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 stand between me and their small yard in the Upper East Side. 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 – especially in Manhattan where greenery is a rare thing in the first place. 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 Anderson family, the current residence of the infamous—and infuriating—Blaine Anderson.

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

Dearest Mr. Hummel,

While your persistence is admirable, I assure you your exertions on behalf of the Brooklyn Center for the Arts will do little to change my decision. I'm afraid I will not be including the Brooklyn 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, Blaine

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 Brooklyn 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 Andersons 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 bag. There are only four things inside: my wallet, a pack of gum, some sunglasses, and a severely outdated iPhone. 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, bringing my phone to life. "My camera is broken on my phone." I throw the phone down with the other items and grab the bag 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 Brooklyn Center for the Arts." I flip open my wallet and flash my ID card at the camera. Kurt Hummel. Assistant Director. There's even a picture, though my naturally deep brown, curly hair looks rather bush-like in the image. "Please. I just want to speak with Mr. Anderson 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 guy 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 Blaine Anderson 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 Brooklyn Center is my life, and now it's going to close—unless I convince Blaine Anderson to reverse his decision to retract the promise his father made.

The late Richard Anderson was a great patron of the arts and our largest donor for years. Apparently Richard's son had been somewhat hidden from the public for years - the son which the world now knows shares no such philanthropic tendencies. According to the tabloids, Blaine'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, Blaine'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 Blaine'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 Will would allow it.

A pang of guilt shoots through me. Will doesn't know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He thinks I'm in the Hamptons trying to scare up some corporate sponsors during the peak travel season.

He's been adamantly against pursuing the matter with Blaine Anderson, claiming he refuses to reduce himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this whole Anderson 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 Brooklyn Center. Will's been manning the phone in the evenings after the volunteer secretary leaves.

The line rings once before he picks up. "Brooklyn Center for the Arts," he says. "Will Schuster speaking." "Hey," I say.

"Hey, Kurt." 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?"

Will founded the Brooklyn Center coming on fifteen years ago, back when I was thirteen. He was an actor before that, and he opted out of taking on more roles and contributed his entire savings in order to secure the initial funds for the organization. Since then, Will has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our community. I joined the team during college and have been there ever since – finding Will to be a great friend and confidant.

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 quite a lie. And technically the Anderson estates have an Upper East Side address, which is not far from Brooklyn where our small Center resides, but it's still not in the same town, per se.

"What about you?" I say quickly, before Will 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 Will sound so defeated.

"Will, 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 Adam?" 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, Will. Anything else. But please don't call him." Once, I thought Adam was the perfect man. I mean, come on—he was a successful, wealthy 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 Will – and most people, really – still think 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 Adam again, it'll be too soon. I won't let us get that desperate.

On the other end, Will lets out another long breath. "All right, Kurt. 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. 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 Will sound so tired, 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 Adam, at least. Bringing him into this will only make the whole situation worse.

That's why I have to convince Blaine Anderson 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 Blaine. 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 turn around grab the top of my pants and unhook the belt, take a deep breath, and pull them down, catching the top edge of my boxer briefs as well and exposing my ass to the security system. One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring over my bare skin, and then I yank my pants quickly back up and refasten them securely in place. My cheeks are blazing hot, but there's a wild rush in my belly. I've just flashed the Anderson security camera. That has to get a reaction. I knew that Blaine was gay like me and a small sliver of hope prodded me to believe that perhaps seeing my ass – which countless paramours had praised in my past – would at least entice him to open those gates that seemed to mock my presence.

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 ass 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.

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 Anderson 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 Anderson 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 Anderson 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.

Blaine Anderson won't even know what hit him.

I've only met Blaine once in person, but that was enough. It was at the Brooklyn 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. Richard Anderson attended the event every year, but last February —about five months before he died—he brought his son Blaine along as well.

I'll admit it: I was excited to meet the infamous heir to the Anderson 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" guy – model, actor, didn't matter – Blaine Anderson could bed them all. I was curious. I couldn't help it.

Blaine was, at first glance, nothing like I expected. There seems to be one in every "old money" family: the son with the good looks and bad behavior to spare. Though he oozed charm, he was devastatingly "dark and handsome" – not on the tall side, but certainly had dark features and a seemingly dark demeanor, which the tabloids had latched onto when Blaine was thrust into the spotlight a few years ago.

In another life, if Blaine hadn't been born into insane amounts of money—or if he decided that partying and bedding anything with two legs and a dick weren't enough of a career for him— he might have made his own millions as a model.

