His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1)

His Wicked Games

by Ember Casey

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Ember Casey

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
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All Rights
Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or
used in any manner whatsoever without the express written
permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of
the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.

Cover Image
©
RomanceNovelCovers.com
, used under license.

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

Table of Contents

Ch 1

Ch 2

Ch 3

Ch 4

Ch 5

Ch 6

Ch 7

Ch 8

Ch 9

Ch 10

Ch 11

Ch 12

Ch 13

Ch 14

Ch 15

Ch 16

Ch 17

Ch 18

Ch 19

Ch 20

Coming Soon

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I lean out the car window and press the
button on the call box for the third time.

“Hello?” I say yet again. “Anyone there?”

No one answers. Yet again.

I sit back against the seat and slam my hand
against the steering wheel. Stupid rich asshole. I've driven all
the way out here to the middle of nowhere and he won't even let me
in.

Not that I expected any different.

A pair of wrought-iron gates stands ahead of
me in the driveway. They're covered in ivy, like the entrance to
some enchanted garden in a fairy tale, and I have no doubt the
family paid a small fortune to their landscapers to create that
wild, “overgrown” look. I kill the engine of my beat-up Honda and
climb out of the car. I don't care how long it takes—I won't leave
until they let me through. If that means camping out here for the
next several hours, then so be it.

I walk up to the gates and give them a good
shake, hoping they'll magically pop open at my touch. They don't
even wiggle. Beyond them lie the estates of the Cunningham family,
the current residence of the infamous—and infuriating—Calder
Cunningham.

His note arrived yesterday, and I've read it
about fifty times since then.

Dearest Ms. Frazer,

While your persistence is admirable, I
assure you your exertions on behalf of the Frazer Center for the
Arts will do little to change my decision. I'm afraid I will not be
including the Frazer Center in my financial plans for the
foreseeable future, and for your own sake, I request that you
abandon your efforts to change my mind. I would not waste any more
of your time.

Respectfully,

Calder

No mention of the fact that he's broken the
pledge contract his late father signed. No acknowledgment that his
actions might single-handedly be responsible for the closing of the
Frazer Center. No apology for blowing off all my previous attempts
to contact him.

I stand on my toes in front of the gates,
trying to find a place where the vines part just enough to give me
a view of the other side. Between the leaves I can see the long,
cobblestoned driveway winding between a double row of live oaks.
There's no view of the house from here, but if the rumors are true,
it's something of a monstrosity. The rich love their ridiculous
mansions.

The Cunninghams have always been weird about
their property. No photos of the estate have ever been released to
the public—except for the occasional grainy shot from a helicopter,
which is always quickly retracted—though descriptions of the lands
and house grow more extravagant with every story. They’re one of
the last great “old money” families in this part of the country and
have a reputation for being a little eccentric; as such, they
attract their fair share of attention—and they appear to harbor
their fair share of secrets as well.

Probably why security's such a bitch.

I step back and look up at the camera bolted
to the stone wall above the call box.

“I don't have a camera,” I call up to it.
“I’m not trying to sneak any photos or anything.”

I go back to the car and grab my purse. There
are only four things inside: my wallet, a pack of gum, some
sunglasses, and a six-year-old flip phone. I take them out one by
one, and when I get to the phone I hold it up so the security
camera can see.

“Look,” I say, flicking it open. “There's not
even a camera on here.” I throw the phone down with the other items
and grab the purse again. I turn it upside down and give it a good
shake for effect.

The gates don't budge.

I give an exasperated sigh and walk around to
the trunk of my car. It's full of the usual junk. I pull out the
grocery sack I use as a makeshift garbage bag, rifle through it
beneath the camera to show that it's only receipts and fast food
wrappers, and drop it on the drive. Next I pull out a pair of
sneakers, a small emergency car kit, and a couple of rough-edged
file folders.

“See?” I say. “Nothing.”

There's no response.

I lean over to the call button and jam it
another time.

“Look,” I say. “I'm not trying to cause any
trouble. As I said before, I'm from the Frazer Center for the
Arts.” I flip open my wallet and flash my ID card at the camera.
Lily Frazer. Assistant Director.
There's even a picture,
though my naturally brunette hair looks rather orange in the image.
“Please. I just want to speak with Mr. Cunningham in regard to the
letter he sent us. He won't return my calls.”
God, could I sound
like any more of a stalker?

But there is still no answer from the call
box. I walk back over to the gates and press my face against the
bars.

“Hello!” I call. “Can anyone hear me?” I
don't see anyone on the other side, but that doesn't mean there's
no one there.

