Page 48 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I walk slowly toward him, my hips swaying. The Armani fits like a glove. A five-thousand-dollar glove with a slit so high it’s more like an open invitation to take a gander at my lady bits.
“Buonasera, Luciano,” I purr. “How nice to see you again.”
While ogling my cleavage with one eye and my legs with the other, he kisses my hand. I try not to gag. When he straightens, his dark eyes are half lidded, as if he’s already fucked me. He says something in Italian that sounds suspiciously dirty, but I don’t speak the language so I can’t be sure. I just smile and allow him to help me into the limo.
Luciano sits next to me on the wide leather seat, the driver shuts his door, and we pull away. Then he turns to me and says in his formal, accented, slightly incorrect English that so many women find irresistible, “I am very pleased you have finally decided to accept my offers for a date, Miss Victoria. I am always finding you so very beautiful woman.”
Aww. That was kind of sweet. Too bad I can’t stand him.
“Thank you, Luciano—”
“Please.” He touches my arm. “Call me Lucky. This is more personal, no?”
No. This is more like a character in a Jackie Collins novel.
I smile. “Of course.”
His gaze drops to his hand on my arm, then drifts over to my crossed legs, on spectacular display courtesy of the giant side slit. He folds his hands in his lap, but doesn’t stop looking at my legs, which gives me ample time to study him.
He’s a classically handsome man, with a perfect nose, full lips, a thick head of dark hair swept back from his face. His skin is flawless, the color of a Starbucks macchiato. He carries himself well, casually, wearing a beautiful bespoke black suit as if he were born in it, like a second skin.
All that beauty, and yet he’s entirely uninspiring.
I remember exactly this expression he wears. It’s one of gentle disinterest, even when he’s paying close attention to something, like my legs. It’s as if his mind is on the constant verge of slumber. It’s impossible to engage with him, because, as Gertrude Stein once famously said, “There is no there there.”
He’s empty.
He’s perfectly made for television, all bright and shiny on the outside, on the inside gossamer-thin. “All sizzle and no steak,” as my father would have put it.
In comparison, Parker Maxwell is a goddamn filet mignon.
The thought makes me chuckle. Luciano glances up at me. A furrow appears between his sculpted brows.
“Are you finding me funny, Miss Victoria?”
“Oh, no, Lucky, not at all! I was just thinking about your show last week. That woman you brought up from the audience to help you with the Bolognese sauce was so sweet. I thought she was going to faint from standing so close to you!”
He’s surprised and pleased. I can tell by his expression. “You watch my show?”
I act astonished. “I never miss it! It’s my favorite!” I add in a confidential whisper, “It’s so much better than Emeril’s.”
I bat my lashes at him. He beams back at me. And we’re off.
I’ve never watched his show. Tabby gave me the CliffsNotes version while I was getting my hair done so I’d have something to talk to him about. I knew this would be a winning topic.
Luciano says with confidence, “Certo. This is because he is an American, no? From the South—a racist.” He makes one of those dismissive hand gestures smug Europeans make when they’re referring to Americans. “Cooking these disgusting crawfish creatures from the swamps. How anyone thinks this is real food, I cannot know. Estúpido.”
Fury blasts through me like a cannonball. I nearly swallow my tongue.
Number one: I happen to love crawfish. I grew up eating them. My mother, bless her heart, isn’t a great cook, but she made do with what was available and we could afford. We had wire funnel traps in the pond on our property, and had crawfish boils nearly every weekend in the summer.
Number two: I despise the assumption that being from the South equals being a racist. Racism isn’t about where you were born. It’s about how small your heart is.
Number three: he has no idea—nor has it occurred to him to ask—whether I am from the South, or enjoy crawfish. On top of that, he’s insulted my country. Or my nationality. Certainly my national pride, at the very least.
If I get the chance tonight, I’m going to trip him and make him fall flat on his beautiful face.
I give him my most winning smile. “Oh, Lucky, you’re so smart. And so fortunate to be from a country that doesn’t bother itself with silly things like economic stability and women’s rights!”
