Her Wicked Heart (3 page)

Mr. Haymore finally manages to force his way into the room, and I’m right behind him. The place is a mess. Several tables have been overturned, and two long display cases are in pieces on the floor, their contents buried beneath splinters of wood. But that’s not the worst of it. On the far side of the room, the window’s completely gone.

So are the two men.

Haymore darts over to the window—or the hole where the window used to be. His eyes are so wide they look like they’re about to pop out of his head. The young woman who was at the center of all this drama draws up beside him, her mouth open in shock.

We’re on the first floor, so they couldn’t have fallen that far, but I can’t imagine tumbling through glass is pleasant under
any
circumstances. I edge closer to the window. Outside, the two men are slowly dragging themselves to their feet. Shards of glass tumble off of their hair and clothes like crystalline rain.

And Haymore loses it.

“You’re both fired,” he says. “Fired! Without severance!”

Casanova gives a little shake of his head, sending a fresh sprinkling of glass into the perfectly manicured grass beneath his feet. His arms are crisscrossed with cuts, but he gives a little smile.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he says cheerfully. “It’s just a window.”

Mr. Haymore looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

“The press will be here in just over a week,” he says. “Carolson will be here
tonight.
This is not
just a window.
This is a huge problem. Rest assured, this will come out of your final paychecks.”

Casanova doesn’t seem particularly upset about this. Poor Luke, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have heard any of it.

“We need to get them medical help,” I say. “Didn’t you say there was a nurse on staff? Or do we need to drive them into Barberville?”

Mr. Haymore blinks through his rage, apparently baffled by the suggestion that we have to help the two men who just (apparently) destroyed all of his hopes and dreams.

“The medical station is down the hall,” says a young woman just behind me. “Julia already went to get someone.”

Already, some of the others are stepping past us, moving to help the two men. Casanova shrugs them off and pulls himself up through the broken window as if nothing’s out of the ordinary (and who knows—maybe this
is
the norm for him), but Luke requires a little more assistance. The girl who was in the middle of this mess reaches out to him, but he jerks away. Blood dribbles from his nose down across his lip.

That’s when a couple of security guards finally get around to showing up.

“Where were you?” Haymore demands.

One of the guards shrugs as he helps support Luke. “We only got the call a couple of minutes ago. We came right over.”

My boss frowns. While there will be a full security team on the payroll by the time this place opens, right now there are only a handful of officers, and they’re more focused on keeping the general public out than dealing with internal problems. It’s a small point of pride that I suspect
I’m
one of the reasons these guys were brought on in the first place. Just six weeks ago or so, back when they were a little laxer about these things, I managed to sneak onto the property and spray paint dirty words all over the golf course. Juvenile, sure, but I’ve never experienced a rush like I did when I got chased off the property.

Well, at least until the day I showed up here with blond hair and a fake name.

Mr. Haymore is beside me again.

“Clear your schedule¸ Ms. Thomas,” he says.

“What?”

“
This
is now your top priority.” He waves his arm at the room around us. “Fix this place. Carolson cannot see it like this.”

“But—”

“Figure it out. I need to finish the preparations for the banquet tomorrow.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “No complaints. Don’t think I won’t fire you, too.”

So now somehow I’m responsible for this mess?
That plastic-wrap-across-the-toilet-seat thing is looking better and better by the minute. I wonder if I might be able to swipe some from the kitchen.

But I put on my Louisa Cunningham smile and nod.

“I’ll do everything I can,” I say. “I’ll need them to send up someone to fix this window, though.”

“I’ll put the call through,” he says. “Though I don’t even want to think about what else will suffer because of this.”

And with that, he turns and follows everyone else out of the room, leaving me alone with the mess.

I sigh. Might as well get to work.

For the first time, I take a good look around the room. This was once my family’s summer parlor. The large windows along the eastern wall let in lots of natural light this time of the year. Now, though?

Oh, God
, I realize.
It’s the freaking gift shop.

