His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (3 page)

I sigh. I'm completely soaked, and there's
mud in places I don't even want to think about. If Calder wants to
go inside, then fine. I'm not about to let him off the hook, but
there's no harm in getting out of the rain.

I push myself up on my elbows then reach out
and grab his hand. He pulls me up to my feet as if I weigh nothing,
and I almost fall right against his chest. Instead I catch myself
at the last minute, my bare toes clinging to the mud. I sway away
from him, but he still has my hand in his grasp. He won't let go,
even when I try to pull away.

I take another step back. “What are you—”

He grabs me by the waist and yanks me off the
ground. The world flips around me as he throws me over his
shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I say. “Let me go!”

He doesn't respond. His grip tightens around
my waist and he begins moving toward the house.

“What the fuck?” I say, hitting him in the
back. “Put me down!”

“I don't think so,” he says.

“I can walk by myself! I'm not a fucking sack
of potatoes!”

“I'm not going to give you the chance to run
away.”

I try to kick him, but he uses his other arm
to catch me by the knees.

“Forgive me if I don't trust you,” he
says.

I stop struggling, letting my body fall limp
in his grasp. My wet hair bounces around my face in time with his
steps. I can't see anything but the muddy grass beneath us and the
wet backsides of Calder's pants and shoes.

My rage against this man has been building
for a couple of months now, and the indignity of my current
position brings all of it spewing out.

“You think you can get away with anything
because you're rich,” I say, my voice edged in venom. “You think
you can walk all over people and break promises because you have
the fancy lawyers and no one would dare stand up to the Cunningham
family.”

His arm tightens, and he readjusts me on his
shoulder.

“You might have the rest of them eating out
of your hand,” I say, “but I'm not letting you off the hook that
easy. You think you can just throw your reputation around and do
whatever you want. You expect to just throw out a few bills and
flash a sexy smile and have everyone fall at your feet. You don't
give a damn about anyone else.”

For a minute he doesn't respond, and then:
“You think my smile is sexy?”

I make an exasperated sound, but I don't
think he hears me. He's going up steps now—wide stone steps that
have moss growing on the grout. I lift my head slightly, and
through my falling strands of hair I can make out a pair of stone
lions on either side of us, marble heads raised as if guarding the
way inside.
Of course
there are freaking stone lions outside
this place. No doubt there are gargoyles and stained glass windows
and numerous other ostentatious features, too.

A few more steps and I hear him open a door.
There's a rush of warmth as he carries me into the house, and I'm
more grateful than I want to admit to be out of the rain.

“We're inside,” I say, poking him in the
back. “Put me down.”

“Not yet.” His voice is thick with
amusement.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” I say.
“This is ridiculous. I came here to talk to you. I'm not going to
run away.”

“Then you should have no problem with me
giving you a lift,” he replies. “If anything, you should be
thanking me. I wasn't about to let a woman walk barefoot through
the mud.”

“There's no mud in here.” I give him another
couple of jabs in the back. “And my feet were muddy already. It
doesn't matter.”

“All the more reason to carry you,” he says.
“I'd prefer not to stain the carpets.”

He's having too much fun at my expense. I
want to kick my legs and splatter mud all over the walls, but I
don't think that'll help my case for the Center. Besides, he still
has his arm across my knees.

I raise my head again, trying to get a good
look at my surroundings. He's carrying me down a hallway, but the
lights are dim and I can't see much through my curtain of hair. I
can only get a clear view of the carpets below us. They're
definitely pretty fancy, but Calder either doesn't notice or
doesn't care that he's leaving his own set of muddy footprints on
the richly colored threads.

“Where are we going?” I say to him, tired of
this game. “Some sort of torture chamber, maybe? Are you going to
chain me up in the dungeon until the police get here?”

His fingers dig into my waist. “Don't give me
any ideas.”

“If you'd just answered my calls or my
emails, we could've discussed this whole thing like adults,” I
say.