He's also the kind of guy who looks down his nose at events thrown by small arts organizations. Blaine spent the entire evening of Arts & Hearts looking bored out of his mind and sipping aloofly at his wine. He seemed to vaguely show interest when Sam, one of my friends from high school, took the stage in order to talk about our Center's initiatives, but his interest faded when Sam invited his girlfriend Mercedes to the stage and the intrigue behind his eyes died.

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 the small walkway to the massive building. The yard – if you could call it that – was small and offered no protection from the rain, so I ended up looking like a drenched rat trying to win a wet t-shirt contest with my now see through white button up rather than the professional I had aspired to be when meeting with one of the richest men in Manhattan.

"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— a broad, somewhat short yet obviously muscled man, 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 Blaine. 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 whooshes 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. "Mr.—oof—Hummel."

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. He seemed like a bit of a welterweight now that we were in close proximity, but he was alarmingly strong as I struggled wildly under his grip to get away.

"And why should I do that, Mr. Hummel?" 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 Blaine.

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 Blaine 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 man down," I say, "when he clearly—"

"Man?" he breathes into my ear. I try not to shiver at the proximity or how it feels to have his warm breath against my cool neck. "I don't see a man. 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. Anders—"

"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 Will, not when he's put everything he owns into the Brooklyn 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 Brooklyn 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, Mr. Hummel, 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, Mr. Hummel," 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. Blaine 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, Mr. Hummel." 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 Blaine 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. I certainly did not expect that when I saw him earlier today. I have to weigh more than him, yet here he goes throwing me over his shoulder as if I'm just a grocery bag he needs to bring in from his car.

"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 Blaine'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 Anderson 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 someone 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. Or ruin your precious shoes." 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 hair that went from coiffed to disastrous with the rain. I can only get a clear view of the carpets below us. They're definitely pretty fancy, but Blaine 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? God, I had an inkling that he could have seen it, but I thought it was a farfetched conclusion. "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, broad smile pasted on his face. 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 somewhat cropped look, and his hair doesn't seem to have a lick of product in it. There are dark circles beneath his brown eyes and a slight shadow of stubble lines his chin and cheeks.

"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.

"Not my problem." He crosses his arms and stares down at me. "My problem is people who think they can come waltzing onto my property without any consequences." He yanks his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Call the police, then," I say. "But this doesn't end here. I'm not going to stop until we have the money we were promised, or until the entire world knows what a cheap, heartless bastard you are."

I'm surprised at the words even as they come out of my mouth, but my anger is making me bold.

Blaine seems equally startled by my voracity. His cell phone is in his hand, poised to call the police, but he stands frozen. There's a strange expression in his eyes that I can't read.

"Very well, then," he says finally. He slides the phone back in his pocket. "No police."

A flutter of hope takes life in my chest. "I have some materials back in my car," I say. "If you understood what we do—"

"Don't mistake me," he says. "I've decided not to call the police. That's all. I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you yet."

"Do with me?" I say. I push myself up off the couch so we're standing toe to toe. "What's that

supposed to mean?" I still can't read the expression in his eyes. His irises are so dark I can hardly tell where they stop and his pupils begin. He's so close that I can see his pulse beating in his throat.

"The way I see it," he says slowly, his voice dropping low, "you want something from me. The question is, how far are you willing to go to get it?"

Wait. Is he actually propositioning me? As if to punctuate his point, Blaine reaches out and slides a strand of wet hair from my face. His fingers brush against my cheek, and I'm shocked by how warm they are against my damp skin.

"I'm—I'm not going to sleep with you," I say, my voice softer than I intend. I step away from him, and the back of my knees hit the edge of the couch.

"I never asked you to sleep with me," he replies. He steps toward me, closing the gap between us again. "I was thinking more along the lines of dinner."

"Dinner. Like a date?" This is ridiculous. Two minutes ago he was threatening to call the police on me, and now he wants to have dinner?

"No, not like a date." His voice is thick with amusement again. "Dinner here, right now. I was about to sit down to eat when I became aware of the disturbance at my gate, and now I'm starving."

"Oh." I'm not sure how I feel about this. He wants us to sit down over some beef stroganoff or something and act like friends? I can't think of anything more awkward.

"Did you want to talk about your little Center or not?" he says.

"Talk about it?" I say quickly. "Of course. Yes. Dinner then. Yes."

He gives a low chuckle. "Good." He reaches out to take my arm, but his fingers freeze on my sleeve. His eyes rake down my body, and heat rushes to my cheeks. Is he seriously checking me out right now? "You need to change first," he says. "I don't want you dripping all over the table." Now my entire face is hot. He doesn't need to remind me that I'm a muddy mess. I probably look like a drowned rat.

"You're not exactly clean either," I say, crossing my arms. "Besides, I have nothing else to wear."

"That's not an issue in this house, I assure you," he says. His eyes skim down my body once more.

"Not an issue at all."