Liars Like Us (Morally Gray Book 1)

With Callum, William, and a beaming Andrew standing on the other side of the counter, I gaze down at the contract, hesitating.

A man walks through the door. Before he can say a word, Callum crosses to him, shoves him back out, slams the door in his face, and locks it.

“Hey! That was a customer!”

“Not anymore. Sign the fucking paperwork.”

Exasperated, I look at William. “I need to add a few things to this.”

William opens his mouth to answer, but Callum snaps, “You’ll get your money. Just sign it.”

Undeterred, I say, “I can see living with you is going to be a laugh a minute. What about the job for my friend’s husband?”

Callum glares at me from across the shop. His jaw clenched, he says, “It’s in.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Look on the last page.”

I flip to the last page. Sure enough, he’s already updated the contract to include a job for Ryan, his salary to be double that of his last position.

When the hell did that happen? On the drive over?

Before I can ask, Callum snaps, “Satisfied?”

Looking at his glower, I say, “I know you’re desperate to secure that fat inheritance of yours, but why are you so angsty all of a sudden? And by the way, don’t we need a marriage license for this thing to be legal?”

“I already got the license! Everything’s handled! All you have to do is sign!”

I sigh and look at William again. Since Callum’s throwing a temper tantrum, I need to deal with an adult.

“What about the escrow account? I’d like to have some proof this money I’m signing my life away for actually exists.”

William nods in approval. “Of course. Let me pull it up.”

From the briefcase on the counter he produced the new contract from, he withdraws a laptop. After clicking around on it for a moment, he turns it to face me.

The screen shows a brokerage account with a balance of ten million dollars.

When I glance up at him, lips pursed, Callum says tersely, “William, transfer another ten to the account.”

I have to give the attorney credit. If I were in his shoes, I’d either laugh or cry at my client’s whimsical approach to money. Throw ten million here, toss another ten million there, no big whoop. But William simply nods and does as he’s instructed, turning the computer toward him again and clicking around efficiently.

“Complete, sir.”

“Show her.”

William turns the screen to face me. I look at it for a moment, then say, “But how do I know this is even for me?”

Callum closes his eyes and stands with his face turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed, breathing deeply with his hands clenched to fists by his side.

William says gently, “At the top right side of the screen, you’ll notice the account says FBO Emery Eastwood.”

“So it does. What does FBO mean?”

“For benefit of. The account is being managed in a custodial capacity only until you sign the contract. Then the funds transfer to an irrevocable trust, of which you are the sole beneficiary.”

Just to make sure I’m understanding correctly, I press him. “Meaning once I have the money, he can never take it back?”

Callum thunders, “For fuck’s sake, woman! Sign the contract!”

William and I grimace at each other. Andrew is beginning to look pale.

Leaning closer to William, I whisper, “Could you cross out the dollar amount on this line here and write the new one in? Just so we’re all on the same page about everything.”

“Very good,” he whispers back. He takes the pen from me and scribbles the number twenty over the ten he scratched out.

“And where are the trust documents? Don’t I need to sign those?”

In the background, Callum groans. William grimaces again. Andrew looks as if he’s about to make the sign of the cross over his chest and start tossing around holy water.

Apparently, these two have never seen their boss lose his temper before.

Or maybe they have, and that’s what they’re really afraid of.

Sweat beading his forehead, William whispers, “No, but I have a copy of that for you here.”

He withdraws a thick sheaf of papers bound with a blue cover from his briefcase and hands it to me. I flip open the cover, review the first few pages, then glance at Callum standing in obvious agony near the door.

Without saying anything, I tap a finger on the part of the page where it describes the trust’s assets. William sees where I’m indicating and nods. He scratches out the ten, writes in twenty, then initials above his change.

I have no idea if that’s legally binding or not, but as it appears Callum is about to explode with impatience, it will have to do. If I push him too far, he might change his mind and call off the whole thing.

Plus, if we wind up in court, I’ve got Andrew as a witness. I doubt a chaplain could lie under oath, what with him being a personal assistant to God.

I close the trust binder, inhale a deep breath, and say a silent prayer. “All right. I’m ready.”

Callum stalks over to me, rips the velvet box out of his pocket, pulls the diamond out of it, and tosses the box over his shoulder. Grabbing my left hand, he jams the ring onto my ring finger.

“Ow!”

“You can complain all you want later,” he says darkly, keeping my hand in a death grip when I try to pull away. He turns to Andrew and snaps his fingers. “Let’s do this.”

After that, everything happens so fast, it’s a blur. Andrew says some words. Callum and I repeat “I do” when necessary. Another document is shoved in front of me—the marriage license, I think—and Callum jabs his finger on the line where I’m supposed to sign.

Then it’s over, and we’re married.

“Congratulations, Mrs. McCord!” says Andrew. “How do you feel?”

Dazed, I say, “Like I just got run over by a truck.”

Callum growls, “Give it a few minutes, it’ll get worse,” and grabs me. This time, instead of shoving fine jewelry on my hand, he swings me up into his arms.

Yelping in surprise, I try to wriggle away and escape, but he holds me tight against his body as he strides toward the door.

“What are you doing?” I cry, panicking.

