His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (10 page)

He shows me a lounge, a game room, a library
that rivals the public one back home. Just when I think I’ve seen
everything, he leads me into the family’s own personal movie
theater.

“Is this real?” I ask.

The room is huge, with stadium-style seating
and a screen so large I wonder how they managed to get it in here
in the first place.

“My father loved movies,” Calder says. He’s
standing close enough to me that I feel the tiny hairs stand up on
my arms, but I pretend not to notice.

“He must, to build a room like this,” I say.
My fingers itch slightly. I should probably reach out and touch
him—just a small, casual touch. One that might come across as an
accident. Just an innocent little touch to get him worked up.

But before I can raise my hand, he moves past
me.

“My father was particularly fond spy films.
He used to have a marathon every year on Ian his birthday.”

I smile in spite of myself. “Who doesn’t love
a good spy movie?”

He chuckles and turns back to look at me.

“For his sixtieth birthday, he hired a bunch
of stunt actors to help him recreate his favorite scenes out in the
garden.”

I grin at the image. In my dealings with
Wentworth Cunningham, I’d always found him a friendly, likable man,
but I never got to witness the goofier side of him.

“My dad is really into adventure movies,” I
say. “Now I know what to get him for his next birthday.”

Calder laughs with me, but his eyes are still
distant, and I know he's thinking of his father.

“You must miss him,” I offer. The words sound
lame now that they've left my mouth. I'm not very good at
comforting people.

He blinks and turns away from me. When he
speaks, the vulnerability of a moment ago is gone and there's a
hard edge to his voice.

“My father was a selfish bastard.”

My mouth falls open. “Your father did so much
for the Frazer Center.”

“One good act doesn’t make a good man.”

“But certainly he—”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t
understand,” he snaps, spinning on me.

I stumble back a step, stunned. I want to
tell him that that's no way to speak of the dead, especially a dead
parent. But I’m afraid of the emotion I see in his eyes.

Calder pulls his hand through his hair. His
shoulders are rigid, defensive. Just a moment ago he was speaking
with such longing, such admiration—and I know I didn't misinterpret
the affection in his eyes when he spoke of his father's love of spy
movies. What's changed? Why is he suddenly so tense? He did the
same thing last night at dinner, when the subject of his father
came up.

Don't be so hard on him
, I try and
tell myself.
He lost his father only a few months ago. You'd be
a mess, too, if your dad died
. Just thinking of Dad's anguish
over the Center makes me upset. Imagining his death… that makes me
physically ill.

“Well?” Calder says, snapping me back out of
my dark thoughts. From his annoyed tone, I suspect I've missed
something he's said.

“Well…?”

“Are you ready to move on? Or would you
rather stare at the movie screen for another ten minutes?”

I almost think I preferred him when he was
trying to get in my pants.

“Let's go on,” I say, hoping that a change of
scenery will get him back to normal.

It does, but it takes two floors and numerous
rooms before he begins to regain a bit of his charm. He shows me a
lush conservatory, an indoor gym, a study with an enormous
fireplace. He shows me the bedroom he and his sister were convinced
was haunted when they were younger, and the large room of his
father's collectibles where he and his sister used to play
hide-and-seek. Talking about Louisa seems to make him happier, and
once more I see the nostalgia and boyishness return to his eyes. I
don't say anything, though, except to admire this piece of
furniture or that decorative wall hanging. No surprise, it's all
extremely beautiful—and undoubtedly extremely expensive. I try not
to think of how the Center might use that money.

Don’t forget why you’re here
, I tell
myself.
Don’t forget what you need to do.

I need to step it up. I already screwed up
with Garrett. I can’t let this opportunity with Calder slip away
from me, too.

“So,” I say, resting my fingers gently on his
arm. “Where to next?”

His eyes flick down to my hand, then back to
my face. “I thought maybe you might enjoy the gallery.”

“Gallery?” He hasn't mentioned anything like
that to me yet.

