Truth or Dare (His Wicked Games #2) (3 page)

Calder keeps his hand on my waist, holding me
close to him as we move through the restaurant. I’m comforted by
the heat of his fingers through my dress, a whisper of touch in the
noise of this room. I might not belong with these people, but I
belong with him.

“Martin promised me the best table in the
house,” he tells me. “I told him I’d settle for nothing less.”

I grin. “I guess it pays to know the
chef.”

The maître d’ leads us to a table near the
back of the restaurant. It’s out of the main hustle and bustle of
the floor, offering us a fair amount of privacy, but it still has a
good view of the rest of the room. There’s a bouquet of amethyst
calla lilies lying across one of the places.

“I almost went for roses,” Calder says,
leaning down and speaking in my ear as he hands them to me. “But I
thought these were more suitable.”

“They’re beautiful.” I bury my nose among the
petals.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the fairy tale isn’t
over yet.

Calder pulls out my chair for me, and his
fingers graze my bare arm as he helps me sit. He takes the lilies
from me and places them in a crystal vase already waiting on our
little table. He prepared for this, thought out every little
detail. It stirs something in my belly.

I feel Calder’s eyes on me as he takes his
own seat, but I’m too overwhelmed to meet his gaze. This is too
perfect. I’m not used to this.

Instead, I look out across the restaurant.
This place truly is lovely. And if I can trust the sea of aromas
greeting me, the food will be absolutely heavenly. Not that I’d
expect any less. I tasted Martin’s food at the Cunningham mansion,
back when the chef was still in Calder’s employ. He worked with the
family for years—Calder’s entire life, essentially—but keeping a
personal chef is a luxury Calder can no longer afford.

Not that it seems to matter. When I glance
back up at Calder, he looks every bit the self-assured billionaire
he always was. He’s watching me with those dark eyes, a small,
satisfied smile playing at his lips.

“I hope you trust me,” he says.

“Since when was that a good idea?”

He leans forward and closes his hand around
mine. “I’ve already arranged the menu for tonight. On Martin’s
recommendations, of course.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Making decisions for me
already?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “Believe
me, I know better. But I want you to feel taken care of
tonight.”

The idea pleases me more than I want to
admit. God, what is he doing to me? By the end of the night I’m
going to be a pathetic, simpering mess.

Fortunately, I’m saved from having to
respond—and certainly making a fool of myself—by the arrival of the
executive chef himself.

“Martin!” I exclaim. My acquaintance with the
man was brief, but I always liked him, and I’m thrilled that he
found this opportunity.

“Ms. Frazer,” he says, reaching out and
clasping my hand. “A pleasure, as always.”

Calder’s standing, and he reaches out and
claps Martin on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, old man,” he says. “Thank
you for the table.”

Martin’s grin widens. “Actually, I should be
thanking you, Mr. Cunningham. I’m sorry I can’t linger and chat,
but I wanted to come by and say hello before the main rush. And
assure you, of course, that I’ll do everything in my power to make
sure you have the perfect evening.”

“I have every confidence it will be,” Calder
says.

“I hope you two brought your appetites,”
Martin says. “Everything’s on the house tonight, of course.”

Martin retreats back to the kitchen, but no
sooner has he gone than a waiter arrives with a bottle of
champagne—some crazy-ass
expensive
champagne by the look of
it.

“A gift from the chef,” he says.

I look over at Calder. “I guess this means he
approves of me?”

The waiter pops the cork, and I watch him
pour the golden liquid into a pair of glass flutes.

Calder, however, is watching me.

“The very first night Martin met you,” Calder
says, “he told me he expected to be seeing a lot more of you.”

“You’re just teasing me.”

“Not at all. Sometimes I think Martin knows
what I need better than I do.”

Again, he seems to know just how to throw me
off-balance. Flustered, I quickly grab my glass of champagne.

“Look at that,” he says. “Five minutes in and
I’ve already got you speechless.”

In spite of myself, I feel my flush deepen.
“Try not to get a big head.”

He reaches over and slides his hand along my
arm. “I like that I make you nervous.”

