Her Wicked Heart (12 page)

And he called Ward’s work exceptional.
He said they wouldn’t be able to find someone who matched his skill. It’s weird that someone as “above” this project as Carolson would single out the work of a single subcontractor. And it’s almost unimaginable that he’d actually defend someone in Ward’s position. Is Ward’s work really that good?

I think about the passion in his voice when he spoke about this house. And I saw his finished work on the window in the Welcome Center—as much as I hate to admit it, it looks
exactly
like the original. Maybe he’s more talented than I suspected.

Either way, though, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s seriously injured right now.
That friggin’ idiot.
What was he trying to prove? And why did he have to spit in Carolson’s face on the way out?

Calm down, Lou
, I tell myself.
There’s no reason you should be getting so upset about this.
Ward’s just a coworker. A distraction. An amazingly sexy distraction, sure, but still someone who shouldn’t be entering my emotional sphere right now. He’s made his own bed. He can deal with the consequences of his actions.

And I need to focus on dealing with the consequences of mine.
I’ve been avoiding it all day, but I can’t hide from it forever: I need to call Ian. I need to apologize for everything that happened last night and set things right between us once and for all. It was cruel to let him come here, but it would be even worse to let things drag out any longer.

I don’t go straight back to my office. I have my cell on me already, so instead I take a walk. I wander through the halls, quickening my pace whenever I pass someone so it looks like I’m on an errand. I don’t have a specific destination in mind, but I find myself heading toward the northern section of the western wing. There aren’t a lot of people in this area of the house, and that’s fine by me.

Eventually, I come to the room that once served as my family’s private theater room. Curious, I push open the door and peer inside.

The room looks like it always did—rows of stadium-style seating facing a huge projection screen—so I guess they realized a movie room might be a nice amenity for guests. I walk into the room and sink down in one of the cushy seats.

I was never really into television or movies, but my father was. Once a year he’d force me and Calder to sit down for a James Bond marathon, even when year after year I’d fall asleep halfway through
Dr. No.
I wonder where all of those movies are now. Did Calder take them? Did he sell them?

I lean back in my seat and turn my head, pressing my nose against the cushion. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I swear it smells the same as it always did. Like a bit of my father still lingers.

My eyes start to burn, and I sit up again. What would my father have said, seeing all of this? Seeing what they’ve done to this place? Did he even realize we’d have to sell it to take care of his debts? Or did he just assume we’d find a way to protect it and keep it in the family? Is he up there right now, staring down at me and Calder and thinking we should have done more?

I’m just one person. What am I supposed to do? Beg Carolson to reconsider his decision? Legally, he can do whatever the heck he wants. And though I might chip away at this place bit by bit, stealing wine or doing other petty little things, it won’t make a difference.

I press the backs of my hands against my eyes. I didn’t come here to feel sorry for myself. I snuck away so that I’d have a chance to talk to Ian in private, and I won’t let myself put it off any longer.

I pull out my phone and find Ian’s number.

Don’t be a coward
, I tell myself.
Do the right thing.
I push the button before I can come up with any excuses for putting this off. I bite down on my lip as it rings on his end.

But he doesn’t answer. I’m not sure whether the relief or the disappointment is stronger as his voicemail message picks up, but I take a deep breath. Maybe it’s cowardly to spill everything in a message, but I tell myself that it’s better to get it all out there as soon as possible.

“Hey, it’s Lou,” I say, leaning back against my seat. “I… I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry about how I behaved last night. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did. I’m so sorry, Ian. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

My voice shakes slightly, and I’m sure I sound like a crazy person, but I press on.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again, a little stronger. “I don’t want to be the person who brings you down. Not anymore. I want you to go on and have the happiest life you can possibly have. You’re going to help so many people, Ian. You’re going to do amazing things.”
Just not with me
, I add in my head. “Thank you. For everything. For being there for me.”

I swallow, trying to sort out the thoughts and emotions rushing through my head.

“I just want…” How exactly do I say this? “I just want to give you the chance to have everything you deserve. Because you deserve better than this.”
Better than me.
He needs to see that. I refuse to take advantage of him anymore.

I don’t know what else to say, how to make this whole send-off any less awful. But there’s no way to make this okay. So rather than drag it out any longer, I decide to leave it at that.

