Red Hot Obsessions (10 page)

“I might argue that last point, but you raise an interesting question,” he says. “Who's more attracted? Who's more likely to crack first?”

“There's no question at all.”

“Willing to wager on it?” he says, leaning toward me in turn. His eyes are bright.

“You can't prove something like that.”

“Of course you can,” he says. “The loser is the first one to give into their baser instincts.”

If that's the bet, then I'm golden. Perhaps I don't have the strength to push him away when he's slipping kisses down my neck, but I'm not exactly the sort of girl who launches herself at men, even the sexy scruffy ones. I'm not sure Calder has the same sort of restraint.

“All right,” I say. I flick my tongue across my lips and feel a surge of pleasure in my belly when Calder's eyes follow. “But I get to pick the stakes this time.”

I don't know what makes him so certain to place a bet he must know I'm going to win, but I'm not going to question it too closely. This is my chance.

“If I win,” I say, “then you have to pay out the rest of your father's pledge to the Center.”

Calder leans back in his seat and takes another sip of his drink. His dark eyes study me over the rim of his glass.

“That's a steep price,” he says casually.

“It's a dangerous game you've suggested. I think it's a suitable stake.”

He considers for a moment.

“There are three years left on the pledge, correct?” he says. “The same amount promised each year?”

The fact that he doesn't know that for sure already makes me feel a little sick to my stomach, but I push down the feeling.

“Four years,” I reply.

He slides his thumb back and forth across his stubble. “I'll give you one year.”

“I name the stake this time, not you.”

He shrugs. “We don't have to make the bet.”

“You don't want to accept the terms because you know I'm going to win,” I say lightly. “I think that proves my point quite nicely.”

“Taunting me won't change my mind,” he says. “Besides, we haven't even settled the debt from our last wager.”

“Is that the problem?” I say. Before he can say anything else, I reach across and grab the front of his shirt. I yank him toward me, capturing his lips with my own.

He's too shocked to move, but I'm not about to waste an opportunity to tease him. I move my mouth against his, then slip my tongue along his bottom lip.

He responds more quickly than even I anticipated. His mouth opens beneath mine, his own lips part so he can meet my tongue with his own. Electricity courses through my body at the contact, and I lean into him, even as his hand circles my neck and draws me closer. Desire flares in my belly, but this time I won't ignore the warning bells in my head. I pull away from him, pulling his hand from my hair as I sit back in my seat.

He looks stunned. I revel in the thrill of my small victory.

“Was that satisfactory?”

His eyes darken. “I would say that satisfies our terms.”

“Good. Then we can move on to the terms at hand. All four years left on the pledge.”

He shakes his head. “One.”

I play with the end of my fork. “Pity. I thought you liked these little games. Or is it as I guessed, that you're afraid because you know you're going to lose?”

I have him under my finger now. I've given him the challenge, and I've questioned his pride. If this doesn't work, then I don't know what I'll do.

Calder is studying me. I meet his dark gaze with equal intensity.

Just try and wriggle your way out of this.

Finally he leans forward again. “Two years.”

I might not have broken him completely, but it's a good offer. Two years' fulfillment of the pledge would definitely keep our head above water—and give us that much more time to find a couple more dedicated givers. Now it's my turn to study Calder, to try and gauge the seriousness of this offer. Should I try for one more year?

In the end, I decide not to push it.

“Agreed,” I say, holding out my hand.

He shakes it.

I should be excited. I finally have the chance to save the Center—and a good shot, too. But I don't trust Calder's smile, nor do I trust the way my stomach flutters when he leans toward me again.

He places his hand on mine, and my heartbeat accelerates.

“Let the games begin,” he says.

Oh yes, I think. They’re just getting started.

CHAPTER NINE

The rest of dinner is, surprisingly, rather tame. We talk about anything and everything, from books to politics to our favorite flavors of ice cream. Calder is far more well-read and thoughtful in his opinions than I originally anticipated, but I'm too distracted by our bet to spend much energy marveling at his intelligence. There are too many glances to decipher, too many casual touches to give and receive. I've heard the dance of seduction compared to a game of chess, but never before have I recognized the truth of such words. Everything that passes between us is a move in this elaborate game of lust, and I'm afraid that while I'm planning my next turn, Calder will sneak up behind me with some strategy I haven't even considered.

By the end of the meal, I'm tense and tired.

“Will you lead me back to my room?” I ask, looking up at Calder through my lashes. “I got lost twice on the way down here.”

“Of course,” he says, sliding a finger along the back of my palm.

The walk back to my room is a quiet one. Calder's hand rests on the small of my back most of the way, and I do my best to ignore the warmth running up my spine. He plays the game well, I'll grant him that, but he has something coming to him if he truly believes his will is stronger than my own.

When we reach my door, I turn and blink up at him. I clasp my hands in front of me, just enough to nudge my breasts up a little more.

“Thank you for walking me here. And thank Martin for another wonderful dinner. I quite enjoyed myself this evening.”

“I hope you found my company stimulating.”

“That's one word for it.” I flash him my most devilish grin.