Nervous? My stomach is doing freaking
somersaults. If I don’t change the subject, I’m going to end up a
puddle of mush on the floor.

“What did Martin mean when he said he should
be thanking you?” I ask.

Calder leans back in his seat. “It was
nothing. I have a few connections in the restaurant industry, so I
put him in contact with the owners of this place. It was the least
I could do, all things considered.”

“He seemed excited.”

“He’s thrilled. I talked to him earlier this
week, when he was making a few last-minute tweaks to the menu. You
should have heard him. Like some bright-eyed, bushy-tailed upstart
fresh out of culinary school.” Calder looks down at the table. “He
worked in restaurants before, you know. The last place had two
Michelin stars. My father must have paid him handsomely to convince
him to leave that and come work for us.” His smile fades, he shifts
in his seat.

I frown. “You don’t believe your father
forced him to work for you?”

“Not forced, certainly. But hearing Martin
talk about how excited he is to run a full kitchen again—it makes
me wonder. If he hadn’t come to us, he might have had an entire
restaurant empire by now. He would have had plenty of accolades, of
course. Cookbooks, probably. Maybe even his own TV program.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you really see Martin
as some celebrity chef running around and screaming at people on a
reality show?”

That earns me a small smile. “Of course not.
I just wonder if he regrets it all, sometimes.”

“I don’t believe for a minute that Martin
regrets anything.” I reach over and take his hand. “He could have
walked away at any time and had a dozen job offers, but he didn’t.
He stayed because he loved working for you guys. You might not be
related by blood, but you can’t tell me that man isn’t part of your
family.” These last few months, he’s been the
only
family
Calder has had. Calder’s own sister, Louisa, skipped away back to
Southeast Asia as soon as their father’s funeral was over. I know
she’s heavily involved in some philanthropic projects over there,
but it still infuriates me that she’d run off to the other side of
the world instead of helping her brother sort through the mess they
inherited.

His thumb skims across the back of my hand. I
look for some hopeful reaction to my words—a hint of a smile at the
corner of his mouth, maybe, or a glimmer of understanding in his
eyes, but I get nothing.

“Calder,” I say, giving his hand a
squeeze.

He looks up at me then, and the look on his
face nearly breaks my heart. We haven’t talked in depth about all
of the changes he’s dealt with these past few months. His father’s
death, his financial ruin, the loss of his childhood home—any or
all of those things would have broken a weaker man. We walked
through the house together, he and I, a few weeks ago. I held his
hand and listened to his stories, helped him say goodbye. But it’s
one thing to lend a hand or an ear, and quite another to know what
to say to a person who’s just lost everything, whose entire life
has been upended before your eyes. I can’t even begin to understand
what he’s feeling, and anything I might say sounds so trite in my
head.

My only solace is that the press hasn’t
picked up on it yet. There was a flurry of interest in Wentworth
Cunningham’s death, but it died down pretty quickly. The
Cunninghams’ people must have worked overtime to keep the rest of
it out of the news, but now that he can no longer employ any PR
geniuses to hide his family’s dirty laundry, I know it’s only a
matter of time. The tabloids will eat this up.

And I can’t do anything. Except offer that
hand, or ear—or, all else failing, a suitable distraction.

I slide my fingers out of his and slip my
hand beneath the table, finding his knee. His eyes widen as my
touch moves up his leg, but then there it is: the curl of his lip,
the flash of light in his eyes. It’s like he comes back to life
again.

His hand grabs mine, stopping my advance.

“Be careful,” he says, his voice low and
warm. “If you get me worked up, I might have to whisk you out of
here before we even get to taste the appetizers.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“Don’t tempt me.” His own fingers slide over
to my leg, slipping over the thin fabric of my dress. “Or I’ll have
you squirming right here in the middle of the restaurant.”

His hand is dangerously close to fulfilling
that promise. Just the promise of his words is arousing me, and I
shift slightly as the blood starts to rush between my legs. I have
no doubt Calder would take great joy in getting me off right here.
There’s something delightfully dirty about it, touching each other
in this crowded, bustling room.

