Sinfully Rich: A Steamy Billionaire Box Set

by Vivian Wood

  It’s pouring with rain way out here in Belway Point. Now that I have actually made it out here, the lush greenery surrounding my car on both sides mixes with the white patter of the rain, making the entire world look like an abstract impressionist painting. Just two turns back I was looking out at the deep blue sea over a bluff, and now I am deep in the jungle somehow.

  The pacific northwest is so confusing to a girl from New Jersey.

  I’m supposed to be driving out to the Morgan estate, in the desperate hope that they will hire me as an archivist. Old documents and family records are what I’m the most interested in; but without going to school for my master’s degree, I’ve sort of hit a dead end in the archiving business.

  That is, assuming that this doesn’t pan out.

  Starting the car again, I creep forward on the unpaved road. I’m afraid I will hit something or someone if I go any faster in this downpour. Looking at the clock on the dashboard, I start to sweat.

  I’m supposed to be at my meeting in fifteen minutes. I arrived here with plenty of time to spare, but now I’m caught up on this last step. I look out the window, hoping against hope for a sign that will point me toward the house.

  “Come on,” I mutter. “Where are you, Morgan estate?”

  After another minute of driving along very slowly, I see a wrought iron sign with the family name on it.

  “Yes!” I squeal. Turning slowly down an overgrown lane, I bump my way down for a few minutes until I reach a large clearing with the house in it.

  The rain slows down enough for me to make out details of the house a little bit better. It is three stories high, painted a dull gray color, and extremely old-fashioned looking. It is missing most of the shutters and the paint is peeling. And either I’m crazy, or the whole entire house is leaning distinctly left.

  Still, it’s definitely worth looking at. I didn’t expect it to be so big, even though it is referred to as an estate. Looking at the dash, I realize that I’m almost late. So I straighten my dress, lift my shoulder bag onto my shoulder, and then make the mad dash from the car up to the porch.

  I make it to the porch fine, but my dress doesn’t. Long and made of white linen with a skinny little leather belt, it looks like a hot mess when I examine it. That’s not even considering my hair, which I’m sure hangs like a heap of wet rags. Before I can do anything though, a very squeaky door opens.

  A little old lady comes out, using her walker as a support. If she were less than ninety years old, I would be shocked. She’s dressed in a head to toe black crepe dress and looks like something out of the turn of the century. She smiles anxiously at me.

  “Are you Olivia, dear?” she says, rather loudly.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and nod. My cheeks heat. “Yes. I’m supposed to be here about the archivist position.”

  The woman grimaces. “You’ll have to speak up, my dear. I’m afraid I’ve gone a bit deaf in the last few years.”

  Unsure how loud to be, I lean closer to her and raise my voice. “I’m Olivia. I am here to be your archivist. It is nice to meet you!”

  She closes her eyes, nods, and smiles. “I’m Margaret Morgan. It is a pleasure! If you’ll come inside, please, I’ve laid out tea for us.”

  She seems very polished and polite, very starched too. As I follow her inside the house, I look with wide eyes at the grand foyer with a huge decorative staircase. Everything in here gleams, though the wood floors are a bit careworn and the brass staircase a bit tarnished. The inside of the house is still spotless, despite what I might have guessed from the outside.

  Margaret heads to the right, through a set of heavy doors that have been propped open. Here I do a double take. Several very finely appointed couches and a couple of end tables are clustered around the fireplace. As promised, it looks as though tea has been set up for us.

  Margaret hobbles over to one of the couches and sits down, gesturing for me to do the same. “Please, please. Take a seat.”

  I sit down on the sofa closest to me, ignoring the plume of dust that rises from the couch. Margaret serves me finger sandwiches and some petit fours before relaxing with her own plate.

  “Tell me about yourself!” she declares. “Have you a family, my dear?”

