Her Wicked Heart (18 page)

I raise my hips, looping my legs around him once more, and he slips inside of me so quickly, so easily, that it’s a small miracle it didn’t happen back in the pool. I gasp in pleasure, and Ward exhales. For a moment, he doesn’t move.

“This…” I begin, but I don’t bother finishing. I know. He knows.

When he moves, it’s with far more restraint than I expected. I move my body up to meet his and tilt my head to kiss him. His mouth joins mine eagerly, and I return the passion, biting down on his lip as we rock against each other.

My whole world is heat and light. I’ve had plenty of sex in my life—good sex, sweet sex, emotional sex—but I’ve never had sex that felt like this. This is wild. This is explosive. I never want it to end, and at the same time I’m afraid my body won’t be able to take it. That I’ll black out and wake up sometime later dazed and satisfied and sore in places I never realized I could feel such pleasure.

Lights dance across the inside of my closed eyelids. I don’t care if it’s moonlight, starlight, or just the pleasure centers exploding in my brain.

“Ward…” I say, but it’s more of a moan than a name.

He murmurs something back, but I can’t make out the words. My mind is too full of sensations to have room for processing other things.

“…ere,” he says.

“Mm?”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s stopped moving.

My eyes fly open. Ward is frozen on top of me, but he’s not looking down at me. Instead he’s looking back toward the place where we entered the clearing.

“What is—”

He hushes me with a gentle hand across my mouth. And then I hear it: a voice, from somewhere else in the maze.

“Who’s there?” comes the cry.

One of the guards. Someone knows we’re out here.
And he’s not far, from the sound of it.

Ward moves quickly, climbing off of me and leaping to his feet. I lie there, stunned, until he reaches out his hand.

“Come on,” he urges in a whisper. “Quick. Grab your clothes.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Things aren’t going to end well if we’re discovered having sex in the hedge maze with a bottle of very expensive stolen wine. We dart around the clearing, gathering our discarded clothes. I grab the near-empty wine bottle from next to the fountain as the guard calls out again. I don’t know if he knows the way through the maze, but he definitely sounds closer this time.

We don’t take the time to dress. There’s another way out of the clearing, opposite the place where we entered, and we both run toward it without having to say a word to each other. We dart down the path between the hedges, and I don’t even bother to pretend that I don’t know the way. I lead us through a winding series of turns until we come to a small alcove built into one of the leafy walls. It wouldn’t be much of a hiding spot in broad daylight, but there’s enough shadow right now that we might avoid the notice of someone running past. Assuming they were able to follow our exact path in the first place. There are plenty of places a guard might get lost in here.

I pull my clothes back on with shaking hands. Now that I’ve gotten the chance to breathe, though, I realize that the trembling isn’t from fear; no, this rush of adrenaline is an odd mixture of arousal and the devilish sort of excitement you feel only when you’re doing something completely wicked. I almost laugh out loud.

And when Ward’s hands find me in the darkness, I realize that he’s nearly laughing, too. He pulls me close to him and gives a sad little chuckle.

“That’s not how that’s supposed to end,” he says. “That bastard.”

The guard shouts again, though it sounds like we’ve definitely put some distance between us and him.

“Fortunately,” he continues, “I had the foresight to bring a couple—damn.”

“What?”

“I know I packed a couple of condoms,” he says, patting his pockets. “The other one must have fallen out somewhere.”

I give a defeated laugh and lean my head against his shoulder.
Seriously? Can’t the universe give us a freaking break?

Somewhere far off, the guard calls another time, his voice even quieter than before.

“You know,” I say, determined to make the best of the occasion. “Sex might be out of the question, but we’ve gotten around that problem before.”

“Mm. I like the way you think.”

“You’ll like me even better in a few minutes,” I say, my hands on his jeans. “I owe you one anyway.”

And I drop to my knees, eager to go to work.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

That reporter Asher is watching me. Yeah, I know I haven
’t had a full night’s sleep in a couple of weeks—really, it’s been more like months—but I know this isn’t just exhaustion-fueled paranoia. I run a lot of errands for Mr. Haymore, all over the estate, and I seem to run into Asher more than I should.

Most of the time he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even let me catch him looking in my direction. But I can
feel
it. Like a tickle down the back of my neck.

I consider finding Ward and letting him help me forget my worries for a while, let him finish what we started last night. But
today, instead of feeling giggly and satisfied with the things that happened between us last night, I find myself with a knot in my stomach. He told me things last night about his past. About himself. He’s opening up to me, little by little. And I still haven’t told him my real name.

Is it worth the risk, letting him know the truth? He has no love for the people who run this place, so I don’t worry about him running to Haymore or Carolson with my secret. But if I lose this connection
with Ward, this one bit of sanity holding me together… what then? I have nothing else right now.

But there I go, being the selfish bitch again. Thinking only about myself.

I make up my mind when I come back from an errand for Mr. Haymore and find the note tucked under the stapler on my desk:

Busy tonight? Meet you at the pool at 11 PM.