For a moment we both stand there, each waiting for the other to speak or move. There's energy around us, a force like a string tied between one and the other, and all it would take is one movement, one tug, to either snap it or bring us hurtling together. I sense the danger of it even before I notice the way my breathing has quickened. Calder's has too, judging by the rise and fall of his broad chest.

Almost involuntarily, I reach out and touch the skin just above his collar, right at the hollow of his throat. He swallows. My fingers start to move along his neck, until suddenly I realize what I'm doing. They freeze just below his ear.

“Goodnight,” I say sweetly, as if I intended this all along. “Pleasant dreams.”

I withdraw my hand and reach for the door, but I can still feel the intensity of Calder's gaze on me.

“Goodnight,” he says roughly.

I don't trust myself to look at his face again before I close the door behind me.

* * *

I hardly sleep at all that night.

I've never been so worked up over a man before. I don't know what's happened to me, and it's only gotten worse since we made that bet. I feel like I'm burning from the inside out, tortured by lust for someone I shouldn't even like, let alone
want
.

I tell myself it all comes down to that twisted law of the universe that you always want what you can't—or shouldn't—have. Calder has the power to destroy everything my dad and I spent our lives building. I've finally found an opening, a way to win back what he denied us, and my body's bent on betraying me.

After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I finally get up and go over to the fireplace. I move the poker and watch the secret door slide open. The dark passage beyond beckons me. The tension I've been fighting all night settles between my legs, and I start to ache without even taking a step. I know what waits at the other end of this corridor. The scene from the other night is still so vivid in my mind. I don't know what I hope to accomplish by taking this path again tonight. I don't delude myself into believing I'll witness another similar scene. And I certainly don't intend to go barging into his room in the middle of the night.

It's all just a fantasy. All of my time in this house feels like an elaborate sexual dream, and I'm not sure whether I want to wake up or live in it forever.

I'm five steps into the passageway before I lose my nerve. I turn around, dart back to my room, and move the poker back into place. I leap into the bed and pull the comforter over my head. This place is making me crazy, but I won't let it defeat me. Tomorrow, I'll win back some of the money Calder took from the Center. Whatever it takes, I'll break him.

* * *

The next morning it’s still raining, but this time the gray scene outside my window brings a rush of relief. I have more time to win back the money for the Center. I shoot my dad a quick text to update him on the situation—I can’t bear to hear his hopelessness over the phone, not when I need all my strength today—and I head into Louisa’s closet to do some strategic dressing.

I end up selecting a sundress again, since Calder seems to respond well to those. This one is white with a sweetheart neckline and tiny straps—the perfect combination of “angel” and “temptress.” I actually have time to style my hair today, so I let it hang loose around my shoulders.

Perfect.

He arrives at my room just as I’m slipping on a pair of strappy sandals. His eyes widen when I open the door.

“You like?” I tease.

“That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He reaches out and touches my hair, letting it slide through his fingers.

I catch his hand.

“Are you going to stand there and drool, or are you going to take me downstairs?” I say. “I’m starving.”

He pulls his hand away and clears his throat.

“Of course, Ms. Frazer,” he says, his voice like honey. His eyes linger on my bare shoulders.

Easy, Mr. Cunningham
, I think as I take his offered arm. This time I press a little closer than usual, near enough that our shoulders brush against each other as we move down the hallway. I feel the muscles in his arm contract beneath my hand.

Our little dance only continues over breakfast. I’m driven by the same sense of wild recklessness that has possessed me all weekend, and I find myself toying with him: first a gentle touch on his wrist, then an “accidental” nudge from my foot beneath the table.

But Calder’s not without a few tricks of his own. For every flirtatious glance I send him, he flashes one of his disarming smiles at me. For each of my subtle touches, he finds ways to touch me in turn.

“Tell me,” I say, trying to distract myself from the way his knee is brushing against mine beneath the table. “Any wild stories from all that time you spent in Europe?”

His eyes widen. “I’m not sure you want to hear any of those.”

“No?” I brush my finger gently across his knuckles. “I bet you have some good dirt on some of those models you dated. What was that one with the pink hair? Elise something?”

He catches my roving fingers and holds them tight. “Do you really want to start up a conversation about our past lovers?”

Lovers? Who even calls them that?
Still, thinking about Calder and his perfect ex-girlfriends is certainly one way to keep my wits about me. Just the thought of him with some perky little waif is enough to make my stomach churn.

Calder gives my fingers a little squeeze, and his eyes gleam.

“Besides,” he says, “why would I want to think about them when I have a beautiful woman right here in front of me?”

I shouldn’t let his flattery get to me, but I find myself squirming in my seat at the compliment.

“Well you must have done something else,” I say. “In Europe, I mean. Besides dating. And partying.”

Calder gives a little smile.

“Yes, despite how I’m sure the tabloids made it appear, my father made sure I had plenty to do.” He releases my hand and sits back in his chair. “He called it my
cultural education
. Said I wouldn’t get my inheritance unless I was fluent in five languages. And I served as his proxy with several organizations. He had me sitting on the advisory boards of several museums and one university.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That must have been amazing.”

