The worst are the claims that there was some sort of blackmail situation going on. I saw one article claiming that Wentworth had some kid by a call girl. The woman in question claims that the late Cunningham patriarch paid her huge sums of money to keep her quiet while he was alive—and that Calder took up the silencing efforts after his father’s death.
The whole thing just makes me sick.
“They’ll say anything to sell a magazine,” Morgan says, reading into my silence.
I know that—but I also know that something big has been bothering Calder. What if the Cunningham family really does have something to hide? How far would they go to protect their name?
Calder hid the truth of his financial situation from me. He allowed me to believe that he had the funds I needed for the Center, encouraged me to play along with his little games in order to win that money from him. I understand now why he lied to me, and though I’ve forgiven him, that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of lying again.
I want to trust him. I want to support him. But I don’t know what I’ll do if he blindsides me again. If we’re going to be together, he can’t keep these huge, life-changing secrets from me. He might think he’s protecting his family or himself, but the truth will always come out.
I’m still thinking about it that night as I get ready for our date. He’s back in town today, and as promised, he’s going to cook me dinner. I put on some music while I get dressed and force myself to focus on the beat, not the questions running through my head or the lump that’s settled in my gut. I want tonight to be perfect, and that means forgetting about everything going on outside. Tonight, it will just be us.
I arrive at his apartment right at seven o’clock. He offered to come by my place instead—he told His shoulders are rigidSince I’ve never felt comfortable asking Calder about the gritty details of his financial situation, I have no idea what to expect. When a billionaire loses “everything,” where does that leave him? Below the poverty line? Somewhere in the middle of the middle class? For all I know, he’s still pretty damn wealthy, just not as ridiculously wealthy as he was before.
His building, as it turns out, is fairly modest. It looks older than mine, but it’s not quite as grungy. Just an average, ordinary apartment complex. I can’t imagine how strange this place feels to him after growing up in that enormous mansion—or even after the fancy suites and villas where he lived over in Europe.
He’s been very close-mouthed about his former estate since the last time we were there together. I wonder if he still thinks of it, or if he suppresses all memories of his childhood home in his ongoing attempt to pretend that everything’s fine.
He seems well enough when he opens the door. In fact, his face breaks into a wide, breathtaking smile when he sees me. Before I even have a chance to say anything, he grabs me and yanks me hard against him. He kisses me fiercely, like he’s been gone three years instead of just three days.
“Damn, I missed you,” he growls against my lips. He crushes his mouth against mine once more, and I sink into him, falling against his hard chest.
When he finally breaks away, I’m breathless.
“I missed you, too,” I say. “But maybe I should let you go more often if this is the kind of hello I get.”
He smiles and grabs my hands, kissing each of the palms in turn.
“Come in,” he says, pulling me across the threshold. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“How was your trip?”
His hands tighten slightly on mine, but his smile doesn’t falter.
“Not particularly exciting, I’m afraid. How h do you mean by that?”to10as your week been?”
I don’t want to spoil this evening with talk about the Center’s troubles or my many hours spent scouring the internet for gossip.
“It’s much better now,” I tell him, giving his fingers a squeeze. “What’s on the menu for tonight?”
“Pasta with marinara. Martin’s recipe. He promised me it was foolproof.”
I grin. It didn’t even occur to me until now, but Calder has never been in a position where he had to learn to cook for himself. Somehow that makes tonight that much sweeter. I almost comment, but my attention has already shifted to the room around us.
So this is where Calder lives now.
It’s a small apartment—though not quite as teeny as mine—but it’s well-lit and clean. The furniture is a rather eclectic mix of styles, but as I glance around I realize that all the pieces came from his family home—either things he couldn’t sell or couldn’t bear to sell.
Beside me, Calder is rubbing the back of his head.
“I know it needs some work,” he says, “but it’s comfortable. And big enough for me.”
He’s embarrassed, I realize. He’s ashamed of this place. He’s wearing the same expression he had on at the park, back when he practically apologized for not taking me somewhere nicer.
“I love it,” I tell him. And it’s the truth. “It feels like you.” I turn and laugh when I see the painting hanging on the nearest wall. The first time I saw this piece, I’d just lost a bet with Calder. Even now I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks as I remember the way his hands slid over me, the way he used his skilled fingers to bring me all the way to the edge—and then leave me there. It was a lesson I won’t forget anytime soon.
“You like?” Calder is standing close behind me, his voice thick with amusement.
“Decided to keep that one close, I see.” I lean back against him, and his arm loops around my waist, holding me to his body. I’m about to squirm against him, tease him a little, when my eye shifts to the painting hanging above the fireplace., you know.”" aid="lp
The Ludlam.
I can’t help myself. I pull out of Calder’s arms and run over. Benjamin Ludlam is one of my favorite contemporary artists—considered by many to be one of the modern masters—and this piece is worth a small fortune. If Calder wanted, he could sell it and move somewhere far larger and fancier than this apartment. But he hasn’t.
“It’s still yours, if you want it,” he says, coming to stand beside me.
I shake my head. He offered it to me once before, but I could never accept anything this valuable, not from him.
“It belongs here,” I tell him. “You just have to promise to let me come over and stare at it sometimes.”
He laughs, pulls me close. “Anytime.”