“Taking my wife home.”

He makes it sound as if a dungeon and a pair of shackles are in my immediate future.

“William! Andrew! Help me!”

They stare after me with matching expressions of apprehension as Callum somehow manages to unlock the front door while carrying a squirming woman in his arms. Then we’re out in the heat of the summer day, moving toward his sleek black sedan, which is pulling up at the curb.

The driver jumps out and opens the door for us as we reach it. Callum stuffs me inside the car and follows, slamming the door shut behind us.

He turns to me, smiling that lethal smile of his, every inch of him predatory.

Holding up a hand, I say, “Stop!”

It works like one of those harsh commands a professional dog trainer shouts at a Doberman. Callum freezes in place, bristling.

My heart pounds so hard, I can’t catch my breath. I’m disoriented and shaky, and will probably be diagnosed with PTSD after that clusterfuck of a wedding I just endured. And now I’m trapped in the back of a car with the crazy billionaire who wifed me and who seems as if he’s about to gobble me up like the wolf that ate Red Riding Hood’s grandma.

On the best of days, my brain works at about ten percent capacity. Today, that wimp quit for good and left anxiety in charge.

The car pulls away from the curb as my new husband and I sit in the back seat, staring at each other in crackling silence.

I manage to say, “What’s happening?”

“We’re going home.”

“Your home?”

“Our home.”

“But…I’m working.”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

His breathing is irregular. His eyes are burning. Every atom of his energy is focused on me.

I swallow nervously. “Why are you acting so weird?”

His smile is beautiful and terrifying. “Because your favorite word in the English language is no. But I just got you to say yes.”

“Oh, I get it. You think you won, huh?”

“Whose ring is that on your finger?”

“Don’t be smug. You know I absolutely hate it when you’re smug.”

“And I hate it when you pretend you don’t want me, so we’re even.”

“I don’t want you. You’re the worst!”

Low and utterly pleased, his chuckle sends tingles up my spine. He drawls, “Darling wife, you have no idea.”

Then he sits back in his seat, smooths his hands over his hair, and chuckles again, as if he’s enjoying some delicious secret.

It freaks me the fuck out.

“Callum?”

Without glancing my way, he says, “Yes?”

“Am I going to regret this?”

“If you do, I’m sure you can console yourself with your bank balance.”

“That’s not funny.”

He chuckles again. “I thought it was.”

I shoot a nervous glance toward the driver. He’s got his damn black sunglasses on again, so I can’t see his eyes. I can’t tell if he knows I’m about to be thrown into a gator pit that Callum has in his backyard or if he knows Callum’s idea of fun is terrifying broke bookstore owners.

Except, wait. I’m not broke anymore.

I’m rich.

I just married a billionaire, which makes me a billionaire too.

My imagination marinates in that bizarre new reality until Callum says, “Wait until you see the house. You’ll feel even better then.”

I huff out a breath, lean back against the seat, fold my arms over my chest, and mutter, “It would be great if you could stop reading my mind.”

“But then how would I know what you’re thinking? Considering half of what comes out of your mouth are lies, I need some way of getting the truth.”

“I’m not lying.”

Another chuckle, this one scarier than the others. He turns his head and pins me in a heated stare. “The next time you lie to me, there will be consequences.”

I narrow my eyes at him and pretend I’m more angry than nervous. “Yeah? Like what?”

His voice throaty, he says, “Try me and find out.”

My cheeks flush with heat. “Is that a threat?”

He holds my gaze and merely smiles.

I’m beginning to think I might have jumped out of the frying pan right into the fire. Did I just legally promise myself to a psychopath? Oh God, what have I done?

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Callum says, turning away. After a beat, he chuckles again. “Actually, it is.”

My heart palpitates madly. My hands shake, my skin is clammy, and my stomach tightens to knots. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he slipped something funny into my drink.

But I haven’t been drinking. This is just what happens when a mouse realizes it has wandered into a trap. That cheese looked soo tasty, didn’t it? Yes. And now look: there’s a metal bar snapping down to crush my back.

I say faintly, “This might have been a mistake.”

At that, Callum bursts out laughing. I’m so surprised by his reaction, I sit with my mouth open, watching him, until he recovers his composure and turns to me, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth.

“It’s not a mistake for me. For you…” He shrugs. “Probably.”

“Seriously? That’s your answer?”

His tone innocent, he says, “I’m sorry, did you want me to lie?”

Panicking all over again, I demand, “I want you to tell me it wasn’t a mistake! And mean it!”

“And I want you to tell me you want me and mean it, so I guess we’ll both be disappointed.”

That voracious ego of his. He married me for the sole purpose of making sure he’d stay rich, but he still needs me to flatter him. Unbelievable.

I glare at him. “I swear to God, Callum McCord, if you turn out to be some kind of woman abuser, or even anything more irritating than I already know you are, I’ll leave you so fast, your head will spin.”

His dangerous smile makes a reappearance. “We’ll see. In the meantime, there’s one last thing we have to do to make the marriage legal.”

Suspicious of his tone and this new curveball, I say, “What?”

“Consummate it.”

Reaching over, he grabs me and drags me onto his lap.