Summer Heat: A Steamy Romance Boxed Set

by Carly Phillips

  I have this random picture in my head of pushing my dad’s hospital bed like it’s a wheelchair, smiling at everyone while we eat our fast-food burgers stashed in my purse. Whatever’s in this bottle tastes like battery acid, but it feels amazing.

  “Avery, listen to me,” he says in this exasperated voice that means he’s had to repeat himself. Just for that I take another drink. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”

  Would he really? I don’t even know where the limo drove us, but if he found Gabriel Miller’s address, would he come riding up on a white steed? I don’t know if I believe that he wanted to get back together, or that he still would once he sees inside my house. All those empty rooms. We could have one of those flash raves where they fill the room with soap suds and save on cleaning.

  “Justin,” I say in what I hope is my serious voice. I make the n sound last a long time to be sure. “Would you have bid on me? Do you even have a million dollars?”

  “What are you talking about?” he says, his voice getting louder.

  As if I can’t hear him, which I totally can. I take another gulp, larger this time. That’s my new drinking game—a drink whenever he gets mad. If I’d done this at our last few appearances, I would have had a much better time.

  And why did I never notice that he called our dates appearances?

  “I’m talking about social climbing,” I say, examining the bottom of the cup. All gone. “You are a social climber. And I am a social faller.”

  Then I collapse into a fit of giggles. Somehow the silver phone handle ends up dangling off the end table, Justin’s voice a cartoonish buzz. I picture him as a tiny little man on my shoulder, like when an angel and a devil appear to whisper advice in your ear. Would he be the angel? Candy would definitely be the devil.

  The chandelier is so big. It must weigh like eight tons. I realize I’m lying on the floor, looking up at it. What if it fell on me right now? Game over. That’s what would happen. No maze, no sword. No sailing back with a white flag on my ship.

  That was the agreement Theseus made with his father. If he was successful in killing the Minotaur, he would wave a white flag from his ship on return. Except in all the excitement he forgot. His father watched the ship approach with so much grief he killed himself.

  That’s always been the saddest part of the story. It was all for nothing. I’ll wave the white flag, Daddy. And I’d never let him know what I did to save the house. I didn’t want him to die.

  “Christ,” a voice says, low and rumbly. Not at all like the tiny angel Justin.

  Gabriel’s face fills the space above my head, blocking the millions of lights from the chandelier.

  “Oh, hi.”

  He looks incredulous. “You’re drunk.”

  “I can’t be drunk. I only had one glass. And don’t worry, I drank the cheap stuff.”

  The empty glass must have rolled under the rug. He picks it up and sniffs. “You drank moonshine?” He makes a low growling sound. “This was the last bottle my dad made before he died.”

  My mouth drops open. “Oh my God, the white flag.”

  His gaze narrows on the phone. “Who did you call?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer but strides over to pick up the hanging shiny handset. “Who is this?”

  “Don’t you like caller ID?” I ask curiously. The silver rotary phone is pretty, but it doesn’t seem practical. Then again he just paid one million dollars to have sex with me. Maybe practicality isn’t a priority for him.

  He slams the phone down, vibrating with some kind of intense emotion. “Who. Did. You. Call?”

  I grew up around important men. Powerful men. Angry men. I learned to speak softly, to tread lightly. To smile at them and touch their arm, as if everything I do is to placate them. It’s not because I think they’re better than me. It just makes life easier. Then I disappear into my books, into the myths that make up a fantastical world so far removed from my own.

  Except somehow I’ve stepped into that world—a place of gods and monsters. My diplomacy might serve me well now, except the moonshine seems to have stripped it all away.

  “I called my fiancé, Mr. Nosy Pants.”

  His eyes darken. “He isn’t your fiancé anymore.”

  “He said he wants to get back together.”

  Gabriel comes to stand directly over me, his gaze intense. “That’s not happening. I bought you. You’re fucking mine. Got it?”

  I giggle. “He’s going to be so mad once he finds out. Men are always so mad.”

  “He can fucking deal with me if he has a problem with it.”

  My fingers form a frame in front of me, and I look at him between them. “You’re handsome for a monster.”

  “Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Do you want to get up off the floor now?”

  I manage to sit up, but then the world spins. “I’m thirsty. I need more of that moonshine.”

  “No.”

  “Are you saving it?” I whisper. “Since it’s the last moonshine your daddy made?”

  “I was,” he says, his voice dry.

  I nod. “I can drink the Crown Royal instead. Or the tequila. I’ve never had tequila.”

  “No more drinks for you. It’s bedtime.”

  “What? That’s so unfair.” I haven’t had a bedtime since I graduated from high school. And even though I usually went to bed by curfew at college, he doesn’t have to know that. “I’m not even sleepy.”

  As the words leave my lips, a wave of tiredness washes over me. It feels like more than the normal amount of sleep that you feel at the end of the night. This feels like I’ve been walking through the desert for days. It weighs down my eyelids until I’m looking at Gabriel through half-mast.

  He shakes his head. “Do not throw up on me.”

  I don’t know what he means until his hands slide under my legs. Then behind my shoulders. And I’m in the air, held only by his strength. I curl myself against his linen shirt, breathing in the musky scent of him. “You smell good.”