“Well?” he says, probing further. “Would you
like to play a little game? See how quietly you can come?”

Oh, God.
It wouldn’t take much, not at
this point.

I might have let him do it, too, but the
waiter suddenly appears with a tray full of appetizers. I jerk my
hand back from Calder’s leg, but he continues to caress my inner
thigh, even as the waiter arranges the dishes on the table in front
of us.

I’m getting wetter by the second. He has me
at a disadvantage, considering he has my panties. I have to bite
down on my lip to keep from moaning when he begins to rub his
finger along the length of my folds.

“All right, all right,” I say as soon as the
waiter leaves. “I forfeit. I lose.”

“If we were anywhere but Martin’s restaurant,
you’d be in deep, deep trouble.”

I don’t doubt it. Calder removes his hand
from between my legs, and as I watch he brings his wet finger up to
his lips.

Holy crap.

My whole body’s on fire. I want to look away,
but I can’t tear my eyes from the sight of him tasting me on his
finger. His own gaze remains locked on me, and I’m afraid those
piercing dark eyes will send me over the edge. By the time he’s
licked himself clean, I’m barely breathing.

Good thing there’s plenty to distract me on
the table. Martin wasn’t joking when he hinted that we had a big
meal ahead of us. For our first course, the waiter has brought us
an array of dishes: steamed mussels, salmon and asparagus bouchées,
stuffed figs, prosciutto-wrapped prawns. My mouth waters just
looking at it all.

Calder is raising his glass of champagne.

“A toast,” he says. “To tonight.”

I lift my own glass. “To Martin, on his new
adventure here at Ventine’s. And for providing us with this fine
bubbly.”

“And to us.” Calder’s eyes smolder over the
rim of his flute. “May this be the first date of many.”

I feel my cheeks go hot again as we clink our
glasses. His gaze lingers on me, even as I take a drink. The
champagne is bright and crisp and sweet on my tongue, but I don’t
enjoy it as much as I might because I’m suddenly overwhelmed again
by the intensity of all this. Of the stirring in my chest, of the
heat running up and down my spine.

The feeling only increases as we continue our
meal. The courses keep coming, and in between bites I find myself
falling further and further under Calder’s spell. The couple of
phone conversations we’ve had over the past few weeks have been
pleasant—more than pleasant—but they’re nothing compared to having
him next to me. Even when we’re only speaking of silly things—of
the food in front of us, maybe, or the recent unseasonable rains—it
means something, to be sitting here next to him. To watch his lips
form the words, to watch his eyes widen or brighten or darken in
response to what I say, to have him close enough to touch, whenever
I want.

Now that I’ve calmed down, it seems possible.
This
—he and I, doing this “relationship” thing—seems
possible.

By the time the entrées arrive, we’ve moved
on to more serious topics. Over a plate of roasted duck with a
spicy apricot glaze, I update Calder on the madness going on at the
Center now that we’ve started renting out our gallery space. I keep
it light—I’d rather not go into my horror stories about some of the
clients I’ve had to deal with, and I don’t admit that we’re still
struggling financially—but even though Calder smiles encouragingly,
I can see the sadness, the guilt behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say when I realize what I’m
doing. “I didn’t mean to—I’m not trying to dominate the
conversation.”

“You’re not.”

“I’ve been going on for the last ten minutes,
at least.”

“I don’t mind. I could listen to you talk
about the Center all day. Your whole face lights up.”

It’s a convincing lie. On a different day,
under different circumstances, I might not have even noticed his
remorse, but I’m beginning to learn how to read him. He wants me to
think that he’s okay, but how can he listen to me talk about the
Center without remembering his family’s struggles? I remember his
expression when he studied the class photos back in my office, and
I don’t want to say anything that might take him back to that dark
place.

“What about you?” I ask him quickly. “What
have you been up to since the last time we spoke?”

“Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid.
Still dealing with some lingering financial matters.” He takes a
sip of his drink. “Tim—that’s my family’s financial advisor—says I
have a knack for numbers. Though I suspect he’s only delighted that
I actually
take
his advice, unlike my father. I still can’t
quite believe he let things get as bad as they did.”