Red Hot Obsessions

Red Hot Obsessions

TEN SIZZLING HOT NOVELS

FROM BESTSELLING AUTHORS

Ember Casey - Clarissa Wild

J.C. Valentine - V.J. Chambers

Lacey Silks - Olivia Rigal

Molly McLain - Sky Corgan

Daizie Draper - Blair Babylon

YOUR NEXT OBSESSION
STARTS HERE

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

His Wicked Games by Ember Casey

Fierce by Clarissa Wild

That First Kiss by J.C. Valentine

Slow Burn by V.J. Chambers

Layers Deep by Lacey Silks

Learning Curves by Olivia Rigal

Can’t Shake You by Molly McLain

His Indecent Lessons by Sky Corgan

Billionaires in Disguise: Rae by Blair Babylon

Sorority Pledge (Books 1-6) by Daizie Draper

About Red Hot Obsessions

HIS WICKED GAMES © Ember Casey 2013

Lily Frazer would do anything to save the Frazer Center for the Arts--even take on the infamous billionaire Calder Cunningham. When Lily breaks onto the Cunningham estate, she only wants to find and reason with Calder. (All right, all right, she wants to punch him in the face, too, but that's Plan B.) As it turns out, the arrogant billionaire is willing to give her the money he promised, but there's a catch: she must win it from him.

And the games he has in mind aren't exactly... innocent.

Lily isn't about to give up the money without a fight (or let some haughty bastard seduce her), but she quickly discovers that there might be more to the brooding Calder than she initially perceived. As their games of cat and mouse become increasingly intense, she suddenly finds herself confused by her own emotions. Can she deny her attraction long enough to win the money she needs?

A contemporary, steamy take on Beauty and the Beast, His Wicked Games is a tale of devilish deeds, wild passions, and wicked romance.

CHAPTER ONE

I lean out the car window and press the button on the call box for the third time.

“Hello?” I say yet again. “Anyone there?”

No one answers. Yet again.

I sit back against the seat and slam my hand against the steering wheel. Stupid rich asshole. I've driven all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and he won't even let me in.

Not that I expected any different.

A pair of wrought-iron gates stands ahead of me in the driveway. They're covered in ivy, like the entrance to some enchanted garden in a fairy tale, and I have no doubt the family paid a small fortune to their landscapers to create that wild, “overgrown” look. I kill the engine of my beat-up Honda and climb out of the car. I don't care how long it takes—I won't leave until they let me through. If that means camping out here for the next several hours, then so be it.

I walk up to the gates and give them a good shake, hoping they'll magically pop open at my touch. They don't even wiggle. Beyond them lie the estates of the Cunningham family, the current residence of the infamous—and infuriating—Calder Cunningham.

His note arrived yesterday, and I've read it about fifty times since then.

Dearest Ms. Frazer,

While your persistence is admirable, I assure you your exertions on behalf of the Frazer Center for the Arts will do little to change my decision. I'm afraid I will not be including the Frazer Center in my financial plans for the foreseeable future, and for your own sake, I request that you abandon your efforts to change my mind. I would not waste any more of your time.

Respectfully,

Calder

No mention of the fact that he's broken the pledge contract his late father signed. No acknowledgment that his actions might single-handedly be responsible for the closing of the Frazer Center. No apology for blowing off all my previous attempts to contact him.

I stand on my toes in front of the gates, trying to find a place where the vines part just enough to give me a view of the other side. Between the leaves I can see the long, cobblestoned driveway winding between a double row of live oaks. There's no view of the house from here, but if the rumors are true, it's something of a monstrosity. The rich love their ridiculous mansions.

The Cunninghams have always been weird about their property. No photos of the estate have ever been released to the public—except for the occasional grainy shot from a helicopter, which is always quickly retracted—though descriptions of the lands and house grow more extravagant with every story. They’re one of the last great “old money” families in this part of the country and have a reputation for being a little eccentric; as such, they attract their fair share of attention—and they appear to harbor their fair share of secrets as well.

Probably why security's such a bitch.

I step back and look up at the camera bolted to the stone wall above the call box.

“I don't have a camera,” I call up to it. “I’m not trying to sneak any photos or anything.”

I go back to the car and grab my purse. There are only four things inside: my wallet, a pack of gum, some sunglasses, and a six-year-old flip phone. I take them out one by one, and when I get to the phone I hold it up so the security camera can see.

