His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (2 page)

“Are you sure we shouldn't call Garrett,
honey?” he says. “I know it didn't end well between you two, but I
just think—”

“No. Absolutely not.” The loose piece of
vinyl tears off beneath my nail. “Please, Dad. Anything else. But
please don't call him.” Once, I thought Garrett was the perfect
man. I mean, come on—he was a successful journalist who spent his
free time volunteering at the Center. And he was a damn good
volunteer, too. When he worked for us, he managed to solicit more
donations in a month than all of our other volunteers combined. It
was how we met.

It took two years before I realized that
“good on paper” doesn’t exactly equal “good boyfriend.” The worst
part is my dad still thinks that asshole was the greatest fucking
thing that has ever happened to me.

I stab at another piece of loose vinyl with
my thumbnail.

“Just let me see what I can manage out here,”
I say. “And then we can go from there.” If I never see Garrett
again, it’ll be too soon. I won’t let us get that desperate.

On the other end, my dad lets out another
long breath. “All right, honey. I'm just not sure what our options
are anymore.”

Me either
, I think, but I won't tell
him that.

“We'll be okay,” I tell him. “I know we will.
We might just have to be a little creative for a while.”

“Creative,” he repeats. “We can do that.”

I can't tell if he believes it or not.

“I'll be in tomorrow morning,” I say. “I'm
not sure how much longer this will take tonight.”

“Good,” he says, distracted. “That sounds
good, honey.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, honey. Stay safe out
there.”

I hang up and toss the phone on the
passenger's seat. I can't take this much longer. I can't stand to
hear my dad sound so tired, so old, so utterly dejected. I'll do
anything to save the Center and give him back that spark I miss so
much—anything short of calling Garrett, at least. Bringing
him
into this will only make the whole situation worse.

That's why I have to convince Calder
Cunningham to change his mind.

Before I can lose my nerve, I throw open the
door and step back out into the rain. For kicks, I press the call
button one more time.

“I don't suppose you've changed your mind?” I
say into the box.

There's no response.

I look up at the camera. I need to talk to
Calder. It doesn't matter how. The idea comes into my head from
nowhere, and I decide to go for it before I have the chance to
chicken out.

“Hey, boys,” I call over the rain. I grab the
bottom of my shirt, take a deep breath, and pull it up, catching
the lower edge of bra as well and exposing my breasts to the
security system.

One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring
over my bare skin, and then I yank my shirt quickly back down. My
cheeks are blazing hot, but there's a wild rush in my belly. I've
just flashed the Cunningham security camera. That has to get a
reaction.

I cross my arms over my chest as I wait.
There's a strange, reckless feeling flowing through me, and it's
kind of exciting. Maybe a little desperation is good for me.

But as the minutes tick by and no one comes
out to apprehend me—or compliment my breasts and usher me
inside—the exhilaration slowly seeps away.

“Seriously?” I yell up at the camera. “That
got
nothing
?”

The intercom doesn’t even offer a taunting
crackle.

Fine. I’ll just have to implement Plan B.

I march back over to the gates, wading
through the puddles that have already formed on the driveway. I
move down the length of the gates, feeling past the ivy for any
openings in the wrought iron where I might be able to slip through.
I'm relatively tiny, but the ironwork here is pretty elaborate, all
curlicues and closed spiral patterns. Finally, about halfway down
the length of the gate, I find a spot where I think I can squeeze
by. It's about chest high, which means I'll have to climb a little
to get to it, but I think I'm up for it.

“Oh, no,” I cry in mocking challenge over the
rain. “You guys better come and stop me.” I grip the iron bars with
both hands and pause, waiting to hear the approach of a security
guard through the rain.

No one comes.

I raise one foot up onto the gate and then
the other, and I begin to climb. The metal is cold and slick
beneath my fingers, but that wild, reckless feeling is building in
my belly again. I move carefully but deliberately, kicking through
the vines to find the footholds, clutching the bars with white
knuckles. When I'm high enough, I pause again.

