So what if our donation numbers were through the roof when he volunteered with us? I know firsthand how convincing he can be when he turns on the charm. Dad used to say that Garrett could “sell green cheese to a moon man.” But a part of me still refuses to believe that he’s the only one who can get us out of this mess.
Besides, I tell myself, you don't even know that he'll agree to help you at all.
I don't have to make this decision tonight. One more day won't change the Center's situation.
Instead I click back through the contacts and call my dad instead.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says when he picks up. “Any news?”
I try not to notice the desperate hope in his voice.
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” I say carefully. “But I’m still working on it.” I feel terrible lying to him like this, but he’d be so upset if he knew the truth. I can’t bear to add even that much stress on top of what he’s already dealing with.
“You’re still out there?” he says. “At this hour?”
I find a loose thread along the edge of the comforter and twist it around my finger.
“That’s what I’ve called to tell you,” I say. “The weather’s really bad and the roads flooded. I’m not going to be able to make it home tonight.”
He immediately switches from over-worked director into over-protective Dad mode.
“Are you all right? Do you have somewhere to stay? Is the car okay?”
I give a small smile at his concern.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “The car, too. I’ll try to finish up here in the morning and come straight home after that.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You sound… stressed.”
Even though he’s already struggling with so much, he’s still concerned about me. It makes me feel even worse.
“I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’m fine, really.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says. “Get some rest, you hear?”
“Of course. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
We hang up and I toss my phone on the nightstand. We’re going to get through this, he and I. We have to.
I don’t really feel like sleeping now, for all that I told Calder I was tired. I toss and turn for a little while, but I know it’s a lost cause. Finally I throw off the comforter and climb out of bed. I'm too restless to keep lying here.
I begin to pace around the room, determined to wear myself out. There are plenty of ways to distract myself in here, at least. For a few minutes I stand by the window, trying to spot the hedge maze through the dark and rain, but I don't see anything. Next I wander back into the closet and peruse the electronic directory, looking for the most ridiculous outfit I can find, but I get bored with that pretty quickly.
Which leaves me with only one option: to search for secret doors.
I mean, how often do you find yourself in a house with hidden passages in the walls? Assuming Calder wasn't pulling my leg, of course. I'm one of only a handful of people who will ever get to see the inside of this place; it's my public duty to explore the possibility of secret passageways. Or so my exhausted, sleep-deprived mind tells me.
I start at the main door and work my way around the room. I find a flat screen television hidden behind a mirror and a mini-fridge behind a panel near the bathroom. Apparently rich people like to hide their conveniences behind expensive decorative items. But I find no doors in the walls, nor any buttons or levers hidden under shelves or behind lamps. I spend a while at the electronic tablet next to the bed, but though I discover a radio, house directory, and even a weather-reporting application among its options, there's no magic “open sesame” button.
I come to the elaborate fireplace last. If this were a fantasy or kid's cartoon, the fireplace would be the key. The carved stone mantel is ridiculously ornate; all it should take is the right amount of pressure on the right decorative leaf and a doorway will open up behind the gas logs. I've seen it a hundred times.
I work my way from right to left along the mantel, pushing and prodding every bit of stone. Nothing moves. When I've poked at every leaf and twist of vine, I go back in the opposite direction, trying everything again. Just in case.
Nothing happens.
I'll admit it—I’m a little disappointed. If there are actually secret passageways in this house, none of them appear to start in this room. I step away from the mantel, and in the process I trip over the rack with the fireplace poker.
“Mother fuc—”
I break off my curse when I hear the scrape of wood and stone behind me. I stand and turn.
You cannot be fucking serious.
A portion of the wall has swung inward, revealing a dark hallway beyond. A secret passageway. An actual secret-fucking-passageway. Calder wasn't lying after all.
I walk over and peer inside. The corridor is pitch black. I can't tell how long it is or which direction it ultimately leads.
But dark or not, there's no way I'm not going exploring.
I run back to the bed and grab my cell from the nightstand. Hopefully the light from its screen will be enough to keep me from falling and breaking my neck.
I can't believe I'm actually doing this, I think. But then again, I never expected to break onto the Cunninghams' property or wear their clothes or eat their food. I never expected to sleep in one of their giant, fluffy beds.
No turning back now, I tell myself.
I hit a button on my phone to bring the screen to life, and then I step into the darkness of the passage.
CHAPTER FIVE
I move slowly along the passage, the phone held out in front of me. The faint blue glow from the screen is just enough to keep me from walking into the walls. The corridor twists and turns ahead of me, and after five minutes I've already completely lost my bearings. I have no idea which direction I'm going or where I might end up. My only consolation is that there's only one way back, so it's unlikely I'll get too lost.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I begin to notice other details. At regular intervals along the walls, for example, I start spotting small, nondescript door handles. Some have even been brushed with pale paint, making them easier to spot among the shadows. I stop at one and give it a wiggle. The door creaks open, revealing the dark room beyond.