  Coloring, I clear my throat. I’ll have to remember to speak up, which is sort of foreign for me. At least with strangers. Margaret does make me feel a little more comfortable than I would normally be in a job interview, though. “Just my brother, ma’am. I just graduated from Kean University and I would like to start work as an archivist…”

  “Why should that be?” Margaret asks, biting into a petit four.

  I have to think about that one. “Because I love old books and files, I guess. They are less demanding than most people I know…”

  “You are quite right about that, Olivia.” The older lady chuckles into her teacup. “You know, I checked your references out and heard nothing but glowing positive reviews from your college.”

  My cheeks color. She must’ve called the librarians at Kean University, then. I don’t want to say that they all thought I walked on water, but I will say that the ladies there did dote on me. “It’s nice to know that I was appreciated.” I pause, trying to think of an interview-appropriate question. “What are you looking for from an archivist, specifically?”

  “What’s that?” she says, cupping a hand around her ear.

  “I asked what you are looking for from an archivist!” I half-shout.

  She sighs. “I’m afraid that the Morgan family has declined a great deal since we were at our height in the early 1930s. We don’t have much to offer in the way of salary, but I can offer room and board and a small stipend. Two hundred dollars a week, we will say. Plus, you’ll be getting firsthand experience archiving our records.”

  She pauses. “But I must ask… what are you hoping to get out of archiving?”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “If I can just get some experience, I can apply to work somewhere prestigious. It is my dream to do this job for the National Preservation Society, but there are actually a lot of jobs out there. They just go to… well… to be honest, they go to people with more experience or formal education than I have.”

  Margaret makes a face. “Phooey! I have never had a formal education and I turned out to be the most well-learned of all of my siblings. Education isn’t something that I require. We can give you the experience you need.”

  My eyes well up. Honestly, even a job that pays almost nothing is a thousand times better than working at a dead-end job in Seattle making coffee. I lean forward, trying to repress my excitement. “That all sounds great to me. You won’t regret hiring me.”

  She smiles. “I’m already certain of that. But I must warn you… I am afraid that I don't have any access to that Inter Net that’s all the rage with you young people. Not in the main house, and not anywhere on the property.”

  I consider that for a moment. I can get whatever I need off of my cell phone, I guess. “I don't think that will be a problem.”

  She leans in. “What are your hobbies, then?”

  I flush. “Well… I do a little yoga in the mornings. To unwind, I like to read. Oh! And I love a little dark chocolate.”

  That’s an understatement. I keep at least four full bars of dark chocolate with me at all times. When I’m stressed or depressed, dark chocolate is one of the only things that can lift me out of a funky mood.

  She sits back, appearing satisfied with my answer. “I think you’ll fit in just fine here, my dear.”

  I purse my lips. “If I may ask, what state are your records in now?”

  Margaret looks away for a moment. “They are in a rather distressing state of dysfunction, I think. It is best to show you before you agree to anything, I think.”

  My brows rise. “Oh?”

  She rocks back for a second, working up the momentum to get off of the sofa. I notice that her shoulders are hunched as she beckons me. “Come. You’ll see.”

  Curious,
I follow her out of the parlor and a short way down the hall. She rocks and she walks, hobbling toward a pair of rolling double doors. It gives me a strange type of anxiety to watch her walk; I can tell that walking hurts her fragile old bones.

  When she reaches the doors, she turns to me with a grimace, leaning against the doorway. “Would you be a dear and open the doors? I can hardly manage these days.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  The heavy wood doors each have a brass handle in the middle to slide open. Clutching them, I roll them back with some difficulty. The doors are on a track at the top and the bottom and they definitely haven’t been well serviced in years.

  When I open the doors, I suck in a breath. The room itself is huge, at least two stories tall. It has soaring ceilings, buttery hardwood floors, airy light filtering down from cobweb-covered skylights. The walls are covered in bookcases, lined with ancient-looking books.

