Page 12 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
“What?”
“You really don’t know anything about women, do you?”
“Of course I do. Don’t expect them to be interested in sports, on time, or rational. What else is there to know?”
More eye rolling. “You’re hopeless, Parker.”
“Moving on—how do you know all this about her?”
In the following pause, two spots of color stain Bailey’s cheeks. Her lashes sweep downward. “I may have Googled her after she came in.”
I look back to Victoria’s table. She’s ignoring me now, but I have the impression she knows I’m looking at her. The woman has the most smug, secretive smile I’ve ever seen.
A successful, intelligent, beautiful woman with a Mona Lisa smile, arctic laser beam eyes, and a reputation for being not only a ruthless bitch but also a voracious lover?
The way my mouth has begun to water, you’d think someone waved a meatball sandwich under my nose.
“Uh-oh.” Bailey’s tone is wry.
I glance at her. “What
?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
She sighs and pushes away from the wall. “The same look you had when bitchface walked in the place. That hound-eyed, pricked-eared, nose-in-the-air-scenting-prey look. That it’s on look. Honestly, Parker, you’re thirty-four. When are you going to get tired of the chase and find some nice girl to settle down with?”
No nice girl deserves a man like me, I think, turning my attention back to Victoria Price and her disdainful profile. A grim, determined smile curves my lips.
A Queen Bitch, however, is another story.
An ear-splitting shriek emits from the kitchen, followed by a loud crash. Bailey and I share a look, and then I stride into the kitchen to find out what’s going on.
Chaos is what’s going on.
Wild-eyed, Kai stands in front of one of the four large industrial stoves. Six pans with various steaming foods sizzle on the burners. Strewn all around him in a scattered mess on the floor are a variety of pots and pans, stainless steel bowls, and cooking implements. Flattened against the doors of the Sub-Zero refrigerator a few feet away are the sous chef and the pastry chef, both of whom are gaping in terror at Kai.
Who is brandishing a large cleaver.
“I cannot work under these conditions!” he screams, punctuating every other word with a shake of the gleaming knife. “I am Kai Fürst, not a gottverdammte line cook at a diner!”
I inquire, “Trouble, gentlemen?”
Two new cooks and a server who’d been trapped in a corner between Kai and the door take the opportunity of my appearance to make a run for it. They bolt from the kitchen. The rest of the kitchen staff, who are far more experienced than the three who just fled, simply watch with mild interest while continuing their duties.
The pastry chef, a twenty-year-old recent graduate of the Culinary Institute in Napa, looks a bit green. He’s also shaking. Apparently he hasn’t yet learned that executive chefs at top fine dining establishments are typically insane.
He stammers, “C-chef isn’t h-happy with the crust on the ganache t-tart!”
The sous chef adds, “Or the crème fraîche for the egg caviar.”
“I see.” I look at Kai. “On a positive note, Darcy LaFontaine says the oysters are superb. And the foie gras was…” I purse my lips and gaze at the ceiling. “How did she put it?” I snap my fingers. “Ah, yes—orgasmic.”
Kai drops the cleaver. It lands at his feet with a metallic clatter. “Really? She used that word, orgasmic?”
Now utterly calm as if a switch has been thrown, cutting off the conduit to his rage, he steps over the mess on the floor and comes to stand in front of me. His eyes are bright and hopeful. I wonder when he last ran a comb through his hair.