He looks at me as if I just claimed the sky was green.

“It was ridiculous, that’s what it was.” He runs his hand through his hair. “There I was, some entitled twenty-something who would’ve much rather been in a nightclub than debating the finer points of Manet and Monet with some stuffy old men. And yet my father had promised them some piece of his collection or a new wing or something, and suddenly I’m at the heart of all these important decisions. I never wanted that responsibility, and honestly, they shouldn’t have given it to me in the first place. No organization should rely on the whims of the wealthy.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” I say.

He shrugs. “It’s the truth. I could’ve suggested we keep live giraffes in the lobby and they would have applauded my genius, all because they were afraid to lose my family’s contributions. I might have driven them into the ground with one ridiculous idea after another, and they would have continued to grasp desperately at each one.”

I can only stare at him in shock. But he’s not done yet.

“That’s the problem—desperation. These organizations are desperate for money, and they’ll sacrifice their better sense to get it. It’s a ridiculous model. What happens when the money’s not there? What happens if they say no to the giraffes? What happens if their rich donor suddenly decides he’d rather invest in ice cream or jet-packs than a worthy institution?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Cunningham,” I say, my voice hard. “What happens?”

He looks up, suddenly aware of what he’s said.

“Lily, I—”

“No.” I drop my fork on my plate, no longer hungry. “Tell me, Mr. Cunningham, since you seem to be an expert on such things. What happens to that organization that dares to rely on the goodwill of others?”

“I shouldn’t have been so blunt, but I think I’m making a valid point here. People will, first and foremost, look out for their own interests. If they have money and goodwill to spare, then they might share it, but you can’t rely on that generosity if you’re trying to run a successful business. In this economy, you must be cutthroat, even if you are a not-for-profit institution.”

“And you learned this how, exactly?” I say, rising. “During your time asking museums to put giraffes in their lobbies? Or was it from all those years you spent climbing the corporate ladder?”

“Lily, if—”

“No,” I say, fighting the urge to punch him. “Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me how to run the Frazer Center? The
only
reason we’re in trouble is because of you, and somehow you’ve twisted it all around and made it our fault. Your father signed a contract. A
contract.
Forgive me for believing that was a legally binding promise.”

Calder tries to grab my arm, but I twist out of his reach.

“I can’t believe that I thought, even for a minute…” I shake my head, trying to dispel the onrush of strange emotions I’ve built up over the past couple of days. How could I be so stupid?

“Lily, please,” Calder tries once more to grab my hand, but I yank it away from him.

“I’m done,” I say. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cunningham, I don’t mean to impose upon your
generosity
ever again
.
”

I turn and storm out of the room, breaking into a run as soon as I reach the hallway. I don't bother looking back to see if he's following me. By some divine intervention, I manage to find the front door of the damned place without too much trouble, and I tear out into the rain.

I'm soaked through almost instantly, but I don't care. I strip off my shoes and run down the driveway, my feet slapping against the cobblestones.

Damn him. Damn him straight to hell.
After everything he’s put us through, who the hell gave him the right to lecture me about how to run the Frazer Center?

Screw him. We don't need his money anyway
. Garrett's helping us now—maybe he can scare up an even bigger donor. Or maybe Dad and I will find a way to revamp our classes without leaving our students to make up the difference in our funds. We'll make do without Calder’s help. We have to.

I reach the gates and climb through them once more, jumping down next to the front bumper of my car. It's then, only then, that I realize I've left my purse back in my room. My wallet, my phone, my
keys…

My car's still unlocked, thank God, which is the only thing that keeps me from having a complete and total breakdown in front of the Cunninghams' gate. I open the door and throw myself down on the backseat. I rub my cheek against the rough fabric of the cushion and force myself to take a couple of deep breaths.

It's all my own fault, I know. I don’t know how to keep my emotions at bay. I should’ve just let him rant and focused on winning the bet. Now I’ve let that final opportunity slip out of my fingers.

My physical reaction to him doesn't help anything. It only gets me worked up, and my efforts to fight down my attraction only make me more frustrated.

I try to focus on the patter of rain against the roof of my car.

He's a cheap, heartless bastard
, I remind myself, but it doesn't make me feel any better. At the end of the day, he has no respect for the work Dad and I do. I repeat that thought in my head, over and over again, until eventually, mercifully, the sound of the rain sends me off to sleep.

* * *

I'm woken by a sharp rap against the window.

My eyes fly open. I jerk upright, looking frantically around as I try to remember where I am. By the time the details of my current situation come back to me, Calder has already opened the door, bringing a rush of cold and rain with him as he slides inside.

“Move over,” he says.

Still half asleep, I obey without a word. I push a strand of damp hair behind my ear as he settles down beside me and pulls the door closed once more. He seems even taller and broader in the backseat of my tiny Honda, and his leg and hip are pressed against mine. He's warm, even through our damp clothes.

“I've been looking everywhere for you,” he says, an edge to his voice.

Our argument comes rushing back to me, and my own annoyance flares up.

“I told you I wasn't going to rely on your generosity anymore,” I say.

“I didn't think you'd go running out in the storm!”