Her Wicked Heart Boxed Set E-Book

Ember Casey

• Herausgeber: Ember Casey
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

400 pages of the hot romance and emotional twists you've come to love from USA Today bestseller Ember Casey!

Experience what reviewers are calling  "a brilliant continuation to the world created in His Wicked Games"...

This bundle includes:
HER WICKED HEART (Book 3)
TAKE YOU AWAY (Book 3.5)
LOST AND FOUND (Book 4)


I’m not who I say I am.

But somehow a rugged stranger

Can see right into my heart…


Secrets. Lies. And a desire that can’t be denied.
Louisa Cunningham has lost everything. Burdened by grief and heartache, she does something desperate—she assumes a false identity and takes a job at Huntington Manor, the luxury tourist attraction that was once her family’s estate.

Nobody here knows who she really is. Not even the sexy, mysterious handyman who knows how to push all her buttons.

He’s everything she knows she should stay away from. He's a playboy. He's constantly getting in fights. And he resents the Cunninghams for reasons Louisa doesn't understand. But in spite of herself, she can't stay away from him, even when that puts her secret at risk. Even when it becomes increasingly clear that he harbors a few secrets of his own...

Leseprobe

Her Wicked Heart Boxed Set

A Cunningham Family Bundle

Ember Casey

Contains:

Her Wicked Heart (Book 3)

Take You Away (Book 3.5)

Lost and Found (Book 4)

Her Wicked Heart

Copyright ©2014 Ember Casey

Cover Image © osons163, used under license from Depositphotos, Inc.

Take You Away

Copyright ©2014 Ember Casey

Cover Image © RomanceNovelCovers.com, used under license.

Lost and Found

Copyright ©2014 Ember Casey

Cover Image © RomanceNovelCovers.com, used under license.

EPUB Edition

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

Website: embercasey.com.

BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE DEVIL’S SET

Claiming His Treasure

Hunting His Jewel

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Books by Ember Casey

Her Wicked Heart

Before

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Take You Away: A Novella

Ward

Lily

Lost and Found

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

A preview of Their Wicked Wedding

Books by Ember Casey

About the Author

Her Wicked Heart

Before

It never should have happened.

He was my project manager, and I was the daughter of Wentworth Cunningham, the man who gave him the job. We both should have known better, but me most of all.

The truth is, I was selfish. Before my life went haywire, he was just Ian: hardworking and generous, sweet and serious. I used to tease him about his hair—which was dark and curly like mine—just to try and make him smile. I’d remind him that we were working for the greater good, but he would only see the work we hadn’t done yet: the orphanage we had yet to renovate, the resources we had yet to allocate. He was the kindest and most selfless of all of us working at the Chiang Mai division of Cunningham Cares International.

After my father’s death, Ian became my crutch.

I shouldn’t have rushed back to Thailand after the funeral. I see that now. My brother pushed me into it, sure, but it’s not like he had a gun to my head. Frankly, I thought it would be good for me. Put my suffering in perspective.

Instead, I found myself looking at Ian.

Ian’s attractive. There’s no denying that. He’s lean and muscled from long days spent sweating under the sun. His skin is always tan, and no matter how often he shaves, there’s a perpetual dusting of stubble on his chin. He has these soft gray eyes that seem to look right into the very core of your being. The day I returned to work in Chiang Mai, those eyes were so full of concern for me that the hollowness I’d been nursing deep in my stomach seemed to dissipate, just for a second.

That night, after everyone else was asleep, I went to his room. And Ian—sweet, responsible, serious Ian—didn’t turn me away.

Afterward, he touched my face in the dark and said, “This can’t happen again.” But a month later, when I broke under the hollowness and crept to his room a second time, he took me into his arms once more and helped me forget.

It happened the same every time: I’d go to him, we’d lose ourselves in each other, and then he’d tell me, “Never again.” But he’d hold me close as he said it, whisper it against my hair, and we both knew it was a lie.

I don’t remember when it became every night. I spent months drowning in the haze of his tenderness, losing myself in the comforts of his touch, the sweetness of his lips, the soft encouragement of his voice. He loved me, and I needed that love. I needed his warmth on those dark nights. I needed his gentle looks during those long days.

I didn’t care what he needed.

And when it came to a head, when he finally voiced the words that lay between us, I did what every heartless coward does when she’s cornered.

I ran.

Chapter One

Today

I’m a bitch.

Mr. Charles Haymore, (whose brass name tag has been polished to a flawless shine) has been prattling on about my new job responsibilities for the last ten minutes, but the only thing I can focus on is the giant chocolate crumb dangling from his mustache. It’s huge. I’m surprised he can’t feel it brushing against his lip. But I suppose it takes a very special kind of crumb to defy the laws of gravity and cling to salt-and-pepper-whiskers for half an hour or more—especially when the owner of said whiskers can’t seem to shut up—so maybe that’s part of its magic.

I fold my hands in my lap and nod politely, trying to hold his gaze. It’s hard enough to keep from looking at the crumb, but I’m also fighting the urge to glance around the room.

We’re sitting in the room that used to be my father’s study. I thought it was over the top even then—all dark bookcases and gloomy paintings—but now it’s friggin’ ridiculous. Whatever designer redid this place apparently decided that my family lived in another century or something. I’m almost surprised they decided to keep the working electricity.

“Any questions, Ms. Thomas?”

It takes a minute for Mr. Haymore’s words to register. I’m still not used to hearing that name.

“No. No questions.” I give him my best smile. Show those teeth, my father used to say. A bit of charm and a smile go a long way.

He gives a single nod. “Your responsibilities will shift from day to day depending on my needs. One day I might have you running errands, and the next you might be responding to emails. I carry responsibility for many of the daily functions of this facility, and as such, you too will be responsible for tasks of great importance. I trust that’s acceptable?”

