Red Hot Obsessions (2 page)

No one comes.

I raise one foot up onto the gate and then the other, and I begin to climb. The metal is cold and slick beneath my fingers, but that wild, reckless feeling is building in my belly again. I move carefully but deliberately, kicking through the vines to find the footholds, clutching the bars with white knuckles. When I'm high enough, I pause again.

“Aren't you going to stop me?” I call up to the camera.

Apparently, the answer is no.

I bring one leg up and through the break in the ironwork, then slide forward until my upper body is through. I glance around for security guards, but I don't see anyone or anything that might stop me.

Is it really this easy? Can I honestly just climb down onto the Cunningham property?

I pull myself through the rest of the way, clinging desperately to the bars as my feet fumble for new footholds. I'm breaking into the Cunningham estates. This is crazy.
I'm
crazy. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I'm not sure whether I want to laugh or vomit.

“I guess no one minds I'm here?” I call into the rain.

I take the resulting silence as consent.

The climb down is more difficult than the climb up. My fingers are colder now from the rain and they're starting to get stiff. The vines seem to be thicker on this side, and one gets tangled around my leg. I manage to free myself, but I'm more than grateful when my feet finally hit solid ground again.

I stand there, frozen, and wait for the alarms to go off. Shouldn't there be blaring sirens or flashing lights or something? Shouldn't a pack of vicious Dobermans come charging down the driveway to rip me to shreds?

Apparently the Cunningham family's security measures aren't as good as I thought.

I smile to myself. I’ve never felt this reckless before, but I think it agrees with me. I know I’m being insane, but I don’t care. I’ve come here to save the Center, and there’s no turning back now.

Calder Cunningham won’t even know what hit him.

CHAPTER TWO

I've only met Calder once in person, but that was enough. It was at the Frazer Center's Arts & Hearts fundraiser, a black tie dinner we host every Valentine's Day in our gallery space. The affair is our most formal event of the year, and in addition to raising a good chunk of money, it's our chance to honor our biggest donors and supporters. Wentworth Cunningham attended the event every year, but last February—about five months before he died—he brought his son Calder along as well.

I’ll admit it: I was excited to meet the infamous heir to the Cunningham fortune. I mean, you can’t even pop through the supermarket checkout line without spotting him on one of the tabloids—usually on some Italian beach with the latest “it” girl. I was curious. I couldn’t help it.

Calder was, at first glance, everything I expected. There seems to be one in every “old money” family: the son with the good looks and bad behavior to spare. He definitely lived up to his photos. Some would call him the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. In another life, if he hadn't been born into insane amounts of money—or if he decided that partying and womanizing weren't enough of a career for him—he might have made his own millions as a model.

He's the kind of guy who expects his looks and his money to get him out of anything. He’s also the kind of guy who looks down his nose at events thrown by small arts organizations.

Calder spent the entire evening of Arts & Hearts looking bored out of his mind and sipping aloofly at his wine.

I’d hoped to never see him again.

But I'm not about to let him get away this time. This time I'm going to make him take responsibility for his actions, even if the rest of the world won't.

I bow my head against the wind and march up his driveway

y. The massive live oaks overhead don't do much to block the rain, but the discomfort from the wetness seeping down my back only fuels my anger and determination.

“Hey!”

The voice cuts through the storm, and my head jerks up. I glance around, and it takes me a moment to spot the figure through the rain.

It’s a man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes. A security guard.

And he’s coming at me. Fast.

I panic. Yes, it was only a few minutes ago that I was
trying
to catch the attention of the security team, but now that some guy’s charging at me through the rain, my fight or flight response kicks in. I bolt.

I run off the driveway and between two of the trees, cutting across the grass in what I hope is the direction of the house. One of my flats slips off my foot, but I keep going, my toes gripping the mud as I sprint. There are lights up ahead—house lights, I hope. I need to get to Calder.

I don't dare look over my shoulder, but the security guard is gaining. His footsteps slap against the wet ground, and they're getting louder.

I have to outrun him.

My other shoe falls off my slick foot. I almost slip. I can just make out the house ahead of me now, a dark shape against the dark sky. I’m so close. Just a little farther—

The guard slams into me, pushing me down to the ground with him on top of me. The air
whoosh
es out of me as I hit the mud, but I recover quickly. I twist beneath his weight, trying to fight my way out of his grasp.

“Let go of me!” I say, swinging my elbow at him.

