His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (25 page)

My dad considers this a moment.

“I understand,” he says finally. “I knew it
would be hard on you. It wasn't fair of me to ask that in the first
place.” He glances around the room. “Sometimes I get so caught up
in this place that I forget the important things.”

“It’s not—you had no way of knowing,” I say
quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. “If it
were anyone else, I’d just deal with it. But Garrett…”

“What has he done? Something I should know
about?”

I take a deep breath. “He thought me asking
him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If
you knew how many times he’s called me, what he’s said…”

“He's been harassing you?”

Harassing
. I remember how Calder
accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and
emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am
I really any better than Garrett, in the end?

“It's just caused more problems than it will
help,” I reply diplomatically.

“I’ll call him and tell him we won’t be
needing his assistance,” my dad says.

It only makes me feel a little better. I
haven’t seen him here at the Center since I’ve returned, but I know
this isn’t over yet. But I don’t tell my dad how uneasy I am, how
I’ve been a jumble of nerves these past few days.

“Thank you,” I say simply.

My dad nods and turns back to watching the
children. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our
charges laugh and chatter and create.

When my dad does speak, his voice is so soft
that I hardly hear the question at all.

“When do we give up?”

I look at Ben, who's adding a Pterodactyl to
his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, who's painting a
princess next to her explosion of flowers. I reach over and grab
Dad’s hand.

“Never,” I answer, just as quietly. “Not
until the very end. Not until they make us.”

* * *

It's a week before I get the letter. At my
apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my
other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I've
been using to help me sleep.

Dearest Ms. Frazer,

I am deeply sorry for the events of last
weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I
was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you
the money. I'll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers
come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far
less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually
have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that
matter.

As for the other events of this weekend, I
never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at
any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I
would have ceased them immediately. I'm deeply sorry if I misread
the situation.

Regarding your friend who arrived just
before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a
restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on
charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from
contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course
in this situation.

Sincerely,

Calder Cunningham

There's no lawyer's signature on this one,
but that makes it no less impersonal. He's just trying to cover his
ass. This is an entire letter of excuses.

I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the
garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology?

The real question, though, is why he would
send such a letter in the first place. There's no call to action at
the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means
to contact me again. There’s no mention of our argument in the
garden, either. Was this just a way to assuage his guilty
conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasn't at fault
for this entire situation?

I'll admit I should have paid attention to
the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of
security and other employees. And Calder told me himself about
selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems
obvious now, but that doesn't relieve him of his mistakes.

Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it
still hurts. It's my own fault for letting my feelings get
involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesn’t lessen the sting.
And there’s the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I
did
feel something when I was with him.

I don't want to admit it, but I've been
waiting for him to contact me. I've always thought myself a very
logical, reasonable person, but even though I know it's ridiculous,
I've been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to
end all apologies. Every day that's gone by without word from him
has been a torture.

But when did I become one of those women who
agonizes over the fact that a man hasn't called? Calder and I
agreed that what happened between us was only physical. We're not
dating. We're certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start
feeling things I shouldn't, but that's my own fault. I can't expect
him to suddenly change his emotions because I can't seem to control
my own.

It's a mess, this whole thing. And at the end
of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping
that he's in as much agony as I am, that he's just as disturbed by
the fact that
I
haven't called
him.

I’m pathetic, that’s what I am.

Which is why this letter is so painful. This
letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue.
Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this
weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the
intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each
other. I'll be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me
again.

Life goes on
, I tell myself.

I'm not done with my tea yet, but I don't
care. I open the trash can once more and flip the rest of my drink
on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out
and read it again.

* * *

A week later, I'm standing in the Center's
gallery. It's nothing like the elaborate room in the Cunningham
mansion, but I've always been proud of the space. The walls feature
work from local artists of all disciplines, including several names
that have been popping up in collectors’ circles. There’s also a
corner dedicated to pieces created by our students—everything from
the finger-painting masterpieces of the preschoolers to the
charcoal drawings produced in one of our master classes.

I stroll down the length of the room,
alternately admiring the artwork and surveying the space. We use
this room for a number of our classes and larger events. And every
February, of course, it's turned into a proper ballroom for our Art
& Hearts fundraiser. Every year at the event, guests come up to
me and my dad and compliment the space. It's amazing what some
well-placed decor and appropriate lighting can do for a room.

I stop in the center of the floor and turn
around. Given the right amount of attention, you could do a lot of
things in here.

The idea hits me hard and suddenly. I turn
once more, taking it all in.

How the hell did I not think of this
before?

I rush to find my dad. He's in his office, of
course, bent over a stack of invoices.

“Dad,” I say, out of breath.

He glances up, his eyebrows quirked
quizzically.

“The gallery,” I say. “I was thinking—can we
rent it out? For events?”

He sets down his pen, thinking. “That's an
idea.”