“Yes, sir,” I say a little too enthusiastically.

He shoots me a stern look and slides the last piece of my employment paperwork across his desk. “My last assistant didn’t find herself up to the task.”

“I assure you, sir, that I’m up for anything you throw at me.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then nods again, apparently satisfied with his assessment. “All employees are required to meet certain standards of behavior for the duration of their contract. You are to wear your name tag at all times while on duty. You are not to smoke or partake in alcohol while on the premises, and any evidence of intoxication is grounds for disciplinary action. Any subsequent slip will result in an immediate dismissal. Am I understood?”

I nod. “You are.”

It’s actually a bit of a pity that he’s such a drab old bore. If he were a little younger, a little narrower, a little less stuffy, I might try to soften his unpleasantness. Help him unleash the wild nature he’s hidden beneath that perfectly pressed suit. I’ve never been with a hotel’s General Manager before. Or anyone in the hospitality industry, really. Do they leave mints on your pillow after sex?

Unfortunately for Mr. Haymore, even I have standards. And you’re supposed to be staying away from men for a while, I remind myself. And I’m off to a roaring start—I’m not even two months into my self-imposed celibacy and I’m so desperate I’m looking at this guy.

As if he can see into my brain, Mr. Haymore says, “It goes without saying that fraternization with guests is strictly prohibited. And any… relations with fellow employees will be done with discretion or not at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” That should make it a little bit easier for me, at least.

“Not that I imagine you’ll have much time for such activities,” he continues. “The press event starts on the twenty-first. That’s less than two weeks from now, and we open our doors the week after that. The next couple of months are crucial, and you will be expected to respond to my requests at a moment’s notice.”

I nod, though I’m beginning to regret jumping on the “room & board” option in my contract. When I saw that the resort offered housing to certain employees, it felt like the perfect opportunity. I mean, it’s not like I have many other housing options these days. But the more I talk to Mr. Haymore, the less I’m liking the idea of being “on call” at all hours.

I still smile, of course. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

He nods again, finally dislodging that mustache crumb, then passes me a pen. “Welcome to the Huntington Manor family, Ms. Thomas.”

Huntington Manor. It sounds like something out of a Jane Austen novel, and I kind of want to vomit. I mean, I’m insanely relieved that my brother Calder made sure they couldn’t attach our family name to this monstrosity of a tourist trap, but surely they could have come up with something better than Huntington Manor. My great-great-grandfather is probably rolling in his grave right now.

I take a deep breath and look down at my contract. No point in dragging this out. I knew what I was getting into when I walked through the doors this morning. I pull the paper closer and scribble down the signature I practiced a hundred times last night: Addison Thomas.

Addison Thomas is twenty-four and, according to her resume, has a degree in Hospitality and Tourist Management. She’s spent the last two years working at a resort down on the coast (where she received the Gold Customer Service Award last year) and has special training in “Customer Loyalty Administration” and “Trip Planning Assistance.”

Or, you know, Addison Thomas is the brilliant creation of yours truly, the one and only Louisa Cunningham. I was going for something that might get me a position in the Guest Services department of this place, but apparently Mr. Haymore lost his assistant a few days ago and my resume was at the top of the pile. And I charmed him enough in the first interview that he only called one of my carefully-prepped “references.”

I pass the contract back to Mr. Haymore. He doesn’t give the signature a second glance.

“I expect you to report to me tomorrow at 8 AM sharp. In the meantime, you can get settled in your room. I’ve put you in Room 253 in the East Wing.” He reaches into his desk and pulls out a key and fat manila envelope. “This is very important. It contains your employee handbook and an extensive map of the estate. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them as soon as possible.”

A map. Ha. I could find my way around this place with my eyes closed. Backwards.

“I’ll study it tonight,” I tell him.

“Very good.” He stands and runs a hand down the front of his pristine charcoal gray sport coat. “I would show you to your room, but I’m very busy.”

“I’m sure I’ll find my way, Mr. Haymore.” I reach out to clasp his hand. “A pleasure to be working for you.”

He gives a little harrumph before sinking back down into his seat again.

Oh, yes. This will be about as pleasurable as trying to bathe a warthog.

I grab my suitcase and escape out the door before I overload on his charm. It’s not until I’m halfway down the hall that the rush hits.

I’m doing this. I’m honest-to-God doing this.

Instinctively, I reach up with my free hand and clutch the end of my ponytail, but I cringe as soon as my fingers touch the strands. They’re too long, too smooth. But I knew I couldn’t just show up here looking like my normal self—after all, my face has made a few appearances in the tabloids over the past year—so I dyed and straightened my hair. Instead of the dark curls I was always known for, I now have a head of sleek, honey-colored locks. I’m also sporting more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life. It’s not much of a disguise, as far as they go, but I’ve definitely got the “celebrities without makeup” effect going on here. People are used to seeing me looking a certain way against a certain backdrop. No one expects “Lou” Cunningham, daughter of the late, disgraced Wentworth Cunningham, to show up and take an assistant position at her family’s former estate, the property her father lost through extreme financial carelessness. I’ll just have to make sure to touch up my roots every few weeks or so.

My great-great-grandfather built this house. It was passed down through my family from generation to generation. My brother and I played in these halls as children. But when my father died last year, Calder and I inherited a huge financial mess—and we agreed to sell the property to help settle our family’s debts.

I’ll be honest: this was always too much house for me. The minute I was old enough to understand social responsibility, I realized how outrageous all of this was. I mean, who needs a rooftop pool or computerized closets when there are people out there without basic necessities like food and proper medical care? When Calder suggested we sell the estate, I agreed without hesitation. I told myself this place was just an ostentatious pile of rocks, a symbol of all the things I’d grown to resent about being born to privilege.

