Dirty Money

by Jessica Clare

  You, I want to say. “In a house?”

  She nods.

  I shrug. “Haven’t really given it much thought. Something classy, I think.”

  Ivy writes a note under my name. “Fixer-upper? Move-in ready?”

  I shrug again. “Which do you think is better?” Right now, with the way my cock is aching at her nearness? I’d live in a cardboard box if she told me it was a good idea.

  “It depends on your budget. Have you given much thought to how much you want to spend?”

  I rub my neck. “Not really? I haven’t paid much attention to the market. That’s why I thought I’d come to you.” That, and because I want you. Now that I’ve seen you, I need you.

  She gives me another little smile, and I feel like I fucking won the lottery. “We’ll find you the right house. Bachelor pad or something for a family?”

  “You askin’ me if I got a woman?”

  Her cheeks turn bright red again. “I-I-I—”

  I lean in. “I’m just teasing you, Miss Ivy.”

  She gives a high, nervous laugh that’s adorable and a little shake of her head. “It’s so I know how many bedrooms you’re looking for, Mr. Price. That’s why I asked.” There’s a curve to her mouth that’s an almost-smile, though, and I know I’m winning her over. I can be a charming bastard if I need to be, dirt and all.

  “I know, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease you.” I glance down at her list and notice again that her smooth, pretty fingers have no rings on them. Another possessive surge rushes through me. She ain’t married. Just like I thought.

  That means she’s mine for the taking. Good.

  “So—rooms?”

  I stroke my beard. “Not sure how many yet. I would like a big place.”

  Ivy nods, scribbling notes in her pad. “In this area? Or is there a particular location you need to commute to?”

  “Here’s fine.” San Antonio ain’t that close to West Texas, but my brothers like living here, and she’s here, so that’s good for me. I don’t mind a long drive, and I’m only out west when it comes time for a new well, anyhow.

  Behind us, the receptionist starts to put away the things on her desk. “Will you be long, Ivy?” she calls out, giving me a pointed look that tells me she doesn’t approve of me taking up her friend’s time. “Or should I leave the lobby open for you?”

  Ivy fumbles in her purse and pulls out a phone. She taps the screen a few times before it reacts, and then she bites her lip as she notices the time. “Gosh, yeah, it is getting late. Mr. Price, would you like to set up a meeting time? Maybe tomorrow or the day after? You can email me your list of needs and we can go over them—”

  “I’ll do you one better,” I tell her, giving Ivy my most charming smile. “How about I take you out to dinner and tell you what I’m looking for in a property?” When she freezes, I add, “As business partners. Not a date.” I rub my stomach. “I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starving.”

  “Oh.” She hesitates and looks at her notes. “I’m not sure. I have a lot to do tonight . . .” Her voice dies as a man comes strolling through the lobby with sunglasses perched atop his head. He winks at Ivy in a way that makes me grit my teeth, and then pauses to speak to the receptionist. They put their heads together and laugh softly, and I’m guessing they’re laughing at me.

  Hate burns in my gut. Ivy isn’t like those assholes at all.

  “Gosh, Mr. Price,” the object of my desires says, shaking her head. That long ponytail flips back and forth over her shoulder, tormenting me. “I really shouldn’t, because I really do have a lot of work I need to get started tonight. Why don’t I just get the basics of your information and call you in the morning?”

  I give her an easy nod, like I understand. She’s gonna make me chase her. Fair enough. I can chase. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Okay, we can wrap this up fast. Rooms? How many were you thinking?” Her pen poises over the paper.

  I purse my lips, glancing over at the assholes laughing by the front desk. How big of a house would I need to shut those two up? How many rooms? “Forty,” I decide.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. Four?” Ivy says politely, writing.

  “Forty,” I repeat.

  She blinks at the paper, and then looks up at me. Her pink, sexy mouth is parted, and I have this incredible urge to kiss her despite the dirt on my clothes. Ivy shifts in her seat and leans forward. “Did you say forty?” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.

