His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (4 page)

And Calder said these were his sister's
extra
things?

I walk over to a shelf and choose a hanger at
random. The dress I pull out is a floor-length emerald silk number
with tiny crystals sewn along the delicate straps. It has a
plunging neckline and a high slit in the skirt, the kind of thing
you see in movies but never expect people to wear in real life.

The price tag is still attached, and I can't
help but take a peek. I nearly pass out when I see the number. Too
rich for my blood. I slip the hanger back on the rack and move
on.

Halfway down the room I find a small, flat
screen attached to the wall with a single button beneath it.
Curious, I give the button a push. The screen instantly flashes to
life.

“Good evening, Ms. Cunningham,” says a
computerized female voice.

Whoa. They have computerized closets in this
place?

A series of symbols flash across the
screen.

“What would you like to wear?” the voice
prompts.

I reach out and tentatively tap the icon
shaped like a dress.

“What occasion?” says the voice.

The screen gives me a number of options,
everything from “Garden Party” to “Riding.” I guess rich people
need computers to help them figure out the proper attire for all
their weird events. I tap “Supper” and hope for the best.

Now the screen shows me a series of pictures,
one of each dress that's supposedly appropriate for current needs.
I scroll through the images, and I can't help but wonder as I
peruse the selections how much each one costs. There's probably
enough money in this one room alone to keep all of the Center's
programs afloat for a year, maybe more.

But I won't think about that. I can't—not if
I don't want to fly into a murderous rage.

My finger pauses over an image on the screen:
a casual, cerulean-blue dress with cap sleeves. It's cute, and it
doesn't look overly expensive—not that you can always guess. I'm
not sure what to do from here, so I tap my finger on the picture of
the dress.

“Items located in F12-AFD,” says the
computerized voice.

F12-what?
I glance around, and I
notice that the lights above one of the racks are brighter than
they were a moment ago. I walk over, and after a moment of
searching, I locate the blue dress.

I peel off my wet clothes—including my bra
and panties, since they're also soaked—and fold them over the edge
of what I hope is the dirty clothes hamper. I pull the dress on
carefully.

Once the garment is zipped, I go over to the
floor-length mirror on the far side of the room. The dress fits me
well enough, but even a billionaire heiress's dress can't do much
for my hair. I redo the bun, twisting it into a knot that looks
only slightly better. Oh well. I won't be the classiest thing to
ever sit at the Cunninghams’ table, but I'm passable. Certainly
decent enough to fight for the Center's future.

I squeeze my feet into a pair of cute black
flats and head back out to the hallway.

Calder is already waiting for me. He's
leaning against the wall, but he straightens when I step out of the
bedroom. His eyes run up and down my body.

“That suits you, Ms. Frazer,” he says.

I ignore the compliment, but I can't keep the
flush from rising to my cheeks. I also can't help but notice that
his clean clothes suit him, too. He's wearing pressed black pants
and a pale gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the
elbows. He still hasn't shaved, and his thumb slides along the
stubble at his jaw.

“Like what you see?” he says.

I make a disgusted noise to hide the fact
that he's caught me staring.

“I couldn’t care less about what you look
like,” I say. “I'm here to talk about the Center, that's all.”

“Of course, Ms. Frazer.” He gives a little
smile, and I know he doesn't believe me for a minute. “Shall we go
down to the dining room, then?”

He holds out his arm, and after a moment of
hesitation I take it. He's carried me through this house over his
shoulder. There's no reason I should be afraid to place my hand on
his arm. But a prickle dances up to my elbow when I lay my fingers
on his skin. I pretend not to notice. His other hand comes to rest
on top of mine, enveloping my fingers in warmth, and I ignore that
too. He can play the gentleman all he wants. I know he's still an
asshole at heart.

The way down to the dining room is longer
than I expect—this place really is humongous. You could get lost
for weeks in here. And everything is ridiculously ornate: every
banister is carved with intricate patterns, every floor spread with
richly colored rugs, every wall hung with row upon row of artwork.
I squint at some of the paintings as we pass, hoping to recognize a
few of the artists—an enthusiast like the late Wentworth Cunningham
probably has a few works by some of the modern masters among his
collection—but we move too quickly for me to make any
connections.

