Page 27 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
“No, mija. I don’t mean that. You’re smart; I know you can find out what you need to know. You must be careful of something else.”
The quiet tone of warning in her voice alarms me. “What?”
“That you don’t get hurt again.”
Scalding heat flashes over me. “I’m not a child any more, mama,” I reply indignantly. “And you just said I was smart. Why would you think I’d let myself get hurt by him again?”
There’s a weighty pause. Finally she says, “Look at the picture of the two of you, Isabel. Look at it long and hard. Look at your face. Then tell me why you think I might be worried.”
Before I can say anything, she hangs up.
I put the phone back in its cradle. I pick up the newspaper and look closely at the picture of Parker and me. Specifically, I examine my face. And then I see exactly what my mother was talking about.
The woman in the picture isn’t a ruthless businesswoman with years of professional bitchery under her belt. She isn’t hard. She isn’t calculating. She isn’t, at the moment of the kiss, the mastermind of a wicked plot for revenge.
She’s undone.
She’s pressed against the man as if her life depends on it, clutching him, her arms flung around his shoulders, her fingers digging into his suit, his hair. She wears an expression any fool can see is one of utter pleasure, of utter abandon, as if the world itself no longer exists, as if there is only her mouth fused to his, her body pressed to his.
I mutter, “Damn,” and toss the paper aside. I sit for a while, thinking, trying to decide on the best course of action.
Then I call Tabby back into the room and tell her to get me Parker’s cell phone number.
It’s good I talked to my mother. It was hard, but it was also a necessary reminder of everything that’s at stake, of everything he needs to pay for. Now I’m even more determined than before.
Even if I have to burn the whole world to the ground to do it, that bastard is going down.
NINE
~ Parker ~
The call comes at exactly the right moment. If I have to endure Elliot Rosenthal droning on for one more minute about current margins versus historical sales data, I’ll be forced to slit my own wrists.
I fish my cell from my coat pocket. It’s a number I don’t recognize, which makes me frown. No one I didn’t personally give it to has this number.
“This is Parker Maxwell.”
“And this is your dance partner, with hat in hand.”
The throaty voice takes me so thoroughly by surprise¸ I stand without thinking. My executive team, seated around the conference table at my corporate headquarters in Vegas, all look at me. Even Elliot Rosenthal pauses to see what’s going on.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say to Victoria Price, and then put the phone to my chest. “Continue without me.”
I bolt out of that boardroom so fast their heads must be spinning.
I stride down the hallway, find an empty office, and go inside, closing the door behind me. I put the phone against my ear. “Sorry about that. I’m back.”
“Is this a good time? I can call back later—”
“No, your timing’s perfect. I was in the most boring meeting ever held. In fact, you’ve just saved me from opening a vein and ruining an old and expensive hand-woven Turkish rug.”
Her husky laugh gives me chills. Jesus, this woman sounds sexy even when she’s laughing.
“Well, good. We’re even, then.”
“How so?”
“You saved me from a gorilla attack, now I’ve saved you from suicide.”
