His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (6 page)

But thoughts of the Center creep in again,
and now all I can see is the elaborate excess. If you can afford to
maintain a hedge maze, is it really such a huge thing to fulfill
your pledge to a small nonprofit organization?

Calder seems to sense the sudden change in my
enthusiasm.

“If you change your mind,” he says, “you can
contact me through the electronic tablet mounted on the wall next
to your bed. I should be up for a while yet.”

I nod, but now that I’ve remembered my reason
for coming here in the first place, I'm no longer particularly
interested in his dungeons and his mazes. By the time we reach the
bedroom I used earlier, I'm no longer sure what to say to him.

Fortunately, he takes the lead.

“I'm very sorry things have been so…
contentious between us. I think, under different circumstances, you
and I might get along very well.”

You mean circumstances where you don't
screw over the Center?
I think,
Or just circumstances where
I actually succumb to your advances?
I don't voice the question
aloud.

He's studying my face.

“I'm not a terrible person,” he says finally.
“We all must make difficult choices sometimes.”

Of course
, I tell myself.
Whether
to honor your family’s pledge or pay for your next European jaunt
is an extremely difficult decision.
I shift my weight from one
foot to the other.

His dark eyes are boring into me. It makes my
skin go hot, then cold. I really wish I knew what was going on in
his head. I suspect he's stalling, testing the waters, looking for
some hint of attraction or consent in my expression. Will he
proposition me outright again? Or is he the type to grab me and
kiss me without warning, and just bank on the fact that most women
melt under his warm, soft lips? The image sends a strange tickling
sensation across my skin, and I break his gaze. My heart is
thumping madly in my chest, but I tell myself it's nerves from the
awkwardness of the situation.

“Goodnight,” I say, before this scene spins
out of control.

“Goodnight, Ms. Frazer,” he says. “As I
mentioned before, I'll be up for a while, should you change the
mind about the tour.”

“I don't think I will. I'm really very
tired.”

He nods, and I reach for the doorknob. He
makes no move for me as I retreat into the bedroom, and it's only
after I shut and lock the door behind me that I let out a sigh of
relief.

That was close.

I'll admit, a part of me is surprised he
didn't try anything else. He was so blunt and open over dinner.
Maybe he’s finally accepted that I’m not going to jump into bed
with him. Or maybe he changed his mind about jumping into bed with
me.

There's a pang in my stomach at that thought,
and I tell myself it’s only bruised pride. Why do I care if he hits
on me or not? I don't want him, and I certainly won't be climbing
into bed with him anytime soon. Sure, he’s not
completely
unappealing from a physical point of view, but there's more to a
person than his looks. He's an ass, and he's personally responsible
for the financial struggles of the Center. That’s reason enough to
stay away.

There’s no reason to trouble myself about it
any longer.

I'm not really that tired, but now that I’m
here, I'll admit I'm more than a little excited to try out that
awesome four-poster bed. It takes me about two minutes to find a
set of pajamas in the enormous closet, and once I'm changed I waste
no time before diving headfirst into that glorious pile of
comforter and throw pillows.

It's as heavenly as it looks.

I let out a sound of contentment and tug the
fluffy white comforter around me. Maybe the trip out here wasn't
just a waste after all. This is absolutely glorious. I’d sell
everything else in my apartment if I thought I could manage enough
money to recreate the experience of this bed.

But the thought of finances brings my mood
down again. I can't truly enjoy anything in this place while the
Center struggles. It feels like a betrayal. I'd love to have a bed
like this, but I'd give it up a hundred times over for a chance to
save the Center.

There are a lot of other sacrifices I’d make
for us, too.

I roll over and grab my phone from the
bedside table. My finger clicks through my contacts. After a
moment, I reach an entry named “Do Not Answer: Dipshit,” and my
thumb hovers over the call button. My dad's been begging me for two
months to call my ex-boyfriend, but I've resisted every time.

I've told myself I'm being strong, but I
wonder now if I'm only being selfish. I keep telling myself I'll do
anything for the Center—hell, I've broken onto the Cunningham
estate—but that's not the truth. Am I really willing to sacrifice
the Center because I’m afraid to talk to Garrett? Because I’m
trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation? Does my ex really hold
that much power over me still?

You don't know that he'll be able to do
anything
, I tell myself.
He's a great salesman, but that
doesn't mean he'll be able to succeed where you and your dad have
already failed.

So what if our donation numbers were through
the roof when he volunteered with us? I know firsthand how
convincing he can be when he turns on the charm. Dad used to say
that Garrett could “sell green cheese to a moon man.” But a part of
me still refuses to believe that he’s the only one who can get us
out of this mess.

Besides,
I tell myself,
you don't
even know that he'll agree to help you at all.

I don't have to make this decision tonight.
One more day won't change the Center's situation.

Instead I click back through the contacts and
call my dad instead.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says when he picks up.
“Any news?”

I try not to notice the desperate hope in his
voice.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” I say carefully. “But
I’m still working on it.” I feel terrible lying to him like this,
but he’d be so upset if he knew the truth. I can’t bear to add even
that much stress on top of what he’s already dealing with.

“You’re still out there?” he says. “At this
hour?”

I find a loose thread along the edge of the
comforter and twist it around my finger.

“That’s what I’ve called to tell you,” I say.
“The weather’s really bad and the roads flooded. I’m not going to
be able to make it home tonight.”

He immediately switches from over-worked
director into over-protective Dad mode.

“Are you all right? Do you have somewhere to
stay? Is the car okay?”

I give a small smile at his concern.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “The car, too. I’ll
try to finish up here in the morning and come straight home after
that.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? You sound…
stressed.”

Even though he’s already struggling with so
much, he’s still concerned about me. It makes me feel even
worse.

