Her Wicked Heart (16 page)

But I hardly know this guy. I only met him a couple of weeks ago. Until last night, neither of us had shown the other anything past the most surface-level of emotions. For all I know, I’m nothing more than another passing fling for him. And that’s okay. It’s better this way, actually, focusing on the pleasure and forgetting about the feelings. The last thing I want is to create another situation like the one with Ian. I need a healthy outlet for my frustration and confusion while I sort through my emotions on my own.

I lift my lips to his ear. “When do you think you can get to the store?”

I know from the sudden quickening of his breath that he knows exactly what I’m asking.

“I’m heading into Barberville this afternoon for some supplies,” he says. “I should be able to run a personal errand.”

“Tonight, then?”

He gives a low laugh and his grip tightens. “The maze?”

I smile. “Where else?”

* * *

Unfortunately, even the promise of some breathless release this evening doesn’t erase the fact that my house is crawling with people. It was hard enough dealing with the idea when it was just the staff. Now there are people everywhere. Snapping photos. Taking notes about every little thing. Peeking in every corner, trying to absorb all of this place’s secrets. For generations my family kept this place to ourselves—it was our home, after all. Not something to be gawked at. Now that need for privacy has backfired. Awakened a curiosity.

This is only the beginning, I know. We’re only talking about a handful of press members here. What happens during the grand opening next week when the paying guests arrive? Or when all the articles and blurbs these journalists are so thoroughly researching go to press? This place is already booked for months. It will be a madhouse. Every bit the theme park I feared.

I don’t like interacting with the visitors. But Mr. Haymore is insisting that we attend to their every need. He gives me a stack of brochures and information packets to carry with me at all times in case someone comes to me with questions. For the rest of the afternoon, the journalists have been given the freedom to explore our many amenities.

He has me running back and forth to every section of the house, from the spa (to make sure we’re well stocked with towels and that the attendants have things under control) to the crafts cottages (to make sure the demonstrations are going well) to the rooftop pool (again, towels). I wish it were safe to sneak out to the tasting room and swipe some more wine, but even I’m not dumb enough to chance it in broad daylight with all these people around. Instead, when I’m up at the pool, I decide to take matters into my own hands. They’ve kept most of the large outdoor entertainment area my family built up here, but they’ve expanded it to include a full bar. Currently, it’s staffed by a clean-cut young man with perfectly styled hair and a white polo.

I lean across the marble counter and give him my Louisa Cunningham smile. “Any chance you can spare a shot for Mr. Haymore’s poor slave?”

He smiles. “Rough day?”

“A little crazy. You know.”

He nods, still smiling. Mr. Haymore’s made sure that every employee here knows exactly how
extremely important
this week is for Huntington Manor. This is their chance to make a stunning first impression to the people who could make or break this place. No doubt most staff members are feeling the pressure.

The man behind the bar (“Greg,” according to his shiny brass name tag) pours me a shot of tequila without question. I don’t even bother waiting for the lime. I swallow it down and slide the shot glass back to him.

When I turn around, I find that I have an audience. Asher, the reporter who almost recognized me when he checked in, is watching me. When he catches my eye, he raises his beer toward me and beckons me over.

Crap.
The last thing I wanted to do was draw any extra attention from this guy. But running away will just make me look suspicious. I’ll just have to tell him I’m very busy.

I take a deep breath and walk over to his table. “Anything I can help you with, sir?”

He laughs. “Please, you don’t have to be so formal. I’m not used to being waited on hand and foot. And frankly, I’m not sure I like it.” His tone is friendly, disarming, but I’m not about to let my guard down.

“Then… did you need me for something?” I ask.

“I just wanted to chat for a minute,” he says cheerfully. “Please, sit down, Ms. …” —His eyes flick down to my name tag— “Ms. Thomas.”

“I wish I could.” I give him another smile. “But I’m afraid I have to—”

“This will only take a minute, I promise.” He’s still grinning, still friendly. I can’t tell if there’s any hint of a threat in his words—his expression hides it too well. I want to run, but that would be the cowardly thing to do.

I take the seat he offers. He has his laptop in front of him, but he slides it out of the way.

“The latest model,” he says, nodding at the computer proudly. “Cost me two whole paychecks. But God, if it isn’t massive. I swear, this thing weighs more than my Border Collie.”

I give a little laugh, even though my heart is racing.

“What did you want to chat about?” I ask. I’d rather get right to the point than drag this out.

He takes a sip of his beer. “Not any one thing in particular. Just wanted to know how you find this place.”

Find this place?
My stomach clenches. Is this an underhanded way of asking what Louisa Cunningham thinks of the changes they’ve made to her home?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say carefully.

“I just thought that someone in your position might have certain insights.”

Oh, God.

