The Thrill of Temptation (The Fontaines Book 4) Read online

  The Thrill of Temptation

  THE FONTAINES

  Book Four

  EMBER CASEY

  Copyright ©2018 Ember Casey

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Images used under license from Depositphotos Inc.

  Top photo: © konradbak

  Bottom photo: © f11photo

  You can contact Ember at [email protected].

  Website: http://embercasey.com.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE THRILL OF TEMPTATION

  A MESSAGE FROM EMBER

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE THRILL OF TEMPTATION

  Maggie Blankenship is a hot mess—broke, unemployed, and down on her luck. So when she’s offered the chance to fill in as an extra in a movie, she wonders if her luck is changing. At the very least, she sees it as an opportunity to inject some excitement into her oh-so-dull life, if only for a day.

  She has no idea how much her life is about to change.

  It turns out that the movie is being directed by Orlando Fontaine—the intense and mysterious youngest brother of the Fontaine family. Sparks fly between the pair of them from the start, but Orlando has a strict no-fraternizing policy on his sets.

  He wants her, but he won’t touch her.

  She wants him, but she can’t have him.

  As the heat builds between Maggie and Orlando, only one question remains—what’s the cost of giving in to temptation?

  THE FONTAINES

  The Secret to Seduction

  The Sweet Taste of Sin

  The Lies Between the Lines

  The Mystery of You

  The Thrill of Temptation

  A MESSAGE FROM EMBER

  Orlando Fontaine was, for the longest time, something of a mystery to me. When I originally planned out the Fontaines series, I had clear pictures in my head of Dante, Luca, and Rafe—but Orlando was always a wild card, the one brother I couldn’t quite decipher. He showed up a handful of times in the other books, answering a few of the questions in my head, but it wasn’t until I sat down to write The Thrill of Temptation that I really got a chance to know him. And I have to admit, I completely fell in love with the complex, sexy, challenging man he turned out to be. He’s a man of contradictions, but I’ve never been able to resist a complicated hero. I hope you love him just as much as I do.

  Maggie, on the other hand, came to me easily. I think there’s a little bit of Maggie in all of us, and I hope you enjoy her misadventures and sense of humor.

  If you’re wondering about all the references to the Georgia heat, it’s because I wrote the majority of this book while sitting on the balcony of my apartment in Atlanta, sweating and sweltering through the hottest months of the year (but I have such a pretty view of the little nature preserve next door that I’m willing to endure the humidity. We writers are sometimes crazy like that.). Whether you’re enjoying this book in the summer heat or curled up next to a fire in the heart of winter, I hope Orlando and Maggie’s story warms your heart the way it did mine. And that it inspires you say “Yes!” to all the thrilling little adventures that pop up in your life.

  xoxo,

  Ember

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I hate summer.

  Don’t get me wrong—I love sunshine. I love fireflies and clear, starry nights and drinking iced tea in the shade. I’m not usually a grouch, I swear. But people who believe that’s what summer is—the iced tea and fireflies and all that—haven’t experienced a real Atlanta summer. Or at least they haven’t inherited the overactive sweat glands that I did. Thank you, Blankenship genes.

  You see, I’m what they call a “hot mess.” And sadly, I don’t mean that in the romanticized, glamorous way. I mean that in the haven’t-had-a-real-job-or-real-boyfriend-in-more-than-a-year way. I literally spent most of yesterday lounging on my brother’s couch in yoga pants and an old T-shirt with a popcorn butter stain on the chest, binge-watching a reality cooking competition while trying not to think about how important today’s interview is.

  I adjust my blazer as I step out of the car, trying to ignore the suffocating humidity. Some days, it feels like someone has wrapped a warm, damp towel around your face the minute you step outside—and trust me, that’s the last feeling you want minutes before a big interview. I lift my elbows, trying to air out my armpits as I hurry toward the office building in front of me. Not that my sweat glands appreciate the effort. It’s like they have a checklist for all the worst times to do their thing:

  First date in months? Sweat!

  Chance encounter with my turd of an ex-boyfriend in the supermarket? Sweat!

  An opportunity to get a real job and finally move out of my brother’s apartment? The sweatiest sweat I’ve ever sweated!

  I’m dealing with a major perspiration situation right now, and it’s only going to get worse as my nerves kick in. The worst part is that I don’t even want this job. I mean, I want a job, and this one has a decent salary and benefits, but it was never exactly in my life plan to work as someone’s executive assistant. When I finished my master’s degree in visual marketing last year, I thought I’d have endless career opportunities ahead of me. The reality has been underwhelming.

  Frankly, the entire past year has been underwhelming. My long-term boyfriend, Hunter, dumped me two weeks after my graduation, and my love life has been abysmal ever since. Add to that my dad’s declining health, and…well, my life pretty much sucks.

