"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."

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 curtain of hair. I can only get a clear view the carpets below us. They're definitely pretty fancy, but Calder 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?

"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.

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"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 wrinkle in his clothes, not a hair out of place. 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 were particularly luxurious even before I arrived here today. His hair has outgrown its typical stylish cut, and his previously clean-shaven cheeks are sporting a coat of dark stubble. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

"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 young women 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.

Calder 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, Calder 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?




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