“My position?” I keep my voice light. I’m not going to let him get away with his little games. If he wants confirmation about who I am, he’s going to have to say it outright.

And even then, I’m going to lie, but still. I’m not falling for this guy’s tricks. I know reporters better than that.

I must be doing a halfway decent job of keeping my nerves to myself, though, because Asher’s expression doesn’t change at all.

“Your position,” he repeats, gesturing at my name tag. “As assistant to the General Manager.”

Oh—is
that
what he meant?

“Of course the people in charge of the show are going to paint the perfect little picture. But the people on the ground floor”—He points to my name tag again—“are the ones with the real story. The ones with the true insight. Know what I mean?”

I get it now—he thinks he can get some dirt from the grunt workers. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or a little disgusted by him right now.

But then it hits me—isn’t this the opportunity I’ve been waiting for? Stealing wine and doodling on brochures is petty stuff. Satisfying, yes, but ultimately not very effective in bringing down a place like this. But planting some seeds about this place, starting a nasty rumor here or there…

Geez, I am evil, aren’t I? I can’t believe I’m even considering this.

“Your identity would be protected, of course,” he says.

My eyes shoot up to him. Is
that
a threat?

He smiles. “I never reveal my sources, I promise.”

I study his face. He still looks completely relaxed, as if this were just an ordinary request for him. He’s good. I still don’t trust him.

“Tell me,” I say. “What makes you think I have any good dirt for you? What makes you think there’s any good dirt at all?”

He takes another drink of his beer. “There’s always something, Ms. Thomas, especially in a place this size. And especially with a name like Edward Carolson attached. The hardest part is figuring out who to ask.” He smiles again. “Did I guess right, Ms. Thomas?”

I consider my next question carefully. “What sort of information are you looking for?”

His eyes flash—he thinks he’s gained the upper hand.

Slow down there, pretty boy. You don’t know who you’re messing with.
At least now I know he’s capable of betraying some emotion. He hasn’t perfected that politician’s mask like Carolson.

“I’m not picky,” he says. “I’m willing to hear anything you have to tell me. Anything you think people should know about Huntington Manor.”

I consider this. There are so many possibilities here—reports of rats in the kitchen. Mold in the walls. I could suggest that they rushed some of the construction or failed fire code four times before passing. Just little things here and there that might undermine the general public’s opinion about the place. Get the rumor mills turning in a completely different direction.

Or if I were
feeling especially wicked, a well-placed attack on Carolson could do some real damage.

I want to. Oh, God, I want to. It would feel so good, to bring this place down. But I’m supposed to be becoming a better person, not falling backwards into Hell.

Asher picks up on my hesitation.

“Think about it,” he says, pulling his fancy computer back in front of him. “I can probably get you some compensation, if the information’s particularly good.”

Good.
Ha. He means
juicy.
Or
sensational.
The sort of information that would sell thousands of copies of
Look! Magazine.

“I will,” I tell him, standing.

He’s already typing on his laptop again, but he lifts his head as I turn to go. “Oh, and Ms. Thomas?”

“Yes?”

He smiles. “I think I liked you better as a brunette.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

He knows. Holy crap, he knows.

It’s the only thing I can think about for the rest of the day. Asher knows the truth about my identity. And Asher isn’t just anyone—he’s a reporter. Someone who could take this public in an instant and make tons of money for it.

So why hasn’t he? If he wants dirt, then why doesn’t he just break that story? “Crazy Ex-Heiress Takes Menial Job at Former Mansion”—it’s sure to be a hit.

Does he think there’s a bigger story here at Huntington Manor? Is this just some sly attempt at blackmail to get me to do his dirty work for him? Or does he think there’s more to
my
story? He must know that I’m not going to spill the whole thing to him just because he’s recognized me. Maybe he’s hoping to make me nervous, make me crack—and be here to catch every moment of it live.

What the heck am I supposed to do?

He wants me to feed him some information. I could do that. I could tell him whatever he wants to hear, and maybe it will be enough to keep him off my back. Or maybe it won’t.

Or I could leave. Walk up to my room, pack up my things, and walk right out the door. No one would know where I’d gone. Mr. Haymore might implode, of course, but I hear people can get over that sort of thing. And Ward…

I’m supposed to meet Ward tonight. In the maze. To… My whole body flushes just thinking about it. I can’t just leave him waiting for me, can I? I don’t want to leave him waiting. I want to show him exactly how he makes me feel, exactly what he does to my body.

Besides, leaving Huntington Manor would be running away. And I promised myself that I was done with running away, didn’t I?

Asher made no indication that I had to make my decision immediately. He knows he has to be patient. That means I don’t have to make any rash choices.