  But that changes today, I tell myself as I look up at the mirrored windows on the office building. Today is the day my luck turns. Three days ago, I found myself watching some slick-haired motivational speaker on TV at two o’clock in the morning, and his words stuck in my head: If you want to turn your life around, you have to start saying “Yes!” to every opportunity that comes your way. Say “Yes!” to all the possibilities, no matter how unexpected they are!

  The next day, I got the call about this interview. It felt like a sign.

  I only wish that saying “Yes!” was a little more exciting. And less sweaty.

  “Damn it,” I curse, looking down at my shirt as I enter the building’s lobby. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my white blouse, not today. There are some massive pit stains happening under my blazer.

  I glance around, looking for the bathrooms. The lobby is surprisingly busy for mid-morning, and there’s a moderately sized crowd gathered to the side of the elevator bank. My gaze skims right past them, and I finally locate what I’m looking for—a little silver sign marking the restrooms.

  I hurry across the lobby and duck inside, then dart straight to the mirror, surveying the flood damage. My blazer still covers up the worst of the sweat, but the shirt�
��s fabric clings to me between my breasts. Boob sweat is the worst.

  I glance at my fitness tracker. I’ve still got fifteen minutes until my interview. I like to show up ten minutes early—early enough to show I’m punctual but not so early I look desperate. That gives me a few minutes to mop up.

  I pull my blouse away from my skin and try to fan a little breeze down there. My blond hair has a thousand flyaways, but I don’t think it’s too noticeable. I’m just frustrated I spent so long tying it back into a smooth, professional ponytail this morning.

  Once my breasts have started to cool, I reach over and grab some paper towels. I gently pat down my neck. After a moment’s hesitation, I shove my hand down my shirt and try to mop up the rest of my boob sweat, too. And the swamps that have formed under my armpits.

  At least my period hasn’t started yet, I think. It’s set to show up sometime today—which is why I’m wearing a pair of huge, grungy granny panties under my pencil skirt—but it’s holding off for now. That’s one less thing to worry about during my interview.

  You’re going to rock this, Maggie! I tell my reflection. You’re going to say “Yes!” to exciting new opportunities! That’s all any of us want, isn’t it? Exciting new opportunities. The chance to live a fulfilling, extraordinary life. I’m not sure a job as an executive assistant will get me there, but I know that spending another year unemployed and living with my brother certainly won’t.

  Tossing the last of my used paper towels in the trash bin, I give myself one last look. The girl in the mirror appears confident and put together. The interviewer never has to know that I’m practically swimming under my clothes.

  I put on my game face and spin around, ready to rock my interview, when the bathroom door swings open. And in walks an absolutely stunning man.

  Everything about him is striking—the broad shoulders, the perfectly tousled hair somewhere between dirty blond and light brown, the chiseled jaw. But his most arresting feature is his eyes, which shine with intelligence and an intensity that stops me right in my tracks, even though his gaze is elsewhere.

  It takes me a few seconds to realize what his sudden appearance means—that in my rush to reach a bathroom and clean up, I walked into the wrong one—but it’s too late to do anything. The man stops just short of running into me, and he blinks as if just noticing I’m here. Those intense eyes shine into me. They’re a remarkable golden brown, like dark honey, and I swallow involuntarily.

  The correct thing to do here would be to mumble an apology and run from the bathroom as fast as I can in these work-appropriate heels. But I can’t seem to move, not while he’s looking at me. After a moment, he backs up a step, his gaze traveling down my body and then back up again. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes.

  “You’re perfect,” he says.

  It takes a moment to process his words. I’m…what? But before I can ask this handsome stranger why he thinks such a thing about me, he’s already turning around.

  “Wait right here,” he tells me as he strides toward the door. “I’m getting Karen.”

  I still have no idea what’s happening. And who in the blazes is Karen?

  He’s only gone a handful of seconds when the door swings open again and a smartly dressed woman in her forties walks in. She has a headset in her ear and she’s typing something into her phone, but even as her fingers are still moving across the electronic keyboard, she looks up and begins studying me. She has an air of professional authority about her. Her eyes flick over me, just like the man’s did.

  Finally, she gives a satisfied nod. “He’s right. You’ll do.” She gives me another visual inspection. “We might have to do something about that ponytail, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  She types something into her phone. “Can you follow directions?”

  “I…think so,” I say, still completely confused. “Yes. But why—”

  “How would you like to make a hundred dollars?” Abruptly looking up at me again, she reaches out and grabs me by the chin, tilting my head to the side. “You’ll need a little more mascara, too. And a touch of bronzer. Easy fix. Will your boss mind if we steal you for a few hours? We can put in a good word for you.”