“Goodbye, Ian,” I say finally, my voice no more than a whisper. I hang up and let the phone fall into my lap. My head drops back against the seat, and I close my eyes.

“That was the right thing,” I say out loud, as if somehow that’ll make it easier.

I want to scream. I want to punch something. Maybe this is what Ward is dealing with—this overwhelming urge to do
something
to release this horrible energy inside. To hurt something. Destroy it.

Instead, the tears I’ve been holding back since I arrived here finally break free. One minute my eyes are completely dry, and the next, they’re pouring down my cheeks. And once I’ve started, I can’t stop.

My cell phone falls off my lap and hits the floor. I reach down, trying to grab it, and then I’m on the floor, too. I draw my knees up to my chest and press my face against them and just cry.

I don’t know if it’s everything that happened last night or just all the overwhelming emotions I’ve had to deal with since coming back here. I don’t know if these tears are healthy or a sign that I’m on the verge of a major breakdown. I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate, but I fight against the panic. I rock back and forth, trying to calm myself down.

You did the right thing with Ian
, I tell myself over and over again. Maybe there’s hope for me figuring all this out. Maybe I have a chance to be a normal, healthy person. But I can’t escape the knowledge that I’m alone again, that I’ve cut ties to my last lifeline. I’m on my own once more, and that terrifies me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when the tears finally slow down. Too long, I’m sure. Mr. Haymore’s probably going insane.

I wipe my cheeks and get to my feet, brushing the carpet fuzz off of my skirt.

You’ve got this
, I tell myself.
You can handle this.
I’ve made one step in the right direction today. I can be stronger. Better. No more distractions. No more bad habits.

Unfortunately, some bad habits have a way of finding their way back into your life whether you want them there or not.

CHAPTER NINE

Those last few days before the press members arrive go by in a blur. Mr. Haymore apparently thinks I
’m the Energizer Bunny. He has me doing so many things I’m shocked that I’m still standing.

But I like being busy. I feel productive. And that’s a much better alternative than stewing on my problems. I don’t have time to think about the fact that Ian hasn’t responded to my message—whether to worry about how he’s taking the news or to be relieved that he’s accepted my decision. And I don’t have time to think about Ward—to wonder how he’s recovering from his injuries or think about the fact that the impending grand opening means his work here is very close to done. Even if he’s well enough to get back on the job, there’s a chance I’ll never see him again.

By the time the big morning comes, I’m both physically and mentally exhausted. The only reason I’m not in a puddle on the floor is that I’m jacked up on four cups of coffee. If I stand in one place for too long, my entire body starts to tremble and shake.

Unfortunately, as Mr. Haymore’s assistant, I’ve gotten roped into helping him greet all the arriving press members. They intentionally made this week very exclusive, inviting only fifty or so members of various media outlets, and Haymore’s insisting on welcoming every visitor personally. That means spending the better part of the day in the front lobby. I can tell my boss is a nervous wreck because his mustache is twitching even more than usual, but he pulls it together whenever someone walks through the door.

Me? I’m so drained that I’m having trouble standing upright. I, lucky girl that I am, get to check in everyone as they arrive. I mark their names off my list and hand them their name tags and welcome packets (ever a favorite of Mr. Haymore’s) while my boss joyfully babbles on about our fine accommodations. I’m not really cut out for reception duty, but all of the usual Guest Services employees have been asked to help ferry the press members to their respective rooms. Apparently normal baggage boys won’t cut it with this crowd.

I do okay at the beginning. But as the morning drags on and I’ve reached four consecutive hours without a cup of coffee, I’m starting to get a little spazzy. Several times I have to ask for names more than once, and once I even drop one of the welcome packets as I’m passing it across the counter. It falls open on its way down, and papers flutter everywhere.

“Crap.” I rush around the counter, all too aware of Mr. Haymore’s glare. The journalist I was supposed to be helping is already crouched down, gathering things up. I drop to my knees and help. I’m not even sure why I care so much—it’s not like I’m particularly invested in this place’s success—but I still feel bad.

“I’m sorry, Mr.—” And dang, I’ve already forgotten his name. I
just
marked it off the list about fifteen seconds ago.

“Julian,” he says. “Asher Julian.”

