Ember Casey Starter Bundle

BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE DEVIL’S SET

Claiming His Treasure

Hunting His Jewel

Protecting His Prize

Defending His Heart

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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His Wicked Games

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

Book One

DESCRIPTION

A BILLIONAIRE. A BARGAIN. AND A THRILLING COMPETITION…

Lily Frazer would do anything to save the Frazer Center for the Arts—even take on the infamous billionaire Calder Cunningham. When Lily breaks onto the Cunningham estate, she only wants to find and reason with Calder. (All right, all right, she wants to punch him in the face, too, but that’s Plan B.) As it turns out, the arrogant billionaire is willing to give her the money he promised, but there’s a catch: she must win it from him.

And the games he has in mind aren’t exactly…innocent.

Lily isn’t about to give up the money without a fight (or let some haughty bastard seduce her), but she quickly discovers that there might be more to the brooding Calder than she initially perceived. What ensues is a competition hotter than Lily ever could have imagined, and a romance deeper than she ever could have dreamed.

But as their games of cat and mouse become increasingly intense, both are forced to face the deeper question: in games of lust and love, what is the price of victory?

CHAPTER ONE

I lean out the car window and press the button on the call box for the third time.

Hello? I say yet again. Anyone there?

No one answers. Yet again.

I sit back against the seat and slam my hand against the steering wheel. Stupid rich asshole. I’ve driven all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and he won’t even let me in.

Not that I expected any different.

A pair of wrought-iron gates stands ahead of me in the driveway. They’re covered in ivy, like the entrance to some enchanted garden in a fairy tale, and I have no doubt the family paid a small fortune to their landscapers to create that wild, overgrown look. I kill the engine of my beat-up Honda and climb out of the car. I don’t care how long it takes—I won’t leave until they let me through. If that means camping out here for the next several hours, then so be it.

I walk up to the gates and give them a good shake, hoping they’ll magically pop open at my touch. They don’t even wiggle. Beyond them lie the estates of the Cunningham family, the current residence of the infamous—and infuriating—Calder Cunningham.

His note arrived yesterday, and I’ve read it about fifty times since then.

Dearest Ms. Frazer,

While your persistence is admirable, I assure you your exertions on behalf of the Frazer Center for the Arts will do little to change my decision. I’m afraid I will not be including the Frazer Center in my financial plans for the foreseeable future, and for your own sake, I request that you abandon your efforts to change my mind. I would not waste any more of your time.

Respectfully,

Calder

No mention of the fact that he’s broken the pledge contract his late father signed. No acknowledgment that his actions might single-handedly be responsible for the closing of the Frazer Center. No apology for blowing off all my previous attempts to contact him.

I stand on my toes in front of the gates, trying to find a place where the vines part just enough to give me a view of the other side. Between the leaves I can see the long, cobblestoned driveway winding between a double row of live oaks. There’s no view of the house from here, but if the rumors are true, it’s something of a monstrosity. The rich love their ridiculous mansions.

The Cunninghams have always been weird about their property. No photos of the estate have ever been released to the public—except for the occasional grainy shot from a helicopter, which is always quickly retracted—though descriptions of the lands and house grow more extravagant with every story. They’re one of the last great old money families in this part of the country and have a reputation for being a little eccentric; as such, they attract their fair share of attention—and they appear to harbor their fair share of secrets as well.

Probably why security’s such a bitch.

I step back and look up at the camera bolted to the stone wall above the call box.

I don’t have a camera, I call up to it. I’m not trying to sneak any photos or anything.

I go back to the car and grab my purse. There are only four things inside: my wallet, a pack of gum, some sunglasses, and a six-year-old flip phone. I take them out one by one, and when I get to the phone I hold it up so the security camera can see.

Look, I say, flicking it open. There’s not even a camera on here. I throw the phone down with the other items and grab the purse again. I turn it upside down and give it a good shake for effect.

The gates don’t budge.

I give an exasperated sigh and walk around to the trunk of my car. It’s full of the usual junk. I pull out the grocery sack I use as a makeshift garbage bag, rifle through it beneath the camera to show that it’s only receipts and fast food wrappers, and drop it on the drive. Next I pull out a pair of sneakers, a small emergency car kit, and a couple of rough-edged file folders.

See? I say. Nothing.

There’s no response.

I lean over to the call button and jam it another time.

Look, I say. I’m not trying to cause any trouble. As I said before, I’m from the Frazer Center for the Arts. I flip open my wallet and flash my ID card at the camera. Lily Frazer. Assistant Director. There’s even a picture, though my naturally brunette hair looks rather orange in the image. Please. I just want to speak with Mr. Cunningham in regard to the letter he sent us. He won’t return my calls. God, could I sound like any more of a stalker?

But there is still no answer from the call box. I walk back over to the gates and press my face against the bars.

Hello! I call. Can anyone hear me? I don’t see anyone on the other side, but that doesn’t mean there’s no one there.

I’m about to yell again when the first raindrop lands on my cheek. I brush it off and glance up. The sky was clear when I left this morning, but now it’s an ominous gray.