“I can give you a tour later, if you like,”
Calder says when he sees my interest.

I shrug noncommittally. I don't intend to
stay here any longer than I need to. I plan to make my best case
over dinner and then head home. Still, I can't help but marvel.
This place is insane. One minute I’m interacting with a
computerized closet like someone in a sci-fi movie, and the next
I’m wandering through a corridor that looks like a
nineteenth-century museum.

Finally Calder stops in front of a pair of
wide double doors.

“Here we are.” He releases my hand and opens
one of the doors for me, and I step through into what has to be one
of the most extravagant dining rooms in existence. I mean, who
needs a table long enough to seat thirty? Or a chandelier the size
of a small car, with easily two or three hundred little bulbs that
flicker just like candles? My eyes follow the chandelier chain, and
I gasp when I notice the ceiling.

“My grandfather commissioned that mural after
a trip to Italy,” Calder says.

I snap my jaw closed and tear my eyes away
from the elaborate pastoral scene above our heads. I'm not sure
whether to be enthralled or repulsed by the beauty and excess of
this room, and it leaves me with an unpleasant jumble of emotions
in my belly. Instead I walk over to the long table, where now I see
a single place has been laid at the head.

“I've alerted the kitchen to the extra
company,” says Calder. “Martin should be up with the food any
moment.” He's gone over to a cabinet against the nearest wall, and
when he turns toward me, he has several pieces of china in his
hands. He comes over to the table and lays them out at the place to
the left of his own: dinner plate, salad plate, cup and saucer. He
returns to the buffet cabinet a second time, and this time he
returns with the full array of silverware, including several pieces
I've only ever seen on the rare occasions I've been to a
particularly formal restaurant. But what did I expect in a dining
room like this?

I shoot another glance at the painting on the
ceiling and slip into my seat. There's no reason we can't start
talking about the Center while we wait.

“Mr. Cunningham, I—”

“What do you drink, Ms. Frazer?” he says.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?”

A part of me knows that drinking is a bad
idea, but another part knows a bit of alcohol in my system might
make this whole thing more bearable.

“I don't suppose you have any whiskey?”

He chuckles. “I'll see what I can find.” He
strides over to a polished mahogany liquor cabinet and flings open
the door. A moment later he returns with a glass and a bottle of
amber liquid, which he holds in front of me for approval.

“Single malt. Fifty-two years old,” he says.
It's a make I've never heard of—probably because I'm used to
drinking the cheap shit—and I suspect that this bottle, like
everything else in this freaking house, cost a small fortune.

Ah, what the hell.

“Looks perfect.” I try not to cringe as he
pours me a glass. How much could even that much whiskey buy the
Center? Some new brushes? A fresh coat of paint for the rec
room?

Calder is oblivious to my thoughts. He
returns the whiskey to the cabinet and returns to the table with a
glass and a bottle of wine for himself. I raise my drink to my lips
and take a sip as I watch him pour his merlot. I have to admit,
this expensive stuff is smooth, if nothing else. I'll have to watch
myself—it would be easy to drink too much if I wasn’t paying
attention.

“Mr. Cunningham,” I begin again, setting my
glass back on the table. “I really think—”

A door at the far end of the room flies open
and an older man in chef whites bursts through, a cart of food
behind him. The chafing dishes rattle as the cart bounces over the
threshold, and again when the man stops suddenly, apparently
startled to see us.

“Forgive me, sir,” he says, blinking at us.
“I didn't realize you were in here already.”

“It's no problem,” Calder says jovially. “Ms.
Frazer and I just sat down. It's my own fault for springing company
on you at the last minute.” He glances at me. “Ms. Frazer, this is
Chef Martin, the best in the business. He's been with my family
for, what, thirty-five years now?”

“Thirty-seven this winter,” the chef replies
with a smile.

