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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 very often,” he admits. “But I think it gives the place character. When I was younger,