His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (8 page)

Think about the Arts & Hearts
dinner,
I tell myself.
Remember how aloof and disinterested
he was? He never cared about your work. He didn’t even bother to
pretend.

The rage gets me through a few more bites of
food, and when that memory starts to fade, I think about my
dad—about the sadness and the fatigue that seem a permanent part of
him now. His whole life is in the Center. He's sacrificed so much
over the years—the great salary, the cushy lifestyle, even his
marriage to my mom—all so he could bring arts and hope to a
struggling community. And now it's all about to slip away from him.
Because of Calder.

“You seem a little preoccupied this morning,”
Calder says. “Aren't you enjoying your food?”

“No, it's great,” I say quickly. “Martin
outdid himself.” I push at a piece of syrup-drenched crust with my
fork. “I'm just not a morning person, that's all.”

He seems to accept the explanation.

“Are you certain you slept well?” he says,
looking at me a little too intently.

I squirm in my seat. Does he know?

Please, dear God, no.

“I was going to suggest that since we're
stuck here together, I might give you that tour after all. We'll
have to skip the maze in this weather, but if you like, I can show
you a couple of those secret passages.”

I nearly choke.

“I don't want to trouble you,” I say,
coughing. “I'm sure you have work to do. You don't have to
entertain me just because I'm stuck here.”

“It's no trouble at all. I've got some things
to take care of later, but there's plenty of time for me to show
you around before then. At the very least, I'll point out a few
places you might entertain yourself while you’re here. The house
has a number of surprises.”

There's no graceful way out of this. The last
thing I want is to end up in one of those dark, hidden corridors
again, especially with Calder, but I'm still too flustered to come
up with a good excuse on the fly.

“I need to make a few calls myself,” I
say.

“A short tour, then. And it's still early.
You'll have plenty of time to make your calls first.”

I have no other arguments, so I just nod. “A
short tour.”

He smiles at me, but it’s not one of his
usual disarming, charming smiles. This one is wicked, hungry.
There’s a dark gleam in his eye.

“Trust me,” he says, his gaze never leaving
mine. “I'll make sure you enjoy it.”

That's exactly what I'm afraid of.

<<>>

When I get back to my room, I pull out my
phone. The calls were an excuse, but it's probably still a good
idea to let my dad know I'll be delayed longer than I expected. I
hate leaving him alone back at the Center, but there’s nothing I
can do. I'm stuck here, whether I like it or not.

Dad's flustered when I get him on the line.
He sounds even worse than he did last night.

“What's going on?” I say.

He sighs. “Ella quit this morning. She felt
really bad about it, you could see, but she found a position at an
office downtown. Not that I blame her. Her last paycheck bounced.
We were going to have to let her go soon anyway, and she was smart
enough to see that.”

I don't blame her either. Ella's stuck with
us through a lot, but she has to make a living, just like everyone
else. Still, now there's even more work on my dad's shoulders.

“I hate to leave you swamped,” I say. “I
promise I'll be home as soon as I can. As soon as the road's clear,
I'll be back. I'll stay at the Center all night if I have to.”

“Don't stress about it. I can handle it for
now. You just worry about winning over those prospects. That's more
important right now anyway.”

Guilt twists my stomach. “I'll do what I
can.”

“Good. Love you, honey.”

“Love you.”

I hang up, feeling like the worst daughter in
history. I don't know how I'm ever going to confess the truth of my
trip out here, or my spectacular failure. It's my own fault for
being so impulsive—and for ignoring Dad's wishes in the first
place.

I put my face in my hand. The guilt of this
situation is going to eat me alive. I just wish there was something
I could say, something I could do to fix this whole mess. Instead,
I’m running into one dead end after another and lying to my dad in
the meantime. It’s like I’m just waiting for everything to explode
in my face.

