Charity Case: The Complete Series

by Piper Rayne

  I’m thankful every day that Jagger called me to tell me about how his assistant was relocating.

  The white and gold decor in my office cheers me up slightly as I head to my own desk. The non-traditional office flair reminds me I’m in charge now and I don’t have to conform to anyone else’s wishes.

  When I leased these offices for the RISE Foundation, I decided that no way was I going with boring old black, grey and brown. I wanted something vibrant, new…something to make me excited about life again. Someone offered their advice that the feminine palette diminishes my power when someone visits my office. That it says I’m soft and they’ll get what they want from me.

  Okay not someone—my father. But RISE is mine and I’m the one who has to stare at these walls and sit at this desk day in and day out. I’m damn well going to be happy.

  Picking up the messages from the corner of my desk, I sort through them, all from people I contacted about donating to the silent auction. It doesn’t disappoint me at all that none of them are from Roarke Baldwin because I definitely don’t want him to contact me.

  Nope. Not one bit.

  Four o’clock rolls around and since Chelsea has yet to bring me a contract for a venue, I’m assuming her fairy godmother wand is broken.

  A knock sounds as I hang up from a phone call with Lennon Banks, the woman who wants to open up a branch of RISE in San Francisco, but how can I arrange that when I don’t even know how things in Chicago will go? We’ve managed to get after-school programs at five schools off the ground—including Victoria’s daughter Jade’s school. But I’m not satisfied with that. We need more. Our goal is to lead girls to find their voices and never refuse to use them.

  “Come in,” I say as I move some papers to the side of my desk.

  Chelsea’s head is down as she opens the door. She normally lights up a room with her contagious smile and her sharp wit, so I’m crossing my fingers that it’s the pregnancy that’s responsible for her mood and not the fact she couldn’t find a space to hold our gala.

  She plops down in the chair across from me. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I failed.”

  I press the intercom button. “Victoria, can you come in here please?”

  A second later, Victoria walks in and sits down next to Chelsea, her own frown already in place. Chelsea must have already shared her news.

  “I’ve literally called everywhere, Hannah. Well, everywhere but the Days Inn or the Budget Motel. If you want I will though.” Chelsea looks at me, hopeful.

  I place my elbows on my desk, my fingers running over both temples. Think, Hannah, think. You know people.

  “I’m sure you tried everything,” I say, trying to reassure her.

  Chelsea nods, holding up her hand and counting the hotels off one by one. “The Ritz, the Westin, the Hilton, Four Seasons, The Drake, The Swissôtel. I’ve called them all. I guess September has taken over as the new wedding month because that’s all I kept hearing from the event coordinators.”

  “We could head to Lake Geneva. Make a weekend out of it?” Victoria chimes in and the idea is great, but to get all those people out of the city with a little over a month’s notice? No way.

  “I wish. Too far. Anything in the burbs?”

  “I’ve called the entire Oakbrook area. Schaumburg’s booked too.”

  “What about north of the city?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah, nothing. I’m on every waitlist going, but anything that did come up would be last minute.”

  Victoria bites her lip.

  Chelsea looks like someone told her Santa Claus wasn’t real.

  “Both of you. Go home.” I wave them off.

  “What’s the game plan?” Victoria asks, sitting on the edge of her seat.

  “I don’t know yet. You two go home and I’ll work something out.”

  Chelsea, my usual go-getter, stands, not putting up a fight to leave. I’m sure she wants the serenity of her bed and her fiancé, Dean. “I’ll try again tomorrow,” she mumbles, leaving my office. “I’m so sorry, Hannah.”

  “Make sure you get her in a cab or call Dean,” I say to Victoria.

  She nods. “I’ll do that and come back?”

  I shake my head. “No. Go home and relax. It will work out. It always does.”

  With a sigh, I lean back in my chair. I just hope I don’t have to sell my soul to the devil, aka Roarke Baldwin.