Technically, they’re calling it the “Welcome Center.” Apparently they think that makes it sound classier. And yes, there’s an information desk on the far side of the room that will be stocked with brochures and maps and helpful, smiling employees at all times. But there’s nothing classy about the brightly colored Huntington Manor merchandise scattered all over the room.

I walk over to one of the toppled tables. T-shirts of every color lie in piles on the floor, and I reach down and hold one up. It’s neon green and has a stylized image of the house embroidered in purple thread on the front. The words “Huntington Manor” are stitched in cursive below. I drop it back in the pile. A couple of feet away, a mannequin lies in pieces. I bend over and hoist it upright again. It’s wearing one of the T-shirts and a pair of jeans with “Huntington Manor” sewn in metallic thread on the back pockets.

Seriously? This place has branded
jeans
?

I look around. I might as well be at Disney World. There are Huntington Manor hats, tote bags, shot glasses, even Christmas ornaments. I even spot a “Kids Corner” with stuffed horses and Huntington Manor coloring books.

Rage boils up inside of me. I can’t be in here. I can’t look at all of this.

What did you expect?
a little voice in my head says.
They’re wringing all the money out of this place that they can. Of course they’re going to sell merchandise
.

In the end, I decide to do some vacuuming first. There are a few members of the housekeeping staff already on duty, but I’m willing to do anything to put off dealing with the Huntington Manor Collection of Souvenir Crap. A few minutes later, I’m sucking up shards of glass and wood splinters out of the carpet and ignoring the T-shirts like the plague.

Look at the bright side
, I tell myself.
At least you won’t have to worry about running into Mr. Hunky Handyman anymore.

Even now, blood rushes to my cheeks at the thought of how I behaved with him. It was crazy, kissing that man. Reckless. Stupid.

Delicious
, whispers that voice in my mind.

I run my tongue across my top lip, then immediately shake my head, trying to chase away the lusty thoughts that have suddenly filled my mind. The last thing I should be doing right now is indulging in dirty daydreams. I’m not supposed to be thinking about men. Period.

I manage to rein in my imagination for the better part of the morning, and I end up getting a decent amount of work done. After my lunch break, however, when I’ve done every other task I can think of, I’m forced to acknowledge that it’s finally time to suck it up and start working on the piles of merchandise.

I consider going all in and diving right into the T-shirts, but I decide it’s better to start with something a little safer. Something that isn’t going to bring my lunch right back up. Like… books. An entire bookshelf got knocked over in the scuffle, and the volumes are scattered across the floor. Books aren’t obnoxious like neon clothing and key chains, right?

Wrong.

The first few titles I sift through are the kind I expected to find in a place like this: image-heavy coffee table books about the estate. They have titles like
Huntington Manor: A Photographic Tour
, or
The Architecture of Huntington Manor.
Or even
Settlers of Barberville: A History of the Region.
But buried beneath all of those, I find a book that makes my insides twist.

It’s called
The Cunninghams: The Unauthorized Story.

I stare down at the gold embossed letters on the cover. This is a joke, right? This can’t be real.

But when I flip it open, the reality’s too hard to ignore. It’s the entire history of my family, starting with my great-great-grandfather and working forward. The last few chapters are the worst. Those are the chapters that talk about my father, Calder, and me. There’s even a photograph of the three of us from some charity function. One of the last times we were all together, more than two years ago. I touch the picture, sliding my finger across my father’s face. I’m starting to feel numb.

But I keep flipping. I flip until I find myself face-to-face with a picture of… well,
me.
It’s the one the tabloids made famous last year. The one where I’m hugging a boy from the orphanage I helped renovate. It was taken several months before my father’s death, and I look like the perfect little saint.

Now, though, it just makes me feel like the perfect little fraud.

Even the first time I went over to Chiang Mai, back when my father was alive and I had no real problems to worry about, was there ever a point when I wasn’t thinking about myself? I worked for Cunningham Cares International because I thought it would make me feel less guilty about my wealth. I can’t even remember the name of that boy in the picture.

“Doing a little light reading?”