I hit him in the gut. He grunts, and his grip loosens on my waist. I try to wriggle away, but he grabs me by the knees.

“Let go!” I say again. I kick at him.

He tries to catch my ankle. “Ms.—oof—Frazer.”

I manage to get one leg loose. His grip on the other one is too strong. He flips me over so that I'm on my back, and he lunges forward, catching each of my arms before I can swing at him again. He's straddling me, pinning me down, and struggle as I might I can't get free.

“Get off of me,” I say.

His breathing is heavy from the exertion. He leans down closer to me.

“And why should I do that, Ms. Frazer?” he says. “You're trespassing on
my
property.”

I freeze. The rain is still coming down hard, but I shake the wet strands of hair from my face and blink up at the man on top of me. In the hazy light from behind us I can just barely make out the features of his face, but a jolt of recognition pulses through me.

It's Calder.

My heart stops. This isn't some random security guard. It's the man of the house himself, the asshole who's ruining my life.

And he's on top of me.

“Get off,” I repeat, wriggling. But in a position like this the movement is unintentionally sexual. I stop, but not before Calder also notices the intimate implications of our situation. He gives a chuckle deep in his throat then leans closer so I can hear his low voice over the rain.

“And why should I let you go,” he says into my ear, “when you've already caused me so much trouble?”

The warmth of his breath sends prickles across my skin. I try to wrench my wrists out of his grasp.

“I can't believe you would hold a woman down,” I say, “when she clearly—”

“Woman?” he breathes into my ear. “I don't see a woman. I see a trespasser. Tell me, do you make a habit of breaking onto private property, or did I just get lucky?”

“You know exactly why I'm here, Mr. Cunnin—”

“And
you
know I have every right to call the police right now and have you arrested.”

What little breath I have left catches in my throat. He can't be serious. I didn't think he'd be
happy
, exactly, about finding me here, but worst case scenario I expected security to march me back outside the gates and leave it at that. I can't be arrested. I've barely been able to cover my bills these last couple of months—I definitely can't afford bail. And the last thing I want is to put that on my dad, not when he's put everything he owns into the Frazer Center.

Rage bubbles up in my chest. “You're an ass, you know that?”

“I believe the police will see things differently,” he says. “Especially since you've spent the last two months harassing me.”

The accusation floors me. “Harassing you? You broke our contract! I don’t care what you paid your fancy lawyers to say. You violated the promise your father made. That money belongs to the Frazer Center.”

He shifts his weight up slightly, enough to look me in the eyes. They're pitch black against the deep gray sky above.

“I thought, Ms. Frazer, that I made my stance on the matter quite clear.”

“The only thing that's clear around here is that you're an arrogant asswipe!”

He laughs.

“You can do better than that, Ms. Frazer,” he says. He sits up a little more. “I'm willing to release your hands, but only if you promise you won't punch me.”

There's very little I want more than to punch him right now, but I nod my head obediently. He lets go of my wrists and sits up. He's still straddling me.

There's no longer anything to block the rain from my face. I blink the water out my eyes and turn my head, breaking our gaze.

Calder chuckles again. “Perhaps we should finish this discussion inside, where we can both be a little more comfortable.”

His weight lifts from me, but I stay where I am. I don't trust him.

“Come on, Ms. Frazer.” When I look up he's holding his hand out to me.

I sigh. I'm completely soaked, and there's mud in places I don't even want to think about. If Calder wants to go inside, then fine. I'm not about to let him off the hook, but there's no harm in getting out of the rain.

I push myself up on my elbows then reach out and grab his hand. He pulls me up to my feet as if I weigh nothing, and I almost fall right against his chest. Instead I catch myself at the last minute, my bare toes clinging to the mud. I sway away from him, but he still has my hand in his grasp. He won't let go, even when I try to pull away.

I take another step back. “What are you—”

He grabs me by the waist and yanks me off the ground. The world flips around me as he throws me over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I say. “Let me go!”

He doesn't respond. His grip tightens around my waist and he begins moving toward the house.

“What the fuck?” I say, hitting him in the back. “Put me down!”

“I don't think so,” he says.

“I can walk by myself! I'm not a fucking sack of potatoes!”

“I'm not going to give you the chance to run away.”

I try to kick him, but he uses his other arm to catch me by the knees.

“Forgive me if I don't trust you,” he says.

