The cunningham family bo.., p.1
The Cunningham Family Bonus Stories, page 1
part #1 of The Cunningham Family Series
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note from Ember
Cunningham Family Reading Order
Once Wicked Title Page
Once Wicked
Completely Title Page
Completely
Calder's Christmas Cake Title Page
Calder's Christmas Cake
Books by Ember
About the Author
The Cunningham Family
BONUS STORIES
EMBER CASEY
This bundle contains:
ONCE WICKED
COMPLETELY
CALDER’S CHRISTMAS CAKE
Once Wicked
Copyright ©2015 Ember Casey
Cover image copyright © mamontenok, used under license from DepositPhotos, Inc.
Completely
Copyright ©2014 Ember Casey
Cover image copyright © vi0222, used under license from DepositPhotos, Inc.
Calder’s Christmas Cake
Copyright ©2017 Ember Casey
Cover image copyright © KrulUA, used under license from DepositPhotos, Inc.
Cover background image copyright © oxanatravel, used under license from DepositPhotos, Inc.
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.
You can contact Ember at ember.casey@gmail.com.
Website: http://embercasey.com.
A NOTE FROM EMBER
The Cunningham Family will forever be near and dear to my heart. When I sat down to write His Wicked Games in 2013, I had no idea it would launch not only my writing career, but what continues to be my most popular series to date. Over the years, my little book about a wicked billionaire and his sexy games expanded to include a much wider cast of characters, evolving from a simple romance into an ongoing family saga full of love, heartache, drama, and (of course) plenty of sizzle. No matter how many times I told myself that each Cunningham Family book was the “last one,” the series continued to grow, and I found myself returning to them again and again.
Over time, the series grew to include a number of novels, novellas, and short stories. Recently, I realized that all of this might be a little overwhelming to new readers, or confusing to old readers who want to make sure they’ve read everything in the Cunningham Family world. That’s why I decided to bundle together these bonus stories (two of which were previously only available to my newsletter subscribers). Whether you’re new to the Cunningham Family or you’ve been a loyal reader for years, I hope this bundle will make your experience of the series even better. Happy reading!
xoxo,
Ember
P.S. All three of these stories are from Calder Cunningham’s perspective. Since I imagine you’ll be coming and going between this bundle and the other books in the series, I’ve made sure to include a note at the beginning of each story to remind you of the point of view.
The Cunningham Family
READING ORDER
Want to make sure you don’t miss a book or story? Use this as a running list and highlight each title in your ereader as you complete them. The bolded stories are included in this bundle.
Once Wicked (prequel short story)*
His Wicked Games (Book 1)
Always Wicked (companion novel)**
Truth or Dare (Book 2)
Sweet Victory (Book 2.5)
Her Wicked Heart (Book 3)
Take You Away (Book 3.5)
Lost and Found (Book 4)
Completely (short story)
Their Wicked Wedding (Book 5)
A Cunningham Christmas (Book 5.5)
Their Wicked Forever (Book 6)
Calder’s Christmas Cake (short story)
* Once Wicked is a prequel short story that was written after His Wicked Games was initially published. If you prefer to read this series in the order the books were published, begin with His Wicked Games. If you prefer to read in chronological/timeline order, begin with Once Wicked.
** Always Wicked is a retelling of His Wicked Games from Calder Cunningham’s point of view, and it was published after the rest of the series was completed. The events in Always Wicked correspond exactly with the events in His Wicked Games, so it’s up to you when you read it—before His Wicked Games, after His Wicked Games, after the rest of the series…or at any point you want a little extra time with Calder!
ONCE WICKED
A Cunningham Family Prequel Story
Meet Calder Cunningham: wicked billionaire and international playboy. He’s about to come face-to-face with the one woman who will change everything…
This story takes place before His Wicked Games (Book 1).
VALENTINE’S DAY
CALDER
And to think—I could be in Rome right now.
My reputation will be ruined if I keep showing up at sorry little fundraisers like this. What will the tabloids say? It’s one thing for their favorite billionaire playboy to make a few museum visits in between his long nights in European discotheques or his infamous trysts with supermodels. It’s quite another for him to spend Valentine’s Day at some insignificant little arts center in the middle-of-nowhere America. How will the wild Calder Cunningham ever recover his precious notoriety?
I sigh and look down at the glass of wine in my hand. Whoever selected this Merlot should be fired. It’s complete swill. I should have smuggled in something of my own. Something actually palatable.