The voice startles me, and I drop the book. My fingers feel thick, and my brain seems to be working about half as fast as it needs to. I know I should be nervous that someone just caught me looking at a photo of myself—if he got a good look at the picture, right here next to the real thing, he might recognize me—but I can’t bring myself to care. I just feel cold and empty.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he says as I slowly get to my feet. I’m still so dazed by the book that when I do look up, it takes me a moment to recognize the guy in front of me.

Red-brown hair. Dirty white T-shirt. Perfect biceps marked with scratches from a hundred tiny pieces of glass.

Casanova himself
is standing in front of me. Blood rushes in my ears.

“What are you doing here?” I say. My voice is a squeak. Already, my eyes are taking it in: the bandages wrapped around various parts of his body. The toolbox in his hand. He was supposed to be fired. He was supposed to be gone.

“Someone needs to fix this window,” he says casually, cheerfully. As if he weren’t the one who broke it only this morning. As if I weren’t the girl who cornered him and tried to get in his pants only a few short days ago.

“I guess you got stuck with clean-up duty?” he asks when I don’t say anything immediately.

“Unfortunately,” I manage.

“Well, looks like we’re about to become good friends, then.” He turns and strides over toward the window. “Though I guess you could say we became good friends a few nights ago.”

I’m too stunned to reply. And when he turns to grin at me, I look quickly away, letting it all sink in.

He wasn’t fired. He’s going to be working right next to me. And he’s not going to let me forget about what I did the other night.

One thing’s for sure: this day’s about to get a whole lot more awkward.

CHAPTER THREE

I need to get out of here. I should go talk to Mr. Haymore. Maybe I could convince him to let me outsource this particular task.

But what would I say? I can’t exactly explain the situation to that stodgy old buffoon. And if I walk out of here and leave all of this crap all over the floor, he’ll fire me for sure.

I crouch back down and begin sorting through the books again. I have to stay here. That doesn’t mean I have to engage with this guy. Maybe the best solution is to ignore him and finish my work. Quickly.

But Casanova seems to have other plans.

“So, what’s your name?” he says after a few minutes of silence.

I slide the first stack of books back on the shelf and pretend not to hear him. I’m not above employing the tactics of a ten-year-old.

“I’m Ward,” he says to my silence. “Ward Brannon. Usually girls ask for that
before
they stick their tongue in my mouth.”

Well, I can’t just let that slide.

“Oh, please. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” I say. I shove the next stack of books a little harder than I mean to.

“I did,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a few questions.”

Oh, boy. This could get dangerous quickly.

“You mean like
Why did you do it?
” I say. “Or
What sort of girl tries to get it on with a stranger?
”

“I’d settle for your name.”

I don’t bother looking at him. I can tell from his voice that he’s enjoying this almost as much as he enjoyed that fight.

“Addison,” I say finally. The name still sounds strange, no matter how many times I make myself say it. “My name is Addison.”

“Addison,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. Well, he won’t find much of me in that name. “So, Addison, how did you get roped into cleaning this place up?”

“Ask Mr. Haymore.”

“Ah, so you’re the new assistant,” he says. “I should’ve guessed.”

I don’t know what that means, so I ignore it.

“So what about you?” I say, eager to turn the attention away from myself. “Why are you still here? I thought you were fired.”

He gives a laugh that sounds like a grunt. “I guess it didn’t stick.”

As angry as Mr. Haymore was, I’m a little surprised to hear that, but maybe my boss realized he’d need every available hand in order to get this place ready on time.

I risk a glance over at him. He has his back to me, and he’s measuring the area around the window-shaped hole in the wall. As I watch, he leans forward and gingerly touches the splintered wood.

“Shame,” he says, almost to himself. “This was the original casement.”

“Maybe you should think about that next time before you break it,” I say under my breath. But he hears me.

“Technically, Luke went through the window first,” he says.

“And who threw him through it?”

“Minor detail.” He reaches out and breaks off one of the larger splinters. “Anyway, I tried to walk away. The fight was over. He shouldn’t have charged me.”

“And why, exactly, were you fighting in the first place?”

He glances back at me. He still looks amused, but there’s something else in his eyes, too. Something more serious.

“Gracie failed to tell me she was seeing someone,” he says simply. “So I made sure
he
knew she was sleeping with people behind his back.”

