by Scott, J. S.
When her mom had told her the previous director of the Center had retired, Emily had come back home to stay. It had been comforting that very little had changed during her absence, except for the fact that the Sinclair siblings had all decided to finally claim the peninsula outside of town, land that had been in their family for generations. Grady had been the first to build his home there, with all of the other members of the family putting up their own houses after his was completed. As far as she knew, Grady Sinclair was the only full-time resident on the peninsula, but all five of them had houses there, homes that usually sat empty.
“I have to do something,” Emily whispered to herself desperately, standing and pulling on her bright red jacket.
“I hear he eats women and small children as snacks,” Randi warned her ominously, her lips curving into a small smirk.
Emily smoothed the jacket over her generous hips and retorted, “I think I’d make a decent lunch.” Unlike her petite friend, Emily was far from small, and she’d probably make an adequate meal, even for a beast.
She had been back in Amesport and running the YCOA for over a year, but hadn’t once encountered a single member of the Sinclair family. Apparently, most of the family was either constantly traveling or lived elsewhere, using their houses here in Maine strictly as vacation homes. Grady Sinclair was rarely spotted in town, but his few not-so-friendly interactions with the locals had labeled him as a complete jerk. Residents here in Amesport weren’t accustomed to people being less than polite and friendly; almost anyone in town was more than willing to yack and gossip with a new arrival. Apparently, Grady Sinclair wasn’t exactly the amiable type, and Emily wondered why he had ever moved here to Amesport. The Sinclairs were from Boston. Sure, they had land here. But then, they owned real estate just about everywhere.
Randi stood, her smirk replaced by a look of concern as she asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m doing it,” Emily answered confidently as she scooped up her purse. “How bad can he be?”
Randi shrugged. “I’ve actually never met him either. But from what I’ve heard, he’s like the devil incarnate.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Thanks. That’s comforting.”
Randi grabbed Emily’s arm as she made her way to the door and hugged her. “Be careful. Do you want me to go with you?”
Emily was touched that Randi was willing to go confront the beast with her, and she gratefully hugged her friend back. As she released her, she replied, “No. But can you watch over the Center for me? Most of the kids are gone for the evening because there’s a storm coming in, but there’s a bingo game going on in the recreation hall.”
Randi nodded and smiled. “I’ll wander over there and lock up when everyone is gone. They usually have good snacks.”
Emily gave Randi a mock frown, wishing she had her friend’s metabolism and fondness for physical activities. Randi could eat like a horse and never gain an ounce. “Watch yourself. Those ladies get dangerous if you try to swipe too many of their chicken wings,” Emily replied with a laugh.
Amused, Randi quipped, “They’ll never see me coming or going. I’m an expert at stealing food.”
Emily knew Randi meant the comment as a joke, but she knew her friend’s background, and didn’t doubt there was some real truth in Randi’s statement.
“Thanks,” Emily told her friend quietly.
Randi gave her a mock salute and a grin as she walked off toward the recreation room.
Emily sighed heavily as she made her way to the exit door, trying not to cringe at the thought of approaching Grady Sinclair. She’d gone up against some intimidating men during her time in California. Sure, he was a billionaire, but he was just a man, right? No different from any other rich guy she’d encountered in her corporate job.
It was dark and snowing as she drove her ancient truck toward the peninsula, knowing it was way past time for new tires, but they weren’t really in her budget. Honestly, she bought very little unless it was a necessity. With the cost of paying back student loans, and the low salary she was receiving for her current job, almost everything was beyond her means. She could make more money with her business degree somewhere else, but she’d rather do without than go back into corporate business. She just didn’t have the killer instinct to move up the corporate ladder while she was taking someone else down to get there. All she really wanted was to be in a job where she could do something good. And she’d found that at the Center. Unfortunately, she’d made the mistake of dating the wrong guy, which was the story of her life. Granted, the money he’d made off with hadn’t been a fortune, but it was a lot to her, money she just didn’t have to replace. It was the funds for the expenses of the Center for December, and all the money that had been raised throughout the year for the Christmas festivities. And the sum was way more than she could afford, or hope to get in donations.
“Fat chance the police will have any luck,” Emily muttered to herself as she pulled up to the gate that blocked the road to the peninsula. Paul had disappeared as though he had never existed. The police had investigated, but had very little information. Paul probably wasn’t even his real name, and he had done this several times before without being caught—if the similar incidents were done by the same man.
Swallowing hard, she stared at the massive metal gate in front of her, wondering how she was going to actually get through it, when the decorative doors started to swing open soundlessly.
It’s not locked or guarded. It’s motion operated.
Okay. That surprised her. In fact, it took her a moment to even give the truck some gas to enter through the open gate. When she finally came out of her perplexed trance, she gunned the engine, making the back end of the truck fishtail on her bald tires. She straightened her vehicle up and kept going. The snow was coming down heavier, a sloppy, wet snow with high winds that signaled an incoming nor’easter.
What did I expect? A guarded fortress?