Right now, though, this wine is the only thing that’s going to get me through this evening. I’m still not sure how my father convinced me to attend this event tonight. No, wait—it was the guilt that did it. The fact that this is the first event we’ve attended together in over six months. Never mind that my father was the one who sent me off to Europe for a bit of “cultural education.” Never mind that he’s never once suggested he’s missed me. I knew he’d blame me if I didn’t heed his invitation. And so here I am, wondering why he couldn’t have invited me to an event at a national gallery or museum, a fundraiser where they might serve a decent red—or, at very least, serve something that didn’t come off of a supermarket shelf.
If I were wise, I’d still be in Italy. And not just Italy—right now I’d be buried deep inside of Nadia. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel her legs wrapped around me, feel her nails digging into my shoulders as I drive into her again and again. Nadia is always an animal in bed, and she likes to call my name out as she comes—which she does, and often, when I’m with her.
I’ll probably never see Nadia again. Don’t get me wrong—I liked her. And she definitely lasted longer than my usual diversions. But she was only in Rome for a photo shoot, and chances are that by the time I’ve returned, she’ll be off on her next job. We both knew what we had was only temporary—there were no emotions on either side, at least to my knowledge—but I would have preferred one more night with her. Instead, I’m sitting here and having to pretend I have even a passing interest in the fate of this sorry excuse for a nonprofit organization. I can’t even remember the name of this damned place—the Franklin Center? Ferris Center? Who the hell knows?
I choke down another sip of wine and glance around. Tonight’s event is being held in the center’s “gallery”—though calling it that is a bit of a joke. It’s certainly a far cry from the art showrooms my father usually supports. The walls aren’t hung with fine art; instead, they’re decorated with works by local amateurs—half of them children, I’d venture, judging by the quality. Interesting enough to the local community, I’m sure, but hardly so to a man who fancies himself a collector. My father, I suspect, chose to support this venture out of some sense of obligation, some need to give to our neighbors. He’s fooling himself if he believes that we’re part of this community, that they don’t see us as anything but the wealthy and mysterious Cunninghams. It’s not like any of these people will ever set foot on our estate. As much as my father likes to pretend otherwise sometimes, our family is quite protective of our privacy, especially when it comes to our home. The closest these people will come to seeing where we live is through the blurry helicopter photos that sometimes appear in the tabloids—before my father pays them to go away, of course.
In fact, I can tell exactly who does read the tabloids among the guests—I’ve already caught a couple of people trying to snap discreet pictures of me with their cell phones. No doubt those photos will be all over the internet by morning. Others don’t seem to care at all who I am. If they recognize me, I can imagine they only see me as Wentworth Cunningham’s entitled son, heir to more money than he could ever possibly know what to do with. I’m surprised no one has approached me to ask me to fund their own struggling projects, the way I know people regularly approach my father. Perhaps they know I have little patience for such things—at least not the way he does. I’m not sure whether that makes me feel better or worse.
But let’s be honest—this fundraiser is a joke. They’re calling it “Arts & Hearts,” because apparently someone decided that people of this city wanted to spend their Valentine’s Day making small talk surrounded by finge
Ah, if only Nadia were here. I should have tried to convince her to come to the States for a while. I can think of a few ways she and I might have entertained ourselves tonight. There are plenty of empty rooms in this building—and plenty of positions I’d still like to try with her.
“More wine?” comes a voice just behind me.
I look up at a rather sloppy cater waiter. If this were my event, I’d lecture him about leaving his cuffs undone like that. But it’s not my event, so I might as well make the best of it.
“Please.” I raise my glass. By the time the young man has moved away, my father has returned to the table. He slides into the seat beside me.
“You really should make the rounds,” he says without looking at me. “I had several people comment that they were excited to see you here.”
I’m only here as a favor to him, not out of any specific sense of goodwill toward this place. Hell, I still can’t remember its name. And while I’ve had plenty of practice schmoozing, it never fails to make me feel like a fraud. Sure, I can put on a smile and speak a few charming words and play my part, but the whole charade disgusts me.
“Perhaps in a few minutes,” I say. After another glass or two of wine, I might be in better spirits. I’ve spent the last few years representing my father with various organizations in Europe—serving on the boards of a couple of prestigious museums, acting as his representative with several major galleries, appearing in his stead at various social or charitable events. And I’ve always served him well—shaking hands, laughing at jokes, graciously accepting their gratitude or praise for my father’s contributions. At least while the situation required it. Afterward, I was free to be myself again—or at least the man the tabloids make me out to be. The partier. The womanizer. The rich playboy whose exploits sell magazine after magazine.
The whole act is exhausting, that’s what it is. And it doesn’t matter what I do anymore. Why, last year I got kicked out of a club in London for starting a fight, and by morning the story was all over the internet. But the following evening, when I attended a banquet in my father’s place at one of the city’s finest galleries, they treated me as if I’d never set a foot out of line—like they actually owed me something. That’s how money works in this world. And I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life playing along.
