Her Wicked Heart (4 page)

He’s leaning against the wall, scribbling on a little notepad. His brow is slightly wrinkled in concentration, and every once in a while, he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, just a little, as his pencil moves across the page. Once, he stops to scratch his side. His shirt slides up just a little, and my eyes drop to the exposed skin before I can stop them.

Shame he turned out to be a jerk
, I think, tearing my gaze away from his abs. Shame I’m not supposed to be thinking about men in the first place.

“Do you always stare at people when they’re working?” he says. He glances up. “Or did you change your mind about my earlier offer?”

“Are you going to be able to finish that window by tonight?” I ask, ignoring his question.

He laughs, allowing the dodge. “No way in hell. I’ll be lucky if I can get all the wood cut by tonight.” He turns and looks at the remains of the window again. “The upside to this is that it really needed the update. Look at this. The wood had started to rot. No wonder we went through. I wonder if the others are this bad.”

I glance down the room at the other windows.

“They’re pretty old,” I admit.

“It’s not the age that’s the problem with this place,” he replies. “It’s the lack of proper upkeep. You’d have been shocked if you’d seen the condition of this place when I started working here.”

I try unsuccessfully to ignore the prickle of annoyance in my chest. “Well, it was vacant for a few months after the sale, wasn’t it? That’s probably the problem.”

He snorts. “The problem is that those people didn’t take care of their house.”

Those people.
My fist tightens around the T-shirt in my hand until my knuckles are white. By ‘those people,’ he means my family.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “There are a lot of cool things about this place. It’s fascinating, really. The original architect was definitely going for something Gothic, and you don’t see that a lot on this side of the pond. Especially in a private home. It’s more of a work of art than an actual living space.” He shrugs. “But of course the Cunninghams needed all their modern amenities, so you end up with this weird mishmash of new and old.”

“You’d rather they hadn’t put in electricity?”

“I didn’t say that. I mean there are ways to incorporate technology into places like this while preserving the integrity of the original design. And throwing in computerized closets isn’t the way to do it.” He shakes his head. “But that’s not even what pisses me off. It’s that they threw all their money into shit like that and didn’t even do standard maintenance. They were letting this place slowly crumble into pieces. Don’t get me wrong—the foundation’s sound. But this house needed a lot of updates to meet code.”

“Well,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, “I imagine it’s hard for one family to keep up with a place like this.”

“Exactly,” he says as if I’ve just proved his point. “I don’t care how rich you are. There’s no reason you need a place this size.
Especially
when you can’t take care of it.”

I press my lips together. I should keep my mouth shut. The last thing I need to do is blow my cover before I’ve even been here a week.

But what am I supposed to do? Sit by and let Mr. Casanova badmouth my family?

“Wasn’t it passed down through the family?” I say casually. “Maybe it wasn’t just a simple matter of
needing
or even
choosing
to live here.”

“Everything’s a choice.”

“But if you were born to a place like this,” I say, “if your family history was built into these walls, would you have just been able to give it up?”

I don’t dare look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me. I force myself to fold the shirt in front of me.

“I’d like to think that even if I’d been born to that privilege, I’d still have had the strength of character to sell this place and actually do something meaningful with my life,” he says, not bothering to hide his resentment. “The problem with people who live in places like this is that they think money is everything. Their self-worth is tied to how many rooms they have in their houses and how many thousand-dollar suits they have hanging in their closets. This place was a status symbol, nothing more. Can you imagine what sort of difference they might have made if they’d used their money to change the world instead of building a rooftop pool or buying another Ferrari for their sixteen-car garage?”

And there it is: the question I’ve struggled with since I was a teenager. The question that drove me to Thailand. It never seemed like enough that my family had sponsored dozens of philanthropic projects throughout the years, not when we were still drowning in luxury. Not when we barely had to lift a finger to “support” some abstract cause on the other side of the world.

I grab another shirt and begin to fold it. I’m not allowed to be this upset about losing this house. I should be looking at this as my opportunity to become something more than a privileged, self-centered ex-heiress.

“Did I say something wrong?” Ward asks after a minute.

I need to be more careful. Smile. Flip my hair.
There will always be people who upset you
, my father used to say.
Either by choice or by accident. Don’t let them see you sweat.
Addison Thomas wouldn’t get upset about something like this. Neither should Lou.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say sweetly. I fold the next shirt.

He’s looking at me. I can tell because the tiny hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. I grab another shirt and tell myself that I don’t care what Ward’s thinking. At least if I’m disgusted with him I’m not thinking about the way his fingers felt on the bare skin of my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

I grab the next shirt. “Sorry for what?”

“For making this mess. Getting you stuck with all this extra work.”

He sounds sincere, at least. But I’m not interested in being friends with this guy. I can’t imagine a scenario where that would end well.

So I say nothing. As the afternoon goes on, he talks to me a couple more times, but I respond to him with one-word answers. He probably thinks I’m a bitch, but that’s okay. He can’t think any worse of me than I think of myself these days.

Finally, he sighs and says, “I don’t know what I did wrong. I wasn’t trying to piss you off, I promise.”

“You didn’t piss me off,” I say. “I just have a lot to do.”

“Again, sorry about that.” His voice is light. “But hey, at least I got you away from Haymore for a few hours, huh?”

I don’t reply. He finally gets the hint, though, because a few minutes later he says, “I need to go get some supplies.”

And I don’t see him again for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

That night, I can’t sleep.