  Ten minutes later, the two of them are gone and I let my panic take over. Alone in my office, I spring to my feet and pace. Heading back to the break room, I glance at another care package from the newest bakery that opened up a block down. My hands itch for the sugar, but I pull open the fridge and grab a diet soda instead.

  Walking back to my office, I kick off my heels and continue to pace for a while. Eventually I gaze out the window. The sun is shining in the sky. I love summer and the endless stream of sunny nights.

  Roarke pops into my head again. If Chelsea can’t find anything, how the hell would Roarke even be able to help me? I’m tempted to call his bluff. He probably can’t even deliver on his promise and what does he want with me anyway?

  We never did address what he meant by that. Instead we went right into his absurd obsession with me calling him Roarke. He probably thinks that if I did agree to his stupid agreement that I’d be willing to sacrifice myself.

  Me naked on his bed isn’t as despicable as I wish it was. It’s quite enticing if I’m honest. But I would never admit to it.

  “Jesus, Han, get a grip,” I mumble to myself.

  My inner angel pops onto my right shoulder. Roarke Baldwin is a bad, bad man.

  My imaginary devil pops onto my left shoulder. And you’re a bad girl. How will he punish you?

  “Shut up you fucking devil!” I yell.

  The office door of RISE opens.

  I stop all movement with the very real fear that I’ve conjured him up in real life. The villain always shows up when his prey is weak.

  Am I weak? Maybe a little. After all, there’s a war going on between my head and my pussy and my wet panties suggests which one’s winning.

  “Ms. Crowley, I’m sorry, usually you girls are gone by now.” Misty, the cleaning lady peeks her head inside my office.

  Thank Goodness.

  “I was just leaving.” I slip into my heels, shut down my computer and grab my bag. “Have a great night, Misty.” I smile.

  “Be careful out there. The sun is going down.”

  I glance out the window by Victoria’s desk, the sun has started to make its descent now. “I will thanks.”

  “Darkness is when the devil comes out to play.” She empties Victoria’s trashcan into her big garbage bag.

  “Sometimes the devil appears in daylight too. Dressed in a custom tailored suit and wingtips.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Man problems, Ms. Crowley?”

  My hand lands on the doorknob to the office. “Not in the slightest. Goodnight.”

  “Night, Miss.”

  I leave the confines of my office, riding down the elevator alone and it isn’t until I step out onto the streets of Chicago that I realize my devil isn’t like a thief emerging from a dark alley. He sits perched up in his penthouse or corner office under the guise of one of the most successful men in Chicago. He’s the devil in the gray suit and if I don’t tread carefully, I’m likely to forget it.

  Chapter Four

  I tap my pen on the desk as I wait on the line for the Director of Hospitality to return to the phone. I appreciate that she’s in the office as early as I am and able to take my call, but she’s taken ten minutes already to check her calendar. I’m not asking for space three years down the line. The event is six weeks away.

  “Ms. Crowley.” Her voice shakes when it sounds over the line.

  Probably new.

  “Yes.”

  Tip. Tap. My pen bounces like a teeter-totter against my white desk.

  “I’m sorry. I thought we had a cancellation, but the bride called this m
orning to say the wedding is still a go. Lover’s quarrel I guess.” Her voice sounds sweet now, like she’s happy they didn’t cancel.

  Too bad I can’t say the same.

  “Thank you. If anything changes can you put me down as the first call you make?” I ask, leaving my voice dripping with the sweetness of honey. “Please note I’ll pay fifty percent more.”

  I’ve had hard lessons on what gets me what I want and honey and money are always more effective when used in tandem.

  “That’s very nice of you, but our prices are our prices.”

  We say goodbye and hang up and my gaze veers out the window. The feeling of impending doom over rescheduling the linens, the entertainment, the caterer –everything—seeps into my pores like cold rain on my skin. My office phone rings and since it’s after hours and I’m alone I answer.

  “RISE Foundation.”

  “Hannah?” The spunky voice of my childhood best friend, Gwen Turner, greets me.

