Page 114 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
In contrast, Parker seems the better for telling his story. His step is sure and easy. His expression is calm. Apparently unburdening yourself of all of your past transgressions, accusing the woman you’re sleeping with of being a criminal computer genius, and making a passive-aggressive, semi-oblique suggestion that you won’t testify against her in court if she becomes your wife have psychological benefits.
Catharsis, if you will.
Parker gently lays me on the bed. He arranges my limbs like I’m a quadriplegic and he’s my attentive, caring nurse—legs demurely together, arms by my sides—and then climbs into bed beside me. He slides his arm under my neck, wraps his other arm around my waist, and nuzzles his face into my hair. His sigh is deeply content.
He says, “So.”
That’s it. One syllable. Two letters. That’s all it takes to seal your fate.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the relentless drum of the rain on the roof, and think about the seminar today. I think about all those women who came to hear me speak about being strong, standing up for themselves, not taking any shit from their men. I think about the woman in the front row who said I was her hero.
I’m nobody’s hero. Especially not my own.
What would those women think of me now if they could see me lying here, as limp and acquiescent as a ragdoll beside the man who was, until moments ago, my greatest enemy? What would they think if they knew that instead of standing up and fighting, I was mutely weighing all my options, calculating every possible outcome, parsing each and every way I might extricate myself from this situation without blowing it all to hell?
Because hell is exactly where I think this is leading. Though I’m not sure, I’ve got a strong suspicion that if I don’t continue with Parker’s assumption that I’m Polaroid, if I admit my true identity as the formerly deceased and suddenly resurrected Isabel Diaz and say, “Gee, sorry, this has all been one huuuge misunderstanding!” Tabby and I will soon be wearing matching orange jumpsuits.
I’ve deceived him in every conceivable way. My own mother told him just about the worst lie I can think of, which he’s spent years crucifying himself over. I can’t possibly turn around now and cheerfully declare, “Hey, great news, I’m not really dead!” and expect him to treat me with any level of civility.
I suppose I could try it. Roll the dice and see if they come up lucky. But I’m not gambling with only my life. There’s Tabby to think of. He mentioned most wanted lists; definitely not good. He put that out there for a reason. And God—he’d probably confront my mother. I can see it now, the two of them screaming at each other on her porch.
And what if my mother slipped? What if, in her rage, she told him about Eva? About the daughter kept hidden from him for so many years?
What would Parker do then?
What would happen to Eva?
If a child i
s given up for adoption and the biological father didn’t agree to it, what kind of legal nightmare would ensue if he tried to contest the adoption? He’d said at dinner he’d always wanted children. What if the child he wanted turned out to be the one he never knew he had?
Too many questions crowd my mind. I can’t think. I close my eyes, swallowing the sound of despair trying to crawl from my throat.
Parker says, “There’s something I have to know.”
My eyes fly open.
“I don’t believe in belaboring a point, so I’ll only ask this once, but I need you to be honest.”
I break out in a cold sweat. The rain on the roof sounds like gunfire.
His voice low but intense, he says, “You were in my office. You found my safe. You tried to get into my computers. Why?”
I shudder. It’s involuntary, a little seizure, one of those twitching nerve things dead tissue can sometimes do. We had chickens on our farm; when you cut off their heads, they would stagger around for minutes afterward, the body still able to perform motor functions without a brain.
I am one of those chickens.
Finally I breathe, “I just…wanted to be sure…I could trust you.”
What’s one more lie when your entire life is built upon a mountain of them?
“And now you know,” he says tenderly, stroking my face.
I swallow, inhale a fortifying breath, and test the waters to see how shark-infested they are. “You’re not worried I’ll leak all this information to the press if we break up?”
He tenses. I hold my breath as I wait for his answer.
Finally he says, “Neither one of us is going to the press. We both have too much to lose.”