“Look,” I say, flicking it open. “There's not even a camera on here.” I throw the phone down with the other items and grab the purse again. I turn it upside down and give it a good shake for effect.

The gates don't budge.

I give an exasperated sigh and walk around to the trunk of my car. It's full of the usual junk. I pull out the grocery sack I use as a makeshift garbage bag, rifle through it beneath the camera to show that it's only receipts and fast food wrappers, and drop it on the drive. Next I pull out a pair of sneakers, a small emergency car kit, and a couple of rough-edged file folders.

“See?” I say. “Nothing.”

There's no response.

I lean over to the call button and jam it another time.

“Look,” I say. “I'm not trying to cause any trouble. As I said before, I'm from the Frazer Center for the Arts.” I flip open my wallet and flash my ID card at the camera.
Lily Frazer. Assistant Director.
There's even a picture, though my naturally brunette hair looks rather orange in the image. “Please. I just want to speak with Mr. Cunningham in regard to the letter he sent us. He won't return my calls.”
God, could I sound like any more of a stalker?

But there is still no answer from the call box. I walk back over to the gates and press my face against the bars.

“Hello!” I call. “Can anyone hear me?” I don't see anyone on the other side, but that doesn't mean there's no one there.

I'm about to yell again when the first raindrop lands on my cheek. I brush it off and glance up. The sky was clear when I left this morning, but now it's an ominous gray.

Great. Just what I need.

A crack of thunder sounds right overhead. I curse and run back to my stuff, scooping it up off the driveway as the rain starts to pick up. I've just managed to throw the last of it in my trunk when the skies open up and it begins to pour. I jump back into my car and roll up the window, but not before half of the driver's side seat is soaked.

I lean on my right hip, trying to keep the butt of my jeans dry. It’s too late for my upper half. For a moment I just sit there, sideways, staring at the water sliding down the windshield. Beyond the glass, the gates are still closed. It doesn't look like security is going to take pity on the poor wet girl sitting outside.

I chew absently on my lip as I try to think. Sure, this puts a damper on things, but I'm not about to let a little rain stop me. If I have to sit out here all night, I'll do it, but there has to be a way to convince them to let me through. I hoped, naively, that my determination would inspire some sort of sympathy. It’s easy enough for a gazillion-aire like Calder Cunningham to brush off letters and phone calls, but I thought it would be harder for him to ignore someone sitting in front of his own gate. Looks like I was wrong.

I tap my horn a couple of times, just to show security that I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. They're probably having a good laugh at me, but I don't care. For once, I'm standing up for something. The Frazer Center is my life, and now it's going to close—unless I convince Calder Cunningham to reverse his decision to retract the promise his father made.

The late Wentworth Cunningham was a great patron of the arts and our largest donor for years. Apparently his son shares no such philanthropic tendencies. According to the tabloids, Calder's spent the better part of the last ten years gallivanting across Europe, romancing models and starlets and partying his way through every techno club he could find. Since his father's death this past summer, Calder's been in charge of the family funds, and he's wasted no time in undoing his father's contributions to society.

We received notice of the decision through his lawyers, who detailed in fancy legal jargon why Calder's actions weren't in violation of the pledge contract his father signed two years ago. We're a small nonprofit institution. We don't have the resources to challenge the decision, even if Dad would allow it.

A pang of guilt shoots through me. My dad doesn't know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He thinks I'm in Barberville trying to scare up some corporate sponsors.

He's been adamantly against pursuing the matter with Calder Cunningham, claiming he refuses to reduce himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this whole Cunningham business wrapped up—better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?—but now that it looks I'm going to be here a while, I know I need to give him a call.

I grab my phone and punch in the number for the Frazer Center. Dad's been manning the phone in the evenings after the volunteer secretary leaves.

The line rings once before he picks up.

“Frazer Center for the Arts,” he says. “David speaking.”

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey, honey.” The cheerful act of a moment ago seeps out of his voice. He sounds exhausted. “I was just thinking about you. Any luck with those leads?”

Dad founded the Frazer Center twenty years ago, back when I was five. He was a dentist before that, and he sold his very successful practice in order to secure the initial funds for the organization. My mother was still around then, too, but she didn’t stay long after he stopped bringing in the fat salary. Since then, my dad has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our community.

Which is why I’ll do anything to help, even if it means lying to him for the time being.

“Nothing's settled yet,” I say carefully. “But I still have a few inquiries to make.” It’s not
quite
a lie. And technically the Cunningham estates have a Barberville address, even if I’m currently fifteen miles outside the town itself.