“And Martin,” says Calder, “this is Lily
Frazer from the Frazer Center for the Arts.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Frazer,” says
Martin. He wheels the cart the rest of the way over to us, and now
it’s close enough for the aroma to hit me. My stomach lets out an
appreciative rumble.

“That smells amazing,” I say.

“It'll taste even better,” Calder says.

The chef laughs. “Mr. Cunningham flatters
me.”

“Not at all,” Calder replies. To me he adds,
“Martin studied in Paris back in the day, and he spent time
training in Italy and Austria as well.”

“All that,” the chef says, “and it took me
fifteen years to learn to prepare vegetables in a way that would
entice Mr. Cunningham to eat them.”

I smile in spite of myself.

“In all fairness to Martin,” says Calder, “I
still contend that some vegetables are supposed to stay in the dirt
and shouldn't be eaten at all.”

“A sentiment that I consider a challenge.”
Martin grins and leans toward me conspiratorially. “When he was
little, I used to purée veggies and hide them in the sauce. And you
don’t even want to know how many green goodies I managed to sneak
into his meatloaf.”

This time I let out an actual laugh. The chef
flashes a ruddy-cheeked smile at me.

“His worst offense,” Calder says, feigning
annoyance, “was when he told me my Brussel sprouts were shrunken
alien heads.”

“One of my proudest moments,” Chef Martin
says. “You managed to choke down four before you realized I’d
tricked you.”

“Martin can’t keep a straight face to save
his life,” Calder tells me.

The chef chuckles.

“Would Mr. Cunningham like me to serve?” he
says.

“I'll handle it from here, I think,” Calder
says. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Of course, sir.” He smiles at us. “Let me
know if you need anything else.” He retreats back out the door from
which he came, and Calder stands to go to the cart.

“He insists on calling me
sir
,” he
says with a little shake of his head. “Or
Mr.
Cunningham
.”

“What's wrong with that?” From where I sat,
the two of them genuinely seemed to get on very well.

Calder shrugs and grabs the bowl of salad
from the top of the cart. “He says it's a sign of respect, but it
just makes me feel old. He used to call me by my name, but then my
father died and I—” He pauses, looks at me, then shrugs again. “And
now I'm the one who signs his checks.”

He sits down and scoops me a serving from the
salad bowl. The tongs clang against the side of the bowl, and when
I glance up at his face, I notice that his brows are drawn
together, his mouth tight. His high spirits of just a moment ago
have completely disappeared. He seemed so genuinely happy around
Martin—what happened?

Now I’m the one who signs his checks
,
he said. These past few months have completely changed Calder’s
life. Now he bears the financial burdens of this family, and it
looks like he isn’t particularly pleased by this new set of
responsibilities. And why would he be? He’s spent most of his life
without having to think about that sort of accountability.

I'm not sure what to say, so I pick up my
fork and look down at my plate. Pear and arugula with soft crumbled
cheese—
wow
. If this is the salad course, I can't wait to see
the rest. My stomach rumbles again, and I dive in with as much
ladylike grace as I can still muster.

For a long while, neither of us speak. I'm
not sure whether talking will improve matters or only make them
worse, and the last thing I want to do is broach the subject of the
Center when he’s in a foul mood. The silence stretches between us,
broken only by the scrape of our forks against the china. I notice
him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t
acknowledge his gaze.
He
's the one who suddenly got all
awkward. Let him be the one to start the conversation again.

Unless…

I take another bite of arugula. Maybe I have
this all backwards. Maybe this silence is some sort of weird
intimidation technique and he's trying to psych me out. He's made
it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to hear my spiel about the
Center, and now he's making sure I fuck it up. He's trying to get
under my skin before I even start.

I grab my glass and take another swig of
whiskey. I focus on the warm trail of the liquid as it slides down
my throat. It pools in my belly like a little lump of courage.

I'm being crazy, freaking out over nothing.
He's probably just being polite and waiting for me to begin. We had
a deal, after all. I should just go ahead and spit it out
already.