His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (5 page)

I take one more sip of my drink and slide it
back on the table.

“I know you haven't had many chances to visit
the Center,” I say, sliding my finger across the edge of my glass,
“but I really think if you came by you'd see how much work we do
for the community. And how much your family's contributions mean
for our programs.”

I glance up to find Calder staring at me, his
fork frozen halfway between his plate and his mouth. He lowers it
again slowly, his eyes still locked on me, and I squirm in my
seat.

“Not yet,” he says, taking up his
wineglass.

I stare at him, confused. “What?”

“It's not time to discuss it yet.” He takes a
sip of his wine. “I think we should enjoy our dinner first.”

I frown. “We had an agreement.”

“We still do. You sit through dinner with me,
and I sit through your speech about your little Center.” He leans
toward me, his eyes intent on mine. “Trust me, Ms. Frazer, I always
keep my word.”

“I'm not sure I do trust you, Mr.
Cunningham,” I say.

His hand slides toward mine on the table, and
his finger brushes against the back of my palm. It sends a tiny
shiver up my arm.

Calder smiles, his eyes dancing wickedly.
“You should, Ms. Frazer. Believe me, I think you would enjoy the
experience very much.”

I snatch my hand away from him.

“I'm not going to fall for that,” I say. “I’m
not one of your little supermodels. I'm here for the Center, that's
all.”

I can tell from the way the corner of his
mouth curls up that he doesn't believe me. This guy isn't used to
women resisting his charms.

“I broke onto your property,” I remind him.
“And I dripped mud all over your precious house. Besides, I don’t
think I’m your type.”

“You don't think I can admire a woman with a
little spirit? I told you before, Ms. Frazer, I admire your
tenacity. And a few of your other assets, truth be told.”

“You didn't seem particularly admiring when
you were threatening to call the cops on me,” I counter. “If you
think you can make me forget about why I'm here, that I'll just
throw over the Center for the chance to sleep with you or
something, you're an idiot.”

Humor dances in his eyes. “I never suggested
that. I've already made it clear that I'm attracted to you, and
it's quite obvious that you're attracted to me as well. I'm just
saying that I don't see why you can't have it both ways. Or, come
to think of it, why I can't have you a few dozen ways in the
meantime.”

“You're disgusting,” I say, standing up and
throwing my napkin down on the table. “This is serious. The Frazer
Center has done remarkable things for this community and its
people—more things than you'll ever appreciate or, dare I say it,
do yourself, despite all your money or your fucking talking closets
and fancy ceilings. If you refuse to talk about it… if you're just
going to be ridiculous and crude, then fine. I won't waste any more
of your time.” I turn and storm toward the door.

“You can't leave,” Calder says calmly after
me.

“Watch me.”

“No,” he says, just as my hand reaches the
doorknob. “I mean it's actually impossible for you to leave. Do you
remember crossing the river on your way out here? The road between
here and Barberville floods whenever there's heavy rain. With a
storm like this, it's probably under three feet of water by
now.”

My blood goes completely cold. I freeze, my
fingers closed around the doorknob.

“You're lying.”

“I'm afraid not,” he says, still as calm as
ever. He raises his wineglass to his lips and takes another sip.
“I'm afraid, Ms. Frazer, whether you like it or not, you'll be
staying here with me tonight.”

<<>>

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.