But yeah, actually, she had assumed there would be some sort of barrier between the ultrarich Sinclair family and the rest of the world. Even though the peninsula wasn’t that large, the Sinclairs owned the entire cape, and the road was private. To be allowed to enter just by driving up to the gate was a surprise. When she was a child, the projecting mass of land had sat empty, and she had ignored the No Trespassing signs more times than she could remember to sit out on one of the shorelines, her very favorite spot on the headland.
My favorite place is in the exact same spot where Grady Sinclair built his house.
Emily couldn’t see well, but she squinted into the swirling snow and pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. Passing several private driveways, she kept on going, knowing Grady’s home was the very last one.
The road ended at his house, and Emily forged ahead, parking her truck in the circular driveway and turning off the engine.
I must be insane!
Before she had time to think about what she was doing and leave, Emily grabbed her purse and slammed the door of the truck closed. Glad she was dressed in a sweater and jeans for the weather, she just wished she were also wearing a pair of boots, her sneakers slipping and sliding in the fresh, wet snow.
The house was massive, and she gaped at the heavy oak doors in front of her, wanting to run away as fast as her slippery shoes would take her.
“What kind of single guy owns a house this humungous?” she whispered in awe.
Answering herself, she said, “A man who has enough money to donate to the Youth Center.”
With that thought in mind, she strode determinedly forward and pressed the doorbell harder than she needed to, causing her feet to slide out from under her and her body to land ungracefully in a heap on Grady Sinclair’s doorstep.
That was a fabulous and graceful entrance, Emily. Impress him with your professionalism.
Disgusted with herself, she scrambled for purchase on the icy stone porch, hastily trying to get to
her feet before he answered the door, but she slid again and landed flat on her rear end, flinching as her tailbone hit the unyielding surface. “Damn!”
Abruptly, the door swung open, and Emily Sinclair got her first look at the beast from an undignified position on her frozen ass.
Her glasses were wet and foggy, but he looked like no beast she had ever seen. He did, however, look pretty fierce, dark, and dangerous. Without saying a word, Grady Sinclair stuck his hand out as though he completely expected her to take it. She did, grasping his hand as he pulled her to her feet like she was as light as a feather. Trying to straighten up quickly to regain some modicum of dignity, she gawked up at him. She was tall for a woman, but he dwarfed her, towering over her menacingly. He was dressed informally in a tan thermal shirt that stretched across rippling muscles and a massive chest. He was sporting a pair of jeans that looked worn, and he filled them out in a way she’d never seen a man wear a pair of jeans before.
Holy crap! Grady Sinclair was hot. Scorching hot. His dark hair was mussed, and he had a just-rolled-out-of-bed look that made her want to drag him back to a bedroom. Any bedroom. He looked like he hadn’t shaved today, and the dark, masculine stubble on his jaw just added to the testosterone waves she swore she could almost feel pulsating from his magnificent body and entering hers, making her squirm just a little at her body’s reaction to him.
She drew in a deep breath as his gray-eyed stare seemed to assess her, and finally came to rest on her face. “Hi,” she said weakly, unable to form any intelligent words right at that moment. Her brain was mush and her cheeks flushed pink with mortification. This just wasn’t the businesslike, graceful entrance she had hoped for, and her lustful reaction to Grady Sinclair had her uncharacteristically flustered.
I need to get it together. I’m acting like an idiot. I need this donation.
He grabbed a fistful of her jacket and tugged her inside, closing the door behind her. Plucking the glasses from her face, he used his shirt to clean them before he handed them back to her. “You don’t look like one of my brother Jared’s usual women,” he said gruffly. “Bedroom is upstairs.” He pointed his thumb toward the spiral staircase on the far side of the enormous front room.
Emily stared at him blankly for a moment, and then slanted her gaze toward the living room to try to clear her head. She certainly couldn’t seem to think straight when she was looking directly at him.
Bedroom? What the hell is he talking about? Jared’s women?
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t know you, and I’m not acquainted with Jared. I came to ask a favor.” Who does he think I am?
“And you’re offering your favors for a favor, right?” he asked grimly, his graveled baritone almost disapproving.
Her head jerked back to his face. “What? No. What kind of favor?” she replied suspiciously.
“My brother Jared told me I needed to get laid, which generally is followed by a woman arriving here at my house. I usually just send the women away with a check. But I’ve decided I’ll take you,” he said huskily.
Emily gulped. “Someone sends you women . . . as in prostitutes?” Good God, the last thing Grady Sinclair needed was a hooker. She couldn’t think of one single woman who would actually turn him down. “Do I look like a whore?” she asked irritably, suddenly offended by the fact that he’d thought she was for sale. But she felt a shiver of need slide down her spine and land right between her thighs at the thought that he actually wanted her, and what he might do to her if she were actually a woman for hire. She wasn’t beautiful and she was curvy, her ample figure a little more than most men found attractive.
He reached out and unzipped her jacket, divesting her of the garment and hanging it on a hook by the door. Turning back to her, he said slowly, “Nope. You don’t. That’s why I want to fuck you.”