He sounds friendly, not annoyed, so I risk a glance up. He’s youngish—probably late twenties—and not unattractive. Not Ward levels of hot or anything—not that I’m thinking about Ward—but not halfway bad looking. Though he’s got a look about his eyes that makes me suspect this guy has the potential to be a major douche if he wants to.

My eyes drop to the badge I handed him less than a minute ago. Beneath his name it lists the name of the company he’s from, and my stomach clenches with recognition. He’s from
Look! Magazine
, one of the big celebrity news publications. I can imagine which angle of this story he’s covering.

I sit back on my knees, pasting on my practiced smile. It
’s only after I’ve finished putting the packet together that I look up and realize that Mr. Julian is looking at me oddly.

“Have we met before?” he says. “You look really familiar.”

I go cold. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that some of our new visitors might recognize me, but that was a careless oversight. Sure, some of these people are from travel and luxury news outlets, but many are from websites or papers that would have closely followed my family’s story. How could I have been so stupid? What if someone figures out who I am? A bad dye-job and extra lipstick aren’t going to protect me from observant people like these guys.

My heart is bouncing against my ribs.

Breathe
, I tell myself.
Flash him a smile and breathe. Don’t let him see you sweat.

“Oh, I get that a lot,” I say, and thankfully it sounds casual and light. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

I hold my breath, but he nods and smiles. “I guess you do.”

And then he’s gone, being escorted away by one of the over-eager Guest Services gophers. I try not to look too relieved as I return to my place behind the counter. That was close.

I’m not sure what I’ll do if people around here figure out who I am. Even if they were okay with overlooking the whole “illegal” side of things, they’d want an explanation, and I’m not sure I can even explain it to myself, let alone come up with a reasonable excuse for someone else. Besides, I’m not ready to leave yet. I still have too many things to figure out.

That means being extra careful.

Unfortunately, since Mr. Haymore’s in charge of making this week run smoothly and I’m in charge of doing whatever Mr. Haymore needs, I can’t just avoid our new visitors. I have to be by my boss’s side for every event. Starting with the welcome reception on the very first night.

In spite of throwing on an extra layer of makeup and running my straightener through my hair three different times, I still feel exposed when I show up at the atrium. They’ve set up tables and chairs among the indoor gardens, and there’s an open bar on the far side of the room. Servers move through the journalists and photographers with trays of appetizers, and Mr. Haymore is already mingling with the guests. I move along the wall, happy to remain hidden until I’m needed. I don’t need any curious pairs of eyes on me tonight.

I made a copy of the sign-in list this afternoon, and I pull it out and study the names, trying to match them with the faces in front of me. If anyone asks, I can just tell them I’m learning who’s who so I can offer the best, most personal service possible. In reality, though, I need to know who I’m up against.

I’ve already marked Asher as one to watch. I’ve kept my eye on him since he walked in, observing him as he moves around the room. I put check marks next to the names of the representatives from magazines and websites I find particularly suspicious—ones I suspect covered my family’s story closely, as opposed to publications about travel or tourism that are here for a first look at the accommodations. And the whole time, I keep an eye out for anyone who looks at me a fraction too long, or who squints and tilts their head as if they’re trying to figure out where they’ve seen me before.

But my “disguise” must be better than I thought, or else everyone’s too focused on the food and sticking their noses up each other’s butts to give me a second glance. It’s just like I felt next to Carolson. I’m essentially the help. Only here when someone needs me.

In spite of myself, this irks me.

Don’t you know who I am?!?
I want to scream.
My great-great-grandfather built this place!
This is my family’s home, and they’re all invaders. Invaders who have no problem gawking at the gardens out the windows or furiously scribbling down notes as if this place were the friggin’ eighth wonder of the world.

It’s worse when Carolson finally shows up. He rolls in at half past eight, and immediately the crowd falls into a strange frenzy; everything is completely silent except for the clicking of camera shutters and the scratch of pens. Some people start typing into their phones, while one or two fish digital recorders out of their pockets.

Carolson gives his usual smile as he walks to the front of the room.

“No questions tonight,” he says, “but I wanted to come welcome you personally to Huntington Manor.” He spreads his arms. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to share this project of mine with the world.”