It’s nothing new for me. This past year, I’ve been lucky to get four hours a night. In Chiang Mai, I used to lie next to Ian and listen to his slow, steady breathing. It should have been calming, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slept, but instead it woke something terrible inside of me—a panic that made my heart beat so quickly that more than once I thought I was dying. My whole body would shake, and my breath would stick in my throat until my head grew light and fuzzy.

Sometimes when that happened, I’d roll over and shake Ian. I’d kiss him as he woke and pull him into my arms. And slowly, his warmth and his touch would bring me back, make me feel safe again.

But there’s no one here now.

I toss and turn on my bed. The mattress is too soft for my taste, but honestly, even a nicer bed wouldn’t help much. I have too much on my mind and no one to chase the thoughts away.

You have to learn to do this on your own
, I tell myself. But I feel like I’m going crazy, lying here and trying to calm the thoughts rushing through my brain. My body is exhausted from a day spent cleaning that stupid gift shop, but it’s like my mind is doped up on something. The harder I try to push everything aside, to let it go just for a little while so I can get some rest, the more it clamors for attention.

I can’t stop thinking about what Ward said today.
This house was a status symbol, nothing more.
I resented this place as a teenager, for exactly the reason he’s criticizing it now: it’s excessive. I knew it then, and it’s even clearer now. I don’t miss this house as much as I miss everything it represents. The lifestyle. The security. The sense of identity. Everything that made me a Cunningham has been stripped away. Where does that leave me? I’m not the girl I thought I was. And I’m definitely not the selfless, kindhearted girl that the world thinks I am.

But that’s not the only thing that’s keeping me up. Every time the guilt starts to overwhelm me, my mind leaps to its latest distraction: the memory of Ward’s breath on my face. The feeling of his hands on me. Stupid, infuriating Ward—this is the
last
thing I need right now.

But I can’t keep myself from wondering—what would he have done in the gift shop today if I’d called his bluff? If I’d agreed to pick things up where we left off the other day? Would he really have let me pull off his pants? Would he have thrown me down on the table and taken me on top of those ridiculous T-shirts?

That’s not the real question, though. The real question is
would I have gone through with it?
I remember the way I froze, caught up in the sensations running through my body. Even now, just thinking about it, there’s a slow throb growing between my legs. It would have been so easy to tell him
yes.
To let him slide my skirt up over my hips and yank my underwear down. To lean back and spread my thighs for him. To give in to the lust and let him help me forget everything for a little while.

I let my hand slide down between my legs. My pajama pants are pretty thin, and even the lightest touch against myself through the fabric sends a tremor through my body. I promised myself I’d stay away from men for a while, but that doesn’t mean I can’t satisfy myself. I let a single finger drift along the ridge between my legs. A small sigh escapes my lips. I imagine myself naked on my back, a figure with hard muscles and auburn hair leaning over me…

No.

I yank my hand away. I’m not going to let myself fantasize about Ward. Indulging those sorts of thoughts is only encouraging them. I need to get him out of my mind, not get myself more sexually riled up over him. I remind myself of all the things he implied about my family, and that tempers my mood a little.

I throw off my blanket and climb out of bed. I should stop pretending I’m going to get any sleep tonight. I walk over to the dresser and grab my laptop. I bought this computer when I first left for Thailand, hoping to stay connected with the rest of the world while I was off looking for my purpose. When it was brand new, it was one of the most hi-tech, swankiest laptops on the market, but it’s about five years old now and it takes a good ten minutes to boot up. I draw one knee up to my chest and wait patiently for the startup screen, trying not to think. I’d almost prefer the emptiness again than the madness in my head right now.

My computer’s finally awake, and I force myself to let out a long breath as I open the Internet browser. Maybe I’ll just drown myself in kitten videos until I’m drunk on the utter adorableness.

But it doesn’t matter how many kittens or puppies or tiny baby bunnies I watch. The videos don’t make me feel any better. They’re just another distraction, and they’re not nearly as effective as someone’s tongue in my mouth or his fingers moving between my legs.

After a while, I give up and pull up my email. I don’t get a lot of messages these days—it’s funny how many friends abandon you when you no longer have any money—but sometimes my brother sends me things. He’s started messaging me regularly, updating me on his life and asking how I’m doing. Apparently he’s engaged now. I read every message from him, sometimes multiple times, but I can’t bring myself to answer. Mostly because I’d rather not say anything than lie to him. If he knew where I was right now, he’d kill me.

Still, I like knowing that he’s okay. It makes me feel a little better to know that one of us, at least, has managed to get their act together.

I’m due for another email from him any day now, but it’s not my brother’s name I see when I open my inbox. Instead, it’s the only name that could make me feel even worse tonight.

Ian Dennings.

Ian. Ian has emailed me. It’s been almost two months since I ran from him and Cunningham Cares, and this is the first time he’s tried to contact me. The way things ended between us, I’m almost afraid to look at the subject line, but my eyes drift over against my will. All it says is, “Hi.”

My breath is stuck in my throat. Why is he emailing me now? I can only imagine the things he wants to say to me. I used him. I broke his heart. I ran away without even an apology.

I should just delete it.
Reading this email will only open up an old can of worms, and I’m not sure I want to go there. I’m not sure I have the emotional strength to go there, not with everything this house has dragged up again.

But I refuse to be any more of a coward than I already am. I open the message before I have the chance to talk myself out of it.