Great. Just what I need.

A crack of thunder sounds right overhead. I curse and run back to my stuff, scooping it up off the driveway as the rain starts to pick up. I’ve just managed to throw the last of it in my trunk when the skies open up and it begins to pour. I jump back into my car and roll up the window, but not before half of the driver’s side seat is soaked.

I lean on my right hip, trying to keep the butt of my jeans dry. It’s too late for my upper half. For a moment I just sit there, sideways, staring at the water sliding down the windshield. Beyond the glass, the gates are still closed. It doesn’t look like security is going to take pity on the poor wet girl sitting outside.

I chew absently on my lip as I try to think. Sure, this puts a damper on things, but I’m not about to let a little rain stop me. If I have to sit out here all night, I’ll do it, but there has to be a way to convince them to let me through. I hoped, naively, that my determination would inspire some sort of sympathy. It’s easy enough for a gazillion-aire like Calder Cunningham to brush off letters and phone calls, but I thought it would be harder for him to ignore someone sitting in front of his own gate. Looks like I was wrong.

I tap my horn a couple of times, just to show security that I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. They’re probably having a good laugh at me, but I don’t care. For once, I’m standing up for something. The Frazer Center is my life, and now it’s going to close—unless I convince Calder Cunningham to reverse his decision to retract the promise his father made.

The late Wentworth Cunningham was a great patron of the arts and our largest donor for years. Apparently his son shares no such philanthropic tendencies. According to the tabloids, Calder’s spent the better part of the last ten years gallivanting across Europe, romancing models and starlets and partying his way through every techno club he could find. Since his father’s death this past summer, Calder’s been in charge of the family funds, and he’s wasted no time in undoing his father’s contributions to society.

We received notice of the decision through his lawyers, who detailed in fancy legal jargon why Calder’s actions weren’t in violation of the pledge contract his father signed two years ago. We’re a small nonprofit institution. We don’t have the resources to challenge the decision, even if Dad would allow it.

A pang of guilt shoots through me. My dad doesn’t know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He thinks I’m in Barberville trying to scare up some corporate sponsors.

He’s been adamantly against pursuing the matter with Calder Cunningham, claiming he refuses to reduce himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this whole Cunningham business wrapped up—better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?—but now that it looks I’m going to be here a while, I know I need to give him a call.

I grab my phone and punch in the number for the Frazer Center. Dad’s been manning the phone in the evenings after the volunteer secretary leaves.

The line rings once before he picks up.

Frazer Center for the Arts, he says. David speaking.

Hey, I say.

Hey, honey. The cheerful act of a moment ago seeps out of his voice. He sounds exhausted. I was just thinking about you. Any luck with those leads?

Dad founded the Frazer Center twenty years ago, back when I was five. He was a dentist before that, and he sold his very successful practice in order to secure the initial funds for the organization. My mother was still around then, too, but she didn’t stay long after he stopped bringing in the fat salary. Since then, my dad has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our community.

Which is why I’ll do anything to help, even if it means lying to him for the time being.

Nothing’s settled yet, I say carefully. But I still have a few inquiries to make. It’s not quite a lie. And technically the Cunningham estates have a Barberville address, even if I’m currently fifteen miles outside the town itself.

What about you? I say quickly, before Dad can ask me any more questions about my current location. Come up with any more ideas?

He’s silent for a long time. I can practically hear him rubbing his forehead. When I left the Center this morning, he was going over the budgets and accounts for the hundredth time.

It’s not good, he says finally. I just can’t—I can’t make it work. Vinny suggests raising the class prices, but we’d have to triple them, and I won’t do that. He said he thinks we might be able to draw in an extra thousand at the Harvest Festival this year, but I don’t think that’ll be enough. He lets out a long, shaky breath.

Something tightens in my chest. I’ve never heard my dad sound so defeated.

Dad, I… What can I say that I haven’t said a hundred times already? Time and again over the last few months I’ve reassured him that we’ll get through this, that we’ll find a way, but the chances of that are looking bleaker every day. I pick at a loose bit of vinyl hanging off my steering wheel.

On the other end of the line, I hear him shuffling through some papers. He gives another sigh.

Are you sure we shouldn’t call Garrett, honey? he says. I know it didn’t end well between you two, but I just think—

No. Absolutely not. The loose piece of vinyl tears off beneath my nail. Please, Dad. Anything else. But please don’t call him. Once, I thought Garrett was the perfect man. I mean, come on—he was a successful journalist who spent his free time volunteering at the Center. And he was a damn good volunteer, too. When he worked for us, he managed to solicit more donations in a month than all of our other volunteers combined. It was how we met.

It took two years before I realized that good on paper doesn’t exactly equal good boyfriend. The worst part is my dad still thinks that asshole was the greatest fucking thing that has ever happened to me.

I stab at another piece of loose vinyl with my thumbnail.

Just let me see what I can manage out here, I say. And then we can go from there. If I never see Garrett again, it’ll be too soon. I won’t let us get that desperate.