  “You smell like a distillery.”

  He’s taking me somewhere upstairs, and I close my eyes. “It will hurt less like this.”

  “It won’t hurt at all,” he says, softer now. “I’m putting you to bed.”

  “Because you want to own a virgin,” I say, repeating him.

  He doesn’t answer, nudging a door open. I glance around to see heavy brocade curtains and a high bed in the middle of the room. Lavender flowers adorn the thick down comforter, setting off the pale yellow vertical stripes on the wall. Pretty.

  “Too pretty for you,” I murmured.

  “You’re probably right about that,” he says, sounding amused.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Is that right?” he says, sounding less amused.

  “With a sword.”

  “And where are you going to get a sword?” He lays me down on sheets that feel outrageously cool against my heated skin. Then he pulls up the blanket. I think it’s going to be too hot, but once they’re on top of me, they feel just right.

  “I haven’t figured that out,” I say with a sigh. It’s a puzzle, that’s for sure. “But I don’t want to kill you. I just don’t want to die.”

  He’s silent a moment, and I peek one eye open at him. He’s looking at me with a strange expression. I would almost describe it as tender if he didn’t have the head of a bull.

  “Give me the jacket,” he says gently.

  Only then do I remember the jacket that’s wrapped around me. It has been ever since the auction. I guess it’s his way of claiming me, of marking me. So why does he want it back? I know he won the auction, but the jacket feels like my trophy.

  “Do I have to?”

  “You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Everything feels so good. You should have some of that moonshine.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he says roughly. “The jacket?”

  “Don’t look,” I warn him.

  After
a moment he turns and faces the door. Only then do I shrug out of the big suit jacket. God, his shoulders must be massive to fit this. And his biceps. God. I can see them through his shirt, bulging. It looks obscene. Like if there was a Playboy magazine spread open on the bed, his muscled forearms would be more explicit.

  I put the jacket on top of the bedspread and snuggle back under the blanket, all the way up to my neck. This is the softest bed I’ve ever lain in. “Ready.”

  He turns around and picks up the jacket. Then he stands there looking at the fabric in his hands as if he can’t quite figure something out. As if he can’t quite figure me out, even though I’m so simple. Simple girl, simple dreams. College, marriage, kids. A family—a real family, not just a dad who works through dinner most days. He’s the mystery.

  I glance at the other side of the bed. “Are you going to sleep…you know? Over there?”

  He looks at the empty space on the bed, his expression brooding. “No.”

  That makes sense, because this can’t be his room. It’s way too pretty. Way too feminine. He probably sleeps somewhere with glass and sleek black lines. With a TV set into the wall and real fur on the bed. Maybe there are animal horns nailed to the wall.

  “Avery,” he says, still holding the jacket like it’s something precious.

  I blink as sleep overtakes me. “Yes?”

  “Be careful. I’m more dangerous than you know.”

  The slightest awareness creeps back into me, along with a cold feeling. I shiver beneath the down blanket. I can sense how dangerous he is, but the knowledge doesn’t help me. I’m trapped here. I’m his. “Did you hurt my dad?”

  “He deserved everything I did to him.”

  My fists clench beneath the covers. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I don’t want you to die either.”

  He looks at me for another moment before turning to leave. The lights go dark, and my mind blurs. I know this is important, that he told me something important, but the moonshine turned my brain to mush. Sleep is inky and dark, thick as it swallows me whole.

  Be careful, he said, but even as I drift away, I can’t remember why.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning I wake up with a headache from hell. On shaking legs I stumble across the plush carpet, wearing only a white lace thong to prove anything happened last night. I don’t have any energy for modesty, though, and the room is empty anyway. Oh thank God, there’s a brand-new toothbrush on the counter. After I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I feel maybe ten percent more human. Enough that I can peek back into the room. Still empty.

  A patch of white on the dresser catches my eye. I find a note scrawled with the phone number for the place handling my father’s nurses. I recognize the name of one of the high-end private agencies from when I called around.

  I wasn’t able to afford them.

  On the chair beside the dresser sits my purse. I dig inside and find my phone. First things first, I dial the number. As soon as I tell them my name, they transfer me immediately to a Mr. Stewart, the director of the facility. I never got past the front-desk girl before.

  “We have our absolute best nurses working with him,” he assures me. “Over thirty years of experience between them, excellent references. The utmost discretion, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice faint.

  “They’re in direct communication with his doctor—we got your consent form, of course. To make sure he remains comfortable during your brief sojourn.”

  Sojourn? That’s a new way of describing prostitution.

  Mr. Stewart gives me his personal phone number and implores me to call him anytime, day or night, if I want to check on my father. It’s an outrageous level of service, even for the price that I was quoted. I’m sure Gabriel is paying more than that for this kind of attention. Or maybe it’s his name on the check that demands such respect.

  An uneasy feeling twists my stomach. I should feel good that my father is taken care of. Certainly these nurses will be able to provide better care than I could. But I can’t help feeling that I’m somehow in Gabriel Miller’s debt. And as my father learned, that’s a terrifying place to be.

