Red Hot Obsessions(9)

Now the screen shows me a series of pictures, one of each dress that's supposedly appropriate for current needs. I scroll through the images, and I can't help but wonder as I peruse the selections how much each one costs. There's probably enough money in this one room alone to keep all of the Center's programs afloat for a year, maybe more.

But I won't think about that. I can't—not if I don't want to fly into a murderous rage.

My finger pauses over an image on the screen: a casual, cerulean-blue dress with cap sleeves. It's cute, and it doesn't look overly expensive—not that you can always guess. I'm not sure what to do from here, so I tap my finger on the picture of the dress.

“Items located in F12-AFD,” says the computerized voice.

F12-what? I glance around, and I notice that the lights above one of the racks are brighter than they were a moment ago. I walk over, and after a moment of searching, I locate the blue dress.

I peel off my wet clothes—including my bra and panties, since they're also soaked—and fold them over the edge of what I hope is the dirty clothes hamper. I pull the dress on carefully.

Once the garment is zipped, I go over to the floor-length mirror on the far side of the room. The dress fits me well enough, but even a billionaire heiress's dress can't do much for my hair. I redo the bun, twisting it into a knot that looks only slightly better. Oh well. I won't be the classiest thing to ever sit at the Cunninghams’ table, but I'm passable. Certainly decent enough to fight for the Center's future.

I squeeze my feet into a pair of cute black flats and head back out to the hallway.

Calder is already waiting for me. He's leaning against the wall, but he straightens when I step out of the bedroom. His eyes run up and down my body.

“That suits you, Ms. Frazer,” he says.

I ignore the compliment, but I can't keep the flush from rising to my cheeks. I also can't help but notice that his clean clothes suit him, too. He's wearing pressed black pants and a pale gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He still hasn't shaved, and his thumb slides along the stubble at his jaw.

“Like what you see?” he says.

I make a disgusted noise to hide the fact that he's caught me staring.

“I couldn’t care less about what you look like,” I say. “I'm here to talk about the Center, that's all.”

“Of course, Ms. Frazer.” He gives a little smile, and I know he doesn't believe me for a minute. “Shall we go down to the dining room, then?”

He holds out his arm, and after a moment of hesitation I take it. He's carried me through this house over his shoulder. There's no reason I should be afraid to place my hand on his arm. But a prickle dances up to my elbow when I lay my fingers on his skin. I pretend not to notice. His other hand comes to rest on top of mine, enveloping my fingers in warmth, and I ignore that too. He can play the gentleman all he wants. I know he's still an asshole at heart.

The way down to the dining room is longer than I expect—this place really is humongous. You could get lost for weeks in here. And everything is ridiculously ornate: every banister is carved with intricate patterns, every floor spread with richly colored rugs, every wall hung with row upon row of artwork. I squint at some of the paintings as we pass, hoping to recognize a few of the artists—an enthusiast like the late Wentworth Cunningham probably has a few works by some of the modern masters among his collection—but we move too quickly for me to make any connections.

“I can give you a tour later, if you like,” Calder says when he sees my interest.

I shrug noncommittally. I don't intend to stay here any longer than I need to. I plan to make my best case over dinner and then head home. Still, I can't help but marvel. This place is insane. One minute I’m interacting with a computerized closet like someone in a sci-fi movie, and the next I’m wandering through a corridor that looks like a nineteenth-century museum.

Finally Calder stops in front of a pair of wide double doors.

“Here we are.” He releases my hand and opens one of the doors for me, and I step through into what has to be one of the most extravagant dining rooms in existence. I mean, who needs a table long enough to seat thirty? Or a chandelier the size of a small car, with easily two or three hundred little bulbs that flicker just like candles? My eyes follow the chandelier chain, and I gasp when I notice the ceiling.

“My grandfather commissioned that mural after a trip to Italy,” Calder says.

I snap my jaw closed and tear my eyes away from the elaborate pastoral scene above our heads. I'm not sure whether to be enthralled or repulsed by the beauty and excess of this room, and it leaves me with an unpleasant jumble of emotions in my belly. Instead I walk over to the long table, where now I see a single place has been laid at the head.