On the other end, my dad lets out another long breath. All right, honey. I’m just not sure what our options are anymore.

Me either, I think, but I won’t tell him that.

We’ll be okay, I tell him. I know we will. We might just have to be a little creative for a while.

Creative, he repeats. We can do that.

I can’t tell if he believes it or not.

I’ll be in tomorrow morning, I say. I’m not sure how much longer this will take tonight.

Good, he says, distracted. That sounds good, honey.

Love you, Dad.

Love you too, honey. Stay safe out there.

I hang up and toss the phone on the passenger’s seat. I can’t take this much longer. I can’t stand to hear my dad sound so tired, so old, so utterly dejected. I’ll do anything to save the Center and give him back that spark I miss so much—anything short of calling Garrett, at least. Bringing him into this will only make the whole situation worse.

That’s why I have to convince Calder Cunningham to change his mind.

Before I can lose my nerve, I throw open the door and step back out into the rain. For kicks, I press the call button one more time.

I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind? I say into the box.

There’s no response.

I look up at the camera. I need to talk to Calder. It doesn’t matter how. The idea comes into my head from nowhere, and I decide to go for it before I have the chance to chicken out.

Hey, boys, I call over the rain. I grab the bottom of my shirt, take a deep breath, and pull it up, catching the lower edge of bra as well and exposing my breasts to the security system.

One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring over my bare skin, and then I yank my shirt quickly back down. My cheeks are blazing hot, but there’s a wild rush in my belly. I’ve just flashed the Cunningham security camera. That has to get a reaction.

I cross my arms over my chest as I wait. There’s a strange, reckless feeling flowing through me, and it’s kind of exciting. Maybe a little desperation is good for me.

But as the minutes tick by and no one comes out to apprehend me—or compliment my breasts and usher me inside—the exhilaration slowly seeps away.

Seriously? I yell up at the camera. "That got nothing?"

The intercom doesn’t even offer a taunting crackle.

Fine. I’ll just have to implement Plan B.

I march back over to the gates, wading through the puddles that have already formed on the driveway. I move down the length of the gates, feeling past the ivy for any openings in the wrought iron where I might be able to slip through. I’m relatively tiny, but the ironwork here is pretty elaborate, all curlicues and closed spiral patterns. Finally, about halfway down the length of the gate, I find a spot where I think I can squeeze by. It’s about chest high, which means I’ll have to climb a little to get to it, but I think I’m up for it.

Oh, no, I cry in mocking challenge over the rain. You guys better come and stop me. I grip the iron bars with both hands and pause, waiting to hear the approach of a security guard through the rain.

No one comes.

I raise one foot up onto the gate and then the other, and I begin to climb. The metal is cold and slick beneath my fingers, but that wild, reckless feeling is building in my belly again. I move carefully but deliberately, kicking through the vines to find the footholds, clutching the bars with white knuckles. When I’m high enough, I pause again.

Aren’t you going to stop me? I call up to the camera.

Apparently, the answer is no.

I bring one leg up and through the break in the ironwork, then slide forward until my upper body is through. I glance around for security guards, but I don’t see anyone or anything that might stop me.

Is it really this easy? Can I honestly just climb down onto the Cunningham property?

I pull myself through the rest of the way, clinging desperately to the bars as my feet fumble for new footholds. I’m breaking into the Cunningham estates. This is crazy. I’m crazy. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or vomit.

I guess no one minds I’m here? I call into the rain.

I take the resulting silence as consent.

The climb down is more difficult than the climb up. My fingers are colder now from the rain and they’re starting to get stiff. The vines seem to be thicker on this side, and one gets tangled around my leg. I manage to free myself, but I’m more than grateful when my feet finally hit solid ground again.

I stand there, frozen, and wait for the alarms to go off. Shouldn’t there be blaring sirens or flashing lights or something? Shouldn’t a pack of vicious Dobermans come charging down the driveway to rip me to shreds?

Apparently the Cunningham family’s security measures aren’t as good as I thought.

I smile to myself. I’ve never felt this reckless before, but I think it agrees with me. I know I’m being insane, but I don’t care. I’ve come here to save the Center, and there’s no turning back now.

Calder Cunningham won’t even know what hit him.

CHAPTER TWO

I’ve only met Calder once in person, but that was enough. It was at the Frazer Center’s Arts & Hearts fundraiser, a black tie dinner we host every Valentine’s Day in our gallery space. The affair is our most formal event of the year, and in addition to raising a good chunk of money, it’s our chance to honor our biggest donors and supporters. Wentworth Cunningham attended the event every year, but last February—about five months before he died—he brought his son Calder along as well.

I’ll admit it: I was excited to meet the infamous heir to the Cunningham fortune. I mean, you can’t even pop through the supermarket checkout line without spotting him on one of the tabloids—usually on some Italian beach with the latest it girl. I was curious. I couldn’t help it.

Calder was, at first glance, everything I expected. There seems to be one in every old money family: the son with the good looks and bad behavior to spare. He definitely lived up to his photos. Some would call him the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. In another life, if he hadn’t been born into insane amounts of money—or if he decided that partying and womanizing weren’t enough of a career for him—he might have made his own millions as a model.

