His Wicked Games: A Billionaire Romance (The Cunningham Family #1) Page 4

Panic rises in my throat.

  “You mean I'm stranded here? With you?”

  “It appears so.” Calder eyes me over his glass. “You don't have to look so terrified. I'm not going to devour you or anything.”

  “That's not exactly the impression you gave me a moment ago.”

  “Believe it or not, I prefer my women consenting. Enthusiastic, even. Until you're willing to admit that you're attracted to me, I won't lay a finger on you. After that…”

  “There won't be an 'after that'. I'm not attracted to you. Quite the opposite, actually. You're an asshole, and I don't care if I'm stuck here tonight. Nothing is going to happen between us.”

  “Very well then,” he says, nonplussed. “But since you can't leave, would you care to return to the table? I don't want Martin's hard work to get cold while we sit here at our little stalemate.”

  “It's not a stalemate,” I insist. “There's no discussion here. Nothing will happen between us.”

  He nods, unconcerned, and I want nothing more than to smack that smug smile off of his face. Is this really all just a game to him? Is he getting his kicks by pissing me off?

  A part of me wants to storm from the room. Whether I can actually make it back to Barberville or not, I don't have to stand here and take this from him. But sulking out to my car feels more childish than sitting back down at the table, and I won't let him make me feel like a sullen brat. I sigh and return to the table, sinking into my seat and taking up my fork without giving Calder a second glance.

  He's watching me, though. As soon as I put the last bit of salad in my mouth, he's on his feet and back at the cart again. He removes the lid from one of the silver chafing dishes, and a heavenly aroma greets my nostrils. Damn him and his brilliant personal chef. I'm not feeling very complimentary right now, but my taste buds water in defiance of my dark mood.

  The main course is pecan-crusted salmon with a side of buttered white asparagus. He serves me again, as he did with the salad. I offer him my polite thanks before falling back into silence.

  The food does little to temper my anger. Neither does the way Calder keeps looking at me. I still can't believe his arrogance. He thinks he's won, that I'm halfway into bed with him already. He's so used to women just falling over themselves for him. Well, not me. Hell will freeze over before that happens. I may be stuck here, but that doesn't change anything.

  I sneak a glance at him when he leans forward to grab the wine bottle again. Sure, I can appreciate his looks from a purely aesthetic point of view. Those broad shoulders and strong jawline have, I’m certain, left many a woman swooning. If I’m being honest, the untrimmed hair and stubble suit him far better than the über-polished look he sported at Arts & Hearts. But does that mean I'm attracted to him? No. He's still an ass, and a shitty personality can make even the finest man on earth seem ugly.

  “Enjoying the view, Ms. Frazer?”

  Heat floods my cheeks, but I recover quickly.

  “Merely musing on how arrogance can really bring a man down a few notches in the looks department,” I say.

  “Interesting observation.” He pours himself more merlot. “Frankly I've found that most women seem to find confidence an asset, rather than a detriment to my appearance.”

  “Arrogance and confidence aren't the same thing.”

  “Aren't they, though?” he replies. “In my experience, most women respond quite favorably to a man who isn't afraid to tell them exactly what he wants and then follow through on it.”

  “Maybe you just attract the women who are easily blinded by money and compliments.”

  “Tell me, Ms. Frazer,” he says, “why are you here, if you're not interested in my money?”

  “That's not the same thing at all.”

  “Isn't it?” He gestures with his fork. “Perhaps you're asking for a different application of the funds, but you're still interested in my money.”

  “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

  “I’m not accusing you at all,” he says pleasantly. “I'm just asking you to take a hard look at what you're doing here before you start casting judgment on other people.”

  “You're one to lecture me on morality,” I counter.

  He shrugs. “I'm only making an observation.”

  No, I think. You're only trying to bait me. He's enjoying this whole thing too much, and I'm making it way too easy for him.

  I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Continuing to get angry won't solve anything. I don't want to give Calder the satisfaction of thinking that he's gotten under my skin.

  We spend the rest of the meal in silence. More than once I think about raising the issue of the Center. After all, we had a deal. But I'm too emotional right now. Even if I thought that I could change his mind about the Center—which I don't anymore—I can't even put together a coherent argument while I’m this worked up.

  When I've eaten the last bit of food on my plate, I set down my fork.