-W

I feel like a silly teenager, the way my heart swells at a couple
of simple sentences. Meeting at the pool is a little riskier than meeting out in the gardens somewhere—or at least, it would have been if we hadn’t gotten a report only this morning that the security cameras were glitching out up there. I smile to myself, wondering if a certain handyman might have had something to do with that. His eagerness to see me only hammers home what I’ve been thinking all morning: I need to tell him. Tonight. I want him to know the truth.

That decision sends a panicky feeling through my limbs, but I know it’s the right thing to do. No more running.

Unfortunately, there’s still half a day to get through before I can get this off my chest. Somehow, I have to function like a human being until then.

I’m on my fifth (sixth? Seventh?) cup of coffee for the day when I notice I have a new email from Calder.

Weird
. He normally doesn’t email me more than once a week or so. Didn’t he just send me something a couple of days ago?

But before I have the chance to open it, Mr. Haymore calls me. And then I’m back to the grind, with only a couple of coffee breaks the rest of the day.

Haymore’s claimed me for dinner tonight, too, and though I’m tempted to fake stomach cramps or the flu or something, I bite back my excuses and go along with it. If I’m promising myself not to run anymore, that should apply to everything.

They’ve decided to put together some ridiculous formal supper for all of the press members. Apparently Carolson’s going to give another one of his inspirational speeches, show off his perfect little family, and generally continue this whole song and dance. Predictably, half of the staff has worked overtime to make sure everything is absolutely perfect.

And it shows. As soon as I step into the room, it’s clear that a lot more effort and money have gone into this meal than the one they put on for the employees. It’s fancier than most weddings I’ve been to—and that’s saying something, considering the crowd I grew up with. No surprise, though—these reporters are the men and women who can make or break this place with their reviews.

But that’s not the only change they’ve made in here. They’ve made some more permanent additions to the decor as well. On the far wall, the one right above the “head” table where Carolson and Co. will be dining tonight, they’ve hung a series of portraits. One of Carolson himself, plus one of each member of his family. At the center, there’s one of the entire family, poised and posed and looking so self-important that it makes me want to gag. I can already imagine what Ward would say if he were here.

I’m shaky as I take my seat at the table Haymore indicates. I’m sure it’s just from the coffee. But the coffee isn’t responsible for the feelings that creep over me as I continue to look around the room. Most of the press members are already here. Some have their cameras and other fancy equipment set up in front of them. Others have notepads next to their table settings.

I know I should be used to this by now. The reporters. The showy decor. So why does it still upset me?

Just behind the disgust comes the shame—my constant companion. No matter how long I’m here, I still make it all about
me.
About the things I want. I’m the girl having panic attacks about losing a mansion when so many people out there have it far worse than I do.

Addison Thomas or Louisa Cunningham, it doesn’t matter—they’re both frauds.

I’m going to vomit. I’m actually going to be sick right here in the middle of Carolson’s fancy press banquet. I stand up, shoot a desperate excuse in Mr. Haymore’s direction, and run outside.

I don’t make it to the bathroom. Instead I rush out one of the side doors and into the herb garden. Next thing I know, I’m bent over the rosemary, puking my guts out.

It’s mostly coffee. I can’t remember the last time I ate real food, and I can’t even imagine touching anything in that banquet tonight. Not now.

Suddenly there are warm hands on me—one holding my hair back, the other steadying my back. Touch is a small comfort when you’re being sick everywhere, but it’s a comfort nonetheless.

I don’t know who I’m expecting to see when I stand up, but it’s still a shock when I turn around and find myself face-to-face with my old friend Asher Julian.

“Are you okay?” he says.

“I’m fine.” I snap. I glance around for something I can use to wipe my mouth, but apparently the universe wants this to be as degrading as possible for me.

Asher holds out a small towel. It looks like one of those flimsy things people use to clean camera lenses.

“Come on,” he says when I don’t take it immediately. “I don’t bite, I promise.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.” But I take the towel anyway.

He’s silent after that, letting me clean myself up a little. It makes me nervous.

“I don’t have any information for you, if that’s why you’re here,” I say finally. I’m not interested in dealing with him right now.

“Oh, you have plenty of information,” he says, smiling. “I’m just not sure you know it yet.”

My head is throbbing. I press my fingers against my temples, but it doesn’t do much.

“Enough with the games,” I say. “Just tell me what you want.”

“I want a story, Louisa.”

Yeah, I pretty much knew he knew who I was, but hearing him say my name cements it. I quickly look around, even though I know we’re alone out here.

“If you know who I am,” I say, lowering my voice, “then why haven’t you told anyone? Why should I trust you not to blab it to the world?”

“It’s a better story if I have actual details. Not that a couple of good pictures wouldn’t be worth a lot. Those gossip sites are much more interested in speculations than facts. I, however, am more interested in the truth.”