But I was wrong.

I look around me as I walk down the hall. Calder sold most of our furniture, so they’ve had to completely redecorate the house from scratch. And apparently they decided to go the Rococo route. It looks like a bunch of cherubs threw up on the walls. It’s very strange. A bit like walking through a dream I know I’ve had before—and yet not being able to recognize a thing.

Is this how they think my family lived?

I stop next to a window and press my fingers against the glass. From here, I can see out across the grounds behind the house. There are the small herb beds—which my grandmother designed after a medieval kitchen garden—and past that, the tall, dark wall of the hedge maze. From here, at least, it all looks exactly the way it did the last time I was home. I can almost pretend I never left.

This house isn’t just stones and walls. And it was never just a symbol of our wealth. It was my home. It holds a lifetime’s worth of memories. Of my childhood. Of my father. Of my family.

And now it’s going to be a megaresort. For just the low, low price of $457 a night (a lot more than I could ever afford at this point), anyone can pretend to be a Cunningham—and sit in their fancy eighteenth-century-style rooms and laugh at us for losing all of this.

It makes me sick. According to Mr. Haymore’s boasts, this place will be more than just an overpriced bed and breakfast. They’ll be offering tours of the house and grounds to day visitors. They’ve converted the twelve-car garage into a full spa center. They’ve torn down the orchards and put in a golf course. And my favorite? They’ve decided to build a small vineyard on the northwest corner of the property. One day, they’ll have their very own Huntington Manor wine, but in the meantime the tasting room will feature “exclusive selections from the Manor’s cellar.” I guess there wasn’t any reason Calder shouldn’t have included some of our father’s extensive wine collection in the sale of the house, but it really ticks me off to imagine some idiot getting drunk off of one of those vintages my family was saving for something special.

It’s worse than the media storm that erupted after my father’s death. Worse than all the things they said about him and my family when the rumors about our finances started swirling. I can still see the tabloids: “The Cunninghams Lose Everything!” and “SCANDAL: The Downfall of a Family!” and dozens of other sensationalist headlines emblazoned across their covers. I couldn’t escape it, even on the other side of the world.

But this… this feels more personal. They’re not just commercializing my family’s history, launching a money-making venture on top of our misfortune—they’re invading our home. It’s disgusting, and I feel like I’ve been gutted.

I push away from the window and continue down the hallway. It occurs to me that I should try and look a little lost—after all, Addison Thomas has no idea where she’s going—but I don’t have the patience for anything more than a quick glance down at my map. I’m assuming the East Wing hasn’t changed locations in the past year, and while my family never bothered to number the rooms, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find Room 253, my home for the duration of my contract.

I make my way to the small staircase off of my family’s old atrium. I try not to notice that they’ve built a small café in the atrium now, or that they’ve set up a sandwich board on the place where I once tried to start a small vegetable garden. And the stairway isn’t any better. They’ve ripped out the beautiful old burgundy-and-gold wallpaper we had in here and replaced it with cherub paintings. My family might have been extravagant, but at least we had taste. By the time I make it to the top step, I’m seriously beginning to question my decision to come back here.

It wasn’t my initial plan. I thought that maybe when I returned from Thailand, Calder and I might find a way to move on together, but when I saw my brother, it only took me a moment to realize that he’s already made it through the hardest part without me. He’s moved on. And not only that—he’s happy. Like disgustingly-in-love happy. He’s found someone with whom he can start a bright new life. And me? It’s been well more than a year and I’m still a mess. I couldn’t bear to step into that happy little picture he’s created and pull him down again.

When I heard that Huntington Manor was hiring—well, it seemed like fate. I needed a job. I needed a place to live. I needed some closure. It sounded like a sweet three-for-one deal. I’m not normally someone who believes in “destiny” and all that hooey, but this was too perfect of an opportunity to ignore.

But now that I’m here, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do.

The second floor is the worst thing I’ve seen so far. No, it’s not as garish as the cherubs, but I’d almost prefer the fat winged babies to the numbers. They’re on every door—shiny, brass, impersonal numbers. Once, my family called that room on my left the Daffodil Room because it was painted that perfect shade of yellow. Now, it’s Room 231. That room on the right was the Sparrow Room, and that one just around the corner was the Star Suite—it has one of the clearest views of the sky. Now they’re 234 and 235.

I hear a footstep behind me, and I realize I’ve stopped in the middle of the hallway. I step to the side and glance back down the corridor.

There’s a man coming toward me. He’s probably in his mid-twenties or so, with reddish-brown hair and broad shoulders. I don’t even have to glance down to his tool belt or the hammer in his hand to know that he’s a handyman—with the way his muscles fill out that dirty T-shirt he’s wearing, there’s really no other option. He must have some last-minute projects up here or something.

He smiles when he catches my gaze, and his blue eyes flash. A little flicker of attraction flares in my belly. It would be so easy, so simple, to smile back.

“Lost?” he says when he’s a little closer.

I don’t miss the way his eyes flick from my face down my body, though it’s quick enough that I’m not even sure he’s aware he just checked me out. My belly grows warmer.

I want to say Yes. Yes, I’m lost. He wouldn’t be much of a challenge—some flirtatious looks, a couple of suggestive comments, and I bet I could steal a kiss in less than five minutes. And if I play my cards right—and if his business isn’t pressing—I could back him into one of these rooms in less than seven. Undo his belt. Slide his pants down to his ankles. Take him in my mouth until his groans make me forget about the cherubs and the numbers and everything else that’s so terribly wrong with this place.