  I lean in. “Yes,” I whisper back. “Too many? You think thirty-five will do?”

  Ivy licks her lips—god help me—and then glances over at the front desk, where the two smirking assholes are still chatting. “Mr. Price, how much money do you have to put down?”

  This is where I’m good. I grin at her. “I got a couple billion. Like I said, I don’t know how much houses run in this area. How much do you need?”

  Her mouth parts and she blinks up at me. I’ve knocked her on her ass, haven’t I? Can’t say I’m not feeling a little smug about that.

  “You know what? I think I will take you up on that dinner invite after all.”

  I just grin. Thought she might.

  Ivy

  My heart is thundering in my chest as I get out of my chair. A million thoughts are whirling through my head.

  This guy’s rich. Unless he’s messing with me—entirely a possibility—he’s rich. I can’t even imagine a house with forty bedrooms, much less selling one to someone. And it’s clear he wants to go out with me, because he hasn’t stopped giving me heated looks since I met him. I know I shouldn’t go out to dinner with him . . .

  But Winky Jack is right there, very close nearby. And if he so much as smells the money on this guy, he’s going to steal the commission from me.

  And I could really, really use the money.

  But what if he’s lying? What if Mr. Price isn’t who he says he is? I’m torn. It doesn’t make sense to meet up with a client and immediately go to dinner with him two minutes after he asks me out. It also doesn’t make sense that he’d work with someone like me if he really is rich.

  I ponder all these things even as Mr. Price opens the office door and puts a hand on the small of my back to lead me out into the parking lot. Am I being stupid? Dazzled by the promise of money?

  I hesitate the moment the door shuts and look over at him.

  Bright white teeth flash under that enormous, scraggly beard. “You need to Google me?”

  It’s like he can read my mind. I give him an apologetic smile. “Would it be terribly offensive if I did?”

  He laughs, throwing his head back, and in that moment, I realize he’s no more than thirty, maybe thirty-two. And under that beard and dirt? I wonder if he’s cute.

  Oh god. That’s so gold-diggery of me.

  But he waves a hand at the phone I’m holding. “Go ahead.”

  I start to type in his name on my smartphone . . . and then stop. How rude am I being? Just because he’s thrown me off my game with his dirty, disheveled appearance doesn’t mean that I need to start running a background check on the guy. “You know what? I don’t need to do that. I’d sell you a house either way.”

  “Because you’re a lady,” he says approvingly. “Knew it the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  His praise makes me feel all flustered all over again. He has no idea how hard I’ve worked to shuck off the trailer park dust from my shoes so I can bring in big clients and make a real living at this. “Let’s just go to dinner,” I tell him. “We can talk more there.”

  If Winky Jack sees me out here, I worry he’s going to smell a big fish and beeline his way over. I don’t trust him not to.

  “All right,” Mr. Price drawls. “Your car or mine?”

  I start to say my car and then I freeze. My car is a 1992 Geo Metro with no b
umper. Whenever I have clients, I check out one of the “company cars” of the day so I can show my clients around in style. I can’t let Mr. Price see my real car, or he’ll know I’m a fraud.

  And if I go back inside, Winky Jack will know Mr. Price is a client important enough to go out to dinner with, and he’ll sneak in for the kill.

  So I look over at Mr. Price. “If we take your car, can I send a picture of your license plate to my sister? Just to be safe?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s take yours.” Of course, I worry that makes me sound like a complete ninny, so I add, “A client spilled a latte on my front seat earlier and I haven’t had a chance to take it in to get the upholstery cleaned.”

  “Gotcha.” He pulls out his keys and gestures to an enormous red truck parked right in the center of the Three Jacks Real Estate parking lot. The tires and the sides of the car are covered with reddish dirt and I’m pretty sure there’s a metal step-up on the side. “Let me get the door for you.”