  But there are papers and books in towering stacks, covering every inch of the floor. I can see where there are paths cut into the stacks that were kept by someone small-statured at some point in the past. When I opened the doors, I disturbed a cloud of dust and now it drifts toward me.

  “Oh my,” I say, coughing a little and waving my hand in front of my face.

  Margaret studies my face. “Indeed.”

  I look at all the piles of books and papers. They don’t make me feel daunted, but I will definitely need some assistance to get them down, a little at a time. And I don't think that Margaret will be much help in that area.

  Turning to Margaret, I blow out a breath. “It is an enormous challenge.”

  Her mouth turns down. “Yes. Of that, I am certain.”

  “I would need help. Someone to lift anything heavy.”

  She suddenly beams. “If I told you that was not a problem, would you take charge of this task?”

  My heart beats a little faster. “I would be honored, Mrs. Morgan.”

  I reach my hand out when she offers me hers. I find myself more than a little surprised at her strength. She leans in.

  “Do call me Margaret, dear. After all, you’re going to be the family archivist.” She glances inside the library and sighs. “I’ve just hired a nice young man to help around the estate, but I don't think he would mind helping in here too. He’s actually already here, staying in the staff lodging where you will stay, if you’re amenable to it. Let me just call him…”

  She shuffles off toward the front of the house again, leaving me to trail in her wake. As she goes into the parlor again, I hear heavy boots on the front porch. The front door swings open, silhouetting a tall figure.

  For a second, I freeze.

  That looks like…

  But it can’t be…

  Handsome as sin and broad as an oak tree, Aiden Moreland steps inside, his eyes finding my figure like a magnet. My heart skitters to a halt. His dark eyes widen just as Margaret steps back into the hallway.

  “Olivia?” he says, puzzled.

  “Aiden?” I answer.

  My mouth goes dry. My heart starts pounding.

  The only man I’ve ever been in love with, the one who seems to look right past me, is standing in the doorway. His brow is furrowed, his dark gaze threatening to burn me to ash.

  I’m confused, because Aiden has a full-time job already. He is a park ranger, like my brother Grayson. We have known each other since I was a skinny eight-year-old and he was fourteen, already resembling the man he would one day be.

  Margaret looks between us. “You two know each other, then?”

  I turn crimson, although I don't know why. “I—”

  “Yes,” Aiden says. “She’s my best friend’s little sister.”

  I drop my gaze. There it is, stated plainly. I am forever defined in Aiden’s eyes by my older brother and the relationship Aiden and Grayson have. It’s stifling, being put in this restrictive box, but I am here nonetheless.

  “Oh!” Margaret says, pleased. “You’re practically family, then. Well, it should be no problem for you two to work together for the summer. It’ll be nice, don't you think?”

  My mouth is so dry that I have to swallow a couple of times before I speak. “Ummm… yes?” I mumble.

  Aiden’s gaze narrows on me. “Should be fine,” he mutters.

  Margaret looks between us, still beaming. “That’s splendid. We’ll take it step by step then. Does that work for you, dear?”

  I nod, my cheeks still burning.

  She hobbles over and clasps my hand in hers. Her skin is cool and papery against mine.

  “Why don’t you show Olivia the staff quarters, Aiden?”

  “Fine,” he repeats, moving back through the doorway. He waves a hand to beckon me, but his eyes don’t seem welcoming at all.

  My heart hasn’t stopped thumping since Aiden opened the door. I don’t know what to think or feel about Aiden just now, though my body tenses the way it always does when he’s around. With a huge gulp, I move toward the front door, wishing like hell I knew what was going on.

  4

  Aiden

  The second I see Olivia, my heart starts pounding.

  Fuck.

  No, but seriously, fuck.

  She’s not supposed to be here. She’s not even supposed to be in this state. Hot, smart, and very very off limits…

  Olivia is my weakness, personified. I don’t have many hard and fast rules, but the ones I do have I stand by. Like never, ever touching Grayson’s little sister. He has warned me off of her more times than I can count.

