Sweet Victory: A Novella (His Wicked Games #2.5) (8 page)

At first, I think it’s just a television—from our neighbors above us, perhaps—but then I realize it’s coming from the guest bedroom, and I recognize Lou’s voice.

Crap
. I didn’t realize she was awake. Here I am, butt-ass naked outside her door. With my luck she’ll decide she needs to use the bathroom or grab a glass of water or something.

She seems to be on the phone. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s impossible not to catch a few words.

“As soon as possible,” she says. She pauses—listening to the person on the other end of the line, I assume—before adding, “It doesn’t matter. Just put anything on there. No… something that sounds like a real name. But not too strange. Something generic.” Another pause. “Fine. That’s fine. Just hurry.”

In spite of myself, I’m drawn closer to the door. I know I shouldn’t be listening, but something about this doesn’t sound right.

Lou is sounding more and more exasperated. “It doesn’t matter. As long as it looks real.” Pause. “I’m not trying to trick the CIA. Just get past the hiring manager.” Pause. “Light brown is fine. I’ll get it chemically straightened if I have to.”

Okay, something is
definitely
not right here. I don’t know what Lou is planning, but it doesn’t sound good. Or particularly legal.

When she speaks again, her voice is lower. I want to take another step closer to the door, but the warning bells are going off in my head. Do I really want to get in the middle of this? The more I know, the more complicated it gets.

But this is Calder’s sister. Whatever trouble Lou has gotten herself into will be Calder’s problem as well. I have to know what’s going on.

I’m within inches of the door now. I can hear the hum of Lou’s voice, but I can’t make out any of the words. I lean forward and press my ear right against the door.

“I’ll pay you double if you can get it done this week,” she says. Another pause. “Geez! No! I don’t want to get arrested for identity theft.”

I jerk away from the door, my stomach falling. What could she possibly be planning? She mentioned a hiring manager, so perhaps she’s talking about a job… but what did she mean when she asked for “something that sounds like a real name”? It sounds as if she’s trying to acquire some sort of fake identification. But to what purpose? And her family’s been all over the tabloids—wouldn’t people recognize her anyway?

There are too many questions, and I know I’m not going to get all of the answers from one side of a phone conversation. Through a door, no less.

I clutch the towels to my chest and return to the bathroom. It’s none of my business anyway. I promised myself that I’d give Lou the benefit of the doubt, and what do I do? I eavesdrop on her private phone conversation. I overhear a few sentences out of context and twist them in my head. For all I know, she could be talking about something completely innocent.

In the middle of the night. After an evening spent committing vandalism and running from security. Sure, that sounds legit.

I can’t really blame her for breaking onto the Cunningham estate. After all, it wasn’t so very long ago that I committed the same crime and ran away from what I assumed at the time was a security guard. It was only my good fortune that the “guard” was Calder and that his attraction to me trumped his desire to see me arrested. I could have just as easily been in Lou’s shoes—hiding out and hoping that no one got any damning photos or identifying information.

I admire her spirit for defending, in her own way, the Cunningham estate. I have to remind myself that it wasn’t just Calder’s childhood home—it was hers, too. Calder spent hours showing me around, telling me stories about his life. He pointed out the places he and his sister used to play, described the games they used to invent. He always looked so happy, talking about those things, and I can only imagine Lou looks upon those memories with equal fondness. I saw what the loss of that home did to Calder; who am I to judge how Lou handles the same tragedy?

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Call it women’s intuition. Call it gut instinct. I only know I won’t sit easy until I know what she’s plotting. Not for her sake, but for Calder’s. He wants to make this relationship with his sister work, but it’s not fair to him if she’s getting into trouble behind his back.

Calder’s already under the water when I enter the bathroom.

“I was just about to launch a rescue mission,” he says.

“They were hiding,” I say. I turn toward the counter, making a show of propping up the towels so I have a moment to gather my thoughts.

But Calder knows me too well.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”

I should tell him. If his sister is up to no good, then the sooner he knows, the better. He can stop this madness before it escalates. On the other hand, telling him means doing the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do: getting in the middle of this thing between Calder and his sister. And over what? A few sentence fragments that I didn’t quite understand? It might be nothing. I don’t want to contribute to any further ill-will between the siblings over a few flimsy suspicions.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell him. If Lou insists on getting herself into trouble, then we’ll deal with it as it comes. In the meantime, her phone conversations and personal affairs are none of my business. I have a beautiful naked man waiting for me.

I practically leap into the shower beside him.

“Where were we?” I ask, clasping my hands behind his neck and kissing him. The warm water pouring over my head feels amazing after such a long, exhausting day, but it’s nowhere near as good as his butter-soft lips.

He indulges my kiss for a long, delicious moment before pulling away.

“Something’s bothering you,” he says. “Don’t try to deny it. You’re a terrible liar.”

That’s one of the downsides to reaching this particular stage of coupledom: you know each other so well that it’s impossible to hide anything, even if you’re hiding something for all the right reasons.

“I’m just… up in my head,” I tell him. I need time to figure out how to handle this.

Calder searches my eyes. This is another part of the relationship journey: learning when to trust the other partner.

Finally he nods and draws me close again.

“I’m here. If you need me,” he says. “We’re a team now.”

I want to explain that I’m worried about
him
, not myself, but I know that won’t help anything. For now, I’ll stay out of Lou’s business, but I swear, if she hurts him, I’ll wring her neck with my bare hands.

“I know,” I tell him earnestly before shifting into a lighter tone. “But if we’re a team, then how do you explain the fact that
you
just lost a challenge and
I
won?”

