Teacher's Pet

I smiled, relieved. "I always loved Billie Holiday."

He typed on the tablet and then pulled over a wooden ladder. Penn scaled the ladder with the ease of a practiced climber and pulled out the album. When he jumped back down next to me, he grinned again. "Did I mention that we can adjust the levels so you can sing along or sing by yourself with her band?"

I didn't want to admit that I was tempted. It would be too easy to lose myself in the joy of it. The glittering lights of the bridges and the dark, swirling glow of the waves in the bay were too stunning a backdrop. The acoustically perfect and lavishly comfortable room was too close to a dream come true. And the thought of singing for just Penn, just the two of us and the music, threatened to incinerate me where I stood.

"I know," he said with a snap of his fingers. "How about a little champagne, maybe a little snack from the kitchen? Maybe once you relax, I can plead for a song with better results."

"Your plan is to soften me up with champagne and snacks?" I resisted the urge to pinch myself and laughed out loud instead. "It's worth a shot."

Penn put the Billie Holiday album on and adjusted the levels so her voice was just barely audible. Then, he winked and took the stairs up two at a time. I circled the room and forced myself to take in every detail, but the small dais and microphone called me.

I had finally curved a hand around the microphone stand and joined in the chorus when Penn returned. He wasn't alone, and my shocked squeak reverberated through the room. "Your boss is Xavier Templeton!"

The multi-billionaire tech giant tugged at the crisp cuffs of his impeccable suit. I had seen his image on a dozen magazine covers and countless times online. Xavier Templeton owned Silicon Valley, and he was the one who made the future with the nod of his head. I gripped the microphone stand and prayed I didn't faint in front of the richest man I had ever met.

His handsome smile was just as perfect and shining as his dark, sculpted hair. He stepped into his music room and said, "Please, don't let me interrupt you. This is one of my favorite songs."

Chapter Four

Penn

I hesitated over the intercom switch. My father's house was a marvel of engineering and a showcase for modern interior design, but the open floor plan allowed noise to filter up from every room. Especially when Corsica and I were the only ones home.

Just thinking her name took my mind on a bumpy detour full of deep ruts. Mostly how extremely attractive I found her. Corsica was neither too firm nor too voluptuous, but there was something about her that I found entirely irresistible. Sure, the envious gleam in her eyes as we toured the house was a turn-off, but I decided to withhold judgment. I'd withhold it until the image of her in that curve-clinging black dress, singing out the sultry lyrics of an old song lost its tight grip on my system.

Thinking about the effect Corsica's voice had on me, I punched the intercom button and only felt partially bad for eavesdropping.

She was already humming as she looked through the vast wall of album choices. For most people, humming was a nervous habit, but there was nothing anxious in her breathy sounds. There was the occasional gasp as she ran across rare and mint condition albums that rarely saw the light of day. I even caught a long, awe-filled whistle when she found the section of autographed album covers.

As she muttered the famous names under her breath, I kept myself busy putting together a tray of tempting snacks. If I was going to ask Corsica to spend the night and ensure my father was not able to strong arm me into whatever scheme he had, then I was going to need to show her a good time.

I bit my cheek and debated over caviar or salmon pate. Corsica had shown herself to be the kind of woman that longed for expensive and exclusive things. I had overheard that it was her dream to work at the Ritz-Carlton just so she could brush arms with the wealthy, but I wasn't sure how thick I could lay it on. I chose the fresh salmon pate my father's personal chef had whipped up that afternoon.

As I searched for normal crackers instead of the hand-baked flatbread on the counter, I felt the disgust creeping back into my thoughts. This was the world I had grown up in, and it was hard to realize just how easily I slipped back into it. I gritted my teeth and looked o

ut over the panoramic view. There was plenty of world out there that did not rotate around money, and I needed to get back to it as soon as possible.

It didn't matter what my father had to say. His worried and stern voicemails, plus the few and vague answers my mother had given me, had drawn me in, but I could not stay. I was becoming surer and surer this was just another trick of my father's to try to hook me back into his empire.

I needed to get back to the open air as soon as possible, and Corsica was my way out. My father would never discuss anything serious in front of her, so all I had to do was ask her to stay with me.

I open and shut a half dozen cupboards with no thought to the noise. In minutes, the tray was full of reasonably decadent food plus a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes. I picked up the tray, turned towards the door, and almost dropped everything.

Her voice touched me like a live wire, and I felt her singing through my body as if I were electrified. Corsica's velvet voice immediately conjured the memory of her on the small stage, silver microphone in hand. At the nightclub, I had noticed how the hem of her skirt rode higher with each cadence of her lovely voice. It was as if Corsica's voice allowed her to finally enjoy her sexy body. Her long, lean calves flashed as she danced to the music, the neckline of her dress dipping as she rocked low over the chorus.

I wanted to abandon the tray and run downstairs just to get a glimpse of her.

The beep of the security monitor killed my mouth-watering anticipation. Someone was driving through the gates of the mansion, and that meant only a short list of possibilities. The only people to know the gate code were my father's driver, Tom, myself, and my father's small personal staff. I glanced at the monitor and swore out loud. My father's impossibly tall driver unfolded himself from the driver's seat and loped around the car to open the passenger door.

"Can't even open the car door at his own house in the middle of the night," I muttered through gritted teeth.

I set the tray down in a prominent position on the kitchen island and waited for my father to find me. I saw his polished shoes descending the stairs first, then his tailored suit, his perfect, double-Windsor knotted tie, and his clean-shaven jaw. There was a flurry of silver hair over his temples that I had never seen before, but other than that, my father was still the same, imposing figure he had always been.

Even drunk and raving, my father had looked impeccable. It was one of the things I hated most about the man.

Xavier Templeton's eyes flickered up from his phone just long enough to catch the impression that I was in the kitchen. "Penn, I'm so glad you came. Here, let me look at you."

I frowned as my father tucked away his phone and locked his eyes on mine. I didn't trust this new approach of his and figured sensitivity had to be the newest business tactic. Xavier Templeton was all about tactics: inspiration, intimidation, and stonewalling were his normal M.O., and the change made me uncomfortable.