Red Hot Obsessions by Blair Babylon Page B

loved movies,” Calder says. He’s standing close enough to me that I feel the tiny hairs stand up on my arms, but I pretend not to notice.
    “He must, to build a room like this,” I say. My fingers itch slightly. I should probably reach out and touch him—just a small, casual touch. One that might come across as an accident. Just an innocent little touch to get him worked up.
    But before I can raise my hand, he moves past me.
    “My father was particularly fond of spy films. He used to have a marathon every year on his birthday.”
    I smile in spite of myself. “Who doesn’t love a good spy movie?”
    He chuckles and turns back to look at me.
    “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 really into adventure movies,” 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.”
    “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 spy movies. 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