I can feel it now: his warm, hard muscles beneath my hands. The salty flavor of him on my lips. He’d probably twine his fingers in my hair, and I wonder—would they tangle as easily in my new, straighter locks as they would have in my old curls? My scalp prickles at the thought. I’d moan with my mouth around him, letting him know how much I enjoyed the tugging of his fingers.

At least, that’s what the old Lou would do. The new Lou—the girl formerly known as Lou—needs to keep her mind out of the gutter and her hands to herself.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, not even daring to look him in the eyes again. And then I take off down the hall before I have the chance to change my mind.

I find Room 253 at the very end of the corridor, and when I spot the door, my heart gives a little jump in my chest. It’s the room my family and I used to call the Willow Room. From the window on a clear day you can see all the way down to the stream on the northeast corner of our property. On the northern bank of the stream is a giant weeping willow with branches so long that they trail in the water below. Father used to call it Grandfather Willow. The room has wallpaper to match—pale cream crossed with swirling tendrils the exact color of the willow’s leaves in early summer.

When I unlock the door, though, it’s all wrong.

They tore down the wallpaper and painted the walls a dull taupe color. The wrought iron bed and dark-wooded furniture that once graced this room have been replaced by simple, almost institutional pieces. Whoever decorated the rest of this place clearly hasn’t touched the staff rooms. I guess they decided to blow their budget on the suites where the paying guests will be staying. This looks like a college dorm.

I toss my suitcase down on the bed and walk over to the window. There’s a thin piece of off-white fabric hanging over the glass—calling it a curtain would be too generous—and I push it aside, looking out across the grounds toward the stream. My stomach clenches.

I can’t see Grandfather Willow. I can’t even see the stream. Instead, I see a cluster of small wooden buildings.

I run back to the bed and grab the welcome packet Mr. Haymore shoved in my hand. There, on the map where Grandfather Willow should be, is a cluster of small rectangles labeled “Crafts Cottages.”

Mr. Haymore mentioned these latest additions to the property—at least at some point during his rambling I remember him saying something about a blacksmith’s forge and candle-making shop and some other crap—but I didn’t hear him mention where they’d been built. Now there’s a miniature Colonial-era theme park blocking Grandfather Willow.

If Grandfather Willow is there at all. For all I know they’ve ripped him up by the roots.

This is wrong. This is all wrong.

I didn’t handle my father’s death very well. My brother implied as much, the day he convinced me to return to Chiang Mai. And then in Thailand, after months of trying to distract myself with Ian—well, Ian said the same thing to my face, the night things blew up between us. I can still see him: Ian, who was always so kind, so forgiving, standing there staring at me with such anger and such pain in his eyes.

This isn’t how normal people grieve, he said. This isn’t healthy.

He was right. I’ve never handled grief in a healthy way. Back when I was ten, when one of our horses died, my father was so concerned for me that he sent me to a shrink.

I still remember what she told me: The worst thing to do when you’re trying to let go of something is to run the other way. Sometimes, you must hold on to let go. At the time, I thought she was an idiot. That she didn’t understand. But I’ve never forgotten those words. They’re the very words that drew me back here.

Sometimes, you must hold on to let go, I repeat in my head. That’s why I’m here. To face all of these changes and learn to let go.

But how am I supposed to do that when they’re destroying this place piece by piece? When they’re tearing down my family’s legacy and replacing it with this ridiculous stuff? Soon, this place will be swarming with tourists, and people will gawk at the decor and stupid crafts cottages and believe that we actually lived like this. Either that, or they’ll see it all as some massive joke.

Give it time, I tell myself. Healing takes time.

I don’t want to run anymore. I want to learn how to feel okay again. To feel normal again. If I want to move on with my life, I have to accept that this is Huntington Manor now, not the Cunningham estate. I need to accept it. I need to move on. I need…

I turn away from the window. I’m across the room so quickly that I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’m in the hallway.

He couldn’t have gotten far.

As it is, he’s only around the corner. I just follow the sound of the hammering. The door to Room 244 is ajar, and when I push it open a little wider, I find the handyman inside, working on the window.

For a moment, I just stand there watching. His cheap T-shirt is thin enough that I can see the muscles of his back shift as he moves his arm. I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a dark tattoo circling his right bicep. I wonder how many more he has hidden beneath his clothes.

I place my hand on the door, swinging it all the way open, and he turns. The surprise in his eyes shifts quickly to pleasure.

“Lost after all?” he says, grinning. It’s a lop-sided smile, just goofy enough to make him look devastatingly attractive. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I should say right now. Instead, I stride across the room and grab the front of his shirt.

I only have the chance to see the quickest flash of shock in his eyes before I tug his face down to mine.

His mouth is much warmer than I imagined it would be. His lips are hard—he wasn’t expecting this—but as I continue to kiss him, they soften slightly, even parting. A moment later, his tongue slips into my mouth, and heat courses through me.

I’m still clutching his shirt with both fists. I hear the thud of his hammer hitting the floor, and then his arms come up around me, pulling me against his chest. He smells faintly of sweat, but it’s a pleasant scent—or maybe I’m just too worked up to care. I widen my lips, letting him press his tongue deeper into my mouth, and I lift my own tongue to meet his. One of his hands moves up to my hair, and his fingers twist through the strands just as I imagined they would. Curls or not, he has no trouble finding a grip. He pulls just hard enough to send a surge of heat from my scalp down to my very core.

It’s not enough. My body is alive with sensation, but the hollowness is still there, hovering just beneath the surface. I release his shirt and move my hands down across his stomach. Even through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel every muscle. He contracts them slightly beneath my touch and presses closer to me. His hand continues to pull at my hair, while the other slides down to the small of my back.

I slip my hands between us and drop them to his belt. It’s more difficult to undo a tool belt than it is to open a normal buckle, but I manage without too much trouble. The tools crash to the floor. But as I’m reaching for the fly of his jeans, he suddenly catches me by the wrists, and he pulls his mouth away from mine.

