Page 238 of The First Taste

Talia looks offended. "Remember how we were just talking about integrity being for poor people? I have integrity in spades. And I will expect you to have it, too, even though I already think you’re kind of scummy."

"Scummy?" I reply.

"Yes. It’s scummy to ask for a filmed confession of your brother's sex life. It’s scummy to hit on me while you try to work this out. You might be a rich man, but I’m starting to think that you might be completely lacking a moral compass."

The way she is looking at me just now, her head turned back and her eyes glinting with accusation, is so confident that I am a little startled by it. My eyes are on her face, scanning her one last time for any trace of deception. But from what I can tell, she seems completely genuine. So, what the hell... Why not just fulfill her one demand right now?

I reach over to the dash of the car, pressing the ignition button. The car roars to life, and I lift my eyebrows in question.

"You said you wanted to meet Remy. Why don’t we go right now?"

She pales, her whole-body tensing. "Now?"

"Right now. Unless you have something better to do?"

I watch her as she takes a deep breath, looking all kinds of nervous. "No, I’m not busy."

I throw the Porsche into drive and speed off without another word while she scrambles to pull her seatbelt around her body. I grin to myself, gunning the Porsche’s engine and racing off into the night.

Ten

Talia

Dare is all grins as we pull up the long, sloping driveway of the Morgan estate. I look behind me and watch as the town of Harwicke falls away, just as the sprawling Gothic revival breaks from the landscape and juts out boldly. I can feel Dare’s eyes on me as we pull up the gravel drive, our tires crunching as we come to a stop. Dare jumps out of the car, looking like he can’t wait for me to meet Remy. I have a sour feeling in my stomach as I get out of the Porsche and run my fingers through my hair.

I can’t look anywhere but at the mansion itself, which stands alone on the top of this bluff like it owns the very air around it, like it was always destined to be here. Without the crowds of people and the cars cluttering the driveway, the mansion itself seems to loom over everything, standing alone and separate from the rest of the town of Harwicke.

"Well?" Dare grips my arm and motions to the huge oak doorway. "Come on then, darling girl. It’s your time to shine."

For some reason, his words set my teeth on edge. I make a sour expression and pull from his grip, but he redoubles the contact, gripping my arm harder, forcing me to take his hand. He swings open the massive front door without a word, and I step through, my eyes scanning the massive foyer.

It’s all marble and slate floor tiles here. Beyond the foyer is a massive, long hallway clad in dark wood and bright red carpet.

From what I can see right now, the foyer and the hallway beyond could fit my whole tiny two-bedroom bungalow three or maybe four times. To say that I am in awe would probably be an understatement. I’m trying to rapidly calculate how much it must have cost to build and maintain this structure for so long, as the house itself does appear to be quite old.

Dare takes one look at me, rolls his eyes, and reaches out to close my gaping mouth. "Don’t act like you’ve never been anywhere nice before," he hisses.

I clench my jaw and fire a sharp look his way, but he is already looking in another direction. He drags me down the hallway, and I can’t help but notice the expensive velvet chairs, long side tables, and priceless art that lines the hallway as soon as we get into it.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I thought of visiting the Morgan estate for the very first time. But this certainly exceeds all my expectations. It may be a desolate old mansion on the highest bluff in town, but its design is quite exceptional, not to mention its vast size.

A man in a full tuxedo with tails appears to our left, coming out of seemingly thin air. His burnished brown skin and close-cut dark hair, graying just at the temples, make him seem distinguished. But when he speaks, it is his English accent that completely throws me for a loop. With a bow, he greets Dare.

"Mr. Morgan," he says. "Welcome back. May I take your coats?"

"Thank you, Clive," Dare says. He claps the man on the shoulder, which seems to give the man a jolt. "That will not be necessary. We’re just here to talk to my grandfather."

"Good," Clive says. He bows again. "Mr. Morgan is currently meeting with someone, if you don’t mind waiting."

"Really? Who?"

Clive looks at me as if he were deciding whether or not I am trustworthy. His lips press into a thin line, and then he puts his hands behind his back, his face smoothing out into a pleasant expression.

"He is with Charles Adams, Sir. The chief financial officer of Morgan Oil. Mr. Adams is also one of Mr. Morgan’s oldest friends, if I were to read between the lines of their business partnership."

The two men interact as though I no longer exist. I peer at the magnificent painting on the wall just behind me, a reproduction of one of Monet’sWaterLilies, if I am not mistaken. It’s enormous in scale and flanked by two overstuffed velvet chaises in delicate gold and amber hues.

I tilt my head, lost in thought, as I try to calculate the cost of just the painting and the chairs. Five thousand? Ten thousand? Yet these two don’t even glance at it, despite the painting looming quite largely over everything in this hallway. They have become used to the luxury, I suppose.