“Aren't you going to stop me?” I call up to
the camera.

Apparently, the answer is no.

I bring one leg up and through the break in
the ironwork, then slide forward until my upper body is through. I
glance around for security guards, but I don't see anyone or
anything that might stop me.

Is it really this easy? Can I honestly just
climb down onto the Cunningham property?

I pull myself through the rest of the way,
clinging desperately to the bars as my feet fumble for new
footholds. I'm breaking into the Cunningham estates. This is crazy.
I'm
crazy. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I'm
not sure whether I want to laugh or vomit.

“I guess no one minds I'm here?” I call into
the rain.

I take the resulting silence as consent.

The climb down is more difficult than the
climb up. My fingers are colder now from the rain and they're
starting to get stiff. The vines seem to be thicker on this side,
and one gets tangled around my leg. I manage to free myself, but
I'm more than grateful when my feet finally hit solid ground
again.

I stand there, frozen, and wait for the
alarms to go off. Shouldn't there be blaring sirens or flashing
lights or something? Shouldn't a pack of vicious Dobermans come
charging down the driveway to rip me to shreds?

Apparently the Cunningham family's security
measures aren't as good as I thought.

I smile to myself. I’ve never felt this
reckless before, but I think it agrees with me. I know I’m being
insane, but I don’t care. I’ve come here to save the Center, and
there’s no turning back now.

Calder Cunningham won’t even know what hit
him.

<<>>

I've only met Calder once in person, but that
was enough. It was at the Frazer Center's Arts & Hearts
fundraiser, a black tie dinner we host every Valentine's Day in our
gallery space. The affair is our most formal event of the year, and
in addition to raising a good chunk of money, it's our chance to
honor our biggest donors and supporters. Wentworth Cunningham
attended the event every year, but last February—about five months
before he died—he brought his son Calder along as well.

I’ll admit it: I was excited to meet the
infamous heir to the Cunningham fortune. I mean, you can’t even pop
through the supermarket checkout line without spotting him on one
of the tabloids—usually on some Italian beach with the latest “it”
girl. I was curious. I couldn’t help it.

Calder was, at first glance, everything I
expected. There seems to be one in every “old money” family: the
son with the good looks and bad behavior to spare. He definitely
lived up to his photos. Some would call him the epitome of tall,
dark, and handsome. In another life, if he hadn't been born into
insane amounts of money—or if he decided that partying and
womanizing weren't enough of a career for him—he might have made
his own millions as a model.

He's the kind of guy who expects his looks
and his money to get him out of anything. He’s also the kind of guy
who looks down his nose at events thrown by small arts
organizations.

Calder spent the entire evening of Arts &
Hearts looking bored out of his mind and sipping aloofly at his
wine.

I’d hoped to never see him again.

But I'm not about to let him get away this
time. This time I'm going to make him take responsibility for his
actions, even if the rest of the world won't.

I bow my head against the wind and march up
his driveway

y. The massive live oaks overhead don't do
much to block the rain, but the discomfort from the wetness seeping
down my back only fuels my anger and determination.

“Hey!”

The voice cuts through the storm, and my head
jerks up. I glance around, and it takes me a moment to spot the
figure through the rain.

It’s a man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in
dark clothes. A security guard.

And he’s coming at me. Fast.

I panic. Yes, it was only a few minutes ago
that I was
trying
to catch the attention of the security
team, but now that some guy’s charging at me through the rain, my
fight or flight response kicks in. I bolt.

I run off the driveway and between two of the
trees, cutting across the grass in what I hope is the direction of
the house. One of my flats slips off my foot, but I keep going, my
toes gripping the mud as I sprint. There are lights up ahead—house
lights, I hope. I need to get to Calder.

I don't dare look over my shoulder, but the
security guard is gaining. His footsteps slap against the wet
ground, and they're getting louder.