Part of me wants to venture out into the room, but another part feels weird poking around without Calder. I step back into the passage and pull the door closed behind me. I tell myself I should turn around and go back to my bedroom, but something drives me onward. I want to see where this secret corridor leads.
It’s only a few minutes later that I discover the first set of spy holes.
At first, I think I'm imagining things, but it's hard to miss the slivers of light that fall across my path. There's a pair of narrow slits in the wall, right at eye level, and they’re too perfectly round to be cracks. I step closer and look through them. On the other side, I can see a long, dimly lit hallway. It appears to be empty.
Were these passages really just to hide the servants? Geez, I feel like I'm suddenly in the middle of a murder mystery or something. Is someone suddenly going to spring from the shadows and bop me over the head with a candlestick?
I continue along the passage, but now I'm on the lookout for more spy holes. They're harder to spot when they're looking onto a dark room, but I find a set that offers me a view of an unlit office, then a couple of pairs revealing bedrooms. There's not much to see, really, but still the entire thing feels deliciously wicked. I can only imagine a couple of reasons for why people would want spy holes looking into bedrooms.
And that's when I find Calder's room.
His lights are still on, so I spot the holes long before I even hear the hum of the television or his own movements around the room. I know it's wrong, but I can't resist taking a peek. My heart thumps in my ears as I press my hands against the wall and bring my eyes to the small openings in the paneling.
I'm struck immediately by the sleek mo
dernity of his room. The walls are a pale steely blue, the furniture sleek and black. The flat screen television mounted on the far wall is flashing the local news.
Calder moves across the room, a towel around his waist.
Damn.
His dark hair is wet, and it curls deliciously against his neck. I try not to ogle his bare chest, but it's hard to ignore. He's pure muscle, from his broad shoulders to his chiseled waist. I've seen pictures in the tabloids, of course, but a grainy photograph is nothing compared to Calder in the flesh.
And just a couple of hours ago, he hinted he wanted to take you to bed, I remind myself. I could be in there with him right now, if I wanted, with my fingers running across those smooth muscles. I could—
I jerk back from the spy holes. What am I even thinking? I hate this guy. Okay, so he’s moderately attractive. I've already acknowledged that to myself. But I made the right decision. I don't regret turning him down.
Still, I can't keep myself from moving my eyes to the spy holes again, nor can I ignore the heat that rushes up my neck.
He's a selfish bastard, I remind myself.
He turns, and I have a clear view of his perfectly sculpted back.
Damn. I'm in trouble.
He wanders over to a cabinet at the side of the room and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid. I watch his every movement, breathless, as he pours himself a glass. He takes it down in one swig and slams the glass down against the table. Then he lets out a long sigh and runs his hand through his hair. My own fingers tingle as I imagine wrapping them around those dark, wet strands, then sliding down his—
NO. What the hell am I doing? I have more self-control than this.
But I’m drawn back to the spy holes like a magnet. Try as I might to deny it, I can no longer lie to myself: Calder is an extremely attractive man, asshole or not.
Not just attractive, I think as I watch him pour himself another glass. Insanely-fucking-sexy.
I’d like to think that I’m different from all the other women who seem to just fall at his feet. That I won’t allow myself to be distracted by pecs and abs and bulging biceps. That I won’t allow myself to be taken in by a jerk who just happens to have a charming smile. I’ve been there with Garrett. I won’t make the same mistake a second time.
But there’s no reason I can’t fantasize a little, I tell myself. I'll never actually let him touch me.
Calder’s still standing next to the sideboard, his hand on his glass. His shoulders are tense, his muscles tight, his eyes focused on some invisible distance. I itch to go in there, to rub his shoulders and help him relax, but I quickly fight down the urge. It’s no wonder he’s tense, after the way he’s handled the Center—and undoubtedly other organizations as well.
But in spite of myself, I imagine my fingers sliding over his chest, tracing those smooth muscles, sliding down the hard shape of his body. I want to feel the heat of him, know the velvet softness of his skin beneath my touch. My heartbeat quickens as I picture the path my fingers would take across his flesh.
Calder is completely oblivious to my thoughts. After a moment he turns and moves back toward the bed, glass in hand. I watch his muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves.
He puts his drink on the nightstand and picks up an electronic tablet. He turns toward the television and presses the tablet screen a few times. The channel changes with every tap of his finger. When he's found something he likes, he sets the tablet back on the nightstand. His hand moves to his towel.
My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it away from his waist. Suddenly he's completely naked, and I have a full-on view of his backside.
Dear sweet mother of pearl.
He’s a freaking god.
A moan from the television is the only thing that could tear my eyes away from that hard body. I glance up at the flat screen, and my heart just about stops when I realize what's he's watching. There are two naked women on the screen, and one's straddling the other, her hands roaming over her partner's breasts.
I jerk away from the spy holes again. I know I shouldn't be shocked—people watch porn, after all. I’ve watched porn, though honestly I prefer romance novels to sleazy movies most of the time. But it's one thing to watch a dirty film in the privacy of my apartment with my vibrator in my hand and quite another to watch a gorgeous man watch porn from a secret passageway.