I glance up, confused. His pupils are large and dark—all the more obvious because of the brilliant blue of his irises—but beneath the haze of lust there’s confusion in his face, too. And just like that, I realize with shocking clarity exactly what I was about to do.

I stumble back, pulling out of his grip. This guy is a complete stranger. I don’t even know his name. What was I thinking? I have his pants undone. I was about to… I would have…

He’s still looking at me like I’m insane. “Are you…?”

I shake my head, too shocked to speak. He looks like he wants to say something else, but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now.

And so I do what I always do when I get in over my head: I run.

Chapter Two

Fortunately, in a place as large as Huntington Manor, it’s easy to avoid people.

It helps that the day after my little “incident” with the handyman, Mr. Haymore gives me a To Do list long enough to wrap around the earth about two and a half times, and that keeps me occupied for those first few days on the job. It appears that I’m not only Haymore’s assistant, I’m also his secretary, gopher, delivery girl, personal shopper, and the official double- and triple-checker of everything he writes. Apparently he believes it’s physically possible for someone to proofread an email, place a call to the kitchens, retrieve a package from the front desk, and sift through his receipts at the exact same time.

But I don’t mind the work as much as I feel like I should.

When Mr. Haymore’s yelling to me from his office next door, it’s hard to think about what I almost did with that random handyman. Sometimes I even forget that I’m doing all of this for Huntington Manor—until I stumble across one of the glossy brochures and reality comes crashing down again. Fortunately, my new boss can only go about ten minutes at a time before piling something else up on my plate, and then the cycle starts all over again.

They’ve put me in a little room off of Haymore’s office that my father used to use for storage. Any books or files that couldn’t fit in my father’s study went here, and I think I only set foot in here once during my entire childhood. After all, it wasn’t really anything more than a glorified closet. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or sad that I’m having trouble picturing the way it used to look.

Currently, it’s been decorated to match Mr. Haymore’s office. If I stare at the walls too long, I start to get dizzy. There’s a small window overlooking the eastern part of the estate, and sometimes when I get overwhelmed I stand at the glass and stare down at the gardens.

I missed them the most when I was in Thailand. This house always made me feel a little uncomfortable about our wealth, but the gardens… even on my guiltiest of days, I could go sit in the gardens and breathe in all the life and things just felt better somehow. There was a place in the hedge maze—a small nook carved into one of the leafy walls about halfway through the labyrinth—where I’d curl up sometimes and just think. The hedges would block out everything but the sky high overhead, and I’d close my eyes and try to find peace.

It’s funny. Back then I thought that leaving this place would help me. That giving everything up and dedicating my life to helping others would give me a sense of inner harmony. A purpose. Instead, it just made me more aware of how utterly self-centered I am.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Ian. Of the way he looked at me. Of the things he said to me.

If I close my eyes, there he is, sitting on the edge of his bed that last night in Chiang Mai, watching me scramble for my clothes.

What was all this, then? he asked me. Just a way to make yourself feel better? A distraction?

No, I said. It wasn’t just a distraction. But even then, those words struck too close to the truth.

You can’t just bury your feelings, Lou, he said. I know it’s hard, but it doesn’t work that way.

What feelings? I wanted feelings. All those nights I’d turned to him, I’d just wanted to feel something, anything, but sickening emptiness.

And I’d never cared that it came at Ian’s expense. I’d never stopped to think about how he felt. What I was giving to him in exchange for everything he was giving me. I just took and took and took until he had nothing left.

I pull away from the window. It’s funny, how easy it is to go twenty-four years without realizing what a horrible, selfish person you are.

“Ms. Thomas!” Haymore calls from the other room, pulling me out of my thoughts before I can fully lose myself in self-loathing.

I flick my ponytail over my shoulder and straighten my skirt before walking over to his office.

My new boss is a little high-strung even at the best of times—I suppose it’s inevitable, this close to the grand opening—but he’s looking extra frazzled today.

“I just got off the phone with Edward Carolson,” he says without looking up. “Apparently he’s decided to fly down a day early. And he’s bringing his family with him.”

Edward Carolson. Just the name makes my skin crawl. Carolson’s the new owner of the estate. He didn’t tell Calder anything about his plans to convert the house into a resort during the negotiations for this place, but as soon as the contract was signed, he set about getting the property rezoned. As much as I always disliked the idea of anyone outside of our family living here, it would have been far preferable to this.

Yeah, Carolson’s not exactly on my list of favorite people right now.

But I’m confused.

“A day early?” I say. “That means—”

“Tonight,” Mr. Haymore says. “Their flight gets in at five. I need you to arrange a car.”

I nod.

“He wants us to plan a luncheon for tomorrow,” he adds, sifting through the mess of papers on his desk. “For all the staff. Day laborers, too. Apparently he wants to talk with everyone. We’ll need a full menu from the kitchens. And we—did those new brochures come in? The ones with the fold-out map?”

“I don’t know, but I can—”

“Any word on the press badges?”

“They should be here this aft—”

“Confirm it. He’ll want to make sure everything’s ready for next week.”

I nod again, adding it to the never-ending To Do list in my head, when he glances up.

“Why aren’t you writing this down?”

“I can go grab a—”

“There’s no time for that right now. What’s this?” He points at my ear.

My hand flies up, touching the small diamond stud. These were my mother’s, once.

“No jewelry while on duty,” he says. He points to my name tag. “And wipe the smudge marks off of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Apparently I don’t sound enthusiastic enough because he shoots me a look before sitting back down. He begins searching through the stacks of papers on his desk again, and I can’t tell whether he actually knows what he’s looking for or if he’s just too frazzled to keep still.