“Adults, eh?” he says. “Do adults usually
climb through each other's gates? Or flash security cameras, for
that matter?”

My neck goes instantly hot.
He saw
that
?

“I think I've mentioned before that I admire
your determination,” he says. “But I can't say that I was
encouraging that kind of behavior. Not that I minded the show.”

I try to knee him in the chest, but he holds
me tight. I settle for giving him a particularly hard jab in the
back.

“If you're not going to let someone in, the
least you can do is respond to them,” I say. “Especially when
you've already fucked that person over.”

“So I’m required to respond to every idiot
who shows up at my gates?” he says. “Every paparazzo who’s tried to
snap a photo through the bars? Every reporter who camped out there
for weeks right after my father died?”

“That's not what I—”

“When you have money, people think they're
entitled to things from you. Sometimes it's photos. Most often it's
money.”

He uses his knee to shove open a door.

“Light,” he says.

The lights flick on. Before I can make sense
of where we are, he flips me down onto a sofa. I go dizzy from the
head rush, and it takes a minute for him to come into focus. When
he does, the bitterness is clear on his face. He's leaning over me,
his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me push
back against the cushions behind me.

Now that I see him in the full light, I'm
startled by the changes in him since the last time we met. Before,
he was the picture of perfection: not a wrinkle in his clothes, not
a hair out of place. The change is more than just the aftermath of
our scuffle in the mud outside. He's wearing a plain white T-shirt
and dark pants, and I can tell neither was particularly luxurious
even before I arrived here today. His hair has outgrown its typical
stylish cut, and his previously clean-shaven cheeks are sporting a
coat of dark stubble. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

“What?” he says. “Now you're going to shut
up?” Dark humor twists his features.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask him. “I'm
not a photographer or a reporter. But your father signed a
contract—”

“You're welcome to challenge the decision in
court,” he says. “I won't discuss it here. Not without my legal
representation present.”

“You know we can't afford to challenge it,” I
say.

“Not my problem.” He crosses his arms and
stares down at me. “My problem is young women who think they can
come waltzing onto my property without any consequences.” He yanks
his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Call the police, then,” I say. “But this
doesn't end here. I'm not going to stop until we have the money we
were promised, or until the entire world knows what a cheap,
heartless bastard you are.” I'm surprised at the words even as they
come out of my mouth, but my anger is making me bold.

Calder seems equally startled by my voracity.
His cell phone is in his hand, poised to call the police, but he
stands frozen. There's a strange expression in his eyes that I
can't read.

“Very well, then,” he says finally. He slides
the phone back in his pocket. “No police.”

A flutter of hope takes life in my chest.

“I have some materials back in my car,” I
say. “If you understood what we do—”

“Don't mistake me,” he says. “I've decided
not to call the police. That's all. I haven't decided what I'm
going to do with you yet.”

“
Do
with me?” I say. I push myself up
off the couch so we're standing toe to toe. “What's that supposed
to mean?”

I still can't read the expression in his
eyes. His irises are so dark I can hardly tell where they stop and
his pupils begin. He’s so close that I can see his pulse beating in
his throat.

“The way I see it,” he says slowly, his voice
dropping low, “you want something from me. The question is, how far
are you willing to go to get it?”

Wait. Is he actually
propositioning
me? As if to punctuate his point, Calder reaches out and slides a
strand of wet hair from my face. His fingers brush against my
cheek, and I'm shocked by how warm they are against my damp
skin.

“I'm—I’m not going to sleep with you,” I say,
my voice softer than I intend. I step away from him, and the back
of my knees hit the edge of the couch.

“I never asked you to sleep with me,” he
replies. He steps toward me, closing the gap between us again. “I
was thinking more along the lines of dinner.”

“Dinner. Like a date?” This is ridiculous.
Two minutes ago he was threatening to call the police on me, and
now he wants to have
dinner
?