It’s a weak segue as far as they go, but it seems to satisfy Calder for now. He gives me a final questioning look, but seeing that I’m not about to spill any secrets, he grins and gives me a playful smack on the ass. Just like that, the lightness is back between us, and the playfulness returns to his eyes. I’m all too eager to forget what I heard and return to our game, and I laugh and wiggle my butt against his hand.

“I get a hint,” I remind him. I haven’t forgotten that part, and I mean to win my prize once and for all.

“Ask away.”

My fingers drift up his spine. “Is the gift something for us? I mean, I know it’s technically for me, but will you enjoy it as well?”

He chuckles. “In a sense, yes.”

“Like lingerie?” Maybe it was that simple all along.

His eyes flash with smug humor. “Is that a guess?”

Oh. Not lingerie then
.

“No. Just trying to wheedle an extra hint out of you.”

“I don’t know. That sounded very much like a guess.” He squeezes my ass. “And remember the penalty for wrong guesses.”

I look down at his hardening arousal, which seems more than ready to exact that punishment. In spite of my competitiveness, I’m more than willing to face the consequences of my loss.

“What would you like me to do?” I ask, running my hand down his solid length. I can think of all manner of scandalous things we could do here in the shower.

But Calder reaches down and grabs the shampoo. “I want you to wash my hair.”

I frown. “Is that all?”

He presses the bottle into my hand. “Wash my hair. You’re not allowed to touch me anywhere else.”

It’s a strange request, but I obey. Not that I don’t eye him suspiciously as I squirt some shampoo on my hand. I know better than to believe he doesn’t have something else planned.

I rub the shampoo between my hands, working up a lather before I smooth it into his hair. He keeps his eyes on me the entire time, and the familiar prickle of awareness creeps up the back of my neck.

“Stop staring at me like that,” I tease. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I like that I make you nervous.”

I laugh and try to give him a little punch on the shoulder, but he catches me by the wrist.

“Touch only my hair,” he reminds me. He’s not laughing anymore, but he’s not angry, either. Instead, he looks at me with an intensity that turns my insides to complete mush. He looks at me as though he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life. As if he’s afraid that any moment I might slip away from him, and that he must memorize every line of my face before I disappear.

I obey him. As much as I chafe at losing, I really don’t mind this. There’s something very intimate, very sensual about helping him wash. I could spend hours slipping my hands through his hair, hours toying with and twisting the strands, just reveling in how silky they feel between my fingers. His scalp is warm beneath the water, but it’s nothing to the warmth burning my cheeks.

And I never look away from his gaze. His eyes are dark, half closed, but there’s a brightness that warms me from the inside out.

I keep expecting him to try something naughty—to tease my nipples, or to slide a hand between my legs—but he doesn’t take advantage of the fact that I can’t return his touch. Instead, his hands linger on my waist, warm and solid and steady.

This isn’t about sex. Not this time.

Neither of us speaks. I finish washing his hair, and then he picks up the shampoo and squeezes some into his own hand. I close my eyes as his hands weave through my wet hair. His fingers move in slow circles, round and round like the best kind of massage. Between his gentle touch and the warm lick of the water, I could fall asleep right here.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

It’s not an order, but an entreaty. I open my eyes and hold his gaze as he washes my hair. This is nothing like our earlier staring match. I don’t find myself fighting the urge to laugh or blink or look away. I want to lose myself in those dark eyes of his, drown in his soul. I can’t imagine my life without Calder. Once, I thought my time with him was like a dream—a wild, passionate fantasy from which I’d eventually wake up. Now, the opposite feels true: everything I knew before Calder feels like a dream, and this, only this, is authentic and real. I swear, sometimes I believe that all of my senses have been heightened—all of my emotions magnified—since I met him. It’s silly, and it’s irrational, but no reality I’ve ever known can match the intensity of the one I experience when Calder is by my side.

And if I ever dream again, I know it could never live up to this.

We never finish our game. After our shower, we tumble right back into the bedroom, and though Calder seems eager for the next challenge, I don’t miss the fatigue in his eyes. We spent the whole day hauling our things up three flights of stairs and the better part of the night hungrily devouring each other. Any normal person would have collapsed long ago. And that’s not even considering the emotional strain of the day.

I suggest we take a break and lie down for a little while. Calder seems reluctant at first, but as soon as the protest leaves his lips, his mouth widens in a yawn.

“You know,” I say, “if you’re tired, we can end the game and you can just give me the present.”

His lips curl into a secretive smile. “It’s too important for that. But you’re right. We should rest for a while.”

“Just a little while,” I say.

“Just a little while,” he agrees.

We throw some sheets down on the mattress and curl up next to each other. We d
on’t speak. It’s enough to lie here in each other’s arms, to entangle ourselves and let our heartbeats slowly fall into time.

“This is perfect,” he whispers, so quietly that I think I’ve imagined it. When I tilt my face toward his, he’s already asleep.

I shift slightly so that I can look at him in the dark. He’s slumbering soundly, his chest rising and falling with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. I’m exhausted too, but in spite of my body’s complaints, I can’t seem to drift off. In fact, the longer I lie here, the more awake I feel. My thoughts keep drifting back to Lou and what I heard through the door.

I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s long been a fault of mine—making assumptions and acting on them before taking the time to investigate or at least consider all options. It was this very recklessness that led to my original poor opinion of Calder; I let my prejudice color my perception of events, and the misunderstandings that followed caused a lot of heartache for both of us. I won’t make that mistake again.