Page 6 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
No matter how gorgeous and alluring that no one might be.
“I realize this is a new position for you, Jenny, but in the future, my instructions are to be followed to the letter, or you will be out of a job. Am I understood?”
Paling, Jenny nods. I leave her without another word and make my way back toward the kitchen, moving quickly now, cursing myself for putting someone so nice in the hostess position. It’s becoming obvious that Jenny doesn’t have the necessary level of ruthlessness it requires. If all it takes is a few words from some demanding socialite to throw her off plan—
I stop mid-stride as I see my chef, Kai, a man known to hate the human race as if every single one of us has personally offended him, bring a plate of amuse-bouches to Darcy LaFontaine’s table, set it on the linen cloth in front of her, and then bow.
He bows. When he straightens, he’s smiling like a clown.
What the hell is going on?
I catch the eye of the woman in white, Victoria Price, and the look she gives me pulls me up short.
Jesus. I never knew ice could burn with such heat.
“Sooo,” drawls a voice in my ear. It’s Bailey, materialized out of thin air like Dracula. She peers over my shoulder at the bizarre scene at table thirty. “It looks like you were wrong about your mystery woman.”
I don’t bother answering. She’s obviously bursting to tell me, so I just keep my mouth shut and wait for it.
“Apparently she doesn’t like to fuck, after all.” She jerks her chin. “Your friend over there with the food critic is the biggest man-hater in the country. Maybe even the world.” She grins. Her blue eyes twinkle. “Good luck with that, boss!”
She spins on her heel and is gone. When I look again at table thirty, Kai is bent over Darcy LaFontaine’s outstretched, bejeweled hand, kissing it.
And Victoria Price is murdering me with her eyes.
Who the hell are these women?
THREE
~ Victoria ~
The slender, tattooed chef with the wild thatch of blond hair who’s bending over Darcy’s hand is charming in an awkward, self-conscious sort of way, and is obviously going gaga over her, but I’m too busy chugging my martini and wrestling my personal demons to care.
I should leave. I should throw a drink in that bastard’s face. I should call Gloria Tartenberger right this instant and tell her that there are not only cockroaches in the salad in this place but also a highly suspicious chemical odor in the air. A dangerous gas leak, perhaps? She’d be here with a shutdown order in five minutes flat. After I coached her through her last divorce, she swore she’d throw herself in front of a train for me.
But I don’t leave, or throw a drink, or make any calls. I sit beside my friend and listen to the chef prattle on about how honored he is and how wonderful it is to have Darcy dine with him and how he can’t wait for her to try the hinoki-scented cod and the coconut-curried mussels, while I pretend to be something other than the pack of rabid wolves and chainsaw-wielding serial killers I suddenly am inside.
One look at the man who shattered my soul fifteen years ago and it all comes back with vivid, sickening clarity: the months of black depression, the feelings of utter worthlessness, the crying jags that wrung me dry and left my mother beside herself in a panic about what to do with her nearly comatose teenage daughter.
Parker Maxwell was my life. My first—and last—love. And he dumped me in the most cowardly way: with a letter.
That he mailed.
Two days later I found out I was pregnant. I never saw him again.
Until this moment, that is. Standing at the far side of a noisy, bustling room, just as tall and strong as he ever was. Just as glamorous-rich-kid-quarterback-daydream as he ever was.
I’d like to gouge out his eyeballs with my soup spoon and set him on fire. Instead, I smile serenely at no one in particular and toss back the dregs of my martini.
“Well, aren’t you sweet.” Darcy coyly bats her eyes at the chef, who has introduced himself as Kai. She retrieves her hand from his grip and gives him a serious once-over. “You started your career at Pó with Batali, if I’m not mistaken?”
Kai nods vigorously and beams. “That’s right. You know your chefs!”
He has a distinct German accent. One of his front teeth is slightly askew. Beneath his white chef’s coat, he’s wearing an alarming pair of purple leopard-skin pants and orange Crocs. He’s not one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen, but he’s adorable in his own manic pixie boy way. I can tell Darcy thinks so, too.
“I do know my chefs,” purrs Darcy. She leans over her crossed arms, making her cleavage burst into an incredible 3-D experience from the neckline of her dress, lowers her voice, and pins the chef in her seductive, long-lashed gaze. “And to be perfectly honest, Mr. Fürst, I’ve been really looking forward to having you feed me.”
Poor Kai nearly swoons.