“You’re dismissed,” he says, without looking up at me again.

I’m only too happy to escape back to my little office.

Honestly, none of the tasks he’s given me are particularly difficult, but that definitely doesn’t make them pleasant. As I pull up the number for a local car service, I entertain myself by brainstorming all the terrible little ways I could torture Mr. Haymore. Nothing dangerous or illegal, of course—just a prank here and there to keep him on his toes. To ruffle that mustache of his. Salt in his morning coffee, maybe. Plastic wrap across his personal toilet. You know, the usual. Unfortunately, all of these stunts would point right back to me, and in spite of all the muddled things I’m feeling about this place, I’m not willing to get fired just yet. After all the work it took to pull off this charade—calling in some favors from some less-than-reputable old friends, charming my way through three interviews, and heck, just having the courage to step inside this house again—I’m not about to throw it all away. Even for the chance to pull one over on a grumpy old warthog like Mr. Haymore. A pity, though. I think it might have been good for him.

Turns out, the universe has its own plans for keeping Haymore on his toes today.

I’m halfway through my call with the kitchen when the trouble starts.

I hear the shouts first. They’re faint—from somewhere down the hall? I frown, pulling the receiver slightly away from my ear so I can hear better.

After a few seconds, it comes again. There’s definitely someone yelling. Multiple someones. And it doesn’t sound good.

“I’ll have to call you back,” I say quickly into the phone before hanging up. I leap up from my desk and hurry out to the hallway. Mr. Haymore races out of his office at the same time.

“What’s going on?” he says. “What—”

Down the hall, in the direction of the main entrance, the shouting picks up again, and though I can’t make out the words, it’s clear that someone’s definitely ticked off.

Mr. Haymore’s eyes go wide in horror. He doesn’t say a word to me, just rushes past me down the hall. I race after him. There’s no way I’m missing this, whatever it is.

“Fuck you!” I hear as we get closer. “You fucking asswipe! You lying piece of—ooof!” The man’s shouting cuts off to the unmistakable sound of someone getting socked.

“Stop it!” a woman cries. “Both of you! Stop!”

There’s the sound of a struggle, and Haymore and I round the corner just in time to see someone get pushed against the wall. The man hits a portrait, knocking the piece from its hooks. The frame cracks and splits as it hits the floor. The man himself is already back on his feet, and he looks ready to kill.

It only takes me a minute to take it all in. While a small crowd of employees has started to gather, they’ve left a wide berth between themselves and the three people who seem to be behind this commotion: the man who just face-planted against the wall, a pretty brunette woman, and a surprisingly calm-looking handyman.

My handyman.

The bottom drops out of my stomach when I recognize the nameless, auburn-haired target of my temporary insanity. So much for avoiding him. I consider turning around and running back to my office, but I find that my feet can’t move. I’m too curious.

The brunette is tugging at the arm of the other man. There’s blood on his face, but I can’t tell whether it’s from his nose or his lip. Probably the nose. His blond hair is pushed up in all directions, and his T-shirt is torn. The woman is trying to pull him away, but he ignores her. He’s seething.

It’s pretty clear, even to me, a casual observer, what’s going on here. You’ve got two guys fighting and a girl trying to pull them apart. That can only mean one thing. Looks like my handyman is a regular Casanova.

Mr. Haymore pushes through the people who’ve gathered near us. “What the hell is going on—”

The blond guy with the bloody nose roars and charges. The woman shrieks again, but Casanova ducks easily out of the reach of his opponent. Bloody Nose definitely has the height in this battle, but his opponent has the speed and the muscle. When Bloody Nose comes in for another charge, Casanova clocks him right in the cheek.

Beside me, Mr. Haymore’s starting to go purple.

“Stop this!” he demands. “Stop this right now!”

No one hears him. For a minute I think Haymore’s actually going to run out into the middle of the brawl, but he’s not that reckless. Even for the sake of keeping this place a respectable establishment.

The young woman, however, is a little braver. And she doesn’t seem particularly interested in watching one of her lovers beat the other to a pulp. She steps in and grabs Bloody Nose’s arm again.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.”

But the blond guy jerks out of her grasp. “I’m not going anywhere with you, bitch.”

My friend Casanova raises his hands in a calming gesture. “Why don’t we try and discuss this like adults?” I don’t miss the glint of amusement in his eyes. He’s enjoying this. He’s having a friggin’ blast.

Bloody Nose sees it, too. “Like fuck we will.”

He lunges for Casanova again, and this time he catches the handyman by the front of the T-shirt. He pushes him up against the wall, but Casanova just grins at him.

“Come on, Luke,” Casanova says. “Is she really worth all of this?”

The woman makes a sound of protest, but for a moment, Bloody Nose—Luke—falters. Casanova reaches up and grabs him by the wrists.

“Let it go,” he says. “There are plenty of other chicks out there. Better ones than her.”

Luke relaxes his hands, and Casanova slips free and moves to the nearest doorway.

“Now if you don’t mind, I need to be getting back to work like a good little employee,” he says. There’s still humor in his voice, but it’s darker now. Almost bitter.

For a moment, it looks like it’s going to end just like that. No one moves. Even Mr. Haymore is perfectly still beside me.

“Oh,” Casanova adds suddenly, “And you better get someone to look at that nose. It’s gushing all over the place.”

That’s all it takes. Luke lets out a roar of unbridled rage and throws himself at his opponent.

The two men crash into the room behind Casanova. There’s the sound of a scuffle, a crash—and then wood splintering.

None of us can get to the doorway fast enough.

“Out of my way!” Mr. Haymore shouts, but no one listens. All of the onlookers want to see how this plays out, and we all try to cram ourselves through the doorway. Above the heads of the other employees, I hear the scuffle of feet, more cursing, and the smack of a fist hitting flesh.

