Red Hot Obsessions: Ten Contemporary Hot Alpha Male Romance Novels Boxed Set

by Blair Babylon

  “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 head. “Or Mr. Cunningham.”

  “What's wrong with that?” From where I sat, the two of them genuinely seemed to get on very well.

  Calder shrugs and grabs the bowl of salad from the top of the cart. “He says it's a sign of respect, but it just makes me feel old. He used to call me by my name, but then my father died and I—” He pauses, looks at me, then shrugs again. “And now I'm the one who signs his checks.”

  He sits down and scoops me a serving from the salad bowl. The tongs clang against the side of the bowl, and when I glance up at his face, I notice that his brows are drawn together, his mouth tight. His high spirits of just a moment ago have
completely disappeared. He seemed so genuinely happy around Martin—what happened?

  Now I’m the one who signs his checks, he said. These past few months have completely changed Calder’s life. Now he bears the financial burdens of this family, and it looks like he isn’t particularly pleased by this new set of responsibilities. And why would he be? He’s spent most of his life without having to think about that sort of accountability.

  I'm not sure what to say, so I pick up my fork and look down at my plate. Pear and arugula with soft crumbled cheese—wow. If this is the salad course, I can't wait to see the rest. My stomach rumbles again, and I dive in with as much ladylike grace as I can still muster.

  For a long while, neither of us speak. I'm not sure whether talking will improve matters or only make them worse, and the last thing I want to do is broach the subject of the Center when he’s in a foul mood. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the scrape of our forks against the china. I notice him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t acknowledge his gaze. He's the one who suddenly got all awkward. Let him be the one to start the conversation again.

  Unless…

  I take another bite of arugula. Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe this silence is some sort of weird intimidation technique and he's trying to psych me out. He's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to hear my spiel about the Center, and now he's making sure I fuck it up. He's trying to get under my skin before I even start.

  I grab my glass and take another swig of whiskey. I focus on the warm trail of the liquid as it slides down my throat. It pools in my belly like a little lump of courage.

  I'm being crazy, freaking out over nothing. He's probably just being polite and waiting for me to begin. We had a deal, after all. I should just go ahead and spit it out already.

  I take one more sip of my drink and slide it back on the table.

  “I know you haven't had many chances to visit the Center,” I say, sliding my finger across the edge of my glass, “but I really think if you came by you'd see how much work we do for the community. And how much your family's contributions mean for our programs.”