“I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’m fine,
really.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says. “Get some rest,
you hear?”

“Of course. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

We hang up and I toss my phone on the
nightstand. We’re going to get through this, he and I. We have
to.

I don’t really feel like sleeping now, for
all that I told Calder I was tired. I toss and turn for a little
while, but I know it’s a lost cause. Finally I throw off the
comforter and climb out of bed. I'm too restless to keep lying
here.

I begin to pace around the room, determined
to wear myself out. There are plenty of ways to distract myself in
here, at least. For a few minutes I stand by the window, trying to
spot the hedge maze through the dark and rain, but I don't see
anything. Next I wander back into the closet and peruse the
electronic directory, looking for the most ridiculous outfit I can
find, but I get bored with that pretty quickly.

Which leaves me with only one option: to
search for secret doors.

I mean, how often do you find yourself in a
house with hidden passages in the walls? Assuming Calder wasn't
pulling my leg, of course. I'm one of only a handful of people who
will ever get to see the inside of this place; it's my public duty
to explore the possibility of secret passageways. Or so my
exhausted, sleep-deprived mind tells me.

I start at the main door and work my way
around the room. I find a flat screen television hidden behind a
mirror and a mini-fridge behind a panel near the bathroom.
Apparently rich people like to hide their conveniences behind
expensive decorative items. But I find no doors in the walls, nor
any buttons or levers hidden under shelves or behind lamps. I spend
a while at the electronic tablet next to the bed, but though I
discover a radio, house directory, and even a weather-reporting
application among its options, there's no magic “open sesame”
button.

I come to the elaborate fireplace last. If
this were a fantasy or kid's cartoon, the fireplace would be the
key. The carved stone mantel is ridiculously ornate; all it should
take is the right amount of pressure on the right decorative leaf
and a doorway will open up behind the gas logs. I've seen it a
hundred times.

I work my way from right to left along the
mantel, pushing and prodding every bit of stone. Nothing moves.
When I've poked at every leaf and twist of vine, I go back in the
opposite direction, trying everything again. Just in case.

Nothing happens.

I'll admit it—I’m a little disappointed. If
there are actually secret passageways in this house, none of them
appear to start in this room. I step away from the mantel, and in
the process I trip over the rack with the fireplace poker.

“Mother fuc—”

I break off my curse when I hear the scrape
of wood and stone behind me. I stand and turn.

You cannot be fucking serious.

A portion of the wall has swung inward,
revealing a dark hallway beyond. A secret passageway. An actual
secret-fucking-passageway. Calder wasn't lying after all.

I walk over and peer inside. The corridor is
pitch black. I can't tell how long it is or which direction it
ultimately leads.

But dark or not, there's no way I'm not going
exploring.

I run back to the bed and grab my cell from
the nightstand. Hopefully the light from its screen will be enough
to keep me from falling and breaking my neck.

I can't believe I'm actually doing
this
, I think. But then again, I never expected to break onto
the Cunninghams' property or wear their clothes or eat their food.
I never expected to sleep in one of their giant, fluffy beds.

No turning back now
, I tell
myself.

I hit a button on my phone to bring the
screen to life, and then I step into the darkness of the
passage.

<<>>

I move slowly along the passage, the phone
held out in front of me. The faint blue glow from the screen is
just enough to keep me from walking into the walls. The corridor
twists and turns ahead of me, and after five minutes I've already
completely lost my bearings. I have no idea which direction I'm
going or where I might end up. My only consolation is that there's
only one way back, so it's unlikely I'll get too lost.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I begin to
notice other details. At regular intervals along the walls, for
example, I start spotting small, nondescript door handles. Some
have even been brushed with pale paint, making them easier to spot
among the shadows. I stop at one and give it a wiggle. The door
creaks open, revealing the dark room beyond.

Part of me wants to venture out into the
room, but another part feels weird poking around without Calder. I
step back into the passage and pull the door closed behind me. I
tell myself I should turn around and go back to my bedroom, but
something drives me onward. I want to see where this secret
corridor leads.

It’s only a few minutes later that I discover
the first set of spy holes.

At first, I think I'm imagining things, but
it's hard to miss the slivers of light that fall across my path.
There's a pair of narrow slits in the wall, right at eye level, and
they’re too perfectly round to be cracks. I step closer and look
through them. On the other side, I can see a long, dimly lit
hallway. It appears to be empty.

Were these passages really just to hide the
servants? Geez, I feel like I'm suddenly in the middle of a murder
mystery or something. Is someone suddenly going to spring from the
shadows and bop me over the head with a candlestick?

I continue along the passage, but now I'm on
the lookout for more spy holes. They're harder to spot when they're
looking onto a dark room, but I find a set that offers me a view of
an unlit office, then a couple of pairs revealing bedrooms. There's
not much to see, really, but still the entire thing feels
deliciously wicked. I can only imagine a couple of reasons for why
people would want spy holes looking into bedrooms.

And that's when I find Calder's room.

His lights are still on, so I spot the holes
long before I even hear the hum of the television or his own
movements around the room. I know it's wrong, but I can't resist
taking a peek. My heart thumps in my ears as I press my hands
against the wall and bring my eyes to the small openings in the
paneling.

I'm struck immediately by the sleek modernity
of his room. The walls are a pale steely blue, the furniture sleek
and black. The flat screen television mounted on the far wall is
flashing the local news.

Calder moves across the room, a towel around
his waist.

Damn.

His dark hair is wet, and it curls
deliciously against his neck. I try not to ogle his bare chest, but
it's hard to ignore. He's pure muscle, from his broad shoulders to
his chiseled waist. I've seen pictures in the tabloids, of course,
but a grainy photograph is nothing compared to Calder in the
flesh.