  “Gwen?”

  “Who else?” she laughs. “Sorry for the early morning wake-up.”

  “You called the office. It’s fine.”

  “I did?” She pauses for a second. “Oh shit, I’m off my rocker. Sleep deprived and overfucked, drinking every night…lots of fun.”

  A rustling sound comes over the line.

  “What’s up? You sound distracted.”

  She giggles again. “I am. Sorry, but my manager just mentioned booking me another date once I get stateside again. I told him I’m booked the weekend of September fifteenth, right?”

  I let out a breath. If Gwen can’t speak, then there’s no reason to have the gala. She’s my biggest celebrity coming and the biggest draw for people to part with their wallets.

  “It is. Is there a conflict?” I ask.

  “NO!” she screeches. “I told him to piss off. Told him I couldn’t disappoint my girl.”

  “Thanks.” The increased pressure to find a place threatens to flatten me like a pancake.

  “He even tried to dangle the dollar amount I’d be missing out on. The guy doesn’t understand the value of friendship, ya know?”

  Guilt piles on top of guilt. Not that Gwen is by any means poor. She’s rich. Not as rich as me, but she’s earned hers. I inherited mine. There’s a difference. A huge difference.

  “Oh, Gwen I don’t want you to miss—”

  “Stop it, Montana. You’re worth it. This foundation you’re forming is worth missing out on a few thousand. My manager can suck it.”

  She uses her annoying nickname for me, Montana. Not the state, the character, Hannah Montana. It’s the most unoriginal thing she’s ever done.

  “Suck your tit you mean.” A male voice joins our telephone party.

  Gwen giggles.

  “That’s not your manager, is it?” I ask.

  She giggles harder and I’m afraid he probably is sucking her tit.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She teases like she did when she was sleeping with her professor during her short stint in college.

  “Gwen, what is with you and authority figures?”

  She can’t even use the excuse of daddy issues. Her dad is the most involved and loving man who lets her soar on her own, never interferes, but guides her to make smart decisions so she doesn’t end up with something like a celebrity sex tape.

  “Oh Montana, slip out of that stuffy business dress and go get laid. Todd sure as hell never fucked you right—it’s about time you find a man who will.”

  An image of Roarke Baldwin flickers in my head accompanied with the tantalizing thought of what’s under his suit. He always seems so controlled—his hair perfectly styled, his panty soaking five o’clock shadow trimmed to perfection. What would he be like in bed? A beast? A machine? Could I unglue him as much as I’m sure he’d unglue me?

  I shake my head—literally—to clear my thoughts.

  “You live in a fairyland.”

  “Join me sometime. I promise you’ll never want to leave.” More giggles and rustling echo through the line.

  Like the pop of a champagne bottle, I wave the white flag on this conversation.

  “Okay, Gwen, time for me to hang up so you can go have your orgasm. Thanks for using me to torture your manager while you delay his rocket ship from exploding.”

  “Your humor is back, Montana. I miss you.”

  “Is this foundation really worth losing close to a mil?” the deep voice asks.

  I grip the receiver in my hand until my knuckles are white.

  “Stop counting money and give me what I really need.” After a long moan from Gwen that seems to send a current from Paris to Chicago, I realize—I really do need to get laid. It’s been a while.

  Hanging up, a gnawing feeling eats away at my stomach. If I have to somehow cancel this gala, I’m now screwing Gwen, too.

  For the hundredth time since Torrio’s Table the other night, Roarke Baldwin’s offer resurfaces to the forefront of my mind.

  “What exactly did he mean when he said he wants me?”

  “He means he wants you tied up, or maybe he has a red room of pain at his place.” Victoria comes into my office and sits in the chair across from my desk.

  “My life is not a movie.”

  She smiles sweetly, shrugging her shoulders. “Why are you here so early?”

  I shrug, tapping my pen back and forth.

  “Reed called a few people and everyone’s booked. The same thing as Chelsea said, weddings.”

