I come to the elaborate fireplace last. If this were a fantasy or kid's cartoon, the fireplace would be the key. The carved stone mantel is ridiculously ornate; all it should take is the right amount of pressure on the right decorative leaf and a doorway will open up behind the gas logs. I've seen it a hundred times.
I work my way from right to left along the mantel, pushing and prodding every bit of stone. Nothing moves. When I've poked at every leaf and twist of vine, I go back in the opposite direction, trying everything again. Just in case.
Nothing happens.
I'll admit it—I’m a little disappointed. If there are actually secret passageways in this house, none of them appear to start in this room. I step away from the mantel, and in the process I trip over the rack with the fireplace poker.
"Mother fuc—”
I break off my curse when I hear the scrape of wood and stone behind me. I stand and turn.
You cannot be fucking serious.
A portion of the wall has swung inward, revealing a dark hallway beyond. A secret passageway. An actual secret-fucking-passageway. Calder wasn't lying after all.
I walk over and peer inside. The corridor is pitch black. I can't tell how long it is or which direction it ultimately leads.
But dark or not, there's no way I'm not going exploring.
I run back to the bed and grab my cell from the nightstand. Hopefully the light from its screen will be enough to keep me from falling and breaking my neck.
I can't believe I'm actually doing this, I think. But then again, I never expected to break onto the Cunninghams' property or wear their clothes or eat their food. I never expected to sleep in one of their giant, fluffy beds.
No turning back now, I tell myself.
I hit a button on my phone to bring the screen to life, and then I step into the darkness of the passage.
CHAPTER FIVE
I move slowly along the passage, the phone held out in front of me. The faint blue glow from the screen is just enough to keep me from walking into the walls. The corridor twists and turns ahead of me, and after five minutes I've already completely lost my bearings. I have no idea which direction I'm going or where I might end up. My only consolation is that there's only one way back, so it's unlikely I'll get too lost.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I begin to notice other details. At regular intervals along the walls, for example, I start spotting small, nondescript door handles. Some have even been brushed with pale paint, making them easier to spot among the shadows. I stop at one and give it a wiggle. The door creaks open, revealing the dark room beyond.
Part of me wants to venture out into the room, but another part feels weird poking around without Calder. I step back into the passage and pull the door closed behind me. I tell myself I should turn around and go back to my bedroom, but something drives me onward. I want to see where this secret corridor leads.
It’s only a few minutes later that I discover the first set of spy holes.
At first, I think I'm imagining things, but it's hard to miss the slivers of light that fall across my path. There's a pair of narrow slits in the wall, right at eye level, and they’re too perfectly round to be cracks. I step closer and look through them. On the other side, I can see a long, dimly-lit hallway. It appears to be empty.
Were these passages really just to hide the servants? Geez, I feel like I'm suddenly in the middle of a murder mystery or something. Is someone suddenly going to spring from the shadows and bop me over the head with a candlestick?
I continue along the passage, but now I'm on the lookout for more spy holes. They're harder to spot when they're looking onto a dark room, but I find a set that offers me a view of an unlit office, then a couple of pairs revealing bedrooms. There's not much to see, really, but still the entire thing feels deliciously wicked. I can only imagine a couple of reasons for why people would want spy holes looking into bedrooms.
And that's when I find Calder's room.
His lights are still on, so I spot the holes long before I even hear the hum of the television or his own movements around the room. I know it's wrong, but I can't resist taking a peek. My heart thumps in my ears as I press my hands against the wall and bring my eyes to the small openings in the paneling.
I'm struck immediately by the sleek modernity of his room. The walls are a pale steely blue, the furniture sleek and black. The flat screen television mounted on the far wall is flashing the local news.
Calder moves across the room, a towel around his waist.
Damn.
His dark hair is wet, and it curls deliciously against his neck. I try not to ogle his bare chest, but it's hard to ignore. He's pure muscle, from his broad shoulders to his chiseled waist. I've seen pictures in the tabloids, of course, but a grainy photograph is nothing compared to Calder in the flesh.
And just a couple of hours ago, he hinted he wanted to take you to bed, I remind myself. I could be in there with him right now, if I wanted, with my fingers running across those smooth muscles. I could—
I jerk back from the spy holes. What am I even thinking? I hate this guy. Okay, so he’s moderately attractive. I've already acknowledged that to myself. But I made the right decision. I don't regret turning him down.
Still, I can't keep myself from moving my eyes to the spy holes again, nor can I ignore the heat that rushes up my neck.
He's a selfish bastard, I remind myself.
He turns, and I have a clear view of his perfectly-sculpted back.
Damn. I'm in trouble.
He wanders over to a cabinet at the side of the room and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid. I watch his every movement, breathless, as he pours himself a glass. He takes it down in one swig and slams the glass down against the table. Then he lets out a long sigh and runs his hand through his hair. My own fingers tingle as I imagine wrapping them around those dark, wet strands, then sliding down his—
NO. What the hell am I doing? I have more self-control than this.
But I’m drawn back to the spy holes like a magnet. Try as I might to deny it, I can no longer lie to myself: Calder is an extremely attractive man, asshole or not.
Not just attractive, I think as I watch him pour himself another glass. Insanely-fucking-sexy.
I’d like to think that I’m different from all the other women who seem to just fall at his feet. That I won’t allow myself to be distracted by pecs and abs and bulging biceps. That I won’t allow myself to be taken in by a jerk who just happens to have a charming smile. I’ve been there with Garrett. I won’t make the same mistake a second time.
But there’s no reason I can’t fantasize a little, I tell myself. I'll never actually let him touch me.