I spend the rest of the afternoon doing research on my new little reporter friend on the computer. Apparently Asher used to work for
Intown Voice
, a small local publication, but his career exploded several months ago. Now he freelances for several heavy-hitting sites and magazines, including
Look! Magazine
, the one he’s representing this week.

It only takes me a quick search to find the article that catapulted him to bigger things, and surprise, surprise—it’s about my brother. My brother and his fiancée, to be more accurate. Apparently this shmuck invented a story about Calder paying off Lily with some painting to keep the secret of my family’s financial issues. It’s complete crap. I’ve seen my brother and Lily together, and even though I was more than a little distracted that night, it was pretty obvious they’re good for each other. And it’s pretty obvious from my brother’s emails that he’s head-over-heels in love with her.

To torture myself, I pull up my email. My brother sent me a new message only yesterday, and I open it up and read it. It’s the usual sort of message—giving me a brief overview of his work and life. Apparently he’s up for some big project at his office. And he and Lily are planning a road trip to the beach in two weeks.

I always feel a strange mix of emotions when I read his emails. Part of me—the good part, the part usually hiding away somewhere—is excited and happy to see how well he’s doing.

The darker side of me, however, isn’t so kind. His emails serve as a reminder that I made the wrong choices, took the wrong path toward healing—if you can call this healing at all. I’m lost. I don’t know where I am in my life or what I want. And I have no one who understands.

Except Ward
, I think suddenly. Strange as it is, there’s
something
, some sliver of understanding between us, though I’m afraid to study it too closely in case it falls apart. He’s known pain and loss and anger, just as I have. He’s still healing, too. He might be the only person who knows what I’m going through.

But he doesn’t even know who you are
, the other part of my brain reminds me.
He doesn’t even know your real name.
And what happens if he finds out? Only this morning, he said such horrible things about people like me…

What will he think, when he learns the truth? When he discovers that I’m Louisa Cunningham, former “rich fuck,” hypocritical philanthropist?

The truth is, I don’t know, and I’m deathly afraid finding out.

* * *

That night, I steal a bottle of Horseshoe Hollow, a chardonnay valued at $864 and hailing all the way from Montana. It’s a little trickier than usual, sneaking past the security guards—there are more of them, now that Huntington Manor has actual visitors—but their routes are easy enough to predict. I tuck the bottle under my arm and make my way out to the maze. I only have to dodge behind a bush once to escape a guard’s roaming flashlight beam.

Ward is already in our usual spot when I arrive. He’s up as soon as he sees me, grabbing me so enthusiastically that I almost drop the wine as he pulls me into a kiss. By the time we part, I’m dizzy.
This
is how it’s supposed to feel, isn’t it?
This
is how two bodies were meant to react to each other. I tell myself that it’s only my mind playing tricks on me, that I’m only looking for an excuse to keep losing myself in someone else. After all, everyone knows how misleading those giddy feelings can be in the early stages of things—whatever those
things
might become.

It was never like this with Ian
, a little voice reminds me.
Even at the beginning.

I haven’t forgotten about my call with Ian this morning, though God knows there’s been plenty to distract me since then. I can never forget. I need to remember that I can’t go around using people and expect to get off scot-free.

And what about this thing with Ward? Am I using him, too?

I look up at his face, so open and welcoming beneath the starlight. His black eye’s looking a little better tonight. And the corner of his mouth’s turned up in that rakish way.

My heart flutters. What is this thing between us? I mean, I’m not an idiot. It’s not like Ward is taking me out to fancy dinners or telling me I’m beautiful or anything like that. Heck, it wasn’t two weeks ago that he was in a fight over some other chick.

I know enough about men to spot when one thinks you’re
girlfriend material
versus just wanting to get into your pants. Ward wants sex, and he knows I want it, too. If he’s not emotionally involved, then I have no reason to worry about falling into another situation like the one with Ian.

But if I’m emotionally involved… Well, I deserve it if I end up hurt.

Ward kisses me once more.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m prepared this time.”

I smile. “Good. I thought I might have to throttle you.”

“It’s only been a day! Give a guy a break.”

“I’m not very patient.”

“Me either.” He pulls me close again, and this time he takes his sweet time exploring my mouth with his tongue. My head starts to buzz, and it’s all I can do to remember to hold on to the wine.

“I’ve brought a little refreshment,” I tell him breathlessly. I disentangle myself just enough to raise the bottle. “Huntington Manor’s finest chardonnay.”

He grins. “How much more of this crap are you going to make me drink?”

“If you don’t want any, then I guess I’m getting tipsy all by myself.” This time I even remembered to swipe one of the corkscrews, so I don’t have to decimate the cork trying to get it open.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ward says. “If you’re drinking, I’m drinking.”

