Liars Like Us (Morally Gray Book 1)

“Welcome to married life,” I say in disbelief to the empty room. From somewhere down the corridor, a door slams shut in answer.

Sighing, I sit up and look around.

The suite décor is not at all what I pictured a man like Callum would choose. Spacious and airy, the room is elegant but distinctly feminine, right down to the soft pink-and-green floral pattern on the plush sofas and chairs in the sitting area.

There’s an antique writing desk with an ornate gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall above it. The nightstands are distressed wood topped with brass reading lamps. Soft, billowy curtains filter the sunlight, providing a dreamy atmosphere, and the floors are rustic wide-plank hardwood covered by a vintage area rug in muted colors. A stunning crystal chandelier hangs from above, adding a touch of opulence to the overall design.

The focal point of the room is the beautiful antique armoire.

With carved details and a polished wood finish, it showcases a tantalizing collection of books through beveled glass doors.

Drawn to it, I slide off the bed and cross the room.

Up close, the armoire is so pretty, I’m almost afraid to touch it, but the gold-embossed spines of the books beg to be investigated. The doors are unlocked, so I open them and peer inside. When I read a few of the titles, euphoria expands in my chest.

Pride and Prejudice. Ulysses. The Great Gatsby. Madame Bovary. Wuthering Heights. Anna Karenina. The Grapes of Wrath.

Dozens more classics line the interior shelves. On impulse, I pluck the copy of Pride and Prejudice off a shelf and open it, then hold it to my nose and flip through the yellowed pages, inhaling that delicious old-book smell that’s so unlike anything else.

Smiling, I flip back to the inside cover to see how old Callum’s copy is.

The smile falls off my face when I see the copyright date of 1813 and the words First Edition printed beside it.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, terrified.

I’m holding a literary treasure in my hands.

Very carefully, I close the cover and gently slide the book back to its home between Gulliver’s Travels and The Sun Also Rises. Then I stand there quaking as my gaze travels over all the other titles in the armoire.

From a casual inspection of their spines, they all look as old as Pride and Prejudice does.

I suppose it makes sense. People with ungodly amounts of wealth like to collect rare things. Coveted, priceless things that others will envy them for.

But this kind of collection should be on display in a public space. A library or drawing room for instance, somewhere the lord of the manor could impress his guests as they smoked cigars and drank sherry after supper. A second-story master bedroom is hardly the place for these gems.

Frowning, I look over the books. Maybe that was a one-off. Maybe the rest of these are garage-sale finds or dummy copies for display with no printing inside.

I slowly slide David Copperfield from a shelf and gingerly open the cover.

1850. First edition. I’m gonna faint.

With shaking hands, I return the book to its nested spot between two other tomes from massive literary geniuses, then stand wide-eyed with my hands on my head, reviewing every glorious shelf.

When I spot the copy of Outlander, I clap my hands over my mouth to stifle a rapturous scream.

When I’ve recovered, I take it out and turn it over. The dust jacket is glossy perfection. The hardcover beneath is unblemished too. I know it’s not nearly as valuable as some of the other novels in Callum’s collection, but the existence of this book here immediately makes me forgive him for about ninety percent of his shortcomings.

Then I open the cover and lose my breath.

In black pen on the title page someone has written the words, “To Emery.”

Beneath that is a signature.

The author’s signature.

One very famous woman by the name of Diana Gabaldon.

“Wait,” I say. Then I say it again louder, because what the actual fuck?

I stand there with my heart pumping and sweat breaking out on my brow as I try to figure out how on earth Callum would have gotten my favorite book personalized by the author in the short span of time since I met him.

It has to be fake. That’s the only logical explanation.

Except my gut tells me it’s real. As real as the heavy diamond sparkling on my ring finger.

Cradling the book to my chest, I turn and look around the room with a growing sense of unreality.

Who is this man, really?

Eyeing the door on the other side of the room that I suspect leads to the closet, I decide to snoop around and find out.

Steeling myself, I cross the room and open the door. I was right: it’s Callum’s closet. Almost the size of the bedroom, it’s filled with luxurious clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the middle of the closet is a large dresser topped with a rectangular leather-and-glass watch display case. Ignoring the rows of expensive timepieces within, I set the signed copy of Outlander on the top of the dresser, slide open one of the drawers, and peek inside.

Black briefs, folded neatly.

Another drawer reveals his socks.

Yet another holds silk pocket squares in every color.