  “Tell Martin he outdid himself,” I say evenly, though I’m still actively fighting the urge to smack him upside the head. “Everything was wonderful.”

  Calder smiles. “I will.” He eyes drift to my empty glass. “More whiskey?”

  I shake my head. “Actually, I'm really tired. I think I might just go to bed.”

  If he's disappointed by that, he doesn't show it. “Do you need help finding your way back to your room?”

  I wish I didn't, but I know I'll get lost if I try to find my way back on my own. I nod reluctantly. I swear—if he tries to make a move on me, I'll knee him in the groin.

  Calder retains his easy confidence as we make our way back through his house. I'm not sure how the arrogant bastard does it—how can he act so nonchalant, as if we never argued? Is it some skill he picked up from a lifetime of Never Having to Give a Damn?

  I study him out of the corner of my eye as we walk. His moods seem to swing all over the place—one moment he’s cocky and sexually aggressive, the next he’s laughing with his personal chef, and still the next he’s quiet and sullen and bitter. His face is carefully blank now, but what the hell is going on his head?

  This man lost his father recently, I remember suddenly.

  My own dad's face flashes in my mind, and my stomach twists. Whatever I think of Calder, I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone. He hasn't said much about the event except to reference his new status in the house. How is he handling all that? It can't be easy.

  The hair, the scruff, the shadows under his eyes—they’re probably all signs of his emotional turmoil over the last few months. Wentworth Cunningham was a good man, and I had the opportunity to speak with him several times about Center projects and business. He was genuinely passionate about our work, and about spreading the joys of the arts among people of all socio-economic classes—one of Dad’s main goals when he founded the Center all these years ago.

  I wanted to go to Wentworth’s funeral, but it was a closed, private ceremony—family only. There were no photos in the tabloids, though of course there were plenty of ridiculous speculations about what did him in: drug overdose! Suicide! Murder (by the Mob, naturally)!

  Dad mentioned a couple of summers ago—some five-odd years after Wentworth began making significant financial contributions to our cause—that the man’s health was fading. I suspected heart disease, but it wasn’t honestly my place to know or ask. I can only imagine what the family’s been through these last few years. A slow death means plenty of time to say goodbye, but it can also cast a shadow over a family for a long time before and after the end actually comes.

  I feel like I should say something, but before I can decide whether or not to offer my condolences to Calder, he catches me watching him. Instantly the shadows in his face are replaced once more by wicked flirtatiousness. I quickly look away again, in no mood to suffer his charms.

  “It's too bad you're tired,” he says. “I would have liked to give you a tour, since you seemed so interested in the art before.” He gives a little chuckle. �
��I believe I remember you mentioning the dungeons, too.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don't believe for a minute that you actually have dungeons.”

  “You'd be surprised.”

  “Is that where you keep your suit of armor?” I say. Every creepy old mansion has one of those, right? “If you pull on its sword, does it reveal the door to some secret passageway?”

  He chuckles. “No suits of armor, I'm afraid. There are, however, plenty of secret passageways in this place.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  “It's true. When my great-great-grandfather had this place built, it was still considered widely unfashionable for anyone to ever see the servants. There's an entire network of passages and staircases behind the walls.”

  “You’re just fucking with me.”

  “You don't see it very often,” he admits. “But I think it gives the place character. When I was younger, my sister and I used to have epic games of hide and seek.”

  “That sounds like something out of a book,” I say. “Did you ever find Narnia?”

  He lets out a laugh at that—a belly laugh, not one of the smug chuckles he's been sending my way all evening.

  “No Narnia,” he says. “But if there were any magical passages in this place, they wouldn't be inside. They'd be out in the maze.”

  I nearly trip over my own feet. “You have a maze?”

  “The fourth-largest hedge maze in North America, last I heard.”

  Whoa. That’s serious. Secret passageways and a hedge maze? Under any other circumstances, I would be delighted. This place is absolutely fascinating—no wonder the family has always been so weird about letting the press have a peek. If you share the secrets of a house like this with the world, they lose some of their luster. I'm not too proud to admit that I'm in a privileged position here, getting to look around. Calder is even offering me a full-out tour.

  But thoughts of the Center creep in again, and now all I can see is the elaborate excess. If you can afford to maintain a hedge maze, is it really such a huge thing to fulfill your pledge to a small nonprofit organization?

