Page 61 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
“But a lawsuit is public information, no?”
Shit. He chooses now to display a glimmer of intelligence?
“Far less public than a duel. If word gets out that the best chef in the world is going to shoot someone, the television networks will go wild. You know how silly we Americans are about our reality TV. Plus, people might even feel sorry for Parker. Seeing as how you’re going to kill him, I mean. We don’t want him becoming some kind of martyr.”
I can see that last bit was the nail in the coffin, but just to make sure I haven’t trod on his wafer-thin ego with all my inferior womanly opinions, I demurely add, “But of course you know best.”
When I bat my lashes like there’s a piece of lint in my eye, he melts. “Ah, belíssima,” he sighs. “You are making someone the very fine wife someday.” He kisses my hand. Hovering above it, he murmurs, “Maybe even me, no?”
Um, no.
The universe takes pity on me, because at the precise moment I’m deciding how to deal with that fresh horror, my phone rings. I answer it so quickly I don’t even look to see who it is.
“Victoria Price speaking,” I chirp, acting all businessy so Luciano takes the hint that he’s supposed to allow me a moment to compose myself after his swoon-inducing declaration. Thankfully he does, releasing my hand and leaning back against the seat, secure in his opinion of the effect he must be having on me with all his powerful machismo.
“After you’ve dropped your injured puppy dog off at the veterinarian, I’m coming over. We need to talk.”
It’s Parker. Judging by the growl in his voice, he isn’t happy. My heart begins to thump.
“Oh, hello, Mom! So good to hear from you. Now isn’t a great time, though. I’m on a date with the most amazing man.”
Luciano’s smile is the absolute definition of smug.
“Victoria.”
What is it about the way Parker says my name that makes all my girly bits get tingly? I close my eyes, blocking out everything but the sound of his voice.
“Yes, Mom?”
“I’m. Coming. Over.”
Oh, that tone. It promises everything. All my tingly bits collectively throb. And then, as I’m simultaneously enjoying the throbbing and wishing it would stop, inspiration hits.
“No. I’ll come to your place.”
The line crackles with electricity. Parker’s voice drops low, low, low. “If you come to my house tonight, Victoria, you’re not leaving until tomorrow morning.”
Suddenly my throat is dry. My hands shake. And my heart, which was simply thumping before, now starts to hammer so hard I have to press a hand over my chest.
I say, “Give me the address.”
He does, and then demands, “When?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“If you’re not there—”
“I’ll be there.”
Something in my voice must set his mind at ease, because he says, “Ten o’clock, then,” and hangs up.
After I tuck the phone back in my bag, Luciano asks, “You don’t know your mother’s address?”
I laugh breathlessly. “She just moved.”
He doesn’t question me. He simply nods, appeased, while I marvel at the adrenaline crashing through me in wave after glorious wave.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