And then, just when I think it might be over, we’re treated to the sound of glass shattering. A lot of glass.

Mr. Haymore finally manages to force his way into the room, and I’m right behind him. The place is a mess. Several tables have been overturned, and two long display cases are in pieces on the floor, their contents buried beneath splinters of wood. But that’s not the worst of it. On the far side of the room, the window’s completely gone.

So are the two men.

Haymore darts over to the window—or the hole where the window used to be. His eyes are so wide they look like they’re about to pop out of his head. The young woman who was at the center of all this drama draws up beside him, her mouth open in shock.

We’re on the first floor, so they couldn’t have fallen that far, but I can’t imagine tumbling through glass is pleasant under any circumstances. I edge closer to the window. Outside, the two men are slowly dragging themselves to their feet. Shards of glass tumble off of their hair and clothes like crystalline rain.

And Haymore loses it.

“You’re both fired,” he says. “Fired! Without severance!”

Casanova gives a little shake of his head, sending a fresh sprinkling of glass into the perfectly manicured grass beneath his feet. His arms are crisscrossed with cuts, but he gives a little smile.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he says cheerfully. “It’s just a window.”

Mr. Haymore looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

“The press will be here in just over a week,” he says. “Carolson will be here tonight. This is not just a window. This is a huge problem. Rest assured, this will come out of your final paychecks.”

Casanova doesn’t seem particularly upset about this. Poor Luke, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have heard any of it.

“We need to get them medical help,” I say. “Didn’t you say there was a nurse on staff? Or do we need to drive them into Barberville?”

Mr. Haymore blinks through his rage, apparently baffled by the suggestion that we have to help the two men who just (apparently) destroyed all of his hopes and dreams.

“The medical station is down the hall,” says a young woman just behind me. “Julia already went to get someone.”

Already, some of the others are stepping past us, moving to help the two men. Casanova shrugs them off and pulls himself up through the broken window as if nothing’s out of the ordinary (and who knows—maybe this is the norm for him), but Luke requires a little more assistance. The girl who was in the middle of this mess reaches out to him, but he jerks away. Blood dribbles from his nose down across his lip.

That’s when a couple of security guards finally get around to showing up.

“Where were you?” Haymore demands.

One of the guards shrugs as he helps support Luke. “We only got the call a couple of minutes ago. We came right over.”

My boss frowns. While there will be a full security team on the payroll by the time this place opens, right now there are only a handful of officers, and they’re more focused on keeping the general public out than dealing with internal problems. It’s a small point of pride that I suspect I’m one of the reasons these guys were brought on in the first place. Just six weeks ago or so, back when they were a little laxer about these things, I managed to sneak onto the property and spray paint dirty words all over the golf course. Juvenile, sure, but I’ve never experienced a rush like I did when I got chased off the property.

Well, at least until the day I showed up here with blond hair and a fake name.

Mr. Haymore is beside me again.

“Clear your schedule, Ms. Thomas,” he says.

“What?”

“This is now your top priority.” He waves his arm at the room around us. “Fix this place. Carolson cannot see it like this.”

“But—”

“Figure it out. I need to finish the preparations for the banquet tomorrow.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “No complaints. Don’t think I won’t fire you, too.”

So now somehow I’m responsible for this mess? That plastic-wrap-across-the-toilet-seat thing is looking better and better by the minute. I wonder if I might be able to swipe some from the kitchen.

But I put on my Louisa Cunningham smile and nod.

“I’ll do everything I can,” I say. “I’ll need them to send up someone to fix this window, though.”

“I’ll put the call through,” he says. “Though I don’t even want to think about what else will suffer because of this.”

And with that, he turns and follows everyone else out of the room, leaving me alone with the mess.

I sigh. Might as well get to work.

For the first time, I take a good look around the room. This was once my family’s summer parlor. The large windows along the eastern wall let in lots of natural light this time of the year. Now, though?

Oh, God, I realize. It’s the freaking gift shop.

Technically, they’re calling it the “Welcome Center.” Apparently they think that makes it sound classier. And yes, there’s an information desk on the far side of the room that will be stocked with brochures and maps and helpful, smiling employees at all times. But there’s nothing classy about the brightly colored Huntington Manor merchandise scattered all over the room.

I walk over to one of the toppled tables. T-shirts of every color lie in piles on the floor, and I reach down and hold one up. It’s neon green and has a stylized image of the house embroidered in purple thread on the front. The words “Huntington Manor” are stitched in cursive below. I drop it back in the pile. A couple of feet away, a mannequin lies in pieces. I bend over and hoist it upright again. It’s wearing one of the T-shirts and a pair of jeans with “Huntington Manor” sewn in metallic thread on the back pockets.

Seriously? This place has branded jeans?

I look around. I might as well be at Disney World. There are Huntington Manor hats, tote bags, shot glasses, even Christmas ornaments. I even spot a “Kids Corner” with stuffed horses and Huntington Manor coloring books.

Rage boils up inside of me. I can’t be in here. I can’t look at all of this.

What did you expect? a little voice in my head says. They’re wringing all the money out of this place that they can. Of course they’re going to sell merchandise.

In the end, I decide to do some vacuuming first. There are a few members of the housekeeping staff already on duty, but I’m willing to do anything to put off dealing with the Huntington Manor Collection of Souvenir Crap. A few minutes later, I’m sucking up shards of glass and wood splinters out of the carpet and ignoring the T-shirts like the plague.

Look at the bright side, I tell myself. At least you won’t have to worry about running into Mr. Hunky Handyman anymore.

Even now, blood rushes to my cheeks at the thought of how I behaved with him. It was crazy, kissing that man. Reckless. Stupid.