I'm about to yell again when the first
raindrop lands on my cheek. I brush it off and glance up. The sky
was clear when I left this morning, but now it's an ominous
gray.

Great. Just what I need.

A crack of thunder sounds right overhead. I
curse and run back to my stuff, scooping it up off the driveway as
the rain starts to pick up. I've just managed to throw the last of
it in my trunk when the skies open up and it begins to pour. I jump
back into my car and roll up the window, but not before half of the
driver's side seat is soaked.

I lean on my right hip, trying to keep the
butt of my jeans dry. It’s too late for my upper half. For a moment
I just sit there, sideways, staring at the water sliding down the
windshield. Beyond the glass, the gates are still closed. It
doesn't look like security is going to take pity on the poor wet
girl sitting outside.

I chew absently on my lip as I try to think.
Sure, this puts a damper on things, but I'm not about to let a
little rain stop me. If I have to sit out here all night, I'll do
it, but there has to be a way to convince them to let me through. I
hoped, naively, that my determination would inspire some sort of
sympathy. It’s easy enough for a gazillion-aire like Calder
Cunningham to brush off letters and phone calls, but I thought it
would be harder for him to ignore someone sitting in front of his
own gate. Looks like I was wrong.

I tap my horn a couple of times, just to show
security that I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. They're
probably having a good laugh at me, but I don't care. For once, I'm
standing up for something. The Frazer Center is my life, and now
it's going to close—unless I convince Calder Cunningham to reverse
his decision to retract the promise his father made.

The late Wentworth Cunningham was a great
patron of the arts and our largest donor for years. Apparently his
son shares no such philanthropic tendencies. According to the
tabloids, Calder's spent the better part of the last ten years
gallivanting across Europe, romancing models and starlets and
partying his way through every techno club he could find. Since his
father's death this past summer, Calder's been in charge of the
family funds, and he's wasted no time in undoing his father's
contributions to society.

We received notice of the decision through
his lawyers, who detailed in fancy legal jargon why Calder's
actions weren't in violation of the pledge contract his father
signed two years ago. We're a small nonprofit institution. We don't
have the resources to challenge the decision, even if Dad would
allow it.

A pang of guilt shoots through me. My dad
doesn't know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He
thinks I'm in Barberville trying to scare up some corporate
sponsors.

He's been adamantly against pursuing the
matter with Calder Cunningham, claiming he refuses to reduce
himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this
whole Cunningham business wrapped up—better to ask for forgiveness
than permission, right?—but now that it looks I'm going to be here
a while, I know I need to give him a call.

I grab my phone and punch in the number for
the Frazer Center. Dad's been manning the phone in the evenings
after the volunteer secretary leaves.

The line rings once before he picks up.

“Frazer Center for the Arts,” he says. “David
speaking.”

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey, honey.” The cheerful act of a moment
ago seeps out of his voice. He sounds exhausted. “I was just
thinking about you. Any luck with those leads?”

Dad founded the Frazer Center twenty years
ago, back when I was five. He was a dentist before that, and he
sold his very successful practice in order to secure the initial
funds for the organization. My mother was still around then, too,
but she didn’t stay long after he stopped bringing in the fat
salary. Since then, my dad has poured his blood, sweat, and tears
into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our
community.

Which is why I’ll do anything to help, even
if it means lying to him for the time being.

“Nothing's settled yet,” I say carefully.
“But I still have a few inquiries to make.” It’s not
quite
a
lie. And technically the Cunningham estates have a Barberville
address, even if I’m currently fifteen miles outside the town
itself.

“What about you?” I say quickly, before Dad
can ask me any more questions about my current location. “Come up
with any more ideas?”

He's silent for a long time. I can
practically hear him rubbing his forehead. When I left the Center
this morning, he was going over the budgets and accounts for the
hundredth time.

“It's not good,” he says finally. “I just
can't—I can't make it work. Vinny suggests raising the class
prices, but we'd have to triple them, and I won't do that. He said
he thinks we might be able to draw in an extra thousand at the
Harvest Festival this year, but I don't think that'll be enough.”
He lets out a long, shaky breath.

Something tightens in my chest. I've never
heard my dad sound so defeated.

“Dad, I…” What can I say that I haven't said
a hundred times already? Time and again over the last few months
I've reassured him that we'll get through this, that we'll find a
way, but the chances of that are looking bleaker every day. I pick
at a loose bit of vinyl hanging off my steering wheel.

On the other end of the line, I hear him
shuffling through some papers. He gives another sigh.