“My father and my grandfather both collected
art. As you can probably already tell.” He gestures at the walls as
we move along the hallway, indicating the paintings and sculptures
I've already been studying as we pass. “The gallery is where they
kept their favorites.”

I can't help the quiver of excitement that
runs through me at the thought of viewing the Cunninghams'
collection. Wentworth had a reputation for his fine taste, and I've
no doubt that his father before him did as well, judging by the
pieces I've seen here so far.

Calder notices my reaction. His fingers close
around my own.

“I knew you'd be excited. Come on. It's not
far.”

The skin of my hand tingles where he touches
me. I want to pull away from him, to try and regain a bit of
control, but the action would be too suspicious. Instead I let him
lead me down the hallway and pretend the warmth of his fingers
isn’t making my stomach do somersaults.

Calder turns me down another hallway and
leads me to a pair of large double doors. He pushes one open, and I
gasp. The room beyond might have been in a museum. It's long, with
a high ceiling, and there are so many works along the walls that I
know I'll never have the chance to properly examine them all.

“This is insane,” I breathe. Beside me,
Calder chuckles.

I slip out of his grip and walk over to a
glass case against the nearest wall. Inside, there's a collection
of small jade figures.

“My father picked those up on a trip to China
when I was about ten,” Calder says beside me. “There were actually
two more, but my sister and I stole them. We ended up losing both
of our figures out in the garden. My father was furious. He
grounded me for a month. Just me, because I'm the older one and the
one who actually broke into the case.”

I can't help but smile at the image of a
young Calder forced into such punishment. Though honestly, being
grounded in this place doesn't sound like a bad thing at all.

I glance up at him, and I'm a little startled
to catch him watching me. I look away, heat creeping up my neck,
but I know I can't waste this opening.

“Tell me,” I say sweetly, turning and looking
down the length of the room. “Do you have a favorite piece in
here?”

He rubs his chin, his thumb skimming along
that perfect line of stubble.

“That's a tough one,” he says. His gaze
flicks back to me, and there's humor in his eyes. “Maybe you should
guess.”

It's a challenge, and I'm not about to let
this opportunity slip through my fingers. If I play this right, I
might be able to ramp up our flirtation a few notches without
making him suspicious.

“What are the stakes?” I say lightly.

His eyes darken. “You’re leaving it up to
me?”

A flutter stirs in my gut, but I don't want
him to know how much his suggestive gaze affects me. I need to hold
the power here.

I shrug. “You suggested the game. You should
name the prize.”

His mouth curls. “That's some dangerous power
you've given me.”

I match his wicked smile with one of my own.
“You better not abuse it.”

“Even if I think you'd enjoy it as much as
me?”

I don't dignify him with a response. Instead,
I turn and begin walking down the length of the gallery.

“I'll go easy on you,” he calls after me. And
then, far too quickly, “If you guess incorrectly, then you have to
give me a kiss.”

A kiss. All things considered, he could have
suggested something far worse. I pause as if considering.
Let
him think he’s thrown me off-kilter.

“How many guesses do I get?” I ask.

“As many as you want. As long as you pay up
every time you’re wrong.”

I can definitely see this game spiraling out
of control very quickly. Better place a limit on things.

“Let’s make it a one shot deal.” I tell him.
“It’ll be more interesting that way.” Even though I know my odds
aren’t good, it’s still better than trusting myself to kiss him a
dozen times. “What happens if I’m right?”

“Then you don’t have to kiss me,” he says,
grinning. “Unless you want to, of course.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “This
bet’s a little one-sided, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “You’re the one who told me to
name the stakes.”

He’s right, of course. And I’ll play along.
If indulging him gets me any closer to recovering the pledge money,
I’ll do whatever it takes.

“All right,” I call back to him. “It's a
deal.”

The corner of his mouth curls up in that
charming little half smile of his. He spreads his arms wide.

“Make your guess,” he says, his eyes gleaming
wickedly. “I’ll be waiting.”

“How do I know you won't change your answer
if I guess correctly?”