I have to outrun him.

My other shoe falls off my slick foot. I
almost slip. I can just make out the house ahead of me now, a dark
shape against the dark sky. I’m so close. Just a little
farther—

The guard slams into me, pushing me down to
the ground with him on top of me. The air
whoosh
es out of me
as I hit the mud, but I recover quickly. I twist beneath his
weight, trying to fight my way out of his grasp.

“Let go of me!” I say, swinging my elbow at
him.

I hit him in the gut. He grunts, and his grip
loosens on my waist. I try to wriggle away, but he grabs me by the
knees.

“Let go!” I say again. I kick at him.

He tries to catch my ankle.
“Ms.—oof—Frazer.”

I manage to get one leg loose. His grip on
the other one is too strong. He flips me over so that I'm on my
back, and he lunges forward, catching each of my arms before I can
swing at him again. He's straddling me, pinning me down, and
struggle as I might I can't get free.

“Get off of me,” I say.

His breathing is heavy from the exertion. He
leans down closer to me.

“And why should I do that, Ms. Frazer?” he
says. “You're trespassing on
my
property.”

I freeze. The rain is still coming down hard,
but I shake the wet strands of hair from my face and blink up at
the man on top of me. In the hazy light from behind us I can just
barely make out the features of his face, but a jolt of recognition
pulses through me.

It's Calder.

My heart stops. This isn't some random
security guard. It's the man of the house himself, the asshole
who's ruining my life.

And he's on top of me.

“Get off,” I repeat, wriggling. But in a
position like this the movement is unintentionally sexual. I stop,
but not before Calder also notices the intimate implications of our
situation. He gives a chuckle deep in his throat then leans closer
so I can hear his low voice over the rain.

“And why should I let you go,” he says into
my ear, “when you've already caused me so much trouble?”

The warmth of his breath sends prickles
across my skin. I try to wrench my wrists out of his grasp.

“I can't believe you would hold a woman
down,” I say, “when she clearly—”

“Woman?” he breathes into my ear. “I don't
see a woman. I see a trespasser. Tell me, do you make a habit of
breaking onto private property, or did I just get lucky?”

“You know exactly why I'm here, Mr.
Cunnin—”

“And
you
know I have every right to
call the police right now and have you arrested.”

What little breath I have left catches in my
throat. He can't be serious. I didn't think he'd be
happy
,
exactly, about finding me here, but worst case scenario I expected
security to march me back outside the gates and leave it at that. I
can't be arrested. I've barely been able to cover my bills these
last couple of months—I definitely can't afford bail. And the last
thing I want is to put that on my dad, not when he's put everything
he owns into the Frazer Center.

Rage bubbles up in my chest. “You're an ass,
you know that?”

“I believe the police will see things
differently,” he says. “Especially since you've spent the last two
months harassing me.”

The accusation floors me. “Harassing you? You
broke our contract! I don’t care what you paid your fancy lawyers
to say. You violated the promise your father made. That money
belongs to the Frazer Center.”

He shifts his weight up slightly, enough to
look me in the eyes. They're pitch black against the deep gray sky
above.

“I thought, Ms. Frazer, that I made my stance
on the matter quite clear.”

“The only thing that's clear around here is
that you're an arrogant asswipe!”

He laughs.

“You can do better than that, Ms. Frazer,” he
says. He sits up a little more. “I'm willing to release your hands,
but only if you promise you won't punch me.”

There's very little I want more than to punch
him right now, but I nod my head obediently. He lets go of my
wrists and sits up. He's still straddling me.

There's no longer anything to block the rain
from my face. I blink the water out my eyes and turn my head,
breaking our gaze.

Calder chuckles again. “Perhaps we should
finish this discussion inside, where we can both be a little more
comfortable.”

His weight lifts from me, but I stay where I
am. I don't trust him.

“Come on, Ms. Frazer.” When I look up he's
holding his hand out to me.