  Calder seems to sense the sudden change in my enthusiasm.

  “If you change your mind,” he says, “you can contact me through the electronic tablet mounted on the wall next to your bed. I should be up for a while yet.”

  I nod, but now that I’ve remembered my reason for coming here in the first place, I'm no longer particularly interested in his dungeons and his mazes. By the time we reach the bedroom I used earlier, I'm no longer sure what to say to him.

  Fortunately, he takes the lead.

  “I'm very sorry things have been so… contentious between us. I think, under different circumstances, you and I might get along very well.”

  You mean circumstances where you don't screw over the Center? I think, Or just circumstances where I actually succumb to your advances? I don't voice the question aloud.

  He's studying my face.

  “I'm not a terrible person,” he says finally. “We all must make difficult choices sometimes.”

  Of course, I tell myself. Whether to honor your family’s pledge or pay for your next European jaunt is an extremely difficult decision. I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

  His dark eyes are boring into me. It makes my skin go hot, then cold. I really wish I knew what was going on in his head. I suspect he's stalling, testing the waters, looking for some hint of attraction or consent in my expression. Will he proposition me outright again? Or is he the type to grab me and kiss me without warning, and just bank on the fact that most women melt under his warm, soft lips? The image sends a strange tickling sensation across my skin, and I break his gaze. My heart is thumping madly in my chest, but I tell myself it's nerves from the awkwardness of the situation.

  “Goodnight,” I say, before this scene spins out of control.

  “Goodnight, Ms. Frazer,” he says. “As I mentioned before, I'll be up for a while, should you change the mind about the tour.”

  “I don't think I will. I'm really very tired.”

  He nods, and I reach for the doorknob. He makes no move for me as I retreat into the bedroom, and it's only after I shut and lock the door behind me that I let out a sigh of relief.

  That was close.

  I'll admit, a part of me is surprised he didn't try anything else. He was so blunt and open over dinner. Maybe he’s finally accepted that I’m not going to jump into bed with him. Or maybe he changed his mind about jumping into bed with me.

  There's a pang in my stomach at that thought, and I tell myself it’s only bruised pride. Why do I care if he hits on me or not? I don't want him, and I certainly won't be climbing into bed with him anytime soon. Sure, he’s not completely unappealing from a physical point of view, but there's more to a person than his looks. He's an ass, and he's personally responsible for the financial struggles of the Center. That’s reason enough to stay away.

  There’s no reason to trouble myself about it any longer.

  I'm not really that tired, but now that I’m here, I'll admit I'm more than a little excited to try out that awesome four-poster bed. It takes me about two minutes to find a set of pajamas in the enormous closet, and once I'm changed I waste no time before diving headfirst into that glorious pile of comforter and throw pillows.

  It's as heavenly as it looks.

  I let out a sound of contentment and tug the fluffy white comforter around me. Maybe the trip out here wasn't just a waste after all. This is absolutely glorious. I’d sell everything else in my apartment if I thought I could manage enough money to recreate the experience of this bed.

  But the thought of finances brings my mood down again. I can't truly enjoy anything in this place while the Center struggles. It feels like a betrayal. I'd love to have a bed like this, but I'd give it up a hundred times over for a chance to save the Center.

  There are a lot of other sacrifices I’d make for us, too.

  I roll over and grab my phone from the bedside table. My finger clicks through my contacts. After a moment, I reach an entry named “Do Not Answer: Dipshit,” and my thumb hovers over the call button. My dad's been begging me for two months to call my ex-boyfriend, but I've resisted every time.

  I've told myself I'm being strong, but I wonder now if I'm only being selfish. I keep telling myself I'll do anything for the Center—hell, I've broken onto the Cunningham estate—but that's not the truth. Am I really willing to sacrifice the Center because I’m afraid to talk to Garrett? Because I’m trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation? Does my ex really hold that much power over me still?

  You don't know that he'll be able to do anything, I tell myself. He's a great salesman, but that doesn't mean he'll be able to succeed where you and your dad have already failed.

  So what if our donation numbers were through the roof when he volunteered with us? I know firsthand how convincing he can be when he turns on the charm. Dad used to say that Garrett could “sell green cheese to a moon man.” But a part of me still refuses to believe that he’s the only one who can get us out of this mess.

