Page 20 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
She rises to leave. I flip through my Rolodex, searching for the number of my next appointment. Just before she’s about to cross the threshold, my desk phone rings. The readout says it’s the concierge downstairs. I hit the speaker button to answer.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Price, this is Carlton at the concierge. We have a delivery for you. May we send it up?”
“I wasn’t expecting a delivery.”
“It’s flowers, ma’am.”
I look up to find Tabby gazing at me from the doorway with an amused expression. For some reason I feel as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Send it up, Carlton. Thank you.” I disconnect the call. Then I ignore the way Tabby is smirking.
Then, a few minutes later when the elevator doors open to reveal four of the front desk staff carrying huge bouquets of white roses, I ignore Tabby’s cheerful, “Gee, I wonder if they’re from Mr. It’s Not Personal?”
“Put them on the dining table, please,” I direct the guys.
“Sure thing, Ms. Price. Where do you want the rest of them?”
“The rest of them? There are more?”
The young man in the navy suit who is the manager of the front desk nods. “There are a lot more. Eleven more, I think.”
“Wow,” drawls Tabby, inspecting one of the extravagant bouquets. “This guy isn’t kidding.”
Once again, I ignore her. To the manager I say, “Fine, put the rest of them anywhere you can find a space in the living room and office. I’ll move them later.”
He nods and ushers the other three men out. One of the bouquets has a card attached, which Tabby removes and hands to me. It reads, “One dozen roses for every hour I’ve thought of you since we met.” Then his initials and his phone number, and two final words: “Call me.”
He’s playing right into my hands…so why does that final instruction bother me so much?
Then it hits me: because it’s an order he fully expects will be obeyed. He thinks he’s in control.
“Bossy son of a bitch,” I mutter, and tear the card into little pieces.
“Careful, Icicles!” says Tabby brightly on her way out of the room. “That looked suspiciously like an emotion.”
I call after her, “You’re fired!” She laughs, and then she’s gone.
Of course she knows she’s not fired.
Who would hide all my skeletons then?
SEVEN
Six days later—and three hours late—I arrive at the New York chapter of the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s annual gala, wearing ten thousand dollars of Bulgari diamonds and a long, skintight white Armani gown that exposes the entirety of my bare back, all the way down to the dimples above my tailbone.
The entry ticket cost more than my diamonds. That son of a bitch better be here tonight, or I’m anonymously mailing him a steaming bag of horse poop.
Tabby has assured me she has an Internet source for it.
My arrival is a calculated risk. Though Parker didn’t specify which charity event he was attending tonight, the other possibilities that Tabby emailed me didn’t seem nearly as probable as the one he gives millions to each year. I suppose I could have done some reconnaissance, maybe had Tabby call Parker’s office and pretend to be an assistant from the charity confirming his reservation, but honestly I felt like gambling.
Twelve thousand bucks seems like a good deal if it ends with me sending a bag of poop to my mortal enemy.
But¸ alas, the caca will have to wait for another time, because I spot him the moment I walk in the door.
The party is in full swing. This year the gala is taking place at the venerated Cipriani Wall Street, a luxurious event space sporting monolithic columns, Greek Revival architecture, and a seventy-foot ceiling with a spectacular Wedgwood dome. It’s packed with elegantly dressed people who are eating, laughing, and drinking. A ten-piece band plays on a riser on one side of the dance floor, which is filled with couples. The party atmosphere is enhanced by dramatic violet lighting on the walls and enormous pink orchid arrangements, which are everywhere.