“Glad we could come to an agreement.” I smile up at him as I open the bottle. The summer sky is as clear and bright as it was last night, so I see the glimmer of good humor in his eyes. There’s heat there, too, as fiery and bright as the feeling deep inside of me, and I keep my gaze locked on his as I take a swig from the bottle.

The wine is disgusting, of course. It’s so dry that I swear it scratches my throat on the way down.

Ward laughs. “That good, huh?”

“Your turn.” I pass him the bottle.

He takes a deep breath before giving it a try. When the wine hits his tongue, his eyes nearly bug out of his head. He makes a big show of swallowing.

“This is the worst one yet,” he says. “Did they strain this through a garbage bag?”

“Just remember that every sip you take is a dollar out of Carolson’s pocket.” Only a drop in the bucket, sure, but it’s still plenty satisfying.

Ward nods, and his next gulp is longer. I take the opportunity to look at him, really look at him.

Is it just wishful thinking, these emotions moving inside of me? Is it just longing for that thing that Calder has with his fiancée? Something to help me through this mess inside my head?

I had that chance with Ian—Ian, who I knew loved me. What’s different? Have I changed? Become more sentimental? More desperate? Or is it Ward? Is it enough that he’s different? That he’s not putting pressure on me to feel something or to heal in a certain way?

“Hey,” I say suddenly. “What do you think about a little change in scenery?” I reach out and take the wine bottle from his hand.

His eyebrow lifts. “What did you have in mind?”

“You’ll see.” I take his free hand in mine. He’s still wearing his sling—we’ll have to take care of that. I turn and lead him down the path, deeper into the maze.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asks after a moment.

I realize that my steps are a little too deliberate, that I’m making it a little too obvious that I’m familiar with this place. But I don’t care.

“Afraid we’re going to get lost?”

He stops and drags me back into his arms. His lips brush against my neck and his hand slips beneath my shirt, skimming across the bare skin of my stomach.

“I could think of worse things,” he murmurs into my ear.

Deeper and deeper we go, moving between the high, dark hedge walls until the path opens up ahead of us into a small clearing with a large, trickling fountain in the middle. We’ve reached the very center of the maze.

I glance up at Ward. I can’t tell from his expression whether he’s been to this part of the maze before, but considering he knew about my secret spot and the hidden passageways in the house, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew some of the estate’s other secrets, too.

I release his hand and step forward into the clearing. When I reach the fountain, I sit down on the wide stone lip of the pool. Ward is still standing at the entrance to the clearing, watching me. His expression is suddenly thoughtful.

“Don’t you want some of this ridiculously expensive wine?” I say, raising the bottle.

He gives a little half-smile, but that’s not enough for me. With my free hand, I undo the buttons of my blouse one by one. When my shirt’s open, I lean back slightly and hold the bottle over my chest. I tip the wine, letting a bit of the cool liquid drip down over my chest. It hits me just below the collarbone and dribbles down the skin between my breasts.

Ward isn’t playing any games. He’s by my side in an instant, and he drops to his knees and catches me by the waist.

“Thirsty?” I tease.

He responds by lowering his face to my chest. The first flick of his warm tongue sends a tremor through me, and I set the wine bottle on the ground so I can raise both hands to his thick hair. He moves slowly, kissing and licking his way down between my breasts, sucking up every bit of wine from my skin. When he gets to my bra, he hooks a finger beneath it and tugs the band lower. His tongue flicks against the side of one of my breasts, then the other.

“Does it taste better this time?” I ask breathlessly.

He chuckles against my skin. “The best wine I’ve ever tasted. In fact, I think I’d like a little more.”

He grabs the bottle and tilts it over my body, sending another thin stream of liquid down my chest. The wine is silvery in the moonlight, and my skin, still slightly tanned from my time in Thailand, looks frosty gold. Ward is like something out of a myth—but not one of the coldly perfect gods. No, he’s one of the rugged, warm-blooded humans that tempts the stone-hearted goddesses down from the mountain. The hero that slays some three-headed beast before taking his woman on her back in the grass and dirt.

He slowly works his way down my stomach, cleaning up the trail of wine he left on my skin. I grow more ticklish as he moves lower, even laughing out loud when his tongue skirts the top of my belly button. He responds by trying to pour more wine down my stomach, but I grab the bottle before another drop can hit my skin.

“My turn.” I push him back slightly. “Out of your shirt.”

He still has the sling, but this time we’re not in a rush. He removes it slowly, then pulls off his shirt. His bare chest gleams in the moonlight.

For the first time, I’m able to get a good look at the tattoo on his bicep. I reach out and touch it. It’s done entirely in black ink, and when I tilt my head, I can just make out the swirling letters.

“Mona Catherine,” I read.

“My mom.” He gives a sad smile. “I know it’s cheesy. At least I managed to talk myself out of putting her name in a heart.”