Red Hot Obsessions (7 page)

His eyes are dark, intense, hungry. He’s breathing hard from our little game, but I find that I can hardly breathe at all. His fingers are firm around my upper arms, as if he’s afraid I’ll try and escape his grip. But I can’t move. I’m not sure I want to.

He moves so slowly that I sense more than see him leaning toward me. His lips are slightly parted. My own lips feel suddenly dry.

I want to say something—to stop him, maybe, or perhaps to urge him onward—but the words die on my tongue. He’s so close now that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.

I can’t. I…

Thunder crashes overhead. I jump, and the moment is broken.

What the hell am I doing?

“We need to get out of the pool,” I say, pulling out of his grip.

“Lily—”

“I’d rather not get electrocuted.” As if to punctuate my point, lightning flashes overhead just as I reach the pool ladder. Apparently the universe agrees: this was a terrible idea.

What am I doing, splashing and flirting and encouraging him? I almost let him kiss me, for freak’s sake! This guy stands for everything I hate—am I really going to fall for his stupid little tricks?

I haul myself out of the water. The air is startlingly cold, and I wrap my arms around myself as I march back toward the pavilion. Louisa’s dress clings to my legs, but I try to move as gracefully as I can. I can feel Calder’s eyes boring into my back.

But why should I care if I look graceful or not? I let things get carried away in the secret passageway last night, but I thought I had enough self-control to behave rationally when we were face to face.

You hate him, I remind myself for the hundredth time today. Think of the Center. Think of your dad.

And I do. I close my eyes and remember my dad’s face the morning I left. He was poring over a stack of invoices, so absorbed that he never realized I was standing in the doorway. He looked so tired, so defeated, so
old
—and it’s all Calder’s fault.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t realize he’s behind me until he tries to wrap a towel around my shoulders. I jerk away and glare up at him.

“You’re freezing,” he says, holding the towel up again.

I grab it out of his hand without another word. He has another towel for himself, and it only reminds me of the scene I witnessed last night in his bedroom. I turn around and begin drying myself off.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says after a moment. “It’s all right to admit that you’re attracted to me.”

“I’m not embarrassed. And I’m not attracted to you.”

I don’t sound very convincing.

“Why don’t we swing back by your room,” he says. “You can change, and we can continue our tour.”

He’s challenging me. I hear it in his voice. If I say no, if I refuse to go on with this tour, I might as well admit that he’s gotten under my skin.

“Fine,” I say.

I’m strong. Yes, I’ve had a few moments of weakness, but I’ve learned my lesson. It won’t happen again.

I only wish my body shared those convictions.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first thing I do when I get back to my room is check my phone.

There’s a new message.

I take a deep breath and press the voicemail button before I have the chance to lose my nerve. I know without even looking at my missed calls that the message is from Garrett.

“Hey, Lils. Got your message. Give me a call back when you can.” His voice is casual, as if my calling him was perfectly ordinary—as if I haven't spent the last several months actively ignoring his attempts to contact me. There’s no anger in his voice, but there’s no pleasure, either. His tone gives no indication of what he thinks of my request. I’m instantly suspicious. For all I know, he wants me to call him so he can laugh in my face.

But I'm not going to let myself take the coward's way out any longer. This isn't about me or my pride. It's about the Center. Before I can talk myself out of it, I click the button to call Garrett.

This time he picks up on the first ring.

“Hey,” he says.

My stomach twists at the sound of his voice, and it's all I can do not to hang up on him.

I take a deep breath. “Hey. Did you get my message?”

I immediately want to smack myself.
Of course
he got my message.

“I know it's a lot to ask,” I say quickly. “And I know you have no reason to help me, but I just wanted to…ask. You know how much the Center means to my dad. If you saw him, you'd see what this has done to him. We're trying everything we can. I'm desperate…” I cut myself off when I realize my rambling has twisted itself into begging.

“You'd have to be pretty desperate to call me,” Garrett says after a moment. I still can’t tell if he’s pissed.

“I just thought—well, you seemed to care a lot for the Center back when you worked with us,” I say carefully. “I know things didn't end well between us, but I thought you might still have some affection toward the Center.”

For a minute, he doesn't respond.

“I do,” he says finally. “You know I do, Lils. I have a deep respect for the work you and your dad do.”

I'm standing next to the fireplace, and I reach out and run my finger along one of the carved stone vines.

“Well?” I say softly. “Will you help us?”

Garrett sighs. “I don't know, Lils. What happens if I do? Will you start talking to me again? Or will you cut me out of your life again once you get what you want?”

“That's not fair,” I argue.

“Isn't it? You've refused to talk to me for months. You're only friendly now because you need something.”