He’s the kind of guy who expects his looks and his money to get him out of anything. He’s also the kind of guy who looks down his nose at events thrown by small arts organizations.

Calder spent the entire evening of Arts & Hearts looking bored out of his mind and sipping aloofly at his wine.

I’d hoped to never see him again.

But I’m not about to let him get away this time. This time I’m going to make him take responsibility for his actions, even if the rest of the world won’t.

I bow my head against the wind and march up his driveway. The massive live oaks overhead don’t do much to block the rain, but the discomfort from the wetness seeping down my back only fuels my anger and determination.

Hey!

The voice cuts through the storm, and my head jerks up. I glance around, and it takes me a moment to spot the figure through the rain.

It’s a man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes. A security guard.

And he’s coming at me. Fast.

I panic. Yes, it was only a few minutes ago that I was trying to catch the attention of the security team, but now that some guy’s charging at me through the rain, my fight or flight response kicks in. I bolt.

I run off the driveway and between two of the trees, cutting across the grass in what I hope is the direction of the house. One of my flats slips off my foot, but I keep going, my toes gripping the mud as I sprint. There are lights up ahead—house lights, I hope. I need to get to Calder.

I don’t dare look over my shoulder, but the security guard is gaining. His footsteps slap against the wet ground, and they’re getting louder.

I have to outrun him.

My other shoe falls off my slick foot. I almost slip. I can just make out the house ahead of me now, a dark shape against the dark sky. I’m so close. Just a little farther—

The guard slams into me, pushing me down to the ground with him on top of me. The air whooshes out of me as I hit the mud, but I recover quickly. I twist beneath his weight, trying to fight my way out of his grasp.

Let go of me! I say, swinging my elbow at him.

I hit him in the gut. He grunts, and his grip loosens on my waist. I try to wriggle away, but he grabs me by the knees.

Let go! I say again. I kick at him.

He tries to catch my ankle. Ms.—oof—Frazer.

I manage to get one leg loose. His grip on the other one is too strong. He flips me over so that I’m on my back, and he lunges forward, catching each of my arms before I can swing at him again. He’s straddling me, pinning me down, and struggle as I might I can’t get free.

Get off of me, I say.

His breathing is heavy from the exertion. He leans down closer to me.

And why should I do that, Ms. Frazer? he says. "You’re trespassing on my property."

I freeze. The rain is still coming down hard, but I shake the wet strands of hair from my face and blink up at the man on top of me. In the hazy light from behind us I can just barely make out the features of his face, but a jolt of recognition pulses through me.

It’s Calder.

My heart stops. This isn’t some random security guard. It’s the man of the house himself, the asshole who’s ruining my life.

And he’s on top of me.

Get off, I repeat, wriggling. But in a position like this the movement is unintentionally sexual. I stop, but not before Calder also notices the intimate implications of our situation. He gives a chuckle deep in his throat then leans closer so I can hear his low voice over the rain.

And why should I let you go, he says into my ear, when you’ve already caused me so much trouble?

The warmth of his breath sends prickles across my skin. I try to wrench my wrists out of his grasp.

I can’t believe you would hold a woman down, I say, when she clearly—

Woman? he breathes into my ear. I don’t see a woman. I see a trespasser. Tell me, do you make a habit of breaking onto private property, or did I just get lucky?

You know exactly why I’m here, Mr. Cunnin—

"And you know I have every right to call the police right now and have you arrested."

What little breath I have left catches in my throat. He can’t be serious. I didn’t think he’d be happy, exactly, about finding me here, but worst case scenario I expected security to march me back outside the gates and leave it at that. I can’t be arrested. I’ve barely been able to cover my bills these last couple of months—I definitely can’t afford bail. And the last thing I want is to put that on my dad, not when he’s put everything he owns into the Frazer Center.

Rage bubbles up in my chest. You’re an ass, you know that?

I believe the police will see things differently, he says. Especially since you’ve spent the last two months harassing me.

The accusation floors me. Harassing you? You broke our contract! I don’t care what you paid your fancy lawyers to say. You violated the promise your father made. That money belongs to the Frazer Center.

He shifts his weight up slightly, enough to look me in the eyes. They’re pitch black against the deep gray sky above.

I thought, Ms. Frazer, that I made my stance on the matter quite clear.

The only thing that’s clear around here is that you’re an arrogant asswipe!

He laughs.

You can do better than that, Ms. Frazer, he says. He sits up a little more. I’m willing to release your hands, but only if you promise you won’t punch me.

There’s very little I want more than to punch him right now, but I nod my head obediently. He lets go of my wrists and sits up. He’s still straddling me.

There’s no longer anything to block the rain from my face. I blink the water out my eyes and turn my head, breaking our gaze.

Calder chuckles again. Perhaps we should finish this discussion inside, where we can both be a little more comfortable.

His weight lifts from me, but I stay where I am. I don’t trust him.

Come on, Ms. Frazer. When I look up he’s holding his hand out to me.