“You should at least let me introduce you to our hosts,” my father says. “This place might not be much right now, but I like their vision. I think it’s important to nurture the arts at this level.”
My father has never said a word about my behavior. Perhaps he thinks it’s merely a phase, or perhaps he’s chosen to be willfully ignorant of it. More than once, when he first starting including me in his philanthropic projects, I expressed my displeasure with the whole business, but he brushed off my concerns.
But I nod. “I understand.” As much as I might wish otherwise, I’ve made my choice. I’m here. Nadia—with her luscious breasts and her sweet, sensual moans—is on another continent. Probably wrapping herself around another guy right now. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day, and women like her don’t spend this holiday alone.
“That’s David Frazer,” my father says, pointing across the room. “The founder and director of this place.”
Frazer. Ah, that’s it. This place is called the Frazer Center for the Arts. I remember now.
My eyes follow my father’s gesture to an unassuming middle-aged man with gray hair and a portly build. He looks a little uncomfortable in his tuxedo, but his expression is perfectly amicable. And even from here, I can hear his booming laugh.
“He runs this place with his daughter, Lily,” my father continues. “She’s over there by the door. Very pleasant girl.”
Once again, I follow his gaze.
And my breath stops.
The minute I see her, all of my blood flows straight to my groin. I was expecting a frumpy young woman—or at least one who looked as uncomfortable as her father in her black tie attire. But the girl by the door is neither of those things. Instead, she’s absolutely breathtaking.
She’s wearing a black strapless gown, and her hair is up, leaving her shoulders and neck bare. That’s where my eyes go first—to that elegant column of her neck, to the naked skin of her throat. Almost instantly, my mind fills with images of kissing that soft, delicate skin, of nipping at her until she’s mewling in ecstasy.
My eyes travel downward, down across those deliciously bare shoulders to where her breasts rise from the top of her gown. Exquisite breasts—I can tell, even from here. The perfect size for my hands. And I bet, beneath that black satin, her nipples are the perfect size for my mouth.
The gown is a tease. It’s not fitted against her skin, but the way the fabric drapes and falls across her waist and hips makes it clear her body curves in the right places. I suddenly ache to hold her against me, to run my hands down her sides and press the satin against her skin and feel just what she’s hiding beneath that dress.
It’s only then that I allow my gaze to rise to her face. I’m almost afraid to look, certain that one glance will bring the fantasy crumbling down. Instead, that one glance draws me even further under her spell.
Her face is round, her eyes wide and bright. I can’t see their color from here, but they enchant me all the same. Her mouth is curved and full. I want to suck her bottom lip between my teeth. And her hair—even up as it is—looks so soft and thick. My fingers itch to twine through it. I imagine myself grabbing it in my fist as we tumble through the sheets together. A tendril has come loose from its pins, a gentle curl that sways softly against her ear as she talks. I want to wrap that curl around my finger. Now, though, I can’t seem to stop looking at the way it falls against her neck.
That graceful neck. The part of her that started it all.
For several long minutes, I just watch her as she talks with various guests. She’s not attractive in the same obvious way as, say, Nadia. Or any of the other models I’ve dated this year. And yet there’s something unmistakably beautiful about her—and I can’t bring myself to look away. There’s a grace in the way she moves, a softness in her body, an elegance in the way she tilts her head. She’s not the lone, fiercely beautiful flower that first draws your eye when you step into a garden; rather, she’s like a rose in a tangle of roses. A casual observer might walk by without noticing her among the others. But the man who stops, who looks, sees the truth—that there’s perfection in the way this one rose moves in the breeze, that its petals are soft and velvety and exquisitely curved, that it puts all the other roses to shame. And that bright flower that first caught his eye is completely forgotten.
What did my father say her name was? Lily. Perhaps not a rose, then, but a lily in a field of lilies. A symbol of life and light and spring.
“I should go make those rounds,” I tell my father.
Before he can respond, I’m out of my seat. Making my way to her. I have to meet her. Have to hear her voice. Have to learn the color of her eyes. Have to see her smile at me, and not some other guest.
But just before I reach her, she turns and walks away—or rather, she walks over to a man at the far wall. He’s dressed nicely, and he’s chatting with a small group of people as she approaches. They make room for her, and she steps in beside the man, reaching out to touch his arm.
I stop dead in my tracks as her fingers come to rest on his sleeve. I’m there for the space of one, two, three breaths, and her hand is still on his arm. That’s not a touch of greeting. That’s a touch of affection.
I look more closely at her fingers. No ring—not that that would have stopped me under certain circumstances—but the way she squeezes his arm tells me more than any gold band.
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