My fingers skim over the keys of my phone.
There's still one option open to me. Like it or not, Garrett might
be our only chance. At least if I secure his help, I won't have to
face my dad completely empty-handed when I return tomorrow.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll
through my phone and click on Dipshit's number. I hold the cell up
to my ear and wait, breathless, as the line rings once, twice,
three times.

Voicemail picks up, and I almost cry in
relief. I can deal with leaving a message.

“Garrett, it's me. Lily,” I say. “I know this
is out of the blue—I hope you're doing okay. I know we haven't
talked in a while.” I don't admit it's because I've refused to
return his calls all these months. “It's just I—well, you see the
Center's in a little trouble. We lost our largest pledge, the one
we were counting on to pay off those renovations from last year,
and we've had to divert program funds, and—and I guess you don't
need to know all the details. It's just that things are looking bad
for us, and you were always so good at finding donors. Dad and I
have been doing everything we can, but if there's any way you could
help—I mean, I know it's a lot to ask, and I understand completely
if you say no. I just wanted to… ask.”

I sit there in awkward silence for a moment,
and then I remember that it's still recording.

“That's it, then,” I say quickly. “You have
my number. Please think about it.” And then I hang up before I can
make an even bigger ass of myself.

Ugh
. I flop down face-first on the
bed. I try to convince myself that I did the right thing, but I
feel like I'm going to vomit. Garrett was the first great love of
my adult life—or so I thought. There was a time I believed he was
the perfect man: successful, intelligent, attractive, charming. I
was so head-over-heels for him that I didn’t notice when he started
to take little digs at me. Well—I
did
notice, but I assumed
all of his little comments and critiques were true. I changed my
hair because he told me he thought long hair made my cheeks look
too round. I changed the way I dressed because he told me my
favorite sundresses were too sexy and invited too much
attention.

It took me way too long to realize how
emotionally manipulative he was.

This isn’t about you
, I try to remind
myself.
This is about the Center. You can handle this.

Right now a tour of this place with Calder
actually sounds like a nice distraction. I roll over and resist the
urge to laugh. Has it really come to this? Is being around that
sexy asshole of a billionaire really the lesser of two awkward
situations?

I close my eyes and wait for Calder to
return, wondering how I managed to get myself into such a mess.

* * *

“Did you finish your calls?” he asks when he
arrives at my door.

I nod, pretending that I'm not stressing over
the fact that Garrett has yet to respond to my message. I'm not
even sure I want him to. The thought of talking to him again makes
my stomach turn, but the thought of losing the Center isn't any
better.

“I thought we'd start at the top,” he says,
his eyes drifting across my body. “Then work our way down from
there.”

My stomach twists. “What?”

“The top of the house,” he clarifies,
flashing an amused smile.

I look away. He’s doing that on purpose,
trying to make me blush, but I won’t let him think he’s unsettled
me. He can’t know I’m attracted to him—and he definitely can’t get
any hint that anything might have happened last night.

“That sounds good,” I tell him evenly.

I study my host out of the corner of my eye.
Today he's wearing a gray T-shirt and dark jeans. He looks so
normal
. If I passed him on the street I'd never guess he
came from all this. My eyes linger on the way his sleeves stretch
over his shoulders, the way his hair curls down around the collar.
He still hasn't shaved, but he doesn't look sloppy. Just
deliciously sexy.

I glance away before I get worked up again.
I'm not here to ogle Calder. I'm not some sort of animal or sex
fiend. I'm a professional woman who came here to save her dad's
life’s work.

Calder leads me up a flight of stairs. My
bedroom was already on the second floor—where the heck is he taking
me? My question is answered when we reach the top and he throws
open a door. Cold air rushes in around us. He's brought me up to
the roof.

“I hope you’re not afraid of getting a little
wet,” he says, his eyebrow quirking.

I try to ignore the sexual implication of his
words.

His hand grazes my lower back as he ushers me
outside. A tingle races across my skin. I step away from him, but
the heat from his touch lingers on my spine.