“You can trust me,” he insists.

I'm not sure I can, but this is going too
well for me to want to pick a fight. He seems to be enjoying our
little game, and I mean to play him for all he's worth.

I continue my stroll down the gallery,
scanning the art on either side of me as I pass, looking for
anything that jumps out from the others. I'm at a major
disadvantage here, that much is certain, but I'm willing to lose
this battle if it means ultimately winning the war.

Still, the competitive side of me wants to
give it my best shot. I'd really love to see his face when I get it
right. My eyes roam over the collection. There are paintings of
every style and medium I can imagine, as well as sculptures of
clay, wood, metal, even marble.

I stop in front of an oil painting depicting
a nude woman lying on a bed of wildflowers. Her arm is curled
around her head, her leg slightly raised. It's a very sensual
image, and I raise my eyebrow and look back at Calder.

“Interesting choice,” he says, moving closer.
“I'll admit, this piece certainly has its charms.” His eyes roam
over the canvas before flicking back to me. “You're wrong,
though.”

“I never said this was my guess.”

“No? I believe you were about to.”

“Then perhaps you should exercise a little
patience next time,” I say lightly, brushing my finger across the
end of his nose. “Let me have a real guess, or you forfeit the
prize.”

The amusement deepens on his face.

“Very well, then,” he says, gesturing toward
the rest of the room. “Make your pick.”

But my eyes fall to the painting beside the
lounging nude.

“Is that…” I step forward, peer down at the
tiny plaque beside the work. “This is a Ludlam. A fucking
Ludlam!”

“Ludlam?”

“Benjamin Ludlam,” I explain. “He’s probably
my favorite contemporary artist. He’s freaking brilliant—his work
combines modern techniques with a style reminiscent of the
Pre-Raphaelites.” I shake my head.

“I can’t believe you have this,” I continue.
I’ve heard of Ludlam’s work going for upwards of half a million
dollars at auction—though, now that I think about it, that’s
probably pocket change for the Cunninghams.

That thought brings me crashing down from my
high. Half a million dollars could do so much for the Center. As
much as I love seeing this painting in person, I can’t forget why
I’m here.

“But I’m supposed to be finding
your
favorite piece,” I tell Calder sweetly. “Not picking my own.” I
brush my fingers against his cheek as I turn and move back toward
the Center of the gallery.

I feel his eyes boring into my back as I move
away from him and continue my inspections. This collection really
is amazing—but I never expected any less from Wentworth Cunningham,
the man who gave us so much support throughout the years. He was
truly a man who loved and respected the arts.

I stop the next time in front of a stretch of
wall devoted entirely to colorful Pop art. It's an eclectic
collection, that's for certain, but it's clear that someone with
practiced taste and a refined eye selected these pieces. I stare at
a multi-media work depicting a brightly painted bus with a series
of even brighter advertisements pasted to its side.

All the time I’m contemplating my decision,
Calder’s eyes are on me. I don’t even have to look—I can feel it.
It's like a tickle on my skin, a sensation creeping up my spine. I
don't think these particular works would count among his favorites.
They're too modern, too strange.

On the opposite wall I spot another glass
case, and I wander over to have a look. I know without glancing up
that Calder's eyes follow me. I sense them sliding over my body as
I move. A rush of pleasure surges through me. It's intoxicating,
even this small taste of power, but it's also terrifying. I can’t
fuck this up.

I lean over the glass case, making sure
Calder has a nice, clear view of my backside. I've always been
proud of my ass. If it wins me a few points for the Center, all the
better. Meanwhile, I'm perusing the items inside the case. These
pieces appear to be crafted entirely of ivory. My eyes lock on one
of the larger works, a long curved tusk depicting a scene at sea.
On one side of the carving, there's a large ship with a number of
men—some scrambling about the deck, others brandishing harpoons. On
the other half, a sperm whale rises from the water, its teeth bared
at the sailors. It's the sort of scene that a young, adventurous
boy would love.