He goes on, but I don’t hear the words. I’m remembering what Ward said to me about rich people. About how everything they say or do is to make them seem more important. Every gesture, every word of Carolson’s is perfectly calculated. He’s setting himself up as the gracious, generous host of this event. Taking credit for this “project” as if he’s been here all along, working up a sweat with the contractors and the rest of the staff. Maybe he’s manipulative enough to do it on purpose, or maybe it’s just become a habit of his over the years, expanding as his status grows.

This is my family’s house
, I want to say.
Not yours! It will never really be yours!

If it had been my father up there, or my brother or me, then we would have had the right to say those things. But not Carolson.

I feel the anger starting to build in my chest, and I push it down. Ever since my breakdown in the theater, I feel like my emotions have been too close to the surface, just waiting to break free again. I need to fight them back. Be strong. I can’t lose it here, where there are a dozen cameras to capture every second of Louisa Cunningham’s mental break.

I need air. Fresh air.

Fortunately, Mr. Haymore’s too busy nodding enthusiastically along with Carolson’s spiel to notice me leaving, and I pray that he doesn’t need me again immediately. If he does… well, I’ll worry about coming up with an excuse when the time comes.

I march back through the house and out one of the side doors, into the moon garden. Every blossom in this section blooms in the moonlight, and at this hour, the beds I pass are filled with beautiful pale flowers. I consider stopping and sitting here for a while, but I’m afraid I’ll only get restless. And anyway, I desperately need a drink.

I’m across the lawn and at the tasting room in less than five minutes. Another thirty seconds and I’m inside.

This time, I don’t have a particular bottle in mind, so I take my time choosing the wine I want. Not because I have any idea which might be better than any other—honestly, I don’t know a merlot from a pinot noir. I consider picking one based solely on the label, but in the end I decide to be a little bolder and choose something based on price. I grab two bottles that appear to be valued at about $900 each.

And then, sustenance procured, I head to the maze. It’s still probably the safest place to sneak some wine in spite of my slightly complicated experience the other night.

It doesn’t even occur to me that Ward might be out
there again. But when I get to my favorite spot, I realize that once again I’ve made a gross oversight.

“You,” I say, seeing the familiar auburn-haired figure reclining against the hedge in the moonlight.

He shifts, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “You.”

I can
’t tell from his tone whether he’s happy or disappointed to see me. I’m too focused on his injuries, which are all too obvious, even beneath the silvery light of the moon. Those shadows beneath his eyes are definitely bruises, and his left eye is still puffy and slightly swollen. His left arm is in a sling. His nose is back in a slightly more normal shape, which is good, but I’m sure there are plenty of injuries I can’t see beneath his clothes.

Not that I’m thinking about what’s beneath his clothes. I realize I’m staring, so I quickly say, “Your roommate have a girl over again?”

He shrugs, then winces. “What can I say? He’s a player.”

Well, looks like I’m not going to be alone here tonight. Might as well accept that and make myself comfortable. This time, though, I don’t sit on the ground next to him. Instead, I take a seat on the small stone bench nestled against the leaves.

“I’d hope that your friend would be a little more considerate, considering your condition,” I say.

“My condition? This is nothing.”

“Nothing? Have you seen your face?”

“It’s just a broken nose and a black eye. Not like I’ve never had one of those before.”

“And your arm?”

“A sprain. I’m fine.” He makes an exasperated sound. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”

“I never said you were.”

We’re both silent for a long moment. If he doesn’t want me to show any concern, then fine. Let him hold on to his stupid, mannish pride.

After a couple of minutes, he sighs. He rubs his face with his good arm.

“Why are you out here?” he says.

“Same as before. I wanted to get away for a while.” I hold up one of the bottles. “I’ve brought more wine.” Though after what happened last time, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.

“Go ahead, drink it,” he says. “And don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again.”

I don’t answer. But I do pull out my keys and dig the cork out of the bottle.

“I thought you might be gone already,” I say. “Or at least I thought the main construction projects would be finished before the press got here. Are you still under contract?”

“What? Sad you’re not rid of me yet?” He gives a bitter laugh.

“That’s
not
what I meant.”

“To answer your question, yeah, the big stuff’s done. But there’s tons of little shit left to do. They’ve got me laying moldings in some rooms in the eastern wing.”

Again, I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad about that. I’ve managed to get the cork out of the bottle, so I raise the wine and take a long sip before holding it out to Ward.