I lean against the wall. Through the paneling, I can hear more moans and heavy breathing coming from the television. I also hear the soft give of a mattress—Calder climbing into bed.
I should go. This is wrong, standing hear listening to this, spying on Calder as he… as he… But I can't seem to move my feet. My blood is rushing in my ears. There's an ache beginning to form between my legs, and it keeps me frozen against the wall.
In the bedroom, I hear Calder exhale a long breath. One of the women on the television begins squealing. I can't help it. I'm drawn to the spy holes once more.
Calder lounges on the bed, his hand around his long, hard length. My entire body goes hot at the sight of him touching himself. His hand slides steadily up and down. The ache between my legs sharpens into a throbbing.
I should go, but it's too late now. I'm riveted by the sight in front of me. I can't turn away. I slip the hand that doesn't hold my phone beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms. My fingers slide between my legs, seeking the core of my building frustration. I'm already getting wet, and my flesh quivers at even that first, light touch.
My eyes move to the television again. The woman on top leans forward and closes her mouth around her partner's nipple. My own nipples stiffen beneath my pajama top. What would Calder do if he knew I was here? If he knew I was growing aroused at the same movie he watched, at the sight of his hand around himself? I slide my phone into my pocket and move that hand up under my top to tease one of my nipples. In my mind it's his hand, his fingers pinching and pulling and twisting. In my mind I'm in his room, next to him on the bed, and it's my hand wrapped around him, sliding up and down his length.
The ache between my legs is building to the point of pain.
In the room, Calder's hand begins to pump a little faster. His breathing has quickened with his movements. My own breathing is short and shallow. I can't see his face, but I remember the way his eyes burned into mine, the hunger I saw in their depths. He wanted me. Maybe he wants me still. Maybe it's me he's thinking of now, just as I'm thinking of him. I move my hand further between my legs and slip one finger inside.
On the screen, the girls appear to follow my lead. The one on top has moved aside just enough to be able to reach between her partner's legs. The other girl moans and writhes against her.
Calder makes a sound in his throat. He's getting close. I am, too. It's all I can do to fight back the moan forming in my own throat. This is wrong, so very wrong, but I can't help myself. I can't remember the last time I was this aroused by anything. The wickedness of it all just makes my body respond all the more.
On the bed, Calder sucks in a breath. I slump against the wall, no longer able to watch and hold myself upright at the same time. I increase the speed and pressure of the hand between my legs. I'm no longer concerned about hiding the heavy sound of my breathing. I'm too far gone to care.
I want him. Fuck it, I want him. I don't care if he's a selfish jerk. I still want him. I want him to throw me up against the wall and ram his fingers inside of me. I want him to make me scream.
Climax hits me hard, rushing over me with such intensity that I let out a moan before I can stop myself. I freeze, my wet hand still between my legs, waves of pleasure still shuddering through my body. My legs are shaking. I stay against the wall, unable to move, terrified. There's no way he didn't hear my moan. No way.
I wait for a secret door to come flying open, for Calder to burst into the passageway and catch me at my spying, but nothing happens.
Maybe he thought my sound of pleasure had come from one of the actresses on the television. Maybe he was so caught up in
his own pleasure that he thought he'd imagined it.
The euphoria is fading from me now, and with it reality sets in: I just spied on Calder while he touched himself. I just watched that, and I was so aroused by the whole thing that I touched myself, too.
I force myself away from the wall. My heart is careening wildly and my legs are still trembling, but I can't stay here. I can't believe what I've done. I can't believe I let it get this far. I hurry down the passageway, back toward my room.
This never happened, I tell myself.
Still, I can tell already that my body won't let me forget this anytime soon.
* * *
Morning comes too quickly. My hair is still wet from the shower I took after returning to my room last night, but I don't care. I switch out of Louisa's pajamas and back into my clothes from yesterday. They're stiff and crusty from the dried mud, but that doesn't matter. I'm eager to get out of here as soon as I can. If I can sneak out without running into Calder, then all the better. He doesn't really deserve more than a thank-you note, I tell myself. Not after what he's done to the Center. It's cowardly, I know, but I don't know how to face him, not after last night. I don't think I can look at him again after what I've done.
But luck isn't on my side. When I open the door to the hallway, hoping to slip out quietly, I find myself face to face with Calder. He stands there in front of me, fist raised as if he'd been about to knock on my door. A slow smile slips across his lips.
“Well look at that,” he says. “Perfect timing.” His eyes slide down my body, and his smile fades as he takes in my clothes. “Why are you wearing that? Certainly you can find something clean that fits you.”
My stomach flips, and not entirely because of his scrutiny—though admittedly that stings, too. I can't look at him without remembering last night, without picturing him naked and lounging on his bed, his hand around his hard length. Without recalling how much it had aroused me. My body reacts even now to the memory, and I reach out and grab the door frame to hide the fact that my legs are quivering.
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