Her Wicked Heart (6 page)

A flicker of something begins to burn in my belly, growing slowly and heating the emptiness from the inside out.

“Need something?”

I jump at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t even stop hammering, let alone turn around. So much for me being a super spy.

“You left the luncheon,” I say.

“And so you decided to follow me and make sure I’m okay? I’m touched.” He doesn’t sound particularly happy to see me.

“Hate to break it to you, but I haven’t crossed the line into ‘stalker’ just yet.” I lean against the doorway, trying to look casual. “Mr. Haymore sent me to get something from his office and I heard the hammering.”

He finally stops hammering and turns to look at me. There’s still tension in his face, but he manages a bitter smile.

“Just getting some work done,” he says. “You heard the man. Everything has to be perfect before the press people start showing up.”

He flips the hammer in his hand, but he’s not going to convince me that everything is fine and dandy.

“What was going on back there?” I ask.

His blue eyes flash with something intense, but he keeps the smile. “What? You weren’t inspired by the brilliant Edward Carolson?”

No, not particularly—but I have a good reason for hating Carolson. What I don’t understand is why
Ward
is having this reaction toward the man.

I step into the room, remembering too late that I still have my heels in my hand. Oh well.

“I wasn’t upset enough to leave,” I say.
Funny how easy it is to dull those emotions when you’re trying.

“I’m already working fourteen hours a day for that asshole,” he says. “And I’m not the only one. And in comes good old Carolson, talking like he’s been pouring his own blood and tears into this damn place, expecting us to drop everything just so he can feel important. Those people are all the same.”

I stop three feet in front of him. “Those people?”

“Rich fucks. They’re all the same.” He tosses his hammer aside, and it crashes into his toolbox with a clatter that makes me flinch. “Yelling at us if we poor working chumps aren’t doing our menial labor at inhuman speeds, then turning around and forcing us to dress up and go to stupid luncheons designed to make them feel important. Oh, they all act like events like this are their way of showing their appreciation for all of our hard work, but in reality it’s just an excuse for them to show off and look down at all of their loyal little workers.”

Them.
Not just Carolson, then. He means all “rich fucks.” No doubt he thinks the same thing about my family. He already believes we ruined this house. Why shouldn’t we be self-serving assholes, too?

Anger flares inside of me at his self-righteousness. From what I’ve seen of him, Ward’s not exactly the master of good behavior. But on the heels of my annoyance comes the shame: haven’t I been a self-serving asshole all my life? When have I really put anyone else before myself?

Ward still looks like he wants to punch something. His eyes have darkened to the color of a raging sea.

“Trust me,” he says. “Spend a few years around people like Carolson and you’ll see.”

Oh, I see. I see all too well. How am I any different than Carolson? When I was in Thailand, supposedly helping other people, I was posing for pictures, playing a part. I helped renovate orphanages for the photo op. So people would look at me and think, “Ah, that Louisa Cunningham actually cares! She’s not spoiled like the rest of them.” I was cultivating the image of Lou, the selfless, kindhearted heiress.

I feel like all the fight has been sucked out of me. Let Ward or anyone else say what they want about me and my family. It’s true. It’s all true. The empty void is yawning in my belly again, and I close my eyes.

“Addison?”

Addison. That’s right.
I’m Addison. I need to smile. Laugh. Not get worked up over someone’s passing comments about rich people.

But when I look up at him, the smile freezes before it ever reaches my lips. He’s closer than I thought he was, close enough for me to be able to watch the anger seep out of his eyes. In its place is something else—something that reignites that little pulse of heat deep inside of me.

I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s half naked. My eyes drop to his chest. He was working hard enough before I showed up that there’s already a thin layer of sweat on his skin. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest, lighter and redder than the thicker strands growing on his head. The wicked, rebellious part of me wants to reach out and touch it.

“You’re not here to listen to me vent, are you?” he says, and when I lift my face again I find that devilish glint is back in his eyes. “You’re here for something else.”

Am I? Is that really why I came to investigate the hammering?

I want to. It would be so easy, to stand on my toes and raise my lips to his. To slide my hands across the muscles on his chest. To reach down and undo his belt. There’s no one to stop us—everyone else is still at the luncheon.

He sways toward me slightly, but he doesn’t touch me. He’s waiting for me to make the first move. To admit that he’s right, that I still want what I wanted that first night when I grabbed him without even knowing his name. That I want to taste his lips again. That I want to run my hands through that thick red-brown hair…

But I’m not falling into that trap. I’m supposed to be staying away from men. But it’s hard to remind myself of that when I’m standing so close to him. When I can smell him and feel the heat radiating off of his body.

