“Yes, but if diners think we’re almost out, they’ll start ordering it.”
People love first dibs on the last of anything.