  “Thank you.” I take a furtive picture of his license plate and text his info to my sister, explaining to her where I’m going. I’m a slow typer, so it takes me a few moments and I wander slowly toward his car, focused. Before I can hit send, I pause. I’m going to have to climb into his truck. Somehow. I put the toe of one shoe delicately onto the step and look up, searching for a handlebar of some kind.

  “Here, let me help,” Mr. Price says, and the next thing I know, his hands are on my waist and he’s lifting me into the truck like I weigh nothing at all.

  And okay, I must be dazzled by his money, because those big hands on my waist? It feels . . . amazing. His grip sends a hot pulse through my body and I cling to the seat as I sit down. Mercy. No wonder women like it when men get all caveman on them. I’m suddenly seeing the appeal.

  Breathless, I finish sending the info to my sister. By that time, Mr. Price has climbed into the other side of the truck. He looks over at me, that intense look on his face.

  “What?” I ask, feeling tingly and weird. I want to stare at his beard, because I have this intuition that under all that facial hair, there’s a really sexy beast of a guy. I just know it. I shouldn’t think about it, either, but I can’t help myself.

  “You wanna send your sister a pic of my face? Extra security?”

  “That’s a good idea,” I admit, and pull my phone back out. “You’re okay with that?”

  “Long as you get in the picture with me, I’m good.”

  Oh. Why does that make me all tingly? “Sure.” I hold the phone up and lean toward him a bit. He leans in close as well, and I wonder for a moment if he’s going to smell my hair or something strange and intense like that. But he’s only gazing at my phone camera, and I’m the one that looks all flushed and bothered. I snap the picture quickly. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Don’t want your family to worry about you. You’re safe with me.”

  That feels . . . strangely possessive. Odd to be hearing from someone I just met. But I’m not getting a weird vibe from him, so I buckle up, send the picture, and look over as the truck pulls out of the parking lot. “So where are you taking me to dinner?”

  “Got anything in mind?”

  Hmm. I eye his clothing. I’d normally take a client out for something fancy just to make them think I’m a big deal, but he’s not dressed for the part and I don’t want to embarrass him. “Do you like sushi?”

  “Am I a dick if I say no?”

  I laugh. “How about barbecue, then?”

  His brows furrow together and he gives me a disbelieving look. “Barbecue?”

  “Yes?”

  “I ain’t taking a lady out to dinner to eat ribs.” He snorts, as if the idea is ludicrous. “You deserve someplace classy. Someplace nice.”

  I don’t point out that he’s covered in dirt. “All right, then. Let me think.”

  “I know the place,” he says confidently, glancing over at me. “You let me handle it. I’ll let you pick next time.”

  I’m surprised when, a few minutes later, we pull up to a small restaurant tucked away in a quieter section of town. Is it weird that I expected Red Lobster? I’ve never been to this place, but the name is in French, which makes my stomach twist a little with worry. I really hope this doesn’t get awkward and they don’t turn him away at the door for being underdressed.

  He roars the truck up to the front parking space and I glance out at the deserted parking lot. Is this place even open? It’s dinnertime and most restaurants are packed at this hour. Mr. Price insists on getting my door for me, and then walking me up to the front of the restaurant. He’s acting like a gentleman, which is sweet. I can’t remember the last time a guy held a door open for me. Even if it’s all part of some plan of his to win me over, it’s working. I’m flattered. I just met the guy, and even though he’s got a bushy beard, is covered in dirty clothes, I’m still feeling slightly dazzled by how he treats me.

  Like I’m some sort of rare jewel he feels lucky to have run across. I’ve never encountered that before. It’s . . . nice. Strange, but nice. This man is a stranger to me. He’s absolutely not my type and a client to boot, and yet in the space of a few minutes, I’ve gone from thinking no way to feeling utterly flustered every time he focuses his intense gaze on me.

  The door opens as we approach the front of the restaurant, and an utterly gorgeous woman in a white blouse and black skirt beams a smile at us. “Welcome back, Mr. Price. Your table is ready.”

