I smile in spite of myself. “They’re good movies.”

He chuckles and turns back to look at me.

“He had some of his suits custom-made to look just like Bond’s. And 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 a huge Indiana Jones fan,” 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.”

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“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 James Bond. 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.

His eyes darken. "You’re leaving it up to me?"

A flutter stirs in my gut, but I don't want him to know how much his suggestive gaze affects me. I need to hold the power here.

I shrug. "You suggested the game. You should name the prize."

His mouth curls. "That's some dangerous power you've given me."




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