Page 47 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I stop brushing and look at her with my brows lifted.
She inspects her manicure, and then casually tosses out, “Like for instance if you showed up at the mayor’s with a date.”
I spit the rest of the toothpaste into the sink, rinse out my mouth and declare, “You, girl genius, are worth every penny I pay you. Who did you have in mind?”
Because of course she has someone in mind. She wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.
When she looks back up at me, her green eyes flash. She grins. “Luciano Mancari.”
I gasp, thrilled. “Oh my God. You’re even more evil than I am!”
She giggles. “I thought you’d like that.”
“Like it? I love it!” I run over to her and give her a hug. Suddenly we’re giggling maniacally together like two despots plotting a nuclear war.
Luciano Mancari has been trying to get me to go on a date with him for six months, since I met him at a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend. He’s extremely gorgeous, extremely Italian, and—best of all—extremely successful.
He even has his own television show: Mangia with Mancari.
He’s a celebrity chef.
He’s also got an ego the size of Canada, an IQ the size of a flea, and an eye that could be called roving, only that would be like calling Godzilla a cute little lizard. No human person with a vagina is safe from his lascivious gaze.
He keeps his hands to himself, however. He just likes to look.
And look.
And look.
No matter. I’m not in the market for a husband, or even a lover. I just want to prance around with him on my arm for a few hours to piss Parker off. Nothing motivates a man like the thought that his territory is being poached.
Tabby turns and leaves, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll get him on the phone. Call you when I have him.”
“Wait—one more thing.”
She turns back.
“See if you can find out anything about a girl Parker dated who killed herself.”
She grimaces. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, I don’t know either. He mentioned it to me last night. Could be something I can use.”
She shrugs. “OK. I’ll add it to my checklist of chaos.”
“You’re a doll.”
After she leaves, I take off my pajamas, turn on the shower, and step into the hot spray, smiling to myself and whistling a happy tune.
I’m really looking forward to tonight.
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* * *
Nine and a half hours later, glossed and gussied, I step through the tall glass doors of the lobby of my building. Across the drive, Luciano leans against the back door of a ridiculously long stretch limo, smoking a cigarette. He looks me up and down, taking his time, his gaze clinging to my every curve, and then flicks his cigarette away. Smiling, he holds out his hand.
“Buonasera, belíssima.”