I sigh. I’m completely soaked, and there’s mud in places I don’t even want to think about. If Calder wants to go inside, then fine. I’m not about to let him off the hook, but there’s no harm in getting out of the rain.

I push myself up on my elbows then reach out and grab his hand. He pulls me up to my feet as if I weigh nothing, and I almost fall right against his chest. Instead I catch myself at the last minute, my bare toes clinging to the mud. I sway away from him, but he still has my hand in his grasp. He won’t let go, even when I try to pull away.

I take another step back. What are you—

He grabs me by the waist and yanks me off the ground. The world flips around me as he throws me over his shoulder.

What are you doing? I say. Let me go!

He doesn’t respond. His grip tightens around my waist and he begins moving toward the house.

What the fuck? I say, hitting him in the back. Put me down!

I don’t think so, he says.

I can walk by myself! I’m not a fucking sack of potatoes!

I’m not going to give you the chance to run away.

I try to kick him, but he uses his other arm to catch me by the knees.

Forgive me if I don’t trust you, he says.

I stop struggling, letting my body fall limp in his grasp. My wet hair bounces around my face in time with his steps. I can’t see anything but the muddy grass beneath us and the wet backsides of Calder’s pants and shoes.

My rage against this man has been building for a couple of months now, and the indignity of my current position brings all of it spewing out.

You think you can get away with anything because you’re rich, I say, my voice edged in venom. You think you can walk all over people and break promises because you have the fancy lawyers and no one would dare stand up to the Cunningham family.

His arm tightens, and he readjusts me on his shoulder.

You might have the rest of them eating out of your hand, I say, but I’m not letting you off the hook that easy. You think you can just throw your reputation around and do whatever you want. You expect to just throw out a few bills and flash a sexy smile and have everyone fall at your feet. You don’t give a damn about anyone else.

For a minute he doesn’t respond, and then: You think my smile is sexy?

I make an exasperated sound, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s going up steps now—wide stone steps that have moss growing on the grout. I lift my head slightly, and through my falling strands of hair I can make out a pair of stone lions on either side of us, marble heads raised as if guarding the way inside. Of course there are freaking stone lions outside this place. No doubt there are gargoyles and stained glass windows and numerous other ostentatious features, too.

A few more steps and I hear him open a door. There’s a rush of warmth as he carries me into the house, and I’m more grateful than I want to admit to be out of the rain.

We’re inside, I say, poking him in the back. Put me down.

Not yet. His voice is thick with amusement.

Is this some sort of sick joke? I say. This is ridiculous. I came here to talk to you. I’m not going to run away.

Then you should have no problem with me giving you a lift, he replies. If anything, you should be thanking me. I wasn’t about to let a woman walk barefoot through the mud.

There’s no mud in here. I give him another couple of jabs in the back. And my feet were muddy already. It doesn’t matter.

All the more reason to carry you, he says. I’d prefer not to stain the carpets.

He’s having too much fun at my expense. I want to kick my legs and splatter mud all over the walls, but I don’t think that’ll help my case for the Center. Besides, he still has his arm across my knees.

I raise my head again, trying to get a good look at my surroundings. He’s carrying me down a hallway, but the lights are dim and I can’t see much through my curtain of hair. I can only get a clear view of the carpets below us. They’re definitely pretty fancy, but Calder either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that he’s leaving his own set of muddy footprints on the richly colored threads.

Where are we going? I say to him, tired of this game. Some sort of torture chamber, maybe? Are you going to chain me up in the dungeon until the police get here?

His fingers dig into my waist. Don’t give me any ideas.

If you’d just answered my calls or my emails, we could’ve discussed this whole thing like adults, I say.

Adults, eh? he says. Do adults usually climb through each other’s gates? Or flash security cameras, for that matter?

My neck goes instantly hot. He saw that?

I think I’ve mentioned before that I admire your determination, he says. But I can’t say that I was encouraging that kind of behavior. Not that I minded the show.

I try to knee him in the chest, but he holds me tight. I settle for giving him a particularly hard jab in the back.

If you’re not going to let someone in, the least you can do is respond to them, I say. Especially when you’ve already fucked that person over.

So I’m required to respond to every idiot who shows up at my gates? he says. Every paparazzo who’s tried to snap a photo through the bars? Every reporter who camped out there for weeks right after my father died?

That’s not what I—

When you have money, people think they’re entitled to things from you. Sometimes it’s photos. Most often it’s money.

He uses his knee to shove open a door.

Light, he says.

The lights flick on. Before I can make sense of where we are, he flips me down onto a sofa. I go dizzy from the head rush, and it takes a minute for him to come into focus. When he does, the bitterness is clear on his face. He’s leaning over me, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me push back against the cushions behind me.

Now that I see him in the full light, I’m startled by the changes in him since the last time we met. Before, he was the picture of perfection: not a wrinkle in his clothes, not a hair out of place. The change is more than just the aftermath of our scuffle in the mud outside. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark pants, and I can tell neither was particularly luxurious even before I arrived here today. His hair has outgrown its typical stylish cut, and his previously clean-shaven cheeks are sporting a coat of dark stubble. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

What? he says. Now you’re going to shut up? Dark humor twists his features.