“No, not like a date.” His voice is thick
with amusement again. “Dinner here, right now. I was about to sit
down to eat when I became aware of the disturbance at my gate, and
now I'm starving.”

“Oh.” I'm not sure how I feel about this. He
wants us to sit down over some beef stroganoff or something and act
like friends? I can't think of anything more awkward.

“Did you want to talk about your little
Center or not?” he says.

“Talk about it?” I say quickly. “Of course.
Yes. Dinner then. Yes.”

He gives a low chuckle. “Good.” He reaches
out to take my arm, but his fingers freeze on my sleeve. His eyes
rake down my body, and heat rushes to my cheeks. Is he seriously
checking me out right now?

“You need to change first,” he says. “I don't
want you dripping all over the table.”

Now my entire face is hot. He doesn't need to
remind me that I'm a muddy mess. I probably look like a drowned
rat.

“You're not exactly clean either,” I say,
crossing my arms. “Besides, I have nothing else to wear.”

“That's not an issue in this house, I assure
you,” he says. His eyes skim down my body once more. “Not an issue
at all.”

<<>>

He takes me to a bedroom.

As soon as the door swings open and I see the
enormous four-poster bed, I spin on him in a fury.

“What exactly are you trying to pull?” I say.
“If you think you can march me to a bedroom and I'll just—”

He cuts me off with a finger against my
lips.

“My sister keeps her extra clothes in the
closet here,” he says. “I'd guess you two are about the same
size.”

Oh. His sister. I completely forgot he has a
sibling. She shows up in the tabloids sometimes, too, but usually
for a different reason—she seems to share her late father’s
dedication to philanthropy.

“Louisa, right?” I say against his fingers.
“Is she here too?”

Calder shakes his head and removes his hand
from my lips. The warmth of his touch lingers a moment longer.

“She’s off saving the world, as usual,” he
says. “She left for Southeast Asia not long after the funeral.”

I don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his
voice, but I don’t dare push the matter any further.

“You're welcome to wear whatever you find in
there,” he continues. “I'm going back to my room, since you were
kind enough to point out that I could use a change as well. I'll
meet you back here in ten minutes, if that's all right?”

“I'm sure I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Whatever shadow darkened
his mood a moment ago is gone. He gives me another one of those
amused smiles, the kind that I'm sure charms most women right out
of their panties.

Good thing I'm not most women.

I give him a smile of my own—a controlled,
unconcerned smile, I hope—and step into the room, closing the door
behind me.

I have to admit, now that I'm getting a
better look, this is one of the most beautiful bedrooms I've ever
seen. The walls are sage green, the floors dark hardwood. There's
an enormous white stone fireplace against one wall, and its mantle
is carved to look like a canopy of leaves. On the far side of the
room, a pair of long-paned windows stretch from the floor to the
ceiling.

But the bed. Oh, the bed.

The bed is made of dark wood, and its
headboard has been carved to match the mantle, depicting an
elaborate scene with birds, butterflies, and flowers hidden among
the leaves. A vine pattern has been etched up each of the four
posts, and the canopy is draped in gauzy white fabric. The
mountains of pillows and thick comforter look so inviting that, I
swear, if I weren't covered in mud I'd dive right into the middle
of it all.

But I'm never going to use that bed, so
there's no point in drooling over it. I'm here to change, that's
all. I find the bathroom first, and I almost fall over at the sight
of my reflection in the mirror. I'm a mess. I quickly wash the mud
off my hands and feet and neck, but there's not much I can do for
my wet, tangled hair. I tie it into a knot at the base of my neck
and venture back into the bedroom, where I head over to the
closet.

Once again, I'm stunned.

If the bedroom was impressive, the closet is
absolutely magnificent—not to mention roughly the same size as my
current studio apartment. There are racks upon racks upon racks of
clothes, an entire wall of shoes, and three full rotating cabinets
in the middle of the room that appear to house jewelry and other
accessories.