  He nods as if expecting this, and puts a possessive hand at the small of my back, steering me into the restaurant.

  “Welcome back?” I ask him as we enter. The lights are low and dim, and the rest of the restaurant is a sea of empty tables. “Did you already eat?”

  “Nah. I stopped by and asked how much it’d cost to hold the place reserved for me and a lady friend tonight.” He stops at a private booth off to one side, as if this table was chosen exclusively for us, and gestures for me to take a seat.

  I slide in and give him a curious look as he sits across from me. “How did you know I’d say yes?”

  He shrugs his big shoulders and pulls off his trucker cap, tossing it onto the booth bench beside him, then runs his hand through equally shaggy dark hair. “I didn’t.”

  So he just threw this money down in the hopes that I’d go out with him? Something else occurs to me . . . “Wait. Were you going to go to dinner with any realtor?” I’ve suddenly gone from bewildered but flattered to confused.

  “Nah, I went there looking for you.”

  “For me?” I blink. “Why me?”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I don’t realize what I’m looking at until he pushes it toward me and I see my own face on it. It’s one of the Three Jacks marketing flyers. There I am, in the same suit I’m wearing today—one of my five expensive work suits, since I can’t afford more—with a serene smile on my face. I know this photo. It’s the one Farah hates because they put me in it instead of her. It’s the one where I felt like a ridiculous idiot to be standing with the partners when I am clearly not, but was tapped because I was the “cute blonde girl in the office.” Since then, I’ve seen the awkward photo at bus stops, on benches, at the ends of restaurant tables, and in newspaper flyers. It’s clear he picked this up from somewhere.

  And it’s clear from how many times it’s been folded that it’s been carried around a lot.

  I don’t know what to say.

  I stare at the picture for a moment, trying to think. I’m spared an immediate response when the waitress comes over, a gorgeous brunette with a perfect figure and even more perfect hair and makeup. She beams at the two of us and then gives Mr. Price a very come-hither look that is shockingly blatant.

  He doesn’t even look at her. His gaze is entirely focused on me.

  “Would you two like to see the wine
list?” she asks, her voice husky and seductive. Her hand goes to her hip and her breasts thrust out. It’d be cartoonish if it wasn’t happening right in front of me. One thing’s for sure—she definitely knows who he is and she wants herself a piece of this big, dirty beard.

  I feel like I’ve been dropped into bizarro land in the last hour.

  “Would you?” he asks me.

  “Would I what?”

  He hasn’t even glanced in her direction, his attention a hundred percent on me. “Wine list?”

  “Or shall I get the sommelier for you?” She leans even closer to Mr. Price’s side of the table. Any closer and she’s practically going to slide in next to him. I can feel myself frowning. To her, it’s like I don’t even exist. Jesus.

  I do know how to order wine, though. It’s one of the things I’ve crammed for in my long list of business etiquette miscellany that I’ve prepped for. White wine with fish, a rosato for chicken, and a petite sirah for steak. Mr. Price definitely looks like a steak guy to me. “Petite sirah?” I suggest.

  He glances at the waitress for the first time, and the look on his face grows cold when he sees how close she’s leaning in.

  She straightens. “We do have a lovely sirah from Israel?”

  “Sounds wonderful. Thank you.” All I know about sirah is that it’s pretty dark compared to the rosé boxed wine I normally drink, but it’s also what is considered “appropriate” so I roll with it. It’s not about me as much as it is image. So much of this business is image and how you present yourself.

  I look down at the crumpled picture of myself. Speaking of images . . .

  The waitress moves away, and when she’s gone, I hand the picture back to him. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

  “I went to your office looking for you,” he says in a slow, easy drawl. “I want to fix my image.”

  Maybe I’m just not understanding. I give my head a little shake. “What’s wrong with your image?”

  His eyes light up and he gives me a devastating smile, like I’ve just said the best thing possible. “You are real sweet, you know that?”