“What was I supposed to do all this time?” I say. “I needed the space to get over you. Our relationship was… honestly, it was fucked up. And then Lauren—”

“I've told you a million times, Lils. Lauren was a mistake.” He lets out a heavy breath. “I know I can't expect you to just come running back to me, but I think I deserve some common courtesy here.”

“You don't deserve anything,” I whisper. Hearing his voice again, listening to him say
her
name, having to defend our breakup after all this time—it’s too much. It just brings up all those old memories again. I thought I could handle this, but now I’m not so sure.

“Forget it,” I say. “I don’t need your help after all.”

“Lils,” he says, his exasperation clear in his voice. “There’s no reason to—”

“No. Forget I ever called.”

Before he can respond to me, I hang up and throw the phone down on the nightstand.

Ugh
. I flop down on the bed and close my eyes. This is all a fucking mess. I should have let my dad talk to Garrett. Now I've gone and blown it.

I knew talking to Garrett would be difficult, but I told myself I'd suck it up for the sake of the Center. Why couldn't I just tell him what he wanted to hear? Instead I let my anger get in the way, and the Center was still screwed.

I still remember those last, horrible months we were together. I was desperately afraid that Garrett was slipping away from me, and I was torturing myself trying to keep him happy and interested. The day I caught him, I was planning on making his favorite dinner as a surprise. I ducked out of work early so I could get everything ready, and instead I walked in on him with Lauren, a fellow journalist who he’d always insisted was just a “friend.”

Even now my stomach twists at the memory. To be honest, it’s not even
him
that I’m pissed at. It’s the fact that I gave up so much of myself—and became such a pathetic, sniveling mess there at the end—that really makes me angry. I never told my dad the truth about our breakup. It was too humiliating.

Never again.

A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Lily?” Calder says. “Is everything all right?”

Damn it. I completely forgot about changing. I haul myself off the bed and avoid looking back at the wet patch I probably left on the comforter.

“Just a minute!” I say. I run into the closet and pull the damp dress over my head. Fortunately, Louisa seems to have no shortage of cute clothes in here. I find a short black skirt and a green top, and I pull them both on quickly. Again, there’s not much to do with my damp hair, so I pull it into another loose bun and try not to look at myself in the mirror as I go back out. Why do I care what I look like, anyway?

Honestly, though, I have far more important things on my mind. My conversation with Garrett left me feeling hopeless and sick to my stomach. I threw away a valuable opportunity because I couldn’t get past my own twisted emotions. I didn’t realize how much I was relying on his help until that course of action slipped completely out of the window.

And then there’s Calder. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to make good on his father’s pledge, but I don’t have the luxury of giving up on him just yet. If I’m going to convince him to give us the money his father promised, I’m going to have to step up my game. I might just have to get creative, that's all.

Just get creative
, I repeat to myself.

An image of his naked body pops into my mind, and my body responds almost immediately. I can think of a few ways I might try to convince him.

The prospect is both terrifying and strangely exciting.

* * *

I don't even know where to begin seducing a man.

I mean, I suppose I know how to bat my eyelashes and push my breasts together with my arms, but that just seems so amateur, especially when we're talking about a man like Calder Cunningham.

He's already made it clear that he wants me. But how do I play that to my advantage without seeming too obvious?

I study him once more from the corner of my eye as we continue our tour. He hasn’t made any references to what happened at the pool, and I’m perfectly fine with that. Still, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he angry with me? Confused? Indifferent? How am I supposed to know how to flirt with him if I can’t figure out his current feelings toward me?

He’s perfectly pleasant as he leads me through the house. And I must admit, the house is freaking amazing. More than once I find my attention wandering from my self-imposed task to my incredible surroundings.

He shows me a lounge, a game room, a library that rivals the public one back home. Just when I think I’ve seen everything, he leads me into the family’s own personal movie theater.

“Is this real?” I ask.

The room is huge, with stadium-style seating and a screen so large I wonder how they managed to get it in here in the first place.

“My father loved movies,” Calder says. He’s standing close enough to me that I feel the tiny hairs stand up on my arms, but I pretend not to notice.

“He must, to build a room like this,” I say. My fingers itch slightly. I should probably reach out and touch him—just a small, casual touch. One that might come across as an accident. Just an innocent little touch to get him worked up.

But before I can raise my hand, he moves past me.

“My father was particularly fond of spy films. He used to have a marathon every year on his birthday.”

I smile in spite of myself. “Who doesn’t love a good spy movie?”

He chuckles and turns back to look at me.

“For his sixtieth birthday, he hired a bunch of stunt actors to help him recreate his favorite scenes out in the garden.”

I grin at the image. In my dealings with Wentworth Cunningham, I’d always found him a friendly, likable man, but I never got to witness the goofier side of him.