I stop struggling, letting my body fall limp in his grasp. My wet hair bounces around my face in time with his steps. I can't see anything but the muddy grass beneath us and the wet backsides of Calder's pants and shoes.

My rage against this man has been building for a couple of months now, and the indignity of my current position brings all of it spewing out.

“You think you can get away with anything because you're rich,” I say, my voice edged in venom. “You think you can walk all over people and break promises because you have the fancy lawyers and no one would dare stand up to the Cunningham family.”

His arm tightens, and he readjusts me on his shoulder.

“You might have the rest of them eating out of your hand,” I say, “but I'm not letting you off the hook that easy. You think you can just throw your reputation around and do whatever you want. You expect to just throw out a few bills and flash a sexy smile and have everyone fall at your feet. You don't give a damn about anyone else.”

For a minute he doesn't respond, and then: “You think my smile is sexy?”

I make an exasperated sound, but I don't think he hears me. He's going up steps now—wide stone steps that have moss growing on the grout. I lift my head slightly, and through my falling strands of hair I can make out a pair of stone lions on either side of us, marble heads raised as if guarding the way inside.
Of course
there are freaking stone lions outside this place. No doubt there are gargoyles and stained glass windows and numerous other ostentatious features, too.

A few more steps and I hear him open a door. There's a rush of warmth as he carries me into the house, and I'm more grateful than I want to admit to be out of the rain.

“We're inside,” I say, poking him in the back. “Put me down.”

“Not yet.” His voice is thick with amusement.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” I say. “This is ridiculous. I came here to talk to you. I'm not going to run away.”

“Then you should have no problem with me giving you a lift,” he replies. “If anything, you should be thanking me. I wasn't about to let a woman walk barefoot through the mud.”

“There's no mud in here.” I give him another couple of jabs in the back. “And my feet were muddy already. It doesn't matter.”

“All the more reason to carry you,” he says. “I'd prefer not to stain the carpets.”

He's having too much fun at my expense. I want to kick my legs and splatter mud all over the walls, but I don't think that'll help my case for the Center. Besides, he still has his arm across my knees.

I raise my head again, trying to get a good look at my surroundings. He's carrying me down a hallway, but the lights are dim and I can't see much through my curtain of hair. I can only get a clear view of the carpets below us. They're definitely pretty fancy, but Calder either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he's leaving his own set of muddy footprints on the richly colored threads.

“Where are we going?” I say to him, tired of this game. “Some sort of torture chamber, maybe? Are you going to chain me up in the dungeon until the police get here?”

His fingers dig into my waist. “Don't give me any ideas.”

“If you'd just answered my calls or my emails, we could've discussed this whole thing like adults,” I say.

“Adults, eh?” he says. “Do adults usually climb through each other's gates? Or flash security cameras, for that matter?”

My neck goes instantly hot.
He saw that
?

“I think I've mentioned before that I admire your determination,” he says. “But I can't say that I was encouraging that kind of behavior. Not that I minded the show.”

I try to knee him in the chest, but he holds me tight. I settle for giving him a particularly hard jab in the back.

“If you're not going to let someone in, the least you can do is respond to them,” I say. “Especially when you've already fucked that person over.”

“So I’m required to respond to every idiot who shows up at my gates?” he says. “Every paparazzo who’s tried to snap a photo through the bars? Every reporter who camped out there for weeks right after my father died?”

“That's not what I—”

“When you have money, people think they're entitled to things from you. Sometimes it's photos. Most often it's money.”

He uses his knee to shove open a door.

“Light,” he says.

The lights flick on. Before I can make sense of where we are, he flips me down onto a sofa. I go dizzy from the head rush, and it takes a minute for him to come into focus. When he does, the bitterness is clear on his face. He's leaning over me, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me push back against the cushions behind me.

Now that I see him in the full light, I'm startled by the changes in him since the last time we met. Before, he was the picture of perfection: not a wrinkle in his clothes, not a hair out of place. The change is more than just the aftermath of our scuffle in the mud outside. He's wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark pants, and I can tell neither was particularly luxurious even before I arrived here today. His hair has outgrown its typical stylish cut, and his previously clean-shaven cheeks are sporting a coat of dark stubble. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

“What?” he says. “Now you're going to shut up?” Dark humor twists his features.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask him. “I'm not a photographer or a reporter. But your father signed a contract—”

“You're welcome to challenge the decision in court,” he says. “I won't discuss it here. Not without my legal representation present.”

“You know we can't afford to challenge it,” I say.