Wicked Game: a Billionaire Stepbrother Romance (10 page)

“I may have a second surprise planned for right now.”

“It better not involve running,” I grumbled, glancing at the horrendous stiletto heels sitting beside me on the couch.  Damien chuckled.

“I think I’ll be the only one doing the running.  Unless you chase me.”

Great.  More enigmatic clues.  I signed up to be a wife, not Scooby Doo.

“That bad?” I asked.

Damien licked his lips as he studied me, and I forced my eyes to stay fixed on his face.  The last thing I needed was to get distracted by his mouth again.  Or to start daydreaming about the things that mouth could do when it wasn’t lying to my face…

Bad Cleo!  Stop it!

“Maybe,” Damien said finally.  He strode to the corner of the room, where a black suitcase sat on the desk.  It clunked up as Damien lifted the latch and began searching it.  He pulled out a small, fat package wrapped in faded beige cloth and tied in twine.  “This is a gift.  For you.”

“You already gave me a gift,” I said nervously, tugging at the diamond necklace.  I hated getting gifts.  It reminded me of how poor I was.  And besides, I knew that any gift Damien gave me was really an investment.  If he did something for me, it was because he wanted something in return.  And I knew whatever that something was, I wouldn’t like it.

“Oh, calm down, Cleo,” he said, rolling his eyes.  “It’s a package, not a bomb.”

He tossed me the package, and I dove to catch it.  It was instinctual; the thing looked old enough that it might burst into dust when it hit the floor, and I panicked.  But it hit me as my fingers wrapped around the soft cloth that he had just gotten me to accept it.  I looked back up at his smug expression as he crossed his arms.

God damn that man.

“Open it,” he said, nodding.

Might as well.  The curiosity was killing me, and I wanted an excuse to chase him screaming.

I tugged at the twine, and it gave way easily.  My fingertips pulled the soft cloth apart, revealing a musty book cover.   A moment of confusion hit me before it sank in.  I remembered this.  My hand covered my lips, closing them so no one would hear the tiny gasp that escaped.  

“It’s … oh God,” I said, as I realized.

I hadn’t seen this thing in years.

I pulled the cover open, still not ready to believe it.  But there it was, plain as day, written in black fountain pen on the inside flap, words that made my heart stop:

Property of Harry Bishop, Ph.D.

“It’s Dad’s diary,” I said numbly.

“From when he was working that dig in Egypt,” Damien said, nodding.  “It took me forever to find it, and a fortune to buy it.  I hope it was worth it.”

“There’s no way you bought this,” I said, shaking my head.  “Dad donated this to the Met.  They don’t sell things like these, not for….”

“Like I said.  A fortune.”

“Damien, we’ve got to take this back.”  It killed me to say it, but the history nerd in me knew it was true.  Primary sources like this were invaluable.  “I can’t keep this, and you know it.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, a smile creeping up his face.  “We’ll return it.  I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh God, you did steal it, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, just long enough to give me a panic attack.

“Damien!”

He was already strolling out the door.  “Like I said, Cleo.  Don’t worry so much.  I’ll get the driver to come around and pick us up, and you’ll get my other surprise in the morning.”

Another surprise.

I looked down at the disastrous one in my hands.

Oh God.

The worst part was knowing how hard it would be to return it.  I hoarded Dad’s stuff, desperately clinging to anything I had left of him.  To have something like this—his most beloved diary—and to know I’d have to take it back killed me.  Why would Damien do something like this?  He already had me sign the contract.  He didn’t have to keep pretending to like me.  He didn’t have to keep baiting me with these ridiculous presents.

I glanced up to the open door, to where Damien stood in the hallway, idly chatting with producers and actresses who passed by.  I pursed my lips.  He really was up to something, wasn’t he?

I glanced around quickly, hoping no one would notice.

I kissed the book and slipped it into my bag.

Alright, fine.  I’d go with him.  Ugh, I hated saying that, but what could I do?  If he had my Dad’s old diary—what else could he have?  I had to go.  Just to make sure he didn’t really steal this from wherever he got it.  Just to make sure Damien wasn’t defiling my Dad’s grave and legacy.  I had no idea what Damien had planned, but I did know that my heart was aching again, reminded of how much I missed my family.  And if Damien could get his hands on this….

What else did he have up his sleeve?

I glanced back up at Damien, frowning as I saw two bleached blondes leaning on his arms, pressing their chests against him.  He gave them both teasing smiles, making no move to shake them off of him despite his fiancée sitting right here.

I grimaced.

Fine, Damien.  I’ll play your game.

But this time, we’re playing by my rules.

A pillow hit me in the face, slapping me out of my sleep.

I swear to God, I wasn’t allowed to wake up normally in this house.

Hysterical, I flailed around in the blankets, ripping the pillow off of me and gasping for breath, sure that I was about to be brutally murdered.  My heart thundered in my chest as visions of Corpse Cleo going through her autopsy in bunny slippers danced through my head.  
So this is how it ends
, I thought to myself in (what I was sure were) the last moments of my life.  Cleo in a t-shirt in panties, flopping around like a beached fish and shrieking.  

Dignified.

But instead of a knife wielding butcher leaning against the doorframe, I tore my sleep mask off to see a different kind of heartless psychopath.

“Damien,” I growled.