“My dad is really into adventure movies,” I say. “Now I know what to get him for his next birthday.”

Calder laughs with me, but his eyes are still distant, and I know he's thinking of his father.

“You must miss him,” I offer. The words sound lame now that they've left my mouth. I'm not very good at comforting people.

He blinks and turns away from me. When he speaks, the vulnerability of a moment ago is gone and there's a hard edge to his voice.

“My father was a selfish bastard.”

My mouth falls open. “Your father did so much for the Frazer Center.”

“One good act doesn’t make a good man.”

“But certainly he—”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he snaps, spinning on me.

I stumble back a step, stunned. I want to tell him that that's no way to speak of the dead, especially a dead parent. But I’m afraid of the emotion I see in his eyes.

Calder pulls his hand through his hair. His shoulders are rigid, defensive. Just a moment ago he was speaking with such longing, such admiration—and I know I didn't misinterpret the affection in his eyes when he spoke of his father's love of spy movies. What's changed? Why is he suddenly so tense? He did the same thing last night at dinner, when the subject of his father came up.

Don't be so hard on him
, I try and tell myself.
He lost his father only a few months ago. You'd be a mess, too, if your dad died
. Just thinking of Dad's anguish over the Center makes me upset. Imagining his death… that makes me physically ill.

“Well?” Calder says, snapping me back out of my dark thoughts. From his annoyed tone, I suspect I've missed something he's said.

“Well…?”

“Are you ready to move on? Or would you rather stare at the movie screen for another ten minutes?”

I almost think I preferred him when he was trying to get in my pants.

“Let's go on,” I say, hoping that a change of scenery will get him back to normal.

It does, but it takes two floors and numerous rooms before he begins to regain a bit of his charm. He shows me a lush conservatory, an indoor gym, a study with an enormous fireplace. He shows me the bedroom he and his sister were convinced was haunted when they were younger, and the large room of his father's collectibles where he and his sister used to play hide-and-seek. Talking about Louisa seems to make him happier, and once more I see the nostalgia and boyishness return to his eyes. I don't say anything, though, except to admire this piece of furniture or that decorative wall hanging. No surprise, it's all extremely beautiful—and undoubtedly extremely expensive. I try not to think of how the Center might use that money.

Don’t forget why you’re here, I tell myself. Don’t forget what you need to do.

I need to step it up. I already screwed up with Garrett. I can’t let this opportunity with Calder slip away from me, too.

“So,” I say, resting my fingers gently on his arm. “Where to next?”

His eyes flick down to my hand, then back to my face. “I thought maybe you might enjoy the gallery.”

“Gallery?” He hasn't mentioned anything like that to me yet.

“My father and my grandfather both collected art. As you can probably already tell.” He gestures at the walls as we move along the hallway, indicating the paintings and sculptures I've already been studying as we pass. “The gallery is where they kept their favorites.”

I can't help the quiver of excitement that runs through me at the thought of viewing the Cunninghams' collection. Wentworth had a reputation for his fine taste, and I've no doubt that his father before him did as well, judging by the pieces I've seen here so far.

Calder notices my reaction. His fingers close around my own.

“I knew you'd be excited. Come on. It's not far.”

The skin of my hand tingles where he touches me. I want to pull away from him, to try and regain a bit of control, but the action would be too suspicious. Instead I let him lead me down the hallway and pretend the warmth of his fingers isn’t making my stomach do somersaults.

Calder turns me down another hallway and leads me to a pair of large double doors. He pushes one open, and I gasp. The room beyond might have been in a museum. It's long, with a high ceiling, and there are so many works along the walls that I know I'll never have the chance to properly examine them all.

“This is insane,” I breathe. Beside me, Calder chuckles.

I slip out of his grip and walk over to a glass case against the nearest wall. Inside, there's a collection of small jade figures.

“My father picked those up on a trip to China when I was about ten,” Calder says beside me. “There were actually two more, but my sister and I stole them. We ended up losing both of our figures out in the garden. My father was furious. He grounded me for a month. Just me, because I'm the older one and the one who actually broke into the case.”

I can't help but smile at the image of a young Calder forced into such punishment. Though honestly, being grounded in this place doesn't sound like a bad thing at all.

I glance up at him, and I'm a little startled to catch him watching me. I look away, heat creeping up my neck, but I know I can't waste this opening.

“Tell me,” I say sweetly, turning and looking down the length of the room. “Do you have a favorite piece in here?”

He rubs his chin, his thumb skimming along that perfect line of stubble.

“That's a tough one,” he says. His gaze flicks back to me, and there's humor in his eyes. “Maybe you should guess.”

It's a challenge, and I'm not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. If I play this right, I might be able to ramp up our flirtation a few notches without making him suspicious.

“What are the stakes?” I say lightly.