Page 19 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
“That’s the nature of icicles.”
“No, the nature of icicles is to melt.”
“Tabitha.”
She twirls the end of her ponytail between her fingers and smiles at me. “It’s sweet how you call me Tabitha when you’re mad at me. Kind of like you’re my mom or something.”
“If I were your mother, I would have given birth to you when I was nine years old. Not everyone over thirty is ready for the retirement home, girl genius.”
Tabby, not yet twenty-five, doesn’t look convinced.
“Parker Maxwell,” I prompt, in a tone that brooks no argument.
She turns the iPad around with a sigh that sounds distinctly discontent. “Right. Parker Maxwell. Where was I? Oh, now this is interesting. When he returned to the States after his stint in France, he disappeared for two years. Just dropped off the face of the planet. No work history,
no known address, no nothing. Then out of the blue one day he opens his first restaurant, to huge acclaim. Then another. Then another, et cetera, repeat ad nauseam for ten-ish years. Which brings us to now. Twenty-three successful restaurants, over four hundred employees, a multimillion-dollar empire, homes in New York, Aspen and the Caribbean, a list of ex-girlfriends that reads like a Victoria’s Swimsuit catalogue lineup, a charity foundation or two, and not a single friend in the world.”
I’d been examining my manicure as she recited the list of his accomplishments, but now I look up, startled. “What do you mean, not a single friend in the world?”
“Just what I said. The guy’s a total loner. You’d think a rich playboy would hang out with all the other rich playboys in his spare time, but the only thing your Mr. Maxwell does in his spare time is work.”
My lips twist. “And date supermodels.”
She gives me a look. “From what I can gather, his requirements of a ‘date’ are exactly what yours are: look pretty, be quiet, give me some head, get the hell out.’”
“I do enjoy these charming little observations of yours. Anything else?”
She consults the iPad again. “Hobbies include racing his collection of vintage Porsches, crashing his collection of vintage Porsches…and working.”
I smile to myself. He never was a very good driver. He was always too easily distracted, most often by his hand on my leg, or my mouth on his neck—
Tabby clears her throat.
My head snaps up. “Yes? What?”
Tabby pauses for what feels like a long time. “Are you OK?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Because you look a little flushed. And you don’t flush. Like, ever. I didn’t think it was physically possible.”
Oh damn. Smart people can be so inconvenient.
“I’m fine, Tabitha.”
She mutters, “And we’re back to Tabitha.”
I check my Rolex. “I’ve got another call in five minutes. Is there anything else you found?”
Tabby gives me a look that says she knows I’m blowing her off, she knows I know she knows it, and she’s going to let it go. She stands. “Nothing of real interest. Perfect credit, no criminal record, no bankruptcies, no litigation, no known tattoos, allergies, health problems, or kink fetishes.”
When she sees my raised brows, she shrugs. “You did say everything.”
“OK. Thanks. Did you compile the list I asked for?”
“Of all the charity events in the city next Friday? Yeah, I did. Short list. I’ll email it to you.”
“Great. Thanks, Tabby.”