Inside the bottom drawer, several hardshell black plastic cases of various sizes are fitted together like puzzle pieces. Each has a handle and two sliding latches. None of them are marked.

Curious, I kneel on the floor and remove one of the cases from the drawer. Balancing it on my knees, I flip open the latches and look inside.

The interior of the case is filled with small bundles of braided rope. The purple, green, and black rope bundles have a soft, synthetic sheen. A few of the light brown ones appear to be some kind of natural fiber. The gold looks most luxurious and is thicker and velvet to the touch.

I look at all the other cases in the drawer and wonder if they’re all filled with rope too.

And if they are, why? How much home improvement does a billionaire do? If I had to take a wild guess, it would be zero.

So what does he need it for?

At lunch, he mentioned sailing. Maybe it’s for his boat?

I try another case, but it’s locked. So are all the others.

Stumped, I put the case back in its place and slide the drawer closed. Then I stand, curiosity thrumming through me like electricity.

I should look around for a set of keys.

From the doorway comes the sound of someone clearing his throat.

Gasping, I jump and spin around.

“Good afternoon,” says Callum’s driver, giving me a little bow.

“Oh God. You startled me.” I press a shaking hand over my chest. Then I realize I just got caught snooping through Callum’s drawers, and my face goes hot. “I, um, was just having a look around.”

If he knows what I was looking at, he doesn’t show it. He merely smiles and holds up his hand. In it is a small black card.

“Mr. McCord asked me to give you this.”

“What is it?”

“His American Express card. There’s no limit on the account, so you can use it to purchase whatever you like.”

My laugh is small and nervous. “Oh, good, I can get that jet I always wanted.”

He nods, still smiling. “Yes.”

He moves a few steps closer, holding out the card. I reluctantly take it from him. It’s a heavy chunk of black metal, engraved with Callum’s name and an account number. Turning it over in my hands, I say, “I couldn’t really buy a jet with this, could I?”

“Of course.”

He says it like I’m a moron for even asking.

Then he says, “I’m Arlo, by the way. Mr. McCord’s driver and personal assistant. I’m happy to help you with anything you might want or need.”

He put an emphasis on “anything.” I suspect I could ask this guy to help me bury a body, and he’d say no problem, let me just go get the shovels, and we’ll get started.

This is the first time I’ve seen him without his dark sunglasses, so I finally have a good look at his face. He’s nice-looking, maybe mid-thirties, with olive skin and thick dark brows over unusual silvery-gray eyes.

Like his employer’s, those eyes seem to hold a million secrets in their depths.

He says, “Your handbag will arrive soon, followed shortly by all your other belongings. Would you like me to help you unpack?”

Instantly suspicious, I say, “What do you mean, all my other belongings?”

“Your clothes and personal items from your apartment.”

I’m momentarily stunned. “All my stuff is being brought here? Why?”

Arlo lifts his brows, then says gently, “Because you live here now, Mrs. McCord.”

“Oh. Right.” Help.

“Perhaps you’d like to give me your measurements and favorite clothing stores so I can send them to Mr. McCord’s personal shopper.”

When I stare at him in confusion, he adds, “For your new wardrobe.”

“What new wardrobe?”

“The one Mr. McCord would like you to have.”

I say hotly, “What’s wrong with my old wardrobe?”

Bypassing that landmine, Arlo says, “The cleaning staff comes on Tuesday and Thursday. The chef arrives daily at eight a.m. and leaves at six in the evening. If you have any preferences for the day’s menu, just leave a list on your writing desk”—he gestures to the antique desk across the room—“and I will deliver it to him. The masseuse is on call twenty-four hours a day, and if you’d like a lady’s maid to assist you with dressing and keeping your personal possessions in good order, I’ll have the agency send over candidates for you to interview.”

He waits patiently for me to absorb all that, but the information bounces off my numb skull.

His voice gentler, he says, “I know it must be overwhelming. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to enlist my help.”

From his suit jacket, he pulls a thin silver cell phone. “I’m also on call twenty-four hours a day. My number is already programmed in, as are the numbers of all your personal contacts.”

I take the phone from him and hold it at arm’s length between two fingers, as you might a small but venomous snake. “How are all my contacts already programmed in this thing?”

Arlo clasps his hands together and smiles.

Dropping my arm to my side, I sigh. “Look, Arlo. I know you think you’re trying to be helpful, but that mysterious smile is freaking me out. Now answer my question, please—how are my numbers already programmed in?”