“Wake up, wifey, we’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

His easy grin irritated me almost as much as the fact he was wearing tennis shoes.  I threw the blankets off of me and stretched as I glared at the hateful things.

Tennis shoes meant running.

Adult Cleo
hated
running.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, glancing me up and down with a cocked eyebrow.  “But you are still definitely not a morning person.”

“And the sky is blue.”  I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and grabbed a robe.  There was no way in hell Damien was getting a glance of my granny panties.  I’d never hear the end of it, or at least not until I murdered him.  “What are you dragging me into this time?  Are we stealing more artifacts from museums?  Assassinating a Kennedy?”

“Oh no, that’s Wednesdays.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets.  He threw one at me, and I snatched it out of the air.  “Today is something far more dangerous.”

I glanced down at the tickets, and my eyes widened again.  He really was doubling down on this Dad thing.  In blue and black print, the words GARRISON EGYPTOLOGY MUSEUM scrolled across the top.  

My heart stopped.  Garrison was the museum Dad had worked for so long, and the place in which I had basically grown up.  I could still remember the scent of lemon cleaner and the sounds of my school shoes slapping on the polished marble floors.  

Once, when things got bad for us, he lived in his office there.  We would have sleepovers, and he would lead me down the religious artifacts section, teaching me about the gods while we snacked on graham crackers.  A pang hit my heart.  I realized I missed it.  

I squeezed my eyes shut.  I hadn’t been there since Dad died.

“And this is my surprise?  A visit to a museum?”

“Congrats, Cleo, you’ve solved the mystery.  Now get up!”

Another pillow hit me in the face.  

I really was going to kill him.

I glanced at the clock at my bedside and groaned.

“Damien, it’s two in the fucking morning.  Did you seriously just wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me we’re visiting a museum tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow.  Tonight.  Get up.”

Tonight?  My face contorted into a grimace, and he rolled his eyes at me.  Yes, I was definitely the one being ridiculous here.  Not Damien, standing in my doorway wearing jeans and a cocky grin, ready to break into my dead father’s former workplace just for funsies.

“You know the place closes at ten.  They’re not going to let us in this late.”

“Right,” he said, hitching a leg up on my dresser to tighten his shoelaces.  Ugh, I had forgotten he was wearing tennis shoes.  “Which is why we’re going to sneak in.  Wear something black, you’ll blend into the night better.  And you look sexy in black.”

I wanted to snap at him to get his ass out of my lair, but the tickets tingled in my fingers.  I hadn’t been to Garrison in so long… and I missed it.  I missed it bad.  That, added to the curiosity that was now burning inside me, made this irresistible.  Even if I desperately wished it wasn’t.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath.

I was going to regret this.

“I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

His face lit up with a smile.  “Good.  Meet me in the garage.”

Grumbling to myself about stupid men in stupid tennis shoes with stupid plans to get us arrested, I slipped on a black t-shirt and jeans.  I stuffed a flashlight into my purse before stumbling out the door and down the hallways.  The sounds of Damien’s feet in the garage greeted me as I froze in the doorway.  He turned and grinned at my stunned expression.

“Like it?”

“Sports car?” I groaned.

“They’re quieter.  Good for sneaking around.”

“We wouldn’t have to sneak around if we showed up during open hours like normal human beings.”

“Normal is boring.  Besides, we’ll leave a couple thousand in the donation box.”  I flinched at the casual way he said that.  It was starting to get to me, the way he threw money around.  It reminded me of all those weekends with Dad, eating nothing but ramen because that’s all we could afford, even with his consultant job at the museum.  “We can’t go out during the day, the paps would be on our ass the entire time.  This will give us more time to really appreciate it.”

I couldn’t argue with that.  I loved being anywhere the paparazzi weren’t.

Reluctantly, I slipped into the passenger’s seat, overwhelmed by the smell of fresh leather and the hint of Damien’s cologne.  His gaze flitted over me, lingering on the way my black shirt clung to my curves.  I swallowed against the lump in my throat, pretending looks like that didn’t affect me.  I had to stop feeling this way.  Even if Damien was suddenly playing nice.  Even if some small part of me was remembering why I fell in love with him in high school.

He stuck a pair of shining silver keys in the ignition.  

“And besides,” he added, his grin glinting in the moonlight.  “It’s more fun this way.”

“You mean more dangerous.”

“Same thing, wifey.”

He put his foot down on the gas, and I was thrown back into my seat as we soared through the gate.  

“Damien!” I yelped.  

He chuckled in response, rolling his eyes like he hadn’t almost snapped my neck.  

Holy shit.  I had never been in one of these things.  My nails dug into the seat as my heart thundered in my chest.  Even that car of Bernard’s we hijacked in high school hadn’t been the deadly torpedo this demon was.  We shot through the night, invisible as the sleek black car sank into the night.

By the time we made it to the museum, I had mostly recovered from my heart attack.

He helped me out of the car and waited like a gentleman as I soothed my turning stomach with deep breaths.  I had already thrown up once today.  I fixed my eyes on the concrete sidewalk we stood on, flooded with the streetlight above us.  

Finally better, I glanced up at the dim brick building above us.  

GARRISON EGYPTOLOGY MUSEUM

God, that sign brought back memories.

Damien’s hands rested on my shoulders, snapping me out of it.  “I managed to find my old lock picking kit from high school,” he said cheerfully.