  Yet… one look at her, and I am willing to throw away my rules.

  And I have to be so on my guard right now, since I am basically living on the Morgan estate under totally false pretenses. I haven’t found out anything about my parentage yet but I’m going to make moves soon.

  Assuming that Olivia doesn’t totally blow my cover.

  “Aiden?” she asks softly, her big blue eyes imploring me.

  Fuck.

  “Outside,” I growl, halfway dragging her toward the door.

  She could make a big deal out of my presence here. She has no way of knowing that I am here sort of undercover, to find out more about my mother’s claim that I am a Morgan.

  But she just gazes at me, thoroughly surprised. I rush her out of the house as fast as I can, before she accidentally reveals something I don’t want Mrs. Morgan to know.

  The rain has stopped by now, but the air is still humid. My clothes cling to me, and I notice that Olivia’s white dress is partially see-through. Yanking my gaze away, because I should definitely not be trying to see what she has on underneath, I steady myself.

  I can't stop my body reacting, though. Tightening, as if I’m stupid enough to actually act on what she makes me feel.

  No fucking way.

  I wait until I follow Olivia down the front porch steps to question her. I’m some mixture of angry and turned on and confused, but I want to be certain that we are not in earshot of Mrs. Morgan before I start asking questions.

  Olivia looks at me carefully, her eyes large and so damned blue. She has long dark hair, smooth and silky, and her eyes are rimmed with long, dark eyelashes. She blushes a little.

  God, that color in her cheeks makes me crazy. I want to reach out and pull her in, give her a reason to flush so prettily. I clench my fists, because there is no way I’m doing that.

  “What are you doing here, Aiden?” she asks, seeming flustered.

  Her voice is low, almost raspy. It makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. I shift my gaze backward, checking that Mrs. Morgan has closed the heavy front door.

  “I’m on leave from working at the National Park Service. I work here as a handyman.” I send her a pointed look. “And I’m more worried about what you are doing here. Aren’t you supposed to be finding a job in New York?”

  Her eyes widen a little at my tone. She lifts her chin. “I wanted to work out here. To be closer to Grayson.”

  She goes bright pink, which I’m
pretty sure means that she’s lying. But I don't know what she would be lying about.

  I grab her by the elbow and pull her closer as we walk around the house. She is much smaller than me, her frame slender. She may be tall for a girl but compared to my 6’3 height she is practically tiny.

  “But what are you doing here?” I demand to know.

  Her brows hunch. “Mrs. Morgan advertised in the Seattle Times looking for an archivist.”

  “A what?”

  She sighs impatiently. “An archivist, Aiden. Someone to deal with the preservation of old records and books.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve been looking for a job like this since I was in my senior year at Kean University. I told you about how I was looking for a job when I visited here last time. I swear, it’s like you haven’t ever listened to anything I’ve said.”

  I am stung by that. Why would Olivia think that? “That’s not true.”

  On second thought, it might be. It sounds like something I would do. But I don't have the time or patience for that conversation now.

  I think about what she said, about old records. “Does that mean you will have access to a lot of family information?”

  She gives me a sideways look. “I would assume so, yes.”

  Maybe this could actually be a good thing, then. It could help me achieve my goal, which is to secretly find out whether or not my mom’s story could possibly have been true.

  Olivia struggles a little in my grasp. “You’re hurting me.”

  I ease my grip, but I don't let her go. I just wedge her more firmly under my arm and start walking across the front yard.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  I give her a determined smile. “Apparently you are staff now, so I’m taking you to the staff quarters. They are set back in the woods a bit.”

  “Oh.” She looks back at the main house, then ahead to the woods as we come around the house. There is a path cut through the woods that leads to the staff housing, but you can’t see it until you’re right on top of it. She swallows, which drains away some of my anger.

  “Are you actually worried that I am leading you into the woods with bad intentions?” I ask, the corners of my mouth curling up a bit.