What do you want me to say? I ask him. I’m not a photographer or a reporter. But your father signed a contract—

You’re welcome to challenge the decision in court, he says. I won’t discuss it here. Not without my legal representation present.

You know we can’t afford to challenge it, I say.

Not my problem. He crosses his arms and stares down at me. My problem is young women who think they can come waltzing onto my property without any consequences. He yanks his cell phone out of his pocket.

Call the police, then, I say. But this doesn’t end here. I’m not going to stop until we have the money we were promised, or until the entire world knows what a cheap, heartless bastard you are. I’m surprised at the words even as they come out of my mouth, but my anger is making me bold.

Calder seems equally startled by my voracity. His cell phone is in his hand, poised to call the police, but he stands frozen. There’s a strange expression in his eyes that I can’t read.

Very well, then, he says finally. He slides the phone back in his pocket. No police.

A flutter of hope takes life in my chest.

I have some materials back in my car, I say. If you understood what we do—

Don’t mistake me, he says. I’ve decided not to call the police. That’s all. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet.

"Do with me? I say. I push myself up off the couch so we’re standing toe to toe. What’s that supposed to mean?"

I still can’t read the expression in his eyes. His irises are so dark I can hardly tell where they stop and his pupils begin. He’s so close that I can see his pulse beating in his throat.

The way I see it, he says slowly, his voice dropping low, you want something from me. The question is, how far are you willing to go to get it?

Wait. Is he actually propositioning me? As if to punctuate his point, Calder reaches out and slides a strand of wet hair from my face. His fingers brush against my cheek, and I’m shocked by how warm they are against my damp skin.

I’m—I’m not going to sleep with you, I say, my voice softer than I intend. I step away from him, and the back of my knees hit the edge of the couch.

I never asked you to sleep with me, he replies. He steps toward me, closing the gap between us again. I was thinking more along the lines of dinner.

Dinner. Like a date? This is ridiculous. Two minutes ago he was threatening to call the police on me, and now he wants to have dinner?

No, not like a date. His voice is thick with amusement again. Dinner here, right now. I was about to sit down to eat when I became aware of the disturbance at my gate, and now I’m starving.

Oh. I’m not sure how I feel about this. He wants us to sit down over some beef stroganoff or something and act like friends? I can’t think of anything more awkward.

Did you want to talk about your little Center or not? he says.

Talk about it? I say quickly. Of course. Yes. Dinner then. Yes.

He gives a low chuckle. Good. He reaches out to take my arm, but his fingers freeze on my sleeve. His eyes rake down my body, and heat rushes to my cheeks. Is he seriously checking me out right now?

You need to change first, he says. I don’t want you dripping all over the table.

Now my entire face is hot. He doesn’t need to remind me that I’m a muddy mess. I probably look like a drowned rat.

You’re not exactly clean either, I say, crossing my arms. Besides, I have nothing else to wear.

That’s not an issue in this house, I assure you, he says. His eyes skim down my body once more. Not an issue at all.

CHAPTER THREE

He takes me to a bedroom.

As soon as the door swings open and I see the enormous four-poster bed, I spin on him in a fury.

What exactly are you trying to pull? I say. If you think you can march me to a bedroom and I’ll just—

He cuts me off with a finger against my lips.

My sister keeps her extra clothes in the closet here, he says. I’d guess you two are about the same size.

Oh. His sister. I completely forgot he has a sibling. She shows up in the tabloids sometimes, too, but usually for a different reason—she seems to share her late father’s dedication to philanthropy.

Louisa, right? I say against his fingers. Is she here too?

Calder shakes his head and removes his hand from my lips. The warmth of his touch lingers a moment longer.

She’s off saving the world, as usual, he says. She left for Southeast Asia not long after the funeral.

I don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice, but I don’t dare push the matter any further.

You’re welcome to wear whatever you find in there, he continues. I’m going back to my room, since you were kind enough to point out that I could use a change as well. I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes, if that’s all right?

I’m sure I can handle myself.

I don’t doubt it. Whatever shadow darkened his mood a moment ago is gone. He gives me another one of those amused smiles, the kind that I’m sure charms most women right out of their panties.

Good thing I’m not most women.

I give him a smile of my own—a controlled, unconcerned smile, I hope—and step into the room, closing the door behind me.

I have to admit, now that I’m getting a better look, this is one of the most beautiful bedrooms I’ve ever seen. The walls are sage green, the floors dark hardwood. There’s an enormous white stone fireplace against one wall, and its mantle is carved to look like a canopy of leaves. On the far side of the room, a pair of long-paned windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling.

But the bed. Oh, the bed.

The bed is made of dark wood, and its headboard has been carved to match the mantle, depicting an elaborate scene with birds, butterflies, and flowers hidden among the leaves. A vine pattern has been etched up each of the four posts, and the canopy is draped in gauzy white fabric. The mountains of pillows and thick comforter look so inviting that, I swear, if I weren’t covered in mud I’d dive right into the middle of it all.