  I chew the inside of my lip for a second. “Please thank him for me.”

  “I will. So what are we going to do?” she asks, moving to the edge of her chair.

  Victoria is a fix-it person. The word defeat isn’t in her vocabulary which is what makes her such a great employee and friend.

  “I’m going to have to go deal with the devil,” I say with about as much excitement as I feel, which is to say none.

  Her smile wipes off her face. “No. There has to be another way.”

  I shake my head, my pen dropping to the desk. “I’m not sure there is. Plus, it could be as harmless as him wanting me on his arm for some big event. I’ll do it for all those girls we could help.”

  “I hate this. I think we should just reschedule the event. We could do a winter wonderland. Rent some heaters for an outside patio…all the décor inside could be white, silver and blue. It’d be beautiful.”

  She paints a breathtaking picture and I might have been on board before Gwen’s call. But speaking with her reminded me of all the speakers who have committed, booked out time from their busy schedules to come. I’m not going to screw them over when they agreed to help me out of the goodness of their hearts. Chelsea’s cousin and her friends are flying in from training in New Zealand to give away a silent auction package of a weekend in Park City with them as tour guides.

  “Stop looking like I just told you Reed has a secret wife. I’m not going to sell my body, Victoria.” I google Roarke Baldwin, bastard-at-law and scribble his phone number down, sliding the note to Victoria. “Here. Call over and say I need to have a word with the snake.”

  “I don’t like this. I’m just saying,” she says before rising from her chair.

  There’s no sense responding because there’s nothing else to say.

  Through the frosted glass, I watch her movements. She picks up the phone and I hear the murmur of her voice as she talks, but she hangs up before sending a call through to me.

  He’s probably in court screwing someone else over.

  My throat contracts when she rises from her desk. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous and it only makes my resentment for Mr. Baldwin grow.

  She enters my office and places a colored sticky note on my desk. “He told his assistant you’re to use his cell phone only. The office phone is for clients and you’re not a client.”

  I crinkle the piece of paper, balling it in my fist.

  “What a son of a bitch!” I throw the coral piece of paper across the room.

&n
bsp; “I don’t like this. I think we should reschedule the gala.”

  I slide my chair out, press my palms on the edge of my desk and push up, heading over to retrieve the note I just flung. “No. Mr. Baldwin wants to play, I can fucking play. The most arrogant predators always underestimate their prey. Roarke Baldwin is the biggest pompous ass I’ve ever met, and I guarantee he underestimates every woman he comes into contact with, including me.”

  “You’re kind of scary right now,” Victoria says, backing away from the desk. “Can I leave the door open a sliver so I can eavesdrop?” She grins.

  I laugh and shoo her out of the office with my hand. Chelsea must arrive because a moment later I spot two shadows with their ears pressed against my door.

  Chapter Five

  I press the numbers on my phone with shaky fingers, bringing the receiver up to my ear and release a deep breath.

  He picks up after one ring. “I thought we were friends? Having your assistant call my assistant. Tsk. Tsk, Ms. Crowley.”

  Aggravation fuses together every cell in my body until I become an impenetrable wall.

  “First, we are not friends. Second, I would prefer to talk to you via our office phones.”

  There’s a brief second of silence where he’s probably realizing I called him through my office line.

  “Ahh… so now you have my number and I don’t have yours? That seems terribly unfair.”

  “I didn’t realize you cared about fairness?” I lean back in my chair and cross my legs.

  “You don’t know that much about me. It’s not like you know me intimately.” He lowers his voice on the last word and drags it out.

  I roll my eyes, happy we’re not face-to-face so he can’t see the flush in my cheeks.

  “You may have witnessed how I own the courtroom, but you know nothing about my private life. For instance, you don’t know if I like thrillers or comedies. Whether I prefer sorbet to ice cream or if I wear boxers or briefs.”

  “I don’t need to know those things,” I say with frustration, shutting my eyes to rid the vision from my head of him in tight black boxer briefs—since that’s my preference.