“What about you?” I say quickly, before Dad can ask me any more questions about my current location. “Come up with any more ideas?”

He's silent for a long time. I can practically hear him rubbing his forehead. When I left the Center this morning, he was going over the budgets and accounts for the hundredth time.

“It's not good,” he says finally. “I just can't—I can't make it work. Vinny suggests raising the class prices, but we'd have to triple them, and I won't do that. He said he thinks we might be able to draw in an extra thousand at the Harvest Festival this year, but I don't think that'll be enough.” He lets out a long, shaky breath.

Something tightens in my chest. I've never heard my dad sound so defeated.

“Dad, I…” What can I say that I haven't said a hundred times already? Time and again over the last few months I've reassured him that we'll get through this, that we'll find a way, but the chances of that are looking bleaker every day. I pick at a loose bit of vinyl hanging off my steering wheel.

On the other end of the line, I hear him shuffling through some papers. He gives another sigh.

“Are you sure we shouldn't call Garrett, honey?” he says. “I know it didn't end well between you two, but I just think—”

“No. Absolutely not.” The loose piece of vinyl tears off beneath my nail. “Please, Dad. Anything else. But please don't call him.” Once, I thought Garrett was the perfect man. I mean, come on—he was a successful journalist who spent his free time volunteering at the Center. And he was a damn good volunteer, too. When he worked for us, he managed to solicit more donations in a month than all of our other volunteers combined. It was how we met.

It took two years before I realized that “good on paper” doesn’t exactly equal “good boyfriend.” The worst part is my dad still thinks that asshole was the greatest fucking thing that has ever happened to me.

I stab at another piece of loose vinyl with my thumbnail.

“Just let me see what I can manage out here,” I say. “And then we can go from there.” If I never see Garrett again, it’ll be too soon. I won’t let us get that desperate.

On the other end, my dad lets out another long breath. “All right, honey. I'm just not sure what our options are anymore.”

Me either
, I think, but I won't tell him that.

“We'll be okay,” I tell him. “I know we will. We might just have to be a little creative for a while.”

“Creative,” he repeats. “We can do that.”

I can't tell if he believes it or not.

“I'll be in tomorrow morning,” I say. “I'm not sure how much longer this will take tonight.”

“Good,” he says, distracted. “That sounds good, honey.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, honey. Stay safe out there.”

I hang up and toss the phone on the passenger's seat. I can't take this much longer. I can't stand to hear my dad sound so tired, so old, so utterly dejected. I'll do anything to save the Center and give him back that spark I miss so much—anything short of calling Garrett, at least. Bringing
him
into this will only make the whole situation worse.

That's why I have to convince Calder Cunningham to change his mind.

Before I can lose my nerve, I throw open the door and step back out into the rain. For kicks, I press the call button one more time.

“I don't suppose you've changed your mind?” I say into the box.

There's no response.

I look up at the camera. I need to talk to Calder. It doesn't matter how. The idea comes into my head from nowhere, and I decide to go for it before I have the chance to chicken out.

“Hey, boys,” I call over the rain. I grab the bottom of my shirt, take a deep breath, and pull it up, catching the lower edge of bra as well and exposing my breasts to the security system.

One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring over my bare skin, and then I yank my shirt quickly back down. My cheeks are blazing hot, but there's a wild rush in my belly. I've just flashed the Cunningham security camera. That has to get a reaction.

I cross my arms over my chest as I wait. There's a strange, reckless feeling flowing through me, and it's kind of exciting. Maybe a little desperation is good for me.

But as the minutes tick by and no one comes out to apprehend me—or compliment my breasts and usher me inside—the exhilaration slowly seeps away.

“Seriously?” I yell up at the camera. “That got
nothing
?”

The intercom doesn’t even offer a taunting crackle.

Fine. I’ll just have to implement Plan B.

I march back over to the gates, wading through the puddles that have already formed on the driveway. I move down the length of the gates, feeling past the ivy for any openings in the wrought iron where I might be able to slip through. I'm relatively tiny, but the ironwork here is pretty elaborate, all curlicues and closed spiral patterns. Finally, about halfway down the length of the gate, I find a spot where I think I can squeeze by. It's about chest high, which means I'll have to climb a little to get to it, but I think I'm up for it.

“Oh, no,” I cry in mocking challenge over the rain. “You guys better come and stop me.” I grip the iron bars with both hands and pause, waiting to hear the approach of a security guard through the rain.