But I’m never going to use that bed, so there’s no point in drooling over it. I’m here to change, that’s all. I find the bathroom first, and I almost fall over at the sight of my reflection in the mirror. I’m a mess. I quickly wash the mud off my hands and feet and neck, but there’s not much I can do for my wet, tangled hair. I tie it into a knot at the base of my neck and venture back into the bedroom, where I head over to the closet.

Once again, I’m stunned.

If the bedroom was impressive, the closet is absolutely magnificent—not to mention roughly the same size as my current studio apartment. There are racks upon racks upon racks of clothes, an entire wall of shoes, and three full rotating cabinets in the middle of the room that appear to house jewelry and other accessories.

And Calder said these were his sister’s extra things?

I walk over to a shelf and choose a hanger at random. The dress I pull out is a floor-length emerald silk number with tiny crystals sewn along the delicate straps. It has a plunging neckline and a high slit in the skirt, the kind of thing you see in movies but never expect people to wear in real life.

The price tag is still attached, and I can’t help but take a peek. I nearly pass out when I see the number. Too rich for my blood. I slip the hanger back on the rack and move on.

Halfway down the room I find a small, flat screen attached to the wall with a single button beneath it. Curious, I give the button a push. The screen instantly flashes to life.

Good evening, Ms. Cunningham, says a computerized female voice.

Whoa. They have computerized closets in this place?

A series of symbols flash across the screen.

What would you like to wear? the voice prompts.

I reach out and tentatively tap the icon shaped like a dress.

What occasion? says the voice.

The screen gives me a number of options, everything from Garden Party to Riding. I guess rich people need computers to help them figure out the proper attire for all their weird events. I tap Supper and hope for the best.

Now the screen shows me a series of pictures, one of each dress that’s supposedly appropriate for current needs. I scroll through the images, and I can’t help but wonder as I peruse the selections how much each one costs. There’s probably enough money in this one room alone to keep all of the Center’s programs afloat for a year, maybe more.

But I won’t think about that. I can’t—not if I don’t want to fly into a murderous rage.

My finger pauses over an image on the screen: a casual, cerulean-blue dress with cap sleeves. It’s cute, and it doesn’t look overly expensive—not that you can always guess. I’m not sure what to do from here, so I tap my finger on the picture of the dress.

Items located in F12-AFD, says the computerized voice.

F12-what? I glance around, and I notice that the lights above one of the racks are brighter than they were a moment ago. I walk over, and after a moment of searching, I locate the blue dress.

I peel off my wet clothes—including my bra and panties, since they’re also soaked—and fold them over the edge of what I hope is the dirty clothes hamper. I pull the dress on carefully.

Once the garment is zipped, I go over to the floor-length mirror on the far side of the room. The dress fits me well enough, but even a billionaire heiress’s dress can’t do much for my hair. I redo the bun, twisting it into a knot that looks only slightly better. Oh well. I won’t be the classiest thing to ever sit at the Cunninghams’ table, but I’m passable. Certainly decent enough to fight for the Center’s future.

I squeeze my feet into a pair of cute black flats and head back out to the hallway.

Calder is already waiting for me. He’s leaning against the wall, but he straightens when I step out of the bedroom. His eyes run up and down my body.

That suits you, Ms. Frazer, he says.

I ignore the compliment, but I can’t keep the flush from rising to my cheeks. I also can’t help but notice that his clean clothes suit him, too. He’s wearing pressed black pants and a pale gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He still hasn’t shaved, and his thumb slides along the stubble at his jaw.

Like what you see? he says.

I make a disgusted noise to hide the fact that he’s caught me staring.

I couldn’t care less about what you look like, I say. I’m here to talk about the Center, that’s all.

Of course, Ms. Frazer. He gives a little smile, and I know he doesn’t believe me for a minute. Shall we go down to the dining room, then?

He holds out his arm, and after a moment of hesitation I take it. He’s carried me through this house over his shoulder. There’s no reason I should be afraid to place my hand on his arm. But a prickle dances up to my elbow when I lay my fingers on his skin. I pretend not to notice. His other hand comes to rest on top of mine, enveloping my fingers in warmth, and I ignore that too. He can play the gentleman all he wants. I know he’s still an asshole at heart.

The way down to the dining room is longer than I expect—this place really is humongous. You could get lost for weeks in here. And everything is ridiculously ornate: every banister is carved with intricate patterns, every floor spread with richly colored rugs, every wall hung with row upon row of artwork. I squint at some of the paintings as we pass, hoping to recognize a few of the artists—an enthusiast like the late Wentworth Cunningham probably has a few works by some of the modern masters among his collection—but we move too quickly for me to make any connections.

I can give you a tour later, if you like, Calder says when he sees my interest.

I shrug noncommittally. I don’t intend to stay here any longer than I need to. I plan to make my best case over dinner and then head home. Still, I can’t help but marvel. This place is insane. One minute I’m interacting with a computerized closet like someone in a sci-fi movie, and the next I’m wandering through a corridor that looks like a nineteenth-century museum.