  “I don’t have a boss,” I say. “Not yet. But—”

  “Even better.” She smiles. She’s very pretty, but either she doesn’t know it or doesn’t care—despite her insistence that I need a “touch of bronzer,” she doesn’t appear to have a stitch of makeup on. Her warm brown hair is tied back in a loose bun—what my mom likes to call “taking-care-of-business” hair.

  She releases my chin. “A hundred bucks. Wait right here—I have to pee.” She whips away from me and into the nearest stall without waiting for me to answer.

  And honestly, I’m not sure what to answer. I still have no idea who this woman is—or even if we’re in the women’s bathroom—and I have somewhere to be. It takes me a moment to recover.

  “Uh, actually,” I say awkwardly, starting for the door. “I’m heading to a job interview. Thank you for the offer”—for whatever it is—“but I can’t be late.”

  “Hold on!” the woman calls after me from the stall. The toilet paper dispenser squeaks. “We can go as high as a hundred and twenty for the day.”

  A hundred and twenty dollars sounds like a fortune to me right now, but I’m still not sure it’s worth risking a real, full-time position. Especially since I still have no idea what that hundred and twenty dollars would be for.

  But sue me, I’m curious.

  “What sort of job is this, exactly?” I ask her.

  Her clothes rustle. “One of our featured extras didn’t show up. We need to find a replacement. Fast.” The toilet flushes, and a second later she emerges from the stall. “So? What do you say?”

  I still have no idea what she’s talking about. “A featured extra? What’s that?” And what happened to that incredibly attractive man who was just in here?

  “For the movie.” She gestures toward the door before quickly washing her hands. She even does that efficiently and professionally. She must see the confusion on my face because she goes on. “You know—that hoopla going on in the lobby. We’re shooting a couple of scenes here today. A featured extra is just an extra who gets a little more screen time. We need someone to act as Mr. Walson’s assistant for a couple of scenes. No lines. You just need to know how to walk and pretend to take notes.” Her gaze gives me another sweep. “We might need to find you some higher heels, but we’ll see what Orlando says. So? Are you in?”

  I still don’t know what to say. They want me to be in a movie? A real movie?

  One of the names she just said suddenly sinks in. Walson? As in Omar Walson, the star of Passion Heights Hospital? I’ve had the chance to binge-watch a lot of TV in the past year, and that included six seasons of the gritty medical drama set at Passion Heights. Omar Walson is a huge part of why that show is so good.

  “I’ve got to get back to set,” the woman says. “You in or out?”

  I start to tell her again that I have an interview to get to, but then I remember that motivational speaker’s words: Say “Yes!” to all the possibilities, no matter how unexpected they are! This movie thing is certainly unexpected. And how often in life do you get the chance to work with Omar Walson?

  The answer spills out before I have the chance to stop it. “In.” Is this stupid and reckless? Of course. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been praying for something exciting, something extraordinary, to happen in my life, and this sounds infinitely more exciting and extraordinary than a job interview. Maybe there’s a reason this opportunity fell into my lap. Maybe my luck is changing after all.

  The woman nods again, her eyes back on her phone. “Good. Follow me.”

  She marches out of the bathroom, and I hurry after her, still shocked by what I’ve just agreed to do.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asks me, almost as an afterthought.

  “Maggie,” I s
ay, then realize she probably wants something more than that. “Margaret Blankenship. I go by Maggie, though.”

  “I’m Karen,” she replies matter-of-factly. “The assistant director. Just do as I say today and we’ll be fine.”

  We’re halfway across the lobby, and for the first time I take a look at the crowd I rushed past on my way in. A ring of people and cameras are pointed toward a cleared space on the far side of lobby, and at least a dozen men and women dart frantically among it all, ferrying equipment or juggling multiple drink carriers stuffed with coffee beverages.

  How did I miss all that? I think in wonder. There’s even a retractable barrier set up around the crew, keeping casual bystanders outside, and a pair of bored-looking security guards stand at either end of the tape. A few people in suits and office wear linger just outside the barrier, watching the bustle with curiosity, but everyone inside the barrier ignores them. Karen leads me right by, undoing the barrier tape just enough to let me through.

  My eyes scan the crowd. I’m looking for one person in particular—that startlingly handsome man who stumbled across me in the bathroom. My gaze finds him almost immediately, and my heart flutters as I’m struck once again by how arresting he is. Even from this distance, something about his presence draws the eye right to him. There’s also something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on what. It takes me a moment to notice he’s standing right next to Omar Walson.

  Any other day, I would be going gaga over Omar. He’s every bit as tall, dark, and handsome as he appears on TV. More, even. But even though I know I should be freaking out about seeing him in the flesh, my gaze keeps shifting back to the man next to him. To that tousled hair, that square jaw, those golden-brown eyes…

  He glances my way, and I quickly avert my gaze, hoping he didn’t catch me staring. Whoever he is, he seems important, and I’d rather not embarrass myself by turning into the creepy, ogling extra girl within moments of walking on set.