He thinks for a moment. “I realize you and Mr. McCord haven’t known each other long, but you’ll soon discover that he’s always well prepared.”

I say flatly, “Meaning he’s been spying on me.”

“Meaning he’s exceptionally detail oriented.”

“Meaning he’s a control freak.”

“Meaning that now that you’re under his care, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.”

“The semantics are making me anxious. And the phrase ‘under his care’ makes me feel like a patient. I agreed to marry the guy, not let him treat my medical conditions.”

After a thoughtful beat, Arlo says, “I’m sorry if I misspoke. I only meant that you’ll be protected from now on.”

“Protected from what? I run a bookshop, not an illegal gambling ring.”

He doesn’t answer. He merely smiles and walks out.

Just like his boss, Arlo is aggravating.

Sighing, I inspect the phone he gave me. Almost as thin as the black Amex card, it has no buttons on the sides. When I tap the screen with my thumb, nothing happens.

I doubt Arlo would give me a phone with a dead battery, so I set aside the credit card on the dresser and turn the phone over in my hands, inspecting it. In addition to having no buttons, it also has no holes where a charger would go or any other markings of any sort.

It’s sleek, blank, and slightly menacing.

On impulse, I hold it close to my mouth and say, “Call Dani.”

The screen lights up. Calling Dani shows in white type against a plain blue background. Then the sound of a ring fills the air.

“Hello?”

Holy shit. It worked.

“Dani, it’s me.”

“Emery?”

“Yeah.”

“Why does my phone show caller unknown?”

“I’m using this freaky batphone Callum gave me. I don’t even really know how the thing works. Voice command, it seems like. He probably had it custom made by Elon Musk.”

Her tone turns excited. “Callum gave you a phone?”

I look around the sumptuous closet and sigh. “Yeah. He gave me something else too.”

“Oh God. If you say herpes, I’ll kill him.”

“No, idiot! Why would you think that?”

“Because you sound like you just went to a funeral.”

“Close. A wedding.”

There’s a pause, then she says flatly, “You did not.”

“I did.”

The shriek that comes over the line is so loud, I blink. Then she screams, “You did not marry Callum fucking McCord! Oh my God, bitch, tell me you’re joking!”

“I’m not joking. I’m standing in the middle of his ginormous closet in his gargantuan master bedroom in his castle of a house as we speak.”

Hyperventilating, she says, “How? When you left after dinner, you said you texted him. What in the fuckity-fuck happened between now and then that ends up with you married?”

She pauses to take a breath, then demands, “And why didn’t you invite me to the wedding, asshole?”

Rubbing my forehead, I say, “It was more like a shotgun wedding, only without the pregnancy.”

Thinking about the whirlwind day makes me tired. And, honestly, a little depressed.

I’ve never been one of those girls who dreams her whole life about the big white wedding she wants, but having a ring jammed onto my finger by a controlling stranger, then getting thrown over his shoulder and into his car wasn’t exactly what I expected either.

“It all happened so fast. He showed up at my house unannounced, we had a really strange talk that didn’t solve anything, then he came to the shop this morning with a contract and gave Harper, Viv, and Taylor spontaneous orgasms when they saw him. Then he called a while later to go over the details of the paperwork, and we had another strange conversation that didn’t solve anything except that I agreed to marry him. Then he hung up on me and showed up not even half an hour later with his attorney and, get this, a fucking chaplain. And then, basically…we said our vows.”

That muffled thud I hear is probably Dani collapsing into the nearest chair.

I say drily, “If you think that was interesting, wait until I tell you what he said to me in the car after the ceremony.”

“What?”

“That he wanted to spank my pussy until I squirted on his hand.”

After a moment of silence, Dani breathes, “There is a God.”

I groan. “All I know is that I’m standing in a stranger’s closet with nothing but a signed copy of Outlander, a weird cell phone, and a black American Express card to keep me company, and I’m pretty sure I’m having a nervous breakdown. Can you please come over here and hold my hand?”

“Back up. Did you say black American Express card?”

“Yes.”

Her voice thrilled, Dani says, “Oh, honey. I know the perfect way to cure a nervous breakdown.”

“What?”

“Therapy.”

When I blow out a breath, she laughs. “Retail therapy. You just married a billionaire, Em. Let’s go shopping.”

I think for a moment, then smile. “And this is why I love you.”

“Should I come pick you up?”

“No, I’ve got a better idea.” My smile grows bigger. “What’s your favorite color for a Ferrari?”