Finally Calder stops in front of a pair of wide double doors.

Here we are. He releases my hand and opens one of the doors for me, and I step through into what has to be one of the most extravagant dining rooms in existence. I mean, who needs a table long enough to seat thirty? Or a chandelier the size of a small car, with easily two or three hundred little bulbs that flicker just like candles? My eyes follow the chandelier chain, and I gasp when I notice the ceiling.

My grandfather commissioned that mural after a trip to Italy, Calder says.

I snap my jaw closed and tear my eyes away from the elaborate pastoral scene above our heads. I’m not sure whether to be enthralled or repulsed by the beauty and excess of this room, and it leaves me with an unpleasant jumble of emotions in my belly. Instead I walk over to the long table, where now I see a single place has been laid at the head.

I’ve alerted the kitchen to the extra company, says Calder. Martin should be up with the food any moment. He’s gone over to a cabinet against the nearest wall, and when he turns toward me, he has several pieces of china in his hands. He comes over to the table and lays them out at the place to the left of his own: dinner plate, salad plate, cup and saucer. He returns to the buffet cabinet a second time, and this time he returns with the full array of silverware, including several pieces I’ve only ever seen on the rare occasions I’ve been to a particularly formal restaurant. But what did I expect in a dining room like this?

I shoot another glance at the painting on the ceiling and slip into my seat. There’s no reason we can’t start talking about the Center while we wait.

Mr. Cunningham, I—

What do you drink, Ms. Frazer? he says. Would you care for a glass of wine?

A part of me knows that drinking is a bad idea, but another part knows a bit of alcohol in my system might make this whole thing more bearable.

I don’t suppose you have any whiskey?

He chuckles. I’ll see what I can find. He strides over to a polished mahogany liquor cabinet and flings open the door. A moment later he returns with a glass and a bottle of amber liquid, which he holds in front of me for approval.

Single malt. Fifty-two years old, he says. It’s a make I’ve never heard of—probably because I’m used to drinking the cheap shit—and I suspect that this bottle, like everything else in this freaking house, cost a small fortune.

Ah, what the hell.

Looks perfect. I try not to cringe as he pours me a glass. How much could even that much whiskey buy the Center? Some new brushes? A fresh coat of paint for the rec room?

Calder is oblivious to my thoughts. He returns the whiskey to the cabinet and returns to the table with a glass and a bottle of wine for himself. I raise my drink to my lips and take a sip as I watch him pour his merlot. I have to admit, this expensive stuff is smooth, if nothing else. I’ll have to watch myself—it would be easy to drink too much if I wasn’t paying attention.

Mr. Cunningham, I begin again, setting my glass back on the table. I really think—

A door at the far end of the room flies open and an older man in chef whites bursts through, a cart of food behind him. The chafing dishes rattle as the cart bounces over the threshold, and again when the man stops suddenly, apparently startled to see us.

Forgive me, sir, he says, blinking at us. I didn’t realize you were in here already.

It’s no problem, Calder says jovially. Ms. Frazer and I just sat down. It’s my own fault for springing company on you at the last minute. He glances at me. Ms. Frazer, this is Chef Martin, the best in the business. He’s been with my family for, what, thirty-five years now?

Thirty-seven this winter, the chef replies with a smile.

And Martin, says Calder, this is Lily Frazer from the Frazer Center for the Arts.

Pleased to meet you, Ms. Frazer, says Martin. He wheels the cart the rest of the way over to us, and now it’s close enough for the aroma to hit me. My stomach lets out an appreciative rumble.

That smells amazing, I say.

It’ll taste even better, Calder says.

The chef laughs. Mr. Cunningham flatters me.

Not at all, Calder replies. To me he adds, Martin studied in Paris back in the day, and he spent time training in Italy and Austria as well.

All that, the chef says, and it took me fifteen years to learn to prepare vegetables in a way that would entice Mr. Cunningham to eat them.

I smile in spite of myself.

In all fairness to Martin, says Calder, I still contend that some vegetables are supposed to stay in the dirt and shouldn’t be eaten at all.

A sentiment that I consider a challenge. Martin grins and leans toward me conspiratorially. When he was little, I used to purée veggies and hide them in the sauce. And you don’t even want to know how many green goodies I managed to sneak into his meatloaf.

This time I let out an actual laugh. The chef flashes a ruddy-cheeked smile at me.

His worst offense, Calder says, feigning annoyance, was when he told me my Brussel sprouts were shrunken alien heads.

One of my proudest moments, Chef Martin says. You managed to choke down four before you realized I’d tricked you.

Martin can’t keep a straight face to save his life, Calder tells me.

The chef chuckles.

Would Mr. Cunningham like me to serve? he says.

I’ll handle it from here, I think, Calder says. Thank you, Martin.

Of course, sir. He smiles at us. Let me know if you need anything else. He retreats back out the door from which he came, and Calder stands to go to the cart.

"He insists on calling me sir," he says with a little shake of his