I muster up my willpower and back up a step. Then another. Then—

My heel hits something, and I’m falling backwards. Out the hole in the wall where the window used to be. There’s a horrible split second when I realize what’s happening. When fear seizes me and my stomach shoots up into my throat. But then Ward grabs me and yanks me back into the room. He falls onto his back, and I fall on top of him.

We both lie there for a moment, stunned. My heart is thumping so quickly I’m sure he can feel it. I can feel his own against my chest. He’s still gripping me by the arms. My hands clutch his shoulders. I don’t know where my shoes are. Probably out the window. My legs have fallen on either side of his, and the sudden realization that I’m straddling him sends a rush of blood up my neck.

I sit u
p halfway, but that’s a mistake because now I’m looking right down at his face. It was one thing to refuse him when I was standing a couple of feet away. But when I’m sprawled on top of him, his bare chest beneath me, his eyes still dark with desire…

My mouth is on his before the logical side of my brain has the chance to remind me that this is a very bad idea. I must ha
ve caught him by surprise again because once more it takes about half a second before he responds to the kiss. But when he does respond, it’s with a hunger I wasn’t expecting, even after the last time. His lips attack mine, and his arms slide around me, holding me against his body. My nerves come to life as our tongues tangle with each other. I need to breathe, but I can’t bring myself to tear my mouth away from his.

Only a short time ago, I was in a zombie-like trance at the luncheon. Numb. Just trying to get through it all. This is the opposite. Every part of me is awake. Not just my body. My mind. My emotions. Everything I’ve been holding back since I arrived here seems to rush forward at once, and I pour that desperate energy into my kiss. Into my hands as they explore the muscles of his chest. Into my legs as they twine with his.

I have nowhere else to send it. All my grief. All my anger. All my guilt. I want to forget all about it. Send it out of me.

Ward’s hands slide down and cup either side of my butt, pressing me down against him. I moan against his mouth. There’s a need, an urgency in his touch that I’ve never felt before. Not even with Ian.

Oh God—Ian.

I freeze, my lips still against Ward’s.
What am I doing?

I can’t do this again. I won’t do it. Not to someone else. Not when I’m still hurting Ian.

I jerk upright. Ward’s eyes are still slightly glazed, but I see a sliver of uncertainty there. He reaches up toward my cheek. “What…?”

I pull away before he can touch me and scramble to my feet. I was supposed to stay away from men. I was supposed to stop using other people as a distraction. How am I supposed to sort out my crap when I make the same mistakes over and over again?

“Is everything okay?” Ward asks.

He’s already on his feet behind me. I glance around for my shoes, but sure enough, they’re on the ground outside the window. Too bad.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell Ward. I don’t look at him. My skin’s still flushed, my body still eager to lose itself in his. I guess you can’t just wish away old weaknesses.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him softly.

And then, for the second time in a week, I run away from him.

CHAPTER FIVE

As usual, the universe is quick to dole out some instant karma for my indiscretion. Not half an hour after the luncheon ends, I’m informed that I will be accompanying Haymore and the Carolsons on their little tour of the grounds this afternoon.

I’ve spent every minute since I left Ward beating myself up for being such an idiot. I’m not an animal. I should be able to make it through a day without trying to jump someone’s bones. I don’t care how upset I am—I promised myself that I wouldn’t look for that kind of comfort anymore.

It’s hard enough, remembering how I treated Ian. How easily I gave in to those urges, even when I looked into his eyes and saw emotions I knew I could never return. I don’t want to be that girl any longer. I don’t want to take two steps backward for every one I take forward.

I need to take responsibility for myself. And that means avoiding temptation—Ward—at all costs. It also means sitting down and responding to Ian’s email. Apologizing for the way I treated him once and for all.

So while Mr. Haymore’s gathering his things for the tour, I quickly pull up my personal email and open a reply box.

Ian—

There was never any need for you to apologize for the things that happened between us. I take full responsibility for all of it, and I hate that I’ve caused you guilt on top of the pain. It’s my turn to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being selfish. I’m sorry for forgetting about our work and thinking only about my own problems. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for putting you in a position that made you feel like you were at fault for any of it.

There. I’ve done it. But it sounds so… distant. So impersonal. Is that all I have to say to him after the way things ended between us? After everything he’s done for me?

My fingers dance across the keyboard again.

I’ve been trying to figure things out. Be better. Be stronger. You are still the best man I’ve ever known, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of you a lot since I left Chiang Mai. That said, I ask nothing of you. You don’t have to come here. You don’t even have to respond to this email. It’s enough to know that you don’t hate me completely for the way I treated you.

Mr. Haymore’s calling for me, so I don’t have time to second-guess my words. I hope they’re enough. I send off the email before I have the chance to chicken out.