“Think about it. It's a large space, and it's
easy to adapt and decorate. We have a lot of flexibility over the
lighting and layout. We have tables and chairs we can include as
part of the rental fee. We have the retractable stage we use for
recitals—”

“And a decent sound system,” he says, nodding
now. “And I'm assuming most events are on the evenings and
weekends, when we aren’t using the room anyway.”

“We can black out any dates we have recitals
or gallery shows. It's a fun, unusual space, I'm sure there are
plenty of people out there who want a unique alternative to a hotel
ballroom or something.”

There's light in my dad's eyes now. He's as
excited about the idea as I am.

“I'm going to research some logistics,” he
says. “And I need you to start brainstorming a marketing plan. If
we're going to do this, we need some quick turnaround time. Figure
out how we're going to get the word out there. And come up with a
few general layout plans for the room. We need some templates to
show people who might be interested in using the space.”

This is the Dad I've missed, the one who
disappeared when the bills started piling up. This is the Dad who
started the Center, who helped an entire community grow and
flourish beneath his hands. There's life in his eyes again, the
spark of determination.

“Of course,” I say. “I'll have something for
you by the end of the day.”

I turn and hurry down the hall to my office.
This is it—this is our chance. If we can pull this off, we might
just survive this financial ordeal. The Frazer Center for the Arts
will live to see another day, and we'll do it without relying on
the generosity of people like Calder Cunningham.

The thought of him makes me pause, even now.
It’s been days since I got his letter, and I still can’t get it out
of my mind. I still look through my mail a little too eagerly at
night, hoping against my better judgment that he’s sent something
else. Every time the phone rings, or even when an email pings in my
inbox, I find myself yearning for some point of contact.

But there’s only been silence from Mr.
Cunningham.

It’s better this way
, I tell myself.
I need to get over him. I need to focus on the Center right
now.

But I don’t feel like I have any closure.
Calder never explained the full truth in his letter. I still have
no idea why the family is broke, or what this means for Calder and
his sister. Garrett apparently caught wind of the matter through
his work, but there’s no way I’m calling and asking about it. He
mentioned that Calder struck a bargain with his editor, which means
that the entire thing has been carefully covered up. The media
loves a good scandal. If people find out the Cunninghams were
struggling financially, the press will have a field day. I confess
that in my weaker moments I’ve tried searching online for rumors or
snippets of information, but apparently Calder is great at damage
control. I haven’t been able to find anything.

I just hope he and his sister are all right.
I remember the way his eyes sparkled as he showed me around his
house. He loves that place. And why shouldn't he? It's been in his
family for years. Every brick, every room, every piece of furniture
has a story behind it, a memory tied to it. Just because the place
is ostentatious and oversized doesn't mean it can't carry the same
emotional meaning as any other home. Because that's what it is, at
the end of the day—his
home.

Shit. All this time I've been thinking about
what Calder could do for me. I was literally calculating prices in
my head when he was giving me his tour, imagining how I might put
that money to better use. Who am I to judge how someone uses their
money? Why am I entitled to anything he owns?

I remember the sadness in his eye when he
confessed that he sold his horse Rudolph. How many other things
will he have to sell to settle his family's finances, if things are
indeed that bad? It all seems so obvious now, but I was blind to it
all at the time because I was only thinking about myself and what I
wanted.

I lean my forehead on my hand. I suddenly
feel terrible for the way I've behaved. No wonder Calder hasn't
contacted me again. All this time I've been pissed at him, thinking
he lied so he could use me for sex, while the entire time I've only
been after his money.

But not anymore.

If there's one good thing that's come out of
this situation, it's that I was forced to come up with the solution
on my own. If the Center survives, it will be by the hard work of
myself and my dad, not because some billionaire took pity on our
situation.

I turn back to the paper spread out on my
desk and pick up my pen. I'm already bursting with ideas, and I
want to show Dad that we can do this.

It's time to stop feeling sorry for myself
and get to work.

<<>>

TWO MONTHS LATER

“What do you think?” I ask my dad.

We're standing at the doorway of the gallery,
surveying the hard work of the last few days. I was up half the
night draping fabric from the ceiling and setting up tables, but
the result is, in my opinion, absolutely beautiful.

“It's wonderful, sweetheart,” Dad says. He's
beaming, and I swear he hasn't looked this young in years.

Tonight is our very first event since opening
up the gallery for rentals. A couple is celebrating their fiftieth
anniversary, and they wanted the whole package: decor, tables and
chairs, even use of the temporary dance floor we put down for our
ballet and jazz classes. The check from tonight will fund our
afterschool program for the rest of the month.

And it's not the only event we have scheduled
this month. Next weekend we're hosting a Bar Mitzvah, and two weeks
after that an awards ceremony for a local private high school.
Assuming everything goes smoothly, I hope word of mouth will draw
in even more events in the future. I’ve also been working furiously
on a marketing plan when I haven’t been bouncing between my normal
duties.

My dad wraps his arm around me and kisses me
on the top of the head. “I'm proud of you, honey.”