  Besides, I tell myself, you don't even know that he'll agree to help you at all.

  I don't have to make this decision tonight. One more day won't change the Center's situation.

  Instead I click back through the contacts and call my dad instead.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he says when he picks up. “Any news?”

  I try not to notice the desperate hope in his voice.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid,” I say carefully. “But I’m still working on it.” I feel terrible lying to him like this, but he’d be so upset if he knew the truth. I can’t bear to add even that much stress on top of what he’s already dealing with.

  “You’re still out there?” he says. “At this hour?”

  I find a loose thread along the edge of the comforter and twist it around my finger.

  “That’s what I’ve called to tell you,” I say. “The weather’s really bad and the
roads flooded. I’m not going to be able to make it home tonight.”

  He immediately switches from over-worked director into over-protective Dad mode.

  “Are you all right? Do you have somewhere to stay? Is the car okay?”

  I give a small smile at his concern.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “The car, too. I’ll try to finish up here in the morning and come straight home after that.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right? You sound… stressed.”

  Even though he’s already struggling with so much, he’s still concerned about me. It makes me feel even worse.

  “I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Okay, sweetheart,” he says. “Get some rest, you hear?”

  “Of course. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  We hang up and I toss my phone on the nightstand. We’re going to get through this, he and I. We have to.

  I don’t really feel like sleeping now, for all that I told Calder I was tired. I toss and turn for a little while, but I know it’s a lost cause. Finally I throw off the comforter and climb out of bed. I'm too restless to keep lying here.

  I begin to pace around the room, determined to wear myself out. There are plenty of ways to distract myself in here, at least. For a few minutes I stand by the window, trying to spot the hedge maze through the dark and rain, but I don't see anything. Next I wander back into the closet and peruse the electronic directory, looking for the most ridiculous outfit I can find, but I get bored with that pretty quickly.

  Which leaves me with only one option: to search for secret doors.

  I mean, how often do you find yourself in a house with hidden passages in the walls? Assuming Calder wasn't pulling my leg, of course. I'm one of only a handful of people who will ever get to see the inside of this place; it's my public duty to explore the possibility of secret passageways. Or so my exhausted, sleep-deprived mind tells me.

  I start at the main door and work my way around the room. I find a flat screen television hidden behind a mirror and a mini-fridge behind a panel near the bathroom. Apparently rich people like to hide their conveniences behind expensive decorative items. But I find no doors in the walls, nor any buttons or levers hidden under shelves or behind lamps. I spend a while at the electronic tablet next to the bed, but though I discover a radio, house directory, and even a weather-reporting application among its options, there's no magic “open sesame” button.

  I come to the elaborate fireplace last. If this were a fantasy or kid's cartoon, the fireplace would be the key. The carved stone mantel is ridiculously ornate; all it should take is the right amount of pressure on the right decorative leaf and a doorway will open up behind the gas logs. I've seen it a hundred times.

  I work my way from right to left along the mantel, pushing and prodding every bit of stone. Nothing moves. When I've poked at every leaf and twist of vine, I go back in the opposite direction, trying everything again. Just in case.

  Nothing happens.

  I'll admit it—I’m a little disappointed. If there are actually secret passageways in this house, none of them appear to start in this room. I step away from the mantel, and in the process I trip over the rack with the fireplace poker.

  “Mother fuc—”

  I break off my curse when I hear the scrape of wood and stone behind me. I stand and turn.

  You cannot be fucking serious.

  A portion of the wall has swung inward, revealing a dark hallway beyond. A secret passageway. An actual secret-fucking-passageway. Calder wasn't lying after all.

  I walk over and peer inside. The corridor is pitch black. I can't tell how long it is or which direction it ultimately leads.

  But dark or not, there's no way I'm not going exploring.

  I run back to the bed and grab my cell from the nightstand. Hopefully the light from its screen will be enough to keep me from falling and breaking my neck.

  I can't believe I'm actually doing this, I think. But then again, I never expected to break onto the Cunninghams' property or wear their clothes or eat their food. I never expected to sleep in one of their giant, fluffy beds.

  No turning back now, I tell myself.

  I hit a button on my phone to bring the screen to life, and then I step into the darkness of the passage.

  CHAPTER FIVE