I did the right thing
, I tell myself.
He needs to move on. Forget about me.

Still, it hurts a little, cutting Ian out of my life. Before things got complicated between us, he was my friend and colleague. And I meant what I said in my email—he’s the best man I’ve ever known. I’m not allowed to be selfish. I’m not allowed to hurt him anymore. That’s my final gift to him.

I force myself to push the issue out of my mind as I follow Mr. Haymore to the front lobby. That part of my life is over. I don’t need Ian—or anyone—to support me anymore. The sooner I get that into my head, the sooner I can stop relying on old crutches and move on.

The Carolsons are already waiting for us by the front doors. The women have changed out of their heels since the luncheon, but otherwise the family is still impeccably dressed. And they still seem happy enough to ignore me.

I, too, managed to grab a pair of sensible flats from my room. As for the heels I left outside the gift shop window… well, I don’t care if I ever see them again. It’s not worth the risk of finding myself face-to-face with Ward again.

“Well, then,” says Mr. Haymore, giving an uncharacteristically large smile. “Where shall we begin?”

They decide to start with the grounds, since it’s so nice out this afternoon. And so we move outside and head across the lawn. Mr. Haymore walks at the head of the group, pointing out the various “improvements” they’ve made around here. Sometimes Carolson or his wife asks a question, but for the most part they just listen and nod. I’m walking to the side of the group, and I steal glances at Carolson as often as I can. His face is carefully blank, a mask of politeness. My father had a similar expression—it was the one he always wore during functions he was obligated to attend, or when he was dealing with people he didn’t really like.

And he trained me to do the same. To smile, to be charming but reserved. You wanted people to think you were pleasant, even friendly, but it was easier, for your own sake, to keep your real emotions hidden. It allowed you to be in control of the face you showed the world, and when it came to things like business deals, it gave you the upper hand.
Don’t let them see you sweat
, he used to say.

My gaze shifts back toward Troy and Rebecca. Did their father teach them the same things?

The more I look at them, the less I see them as some sort of Twilight-Zone version of my family and more like the real thing. Is this how the rest of the world saw us? Distant and aloof?

Carolson glances toward me, and I quickly look away. I wonder what he’d say, what he’d do if he realized Louisa Cunningham was standing right in front of him. Would he even care?

We’ve reached the edge of the vineyards now—or at least what will be the vineyards in a few years, when the vines have grown some. But the tasting room is complete, and Mr. Haymore ushers our little group inside.

It’s the first time I’ve been in here. They built this little building completely from scratch, and while I should’ve guessed it would be as ridiculous as the rest of Huntington Manor, I’m still not prepared. Rather than more Rococo decor, t
hey’ve decided to go for the rustic look in here—well, the luxury version of “rustic.” The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, and there are thick wooden beams across the ceiling. There are a number of large black-and-white photographs displayed around the room—pictures of some of the collection’s finer bottles, I realize when I get a closer look. I spot a photo of the one Calder gave my father for his fiftieth birthday. And there, on the far wall, the one my father said he’d open when and if he ever got remarried.

There’s a long marble bar at the far end of the room, and Haymore leads us toward it. He grabs several wine menus from behind the counter and passes them to each of the Carolsons.

“Would you like to try anything?” he says. “The Waterstone Ridge ‘99 is apparently spectacular.”

“Oh, there’s no need to open a bottle for us,” Carolson says.

“I insist,” Mr. Haymore says. “Consider it part of the tour. Maybe you’d prefer something lighter? The Ardenback ‘02 might be a good choice.”

I might just be imagining it, but something flashes briefly in Carolson’s eyes before he says anything. It’s gone quickly, replaced once more by his polite politician’s smile.

“I’d be happy to try it,” he says.

Mr. Haymore looks pleased.

“Ms. Thomas,” he says, “go fetch us a bottle.”

Oh right—that’s me. I follow his gesture toward the door to the cellar, then pause.

“That was the—”

“The Ardenback ‘02,” he repeats, his impatience clear in his voice. He shoots Carolson a look and shakes his head as if to say,
What poor, stupid help I have.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t even spare Carolson a glance—I have no interest in knowing what his reaction is to my incompetence. Instead, I turn and head down the steps into the cellar.

Frankly, I’m curious to see what they’ve done to the place. When my family lived here, we had a cellar in the basement beneath the house. Naturally, it was the perfect place to play dungeon or pirates. Sometimes, even when Calder was too old to want to play with me anymore, I’d sneak down there and pretend I was looking for treasure.