  I find most of my clothes in the closet, hanging neatly. God, how hard had I been sleeping? That moonshine is some crazy shit. And his dad brewed it himself? I have this mental image of a bathtub full of liquor, but I can’t imagine that when I’m standing in Gabriel’s spacious marble bathroom.

  Scalding hot water turns my skin red. I don’t remember much from last night. There was a phone call to Justin. Some memory of lying on the rug downstairs, though I don’t know why. I feel between my legs, but there’s nothing. I would feel something if he’d taken my virginity, wouldn’t I? Some foreign texture, some soreness? The only ache I feel is in my head.

  I stand under the wide showerhead forever, letting it beat away the last of my hangover. Then I get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, because if he wants sexy, he’ll have to supply the clothes himself.

  I don’t find Gabriel downstairs, though. Instead there’s a heavyset woman whistling to herself as she kneads dough. She smiles when she sees me, her cheeks literally rosy. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen two perfectly round spots of color, but she has them. Flour coats her arms.

  “Hello, Miss Avery. Are you hungry?”

  As soon as she asks the question, my stomach rumbles. I’m not entirely sure it should be trusted with food. That moonshine still lingers at the outer edges, threatening to make me dizzy. “Maybe a little.”

  “I can make you something. Eggs. Waffles.”

  I put my hands over my stomach. “I’m not sure.”

  She smiles sympathetically. “There’s some Frosted Flakes in the pantry.”

  My eyes widen because I’ve always loved Frosted Flakes. They’re simple and common, but they remind me of Sunday mornings with my dad. Our housekeeper had Sundays off, so we would dig through the pantry and watch cartoons. He would be on his phone half the time, but I didn’t care.

  How did Gabriel Miller know to stock Frosted Flakes for me?

  How did he get a key to the house for the nurse?

  How did he sign a consent form on my behalf for the agency?

  He’s breaking the law in a hundred different ways, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours. But he’s doing it to help me. Everything, designed to help me. That’s more perplexing.

  Before the auction he said that the buyer would pay for a nurse so that he could have complete access to me. That the man would be rich enough that it wouldn’t matter.

  The Frosted Flakes aren’t expensive. They don’t give him more access to me, but they are thoughtful. Even sweet. And that matters more than I want to admit.

  Without a word I head into the pantry and find a brand-new box of Frosted Flakes. I pour milk over it. With my bowl in hand I grab a seat at a rustic thick wood table.

  The first bite makes my eyes close in pleasure.

  “Mrs. Burchett,” the woman says cheerfully. “And I’m to assist you in any way possible, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to holler.”

  She has a slight drawl that I can’t quite place. “How long have you worked for Mr. Miller?”

  “Oh, long enough to know that he wouldn’t like me answering many questions.”

  I take another bite. She’s undoubtedly right about that. “Where is he?”

  She busies herself pressing the dough into a ceramic pie dish. “He had to go out. Business.”

  There’s this hollow feeling in my stomach. I’m so used to fear, to the gnawing ache that’s accompanied me ever since Dad was convicted, that I almost don’t recognize it at first.

  Disappointment. Except that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to spend time with Gabriel Miller. I don’t want him to take my virginity. My memory from last night is hazy, but I think I’d feel some trace on my body if he’d had sex with me.

  When I finish the cereal, I rinse out my dish.r />
  “There’s a television around the corner,” she says. “Every show and movie you could want.”

  “Oh,” I say, somewhat mystified by the idea of watching TV when I was purchased for sex.

  “Or you could visit the library,” she says, pulling out a covered bowl of what looks like chicken pot pie filling. I hope I’ll be able to have some of that later.

  She gives me directions, and I walk down the oversize hallways into an even larger room. My eyes widen as I realize this has a second floor, reachable by a spiral staircase. Little angels with trumpets are carved into the mahogany near the top. At the bottom, hands reach out of the flames.

  Okay, that’s disturbing.

  What’s even more disturbing is that this room seems made for me. The fire’s already burning with a faint, pleasant crackle. There’s a gleaming rustic wood chess set lined up in the center of the table.

  On the table beside the fireplace are a stack of books—Fairy Tales from around the Mediterranean, The Myth of Homer Revealed. It’s too much to think Gabriel spends his evenings reading Greek mythology. These are for me.

  “Ready to play?” comes a low voice.

  I whirl, dropping the book I’m holding. Fairy Tales from around the Mediterranean lands spread open, its spine stretched. I pick it up before it bends, hugging the large volume to my chest. “Play?”

  He steps out from behind the spiral staircase. Was he waiting for me there? “Chess.”

  What would you do with her? Damon asked.

  Play chess, Gabriel answered, turning me into a joke.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you think you can say no?”

  Defiance burns in my veins. My mind, my soul. That’s my leverage, Candy said, and I don’t plan to give him any. “You bought my body, that’s all.”

  “I bought all of you.”

  “You can make me move around the pieces. Is that what you want?” An empty brainless automaton. That’s all I’d give him, as plain as the actual pawn piece on the board. Chess is the game my daddy taught me, the game he played with me every week. And this is the man who ruined him. It would be a betrayal to play it with him.