“You say that like you were doing him a favor.”

“I was. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet. Gracie’s trash.”

Annoyance flares in my chest. “That sure didn’t stop you from sleeping with her.”

One corner of his mouth drifts up.

“Are you jealous?” he says. “Do I have to remind you that
you
grabbed
me
without any sort of warning? And
you
ran off again without even telling me your name? How was I supposed to know who you were? How do you even know I wasn’t seeing Gracie
before
you tried to undo my belt?”

Oh, geez. I didn’t even realize how that sounded. But he’s not getting off the hook.

“You can’t just call a woman ‘trash’ because she has sex with a lot of people,” I say. “Especially if you’re one of those people. It’s a little hypocritical.”

“I don’t give a damn how many people she sleeps with as long as she’s honest about it,” he says, all humor gone. “And this has nothing to do with her being a woman. I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman or whatever else. If you cheat, you’re trash. Period.”

The anger in his voice surprises me. His blue eyes have darkened, and he turns away from me and breaks more of the splintered wood off of the window.

“So you’re not taking any responsibility for this yourself?” I say.

He glances over at me. “How is this my fault?”

“Uh, last time I checked, it takes two people to cheat.”

“As I said before, she didn’t tell me about Luke until afterward. And as soon as I found out, I did the right thing.” He turns back to the window. “I’m not going to feel bad for her. Gracie’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions. But that doesn’t mean she won’t have to face any consequences for the bad ones.”

Oh, how easily he wipes his hands of any responsibility. I grab another stack of books and drop it on the shelf.

“I don’t see how beating up Luke is the ‘right thing’.”

“That,” he replies, “is his own fault. I told him to let it go. He was the one who started throwing punches. I was just defending myself.”

You were enjoying it
, I want to say.
It was all a game to you.
Geez, he was a lot more attractive before he opened his mouth. I want to go back to that place where he was just that sexy, nameless handyman I threw myself at.

Somehow, miraculously, I’ve finished with the books. I climb to my feet and turn toward the overturned table of T-shirts. My stomach instantly sinks. One thing I’ll say about arguing with cocky, auburn-haired jerks: it keeps your mind off of the things that are really bothering you.

I’ve managed to turn the table upright before he speaks again.

“Look, I’m not claiming to be a saint,” he says. “But I have no patience for cheaters. I don’t care what people say—cheating never ‘just happens.’ If your eye’s wandering, then there’s something wrong with your relationship. Either work things out with your partner or have the balls to break things off before jumping into bed with someone else. It’s pretty simple.”

“So you’ve never cheated on anyone?”

“No.” He pauses. “Not even when attractive women throw themselves at me.”

My cheeks go hot. I thought we were past that. But I can’t stop my tongue. “So if Gracie hadn’t been in the picture, you would’ve gone through with it?”

He’s looking at me again, but I can’t read his expression. “Gone through with what, exactl
y? How far would you have gone if I hadn’t stopped you?”

I don’t even want to know. A blow job? Full-out sex? I was in a bad place. Desperate for a distraction. For something, anything, to make me feel human again.

When I glance up, I realize he’s no longer at the window. Instead, he’s moving slowly toward me. It takes me a moment to read the intention in his eyes, and by the time I do, it’s too late. He’s standing in front of me, and the table’s at my back. I’m trapped.

He leans toward me, dropping his hands to the table on either side of my hips. I have to lean back if I don’t want his face to collide with mine.

Which I don’t
, I tell myself.
I definitely don’t.

His eyes are gleaming. With humor, but with something else, too—something devilish. Something wicked. He’s so close that can smell that hint of sweat I noticed on him the other day. I could probably count the loose threads along the collar of his T-shirt. There are dozens of tiny cuts on his neck, marks from the broken glass. How many more lacerations does he have beneath his shirt? On the parts of his body I can’t see?

I tear my eyes away from his neck, trying to fight back any images of his naked chest. But when I meet his eyes again, the expression I find there is much more dangerous.

“How far would you have taken things?” he asks, his voice low. “How far were you willing to go with a stranger?”