The roof is, no surprise, spectacularly
beautiful. This section is covered by a high pavilion ceiling, and
globe lanterns dangle from the beams. There's an entire freaking
kitchen up here—complete with a large stone oven—a full bar, and of
course the sort of furniture that puts the grungy couch in my
apartment to shame. Beyond the pavilion, a pool stretches across
the roof, its silvery surface dappled by rain. The surrounding
patio is done in gorgeous red-brown stone. The whole scene looks
like something I've only ever seen on one of those fancy television
design shows.

“What do you think?” Calder says. “Want to go
for a swim?”

I must show my shock on my face because he
lets out a laugh.

“Haven’t you ever been for a swim in the
rain?” he asks. “You get damp either way.”

I’m not sure if he’s being serious or
not.

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” I remind him.

The corner of his mouth curls up. “Not a
problem.”

Before I can utter another word, he pulls his
t-shirt over his head, exposing his perfectly chiseled chest.

My mouth falls open, but I snap it quickly
shut again.

“What are you doing?” I say.

He grins. “Swimming.”

His hands move to the button of his
jeans.

“Are you stripping?” I’m unable to keep the
shock out of my voice.

“I’m not going to swim in my jeans,” he says
matter-of-factly. His fingers pause on the zipper. “You’re welcome
to join me, of course.”

“I—” My entire face is on fire. “I’m not
going to take off my clothes.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. You’re missing
out, though.” He unzips his jeans and slides them down in one
movement, revealing a pair of dark boxer-briefs.

Once more I’m bombarded with memories of last
night, of his naked body reclining on the bed. Of the way I touched
myself at the sight of him.

My body responds in turn now. I clench my
hands and unclench them again, trying to gain control of
myself.

Calder hooks his thumbs in the waistband, and
my heartbeat quickens. Is he going to pull those off, too?

“For someone who’s shy about skinny-dipping,
you certainly have no qualms about watching,” he says.

I almost fall over.

“I—I’m not watching,” I say, quickly turning
away. “You’re the one who tore off your pants without warning.” I
imagine I’m the color of a ripe tomato right about now.

He chuckles. “Come, Ms. Frazer. It’s nothing
you haven’t seen before.”

My blood runs cold.
Oh my God. He knows
about last night.

“What—what’s that supposed to mean?” I
demand, still refusing to turn and look at him. “What are you
implying?”

“Forgive me,” he says, his voice thick with
amusement. “I didn’t mean to give offense. I was only suggesting
that by this point in your life you’ve probably seen a naked man or
two—unless I’m mistaken?”

“I’m not a virgin,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with men just stripping off their
clothes in front of me.”
No, but I’m all right with spying on
those same men while they pleasure themselves in their
bedroom.

Forget the ripe tomato—I’m probably as red as
a fire truck right now.

“Well,” says Calder behind me, “if you’re not
comfortable with complete nudity, then maybe we can keep our
undergarments on.”

“I’m
not
swimming.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he says.
“May I remind you that you broke onto my property? That I had to
wrestle you down in the mud? Certainly you can’t be afraid of
taking a little dip in the rain.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say, spinning on him
angrily. He’s closer than I thought—just in front of me now.
There’s still a bit of amusement around the corners of his mouth,
but his dark eyes bore into me. Butterflies dance in my
stomach.

“If you’re not afraid,” he says, his voice
breathy and low, “then why are you resisting?”

He’s so close that I can feel the heat
radiating off his skin, so close that I can smell the musky scent
of his soap—or is that only him? All it would take is the smallest
of movements and I could brush my fingers against his bare stomach,
learn if his skin is as soft and smooth and hot as I imagined last
night.

“I…” I don’t know what to say. I don’t have
an excuse, not really, except for the general sense that this is a
bad, bad idea.

Oh, I’m in trouble.

Calder must sense my indecision, because his
eyes suddenly darken. Before I can react, he grabs me around the
waist, just as he did on the lawn yesterday.

“What the—” I cry as he hoists me off my
feet. “What are you doing?”