Emily gasped, his blatant words and heated appraisal making her flush. “Well, I don’t know Jared, and I don’t want to do that.” Liar. Liar. She so did want to do that, but she wasn’t about to admit it when he’d just insulted her. Besides, she didn’t do casual sex. “I’m Emily Ashworth and I’m the director of the Youth Center of Amesport. I wanted to talk to you about a possible donation.”
She shuddered as his intense, molten gaze swept over her body and back to her face, staring at her with a look so smoldering and hungry that her core clenched in response.
“You’re cold,” he said abruptly, taking her frozen hand in his and leading her through the living room, down the hallway and into a cheery kitchen. “Sit,” he demanded huskily as he dropped her hand, halting at the kitchen table.
Emily sat, so confused that she was unable to make herself do anything else. She watched silently as Grady Sinclair moved around the kitchen, his large body maneuvering with a fluidity of motion that shouldn’t be possible for a man as large and muscular as he was. Watching him from behind was almost mesmerizing. She was jealous of the denim that was cupping an ass so tight that she could see the flex of muscle beneath the seat of his jeans as he moved, and it was a view she couldn’t bring herself to look away from for some time. Finally, ripping her gaze from him, she let her eyes wander around the kitchen—a bright, airy room with beautiful granite countertops and polished wood floors. The all-white kitchen had high-end appliances that Emily eyed covetously and gleaming copper pots hanging from hooks on the ceiling. Beyond, there was a dining room with a formal, polished wood table, but the room was dim, sparsely furnished, and looked seldom used.
He sauntered to the kitchen table moments later and pushed a mug in front of her, sitting down next to her with his own cup in hand. Emily placed her cold fingers around the mug, sighing as she inhaled the heated, fragrant brew. It was a hot apple cider, and she took a long sip, the warm liquid instantly starting to thaw out her frigid body. “Thank you,” she told him quietly as she set her mug back on the table. “So will you consider it?”
“Why?” he questioned darkly, his heated gaze spearing her as she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.
“The Center needs money.”
“Why?” he asked again, lifting a brow as he sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving her.
He knows I’m desperate, that there’s a reason I’m here so late asking for money.
“A man I was dating stole the operating money from the Center and we can’t keep running without a significant donation,” she admitted, wondering why she was feeling the need to be completely honest with him.
Starting hesitantly, she spilled the entire story about the money being stolen as Grady watched her, his expression unreadable as he listened. “So would you be willing to help?” she asked nervously as she finished her story.
He was silent, his expression contemplative as he continued to look at her. Intense minutes passed before he finally answered, “I might be willing to consider it. But I’d want something in return.”
She picked up her mug and took another sip of cider, swallowing awkwardly before she spoke again. “What? I’ll do whatever I can to get you what you want.” The whole future of Amesport depended on his answer. Emily knew she had nowhere else to go and no other solution.
“That’s good, because you’re the only one who can get it for me,” he agreed casually. “Because what I really want is you.”
Emily nearly choked, sputtering as she swallowed. Dear God, maybe Grady Sinclair was the Amesport Beast after all. “I need to give the town of Amesport a Christmas, they need the Center to stay open, and I’ll do anything to keep from disappointing the kids there, but I’m not sleeping with you to do it,” she told him indignantly.
“We don’t need to sleep,” Grady replied gruffly. “And I hate Christmas.”
How could he hate Christmas? Who hated Christmas except Scrooge?
Emily looked around the massive, tastefully decorated home: not a single red or green decoration in sight. She hadn’t seen one Christmas item in his living room, and there was nothing in the d
ining room or kitchen. “I happen to love Christmas. It’s the season of giving and helping others, a time of forgiveness and good cheer.”
“Not in my experience,” Grady replied, rising from his chair to take his mug to the sink. “It’s a time of commercial greed where everyone expects something. Nobody is really happy. It’s not real. People are doing what they think is expected of them.”
Emily stood up and stalked over to him, rinsed out both mugs in the sink, and placed them in the dishwasher. “It’s the happiest time of the year.” Emily placed her hands on her hips and stared up at Grady, wondering what had made him so cynical. Her irritation drained away as she caught a glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes, a look that told her he wasn’t being cruel. He was telling her what Christmas had been like for him, and for just a moment, Emily had the craziest compulsion to wrap her arms around him and show him that not everyone in the world wanted something from him.
But even I want something from him. I want funds for the Center.
“I can’t have sex with you for money, Mr. Sinclair,” Emily told him flatly.
“I’ll donate a million dollars,” he said huskily, his large body moving closer, pinning her between his body and the sink. “And I’m Grady. I don’t want you calling me Mr. Sinclair. Too many of us.”
“I can’t,” she whispered quietly, almost regretting her ethics. “And nobody donates a million dollars to the YCOA.”
“I would,” he rumbled.
His scent surrounded her as his hands landed on the edge of the sink, a fragrance so masculine that it was intoxicating her. Grady smelled like the ocean, pine, and a tantalizing musk that was uniquely him.
