His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games 1)

"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 the James Bond films. He used to have a marathon every year on Ian Fleming’s birthday.”