Oh, what a fine, upstanding reporter he is! I’d probably throw up again if my stomach weren’t already empty.

“If you wanted to sit down and do an exclusive interview after this, I know a few magazines that would pay top dollar,” he says. “Honestly, it’s probably a good financial move in the long run. Keep your name in the press. Keep the masses wondering what you’ll do next. Celebrities have built entire careers out of nothing more than one ridiculous exploit after another.”

Is
that
what he thinks I want? Money and fame again? I want the world to forget about my family and our house and our financial situation.

“I’m not interested,” I tell him.

“Fair enough,” he says with a nod. “And I’ll respect that. But I’m not sure other people here share that attitude.”

I cross my arms. “What exactly do you want? Why didn’t you just ask me for all of this outright?”

“Because there’s a lot more going on with this place than you, Ms. Cunningham. I came here looking for a very different story, and I found you instead. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on my first lead.”

“I don’t understand. You think
I
can help you with that?” Clearly I have him as fooled as the rest of them if he thinks I’ve been focused on anything but myself all this time.

“I would imagine someone in your position would have a pretty healthy interest in Edward Carolson,” he says casually.

Well, he’s right about that, at least.
Okay. I’ll bite.

“You’re looking for dirt on Carolson, then?” I ask.

“This project is big news. It’s brought him into the eye of the general public. Naturally, my editors are pretty hungry for information.”

I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m not sure what you think I know about him. I’ve hardly said a word to the man.”

“But you seem pretty close to Ward Brannon.”

My back stiffens. “What?”

“Ward Brannon. You know—carries around a hammer. Lots of muscles. If you like that sort of thing.”

How does he know about me and Ward? It’s not exactly like the two of us were flashing that around or anything. I’m completely creeped out right now.

But that’s not even the most important issue here.

“What’s Ward got to do with any of this?” I say.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Carolson himself requested him for the job. Flew him all the way in from Chicago. Why? From what I can see, he didn’t have any particularly spectacular credentials. And even here, he’s not leading any of the projects. So why all of that extra effort? What makes him special?”

I shake my head. “How am I supposed to know that?” But inside, my brain is freaking out:
He’s right. What’s going on here?

It must be pretty
clear that I don’t have a clue. He smiles and nods and doesn’t press me.

“Just thought I’d check,” he says. “But it would be extremely helpful if you kept your ears open for me.”

Or what? He’s going to tell everyone my secret?

“I’ll think about it,” I say, just to get him off my back.

“I sincerely hope that you do.” He’s still wearing that awful smile. As if we’re talking about friggin’ puppies or something and not yet another complication in what’s already the biggest mess of my life.

“Well,” he continues, “on that note, I should probably return to dinner. Wouldn’t want to miss anything. Are you coming, Ms.
Thomas
?”

I don’t miss the mocking tone of that final word. I shake my head.

“Clearly, something isn’t sitting right with me.” I don’t even bother waving at the mess I’ve made on the rosemary bush. “I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

He nods. “I’ll vouch for you with your boss.”

As if I need any favors from him. After all of this. But I don’t say anything else. I’m sick and angry and my head is throbbing.

I run back up to my room. My legs give out twice on the stairs, and by the time I’m back at my horrible little dorm, I have half a dozen new bruises. But I don’t care. I’ve started to shake again, and my heart is pounding at breakneck speed. I can feel it in my ears. I crouch down on the floor, my back against the door, and hug my knees.

Breathe
, I remind myself.
Breathe, Lou.

But there are so many thoughts rushing through my head that those words get lost. I’m gasping for air and rocking back and forth against the door, trying to stay afloat.

Finally, some minutes or hours later, I finally come back to myself, and I climb to my feet and stumble over to my bed. It’s almost ten o’clock. Still an hour until I meet Ward. Asher’s weird insinuations are still floating around in my head, but I push them aside. Yes, there’s something going on, but I don’t want to think about that right now. I’m barely holding myself together.

What happens now? Do I stay here? Or do I run from this place, run from Asher’s threats?

No. No running. Especially since the minute I leave, there’s no reason for him to keep quiet about who I am. Sure, he won’t have his “exclusive interview,” but he knows I’m here. That’s enough. God forbid he was actually able to snap a picture of me. He has enough expensive equipment with him, I wouldn’t be surprised. If I didn’t realize he caught me and Ward sneaking off together, then who knows what else I missed? How many incriminating photos has he managed to capture?

Maybe I deserve it. Maybe the world should be allowed to see what a psycho I am. It’s only right, after all. Let everyone see. Let Ward finally know what a crazy freak I am.

But what about my brother? Whatever I do reflects back on him, too. We’re the only Cunninghams left. Whether it’s fair or not, he will probably get dragged into any tabloid storm with me.

Thinking of him reminds me that he sent me that email earlier. I’m sure it will only make me feel crappier to read it now, but maybe, just maybe, another glimpse at his new, perfect life will give me the hope to get on with things. If he can do it, if he can figure things out, then maybe I can, too.