Read His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) for Free Online Page B

my
plate, I set down my fork.
    “Tell Martin he outdid himself,” I say
evenly, though I’m still actively fighting the urge to smack him
upside the head. “Everything was wonderful.”
    Calder smiles. “I will.” He eyes drift to my
empty glass. “More whiskey?”
    I shake my head. “Actually, I'm really tired.
I think I might just go to bed.”
    If he's disappointed by that, he doesn't show
it. “Do you need help finding your way back to your room?”
    I wish I didn't, but I know I'll get lost if
I try to find my way back on my own. I nod reluctantly. I swear—if
he tries to make a move on me, I'll knee him in the groin.
    Calder retains his easy confidence as we make
our way back through his house. I'm not sure how the arrogant
bastard does it—how can he act so nonchalant, as if we never
argued? Is it some skill he picked up from a lifetime of Never
Having to Give a Damn?
    I study him out of the corner of my eye as we
walk. His moods seem to swing all over the place—one moment he’s
cocky and sexually aggressive, the next he’s laughing with his
personal chef, and still the next he’s quiet and sullen and bitter.
His face is carefully blank now, but what the hell is going on his
head?
    This man lost his father recently , I
remember suddenly.
    My own dad's face flashes in my mind, and my
stomach twists. Whatever I think of Calder, I wouldn't wish that
pain on anyone. He hasn't said much about the event except to
reference his new status in the house. How is he handling all that?
It can't be easy.
    The hair, the scruff, the shadows under his
eyes—they’re probably all signs of his emotional turmoil over the
last few months. Wentworth Cunningham was a good man, and I had the
opportunity to speak with him several times about Center projects
and business. He was genuinely passionate about our work, and about
spreading the joys of the arts among people of all socio-economic
classes—one of Dad’s main goals when he founded the Center all
these years ago.
    I wanted to go to Wentworth’s funeral, but it
was a closed, private ceremony—family only. There were no photos in
the tabloids, though of course there were plenty of ridiculous
speculations about what did him in: drug overdose! Suicide! Murder
(by the Mob, naturally)!
    Dad mentioned a couple of summers ago—some
five-odd years after Wentworth began making significant financial
contributions to our cause—that the man’s health was fading. I
suspected heart disease, but it wasn’t honestly my place to know or
ask. I can only imagine what the family’s been through these last
few years. A slow death means plenty of time to say goodbye, but it
can also cast a shadow over a family for a long time before and
after the end actually comes.
    I feel like I should say something, but
before I can decide whether or not to offer my condolences to
Calder, he catches me watching him. Instantly the shadows in his
face are replaced once more by wicked flirtatiousness. I quickly
look away again, in no mood to suffer his charms.
    “It's too bad you're tired,” he says. “I
would have liked to give you a tour, since you seemed so interested
in the art before.” He gives a little chuckle. “I believe I
remember you mentioning the dungeons, too.”
    I roll my eyes. “I don't believe for a minute
that you actually have dungeons.”
    “You'd be surprised.”
    “Is that where you keep your suit of armor?”
I say. Every creepy old mansion has one of those, right? “If you
pull on its sword, does it reveal the door to some secret
passageway?”
    He chuckles. “No suits of armor, I'm afraid.
There are, however, plenty of secret passageways in this
place.”
    I snort. “Yeah, right.”
    “It's true. When my great-great-grandfather
had this place built, it was still considered widely unfashionable
for anyone to ever see the servants. There's an entire network of
passages and staircases behind the walls.”
    “You’re just fucking with me.”
    “You don't see it