Delicious, whispers that voice in my mind.

I run my tongue across my top lip, then immediately shake my head, trying to chase away the lusty thoughts that have suddenly filled my mind. The last thing I should be doing right now is indulging in dirty daydreams. I’m not supposed to be thinking about men. Period.

I manage to rein in my imagination for the better part of the morning, and I end up getting a decent amount of work done. After my lunch break, however, when I’ve done every other task I can think of, I’m forced to acknowledge that it’s finally time to suck it up and start working on the piles of merchandise.

I consider going all in and diving right into the T-shirts, but I decide it’s better to start with something a little safer. Something that isn’t going to bring my lunch right back up. Like… books. An entire bookshelf got knocked over in the scuffle, and the volumes are scattered across the floor. Books aren’t obnoxious like neon clothing and key chains, right?

Wrong.

The first few titles I sift through are the kind I expected to find in a place like this: image-heavy coffee table books about the estate. They have titles like Huntington Manor: A Photographic Tour, or The Architecture of Huntington Manor. Or even Settlers of Barberville: A History of the Region. But buried beneath all of those, I find a book that makes my insides twist.

It’s called The Cunninghams: The Unauthorized Story.

I stare down at the gold embossed letters on the cover. This is a joke, right? This can’t be real.

But when I flip it open, the reality’s too hard to ignore. It’s the entire history of my family, starting with my great-great-grandfather and working forward. The last few chapters are the worst. Those are the chapters that talk about my father, Calder, and me. There’s even a photograph of the three of us from some charity function. One of the last times we were all together, more than two years ago. I touch the picture, sliding my finger across my father’s face. I’m starting to feel numb.

But I keep flipping. I flip until I find myself face-to-face with a picture of… well, me. It’s the one the tabloids made famous last year. The one where I’m hugging a boy from the orphanage I helped renovate. It was taken several months before my father’s death, and I look like the perfect little saint.

Now, though, it just makes me feel like the perfect little fraud.

Even the first time I went over to Chiang Mai, back when my father was alive and I had no real problems to worry about, was there ever a point when I wasn’t thinking about myself? I worked for Cunningham Cares International because I thought it would make me feel less guilty about my wealth. I can’t even remember the name of that boy in the picture.

“Doing a little light reading?”

The voice startles me, and I drop the book. My fingers feel thick, and my brain seems to be working about half as fast as it needs to. I know I should be nervous that someone just caught me looking at a photo of myself—if he got a good look at the picture, right here next to the real thing, he might recognize me—but I can’t bring myself to care. I just feel cold and empty.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he says as I slowly get to my feet. I’m still so dazed by the book that when I do look up, it takes me a moment to recognize the guy in front of me.

Red-brown hair. Dirty white T-shirt. Perfect biceps marked with scratches from a hundred tiny pieces of glass.

Casanova himself is standing in front of me. Blood rushes in my ears.

“What are you doing here?” I say. My voice is a squeak. Already, my eyes are taking it in: the bandages wrapped around various parts of his body. The toolbox in his hand. He was supposed to be fired. He was supposed to be gone.

“Someone needs to fix this window,” he says casually, cheerfully. As if he weren’t the one who broke it only this morning. As if I weren’t the girl who cornered him and tried to get in his pants only a few short days ago.

“I guess you got stuck with clean-up duty?” he asks when I don’t say anything immediately.

“Unfortunately,” I manage.

“Well, looks like we’re about to become good friends, then.” He turns and strides over toward the window. “Though I guess you could say we became good friends a few nights ago.”

I’m too stunned to reply. And when he turns to grin at me, I look quickly away, letting it all sink in.

He wasn’t fired. He’s going to be working right next to me. And he’s not going to let me forget about what I did the other night.

One thing’s for sure: this day’s about to get a whole lot more awkward.

Chapter Three

Ineed to get out of here. I should go talk to Mr. Haymore. Maybe I could convince him to let me outsource this particular task.

But what would I say? I can’t exactly explain the situation to that stodgy old buffoon. And if I walk out of here and leave all of this crap all over the floor, he’ll fire me for sure.

I crouch back down and begin sorting through the books again. I have to stay here. That doesn’t mean I have to engage with this guy. Maybe the best solution is to ignore him and finish my work. Quickly.

But Casanova seems to have other plans.

“So, what’s your name?” he says after a few minutes of silence.

I slide the first stack of books back on the shelf and pretend not to hear him. I’m not above employing the tactics of a ten-year-old.

“I’m Ward,” he says to my silence. “Ward Brannon. Usually girls ask for that before they stick their tongue in my mouth.”

Well, I can’t just let that slide.

“Oh, please. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” I say. I shove the next stack of books a little harder than I mean to.

“I did,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a few questions.”

Oh, boy. This could get dangerous quickly.

“You mean like Why did you do it?” I say. “Or What sort of girl tries to get it on with a stranger?”

“I’d settle for your name.”

I don’t bother looking at him. I can tell from his voice that he’s enjoying this almost as much as he enjoyed that fight.

“Addison,” I say finally. The name still sounds strange, no matter how many times I make myself say it. “My name is Addison.”

“Addison,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. Well, he won’t find much of me in that name. “So, Addison, how did you get roped into cleaning this place up?”

“Ask Mr. Haymore.”

“Ah, so you’re the new assistant,” he says. “I should’ve guessed.”

I don’t know what that means, so I ignore it.

“So what about you?” I say, eager to turn the attention away from myself. “Why are you still here? I thought you were fired.”

He gives a laugh that sounds like a grunt. “I guess it didn’t stick.”

As angry as Mr. Haymore was, I’m a little surprised to hear that, but maybe my boss realized he’d need every available hand in order to get this place ready on time.