This cellar was clearly designed to give that old-world vibe. But it’s too new. Too
shiny.
The lights come on automatically as I descend, and there’s even a computer screen built into the wall at the base of the stairs, kind of like the one I used to have in my closet.

I tap the screen, curious. Instantly, it pulls up an index of all the wines down here. Well, most of the wines. As I scroll through, it looks like they’re still working on some of the lists. I don’t see the Ardenback on there at all.

Not that I mind. It gives me some time to explore and an excuse to stay away from Haymore and the Carolsons for a few more minutes.

I turn and wander deeper into the cellar, my eyes still adjusting to the dim light. My steps echo on the slate below my feet, but otherwise this place is empty and still.

I stop to inspect some of the bottles as I pass. I’m sure Calder took some of his favorites when he left. He was always way more into wine than I was. Me? I’d take a good beer over wine any day. But they’ve definitely supplemented whatever my brother sold them of my family’s collection. I don’t recognize many of these bottles.

But when I do, whenever I recognize a label from my childhood, I stop and touch the bottle. As if somehow the glass holds some of the memories I left behind.

I wonder…

The wine appears to be organized by where the vineyards are located. I wander through the rows until I find the section for French wines. It only takes me a minute to locate the bottle I’m looking for—the label’s easy to spot.

It’s called Le Miel Doré. I always thought it sounded so exotic when I was younger. But what made this wine my favorite was the scrollwork on the label—the paint was made with real gold. When I was little, this bottle was always my “treasure.” Once I even tried to steal it and hide it in my room, but I wasn’t very sneaky back then. My father caught me immediately, and when I got upset at him for taking back my hard-won prize, he sat me down and promised me that he’d save it for something special.

“Maybe for your wedding,” he said, stroking my hair.

“What if I never get married?” I asked him.

I remember him smiling down at me like I’d said something funny.

“Then we’ll think of something else,” he assured me. “Something extra special. And then we’ll drink it together, you and I.”

I reach out slowly, letting the tips of my fingers brush against the bottle. The main part of the label is slightly rough, but the golden swirls are smooth. I trace them with my finger one by one.

The emotion hits me like a wall. Suddenly I can’t breathe. My vision goes blurry. My heart is racing, and I feel like my whole chest is constricting.

I reach out and grab the nearest shelf. I can’t do this. I can’t be here. Why, why am I here?

My legs are shaking. I sink down to the ground, trying desperately to catch my breath.

I’ll never drink the Miel Doré. Not at my wedding. Not with my father. That was taken from me, too. Everything was taken from me.

Oh, God. What am I doing? Why am I putting myself through this?

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew I’d get angry. I knew it would bring up all sorts of memories. But somehow, I thought I would be strong enough.

I drop my head between my knees.

Breathe
, I tell myself.
Just breathe. In and out.
It takes a few minutes, but I’m finally able to stop hyperventilating. I rest my cheek against my knee and wait for my heart to slow back to normal.

“Ms. Thomas?”

Crap.
Mr. Haymore. I have no idea how long I’ve been down here, but it’s been a lot longer than it should have been. I stand up quickly, brushing my hands across the back of my skirt to get rid of any dust or dirt from the floor. I pray that I don’t look as shaky as I still feel.

“I’m over here,” I say. I glance around, then head toward the row of American wines just across the way. “The Ardenback wasn’t in the index, so I had to go looking on my own.”

And there it is—I grab the bottle quickly and hurry back to the base of the stairs.

“Carolson’s waiting,” Mr. Haymore hisses at me, as if I weren’t aware of that fact already. “We do
not
keep him waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to return empty-handed.”

He still looks pretty ticked as he grabs the bottle out of my hands, but he doesn’t say another word. Pretty sure I’m going to be getting a lecture later, but I can’t worry about that now. It takes enough effort just to follow him back up the stairs without my legs collapsing beneath me.

I linger to the side while Mr. Haymore pours a glass of wine for each of our guests. Guests… owners… intruders… It’s all the same in my head. These people are living the life my family should be living. I can’t forgive them for that.

And I can’t forgive myself for hating them so much. For wanting this life back so badly while people suffer all over the world.

I reach behind me and touch the wood paneling of the wall. It was like someone ripped the rug out from under me when my father died. When we lost all of this. But shouldn’t the worst of it be over? Shouldn’t I be building my life up again? Why does it still feel like someone’s removing the floor piece by piece beneath my feet?

I need an anchor. Something to hold on to. I can’t just have a panic attack every time something brings back a memory of my father. It isn’t healthy. I’m going to get fired. Or worse—everyone here will find out who I am.

Just leave
, the little voice in my head tells me.
Just drive away and never come back here.
But that’s the coward’s way. I don’t want to be a coward anymore. I don’t want to run anymore.