One of his hands lifts off the table, and his fingers brush against my arm just above the wrist. I suppress a shiver.

“You were willing to kiss me,” he says, bringing his face down toward mine. He stops just shy of my mouth, but I can feel his breath on my lips. “You were willing to slip your tongue into my mouth.”

I can’t move. He’s almost a foot taller than me, and it hurts my neck to keep looking up at his face, but every muscle in my body is frozen. Even my lungs don’t seem to be working right.

His fingers drift up my arm, skimming across the elbow.

“You were willing to take off my clothes,” he says. “Do you still want to take them off? Or would you rather I took off yours?” Every word is a warm wash of breath across my face.

My fingers tingle slightly, and I clench my hands into fists so I’m not tempted to reach for his fly.

His hand has reached my sleeve, and he slides two fingers beneath the fabric. He’s only touching my shoulder, hardly anything scandalous, and yet somehow it feels inappropriate.

“What would you do,” he murmurs, “if I picked up where we left off? If I flipped you over and took you right here? Right on top of this table?” He shifts his hips forward slightly, pressing them against mine. “Or is it different, now that you know my name?”

His fingers still caress my shoulder, but now he lifts his other hand to my hair. Just as before, he wastes no time in tangling his fingers in the strands. And then he grabs a handful, not quite enough to hurt, and pulls my head back so I can’t look down again, even if I wanted to. His eyes flash.

“Does this still excite you?” he asks.

I try to lie and shake my head, but it’s hard with my hair in his grip. Harder still when my whole body feels like jelly. His fingers slip out of my sleeve and grab the collar of my shirt, pulling it aside and exposing my shoulder. His thumb grazes the bare skin, but his eyes never leave mine.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he says, “for someone who was so forward the other day.”

I finally find my voice. “Maybe it’s better that way. I liked you a lot better before you opened your mouth.”

My comment catches him by surprise, but then humor floods his eyes. He throws back his head and laughs, releasing me.

I let out a breath as he moves away from me, but I still have to grip the table a moment longer while the feeling rushes back into my limbs.

This is dangerous. This is very, very dangerous.
I don’t like the effect this guy has on me. I’m supposed to be staying away from situations like this. Not melting beneath the touch of the first guy to offer me a new distraction.

I turn around and bend down to grab the nearest pile of Huntington Manor T-shirts.

“For someone who’s so self-righteous about cheating,” I say, “you certainly don’t have a problem jumping between girls quickly.”

“Just to be clear,” Ward says, “nothing happened between me and Gracie until yesterday. And it won’t happen ever again. So that’s not really an issue here.” He’s returned to his work at the window, but I still don’t risk turning around.

I take several deep breaths, trying to get my heart rate back to normal. My body might be eager for a little fun, but I don’t want another complication in my life. Even one with amazing arms.

But Ward’s not about to let me ignore him.

“What about you?” he asks after a minute.

“What?”

“Have you ever cheated?”

I grab another handful of T-shirts. “That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

“More personal than sticking your hand in a stranger’s pants?”

I’m not even going to respond to that.

“No,” I tell him simply. “No. I’ve never cheated.” But even as I say it, a knot forms in my stomach. No, I’ve never had sex with someone when I was committed to someone else. But the real crime here isn’t the sex—it’s the abuse of someone’s trust. I might not have strayed physically or emotionally, but that whole mess with Ian still feels like a betrayal.

My answer must satisfy Ward, though, because he drops the subject.

I look back down at the T-shirts. The colors are so bright that I’m afraid they’re going to burn my retinas, but it’s better than looking at the guy I almost-but-didn’t-quite make a very, very bad mistake with. I need to stop making new mistakes and start fixing the ones I’ve already made. No more excuses.

And if I’m going to be a better, stronger person, I can start by sucking it up and dealing with these T-shirts already. Even if every time I see that stupid embroidered “Huntington Manor” logo I feel like I’m being stabbed in the gut. I get to work, making my way through an entire pile of hot pink shirts and half a pile of the electric purple ones before I find my gaze drifting back over to Ward.