Dirty Money

by Jessica Clare

  I can feel myself blushing at his approval. I didn’t mean it quite like that, but I don’t correct him, either.

  “Well,” he says when I remain silent, and strokes his crazy beard. “You know how I made my money?”

  “Actually, I have no clue.” I clasp my hands on the edge of the table. “I don’t know anything about you other than you made a bunch of creepy plans to go out to dinner with me before you even met me and you’re carrying around a picture of me like a stalker. And somehow in here, I’m hoping you still want to buy a house because otherwise I should probably go.”

  He laughs, throwing his head back.

  The waitress returns with the wine, uncorks the bottle, and pours two glasses for us. She looks at us patiently, and I take my glass. At this point we’re supposed to sniff it to admire the bouquet and swirl it and some other fancy stuff.

  Mr. Price just takes his drink and downs the whole thing, making a sound of approval as he puts his glass down.

  The waitress’s body language becomes stiff. “Did you like it, Mr. Price?”

  “Tastes like piss,” he says in a genial voice. “But I don’t have much of a cultured palate.”

  She giggles like he’s said something utterly charming instead of insulting the wine. I give mine a quick sniff and swirl and then taste it. God, it’s strong. But I nod and thank her as if it tastes just fine and she refills Mr. Price’s glass and then sets the bottle down.

  “Now, where was I?” he asks, picking up the bottle of wine. He pours a bit more into his glass, since the waitress only gave him a taste, and then pours even more into my glass. “That’s better. Anyhow, I’m not exactly a cultured man.”

  I give him a half smile.

  “But you wanna know why I’m coming to you, don’t you?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind about a hundred times in the last hour.”

  “Then I should get all of the introductory shit out of the way, right? Tell you all about me since you didn’t Google it and trusted me?” There’s a gleam in his eye, and the way he strokes his beard? He seems mighty pleased at that thought. Like me trusting him was a pleasant surprise he can’t quite get over.

  “Grew up dirt poor. Dad was a roughneck, and my mother was . . . well, not rightly sure what she was. Most days she worked in a grocery store. Least she did until she up and left.” He shrugs. “Then I had a revolving door of stepmothers and stepbrothers.”

  This sounds . . . awful. And awfully close to my own terrible story. Thing is, I’m not sure if he’s telling me this to try and slap me with my own past or if there’s somewhere he’s going with it . . . so I remain silent, sipping my wine.

  “When I looked old enough to be eighteen, a buddy of mine got a job out on a rig out in West Texas. Roughnecking. Got me a job out there, too, and I became a worm. Dad didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice.”

  “A worm?” I ask. I shouldn’t interrupt, but I’m curious. “What does that mean?”

  “It means the new guy on the rig. Low man on the totem pole. You get all the shitty jobs and you got to learn them, fast.” He grins and drums his fingers on the table, and as he does, I notice he’s missing one. “Sometimes you don’t learn ’em fast enough.”

  The smile he’s giving me is charming, but I still want to know how I factor in to all this.

  He shrugs. “I’m getting to the point, trust me. Anyhow, I did that for a while and the driller took me under his wing. Wanted to teach me the biz. It’s good money if you can work fast, smart, and hard. And money was something I needed. He taught me dowsing, too.”

  “Dowsing?” I don’t know any of this.

  “You know.” He picks up his butter knife and mine, and then waves them back and forth. “You use metal rods to find the oil. Anyhow, I got real good at it. Had bosses at other rigs paying me to come dowse on their land for a nice fee. Saved that money up and bought some nice hunting land for me and my brothers. I got drunk and did a little dowsing on my new property, and the rods practically jumped out of my hands. So I got a buddy of mine—” He pauses, strokes his beard, and then shakes his head. “—Ex-buddy Bates to sell me an old outdated rig. I paid through the nose for it, had it put on my land, fixed it up, had my brothers help me drill, and then boom.” He spreads his hands. “Spindletop two point oh.”

  I give him a blank but polite look. “Is that good?”

  His brows go up. “You ain’t heard of Spindletop?”

  “No?”

  “Biggest oil strike in the US. Hundred thousand barrels a day.”

  “That’s . . . good, right? It sounds good.” I grimace and reach for my wine again. “I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about oil, Mr. Price.”

  “Boone,” he says in a low, husky voice. “Call me Boone.”

  “Not until you tell me why I’m here and you’re stalking me,” I say primly, but on the inside my stomach is fluttering. When he stares at me like that, it makes my entire body prickle with awareness.

  “I’m gettin’ to that. Drink that fancy-ass wine and lemme think.”

  I chuckle and take another sip of the wine. It’s heady as heck and I’m feeling a little tingly, so this probably isn’t the best idea, but it’s also helping me relax and not get up and leave. Which is probably a bad idea and I probably should leave.

  But . . . billionaire.

  Wants to buy a house.

  From me.

  Eye-fucking me, sure. But money.

  And if I’m totally honest, I’m fascinated by him and his brash, uncouth nature. The way he makes no apologies about who and what he is and throws money around to get what he wants. Like, tonight at this restaurant? He rented out the entire thing in the hopes that he could get me to go out with him? And he hasn’t even so much as glanced at the waitress, who is hovering even now, as if she’d like to interrupt and shove her phone number under his nose.

  So I drink my wine and wait for more of this story.

  “Spindletop,” he says. “Hundred thousand barrels a day. You know how much a barrel of oil sells for right now?” When I shake my head, he continues. “’Bout a hundred bucks a barrel. And my well was gushing out a hundred and twenty thousand barrels a day.”

  I do a bit of math in my head . . . and then choke on my wine. Twelve . . . million dollars a day?

  He nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous. I went from being some dirt-ass-poor roughneck to a millionaire in the space of a day. Billionaire in less than a year. Cut my brothers in and they’re all billionaires, too. ’Cept I don’t know how to be a billionaire, really. All I know is how to be a roughneck. And even though I’m running with the bosses now, they don’t respect me. They laugh at me and don’t take me seriously because to them, I’m a dumbass with money.” He stabs the table with one finger. “So I’m going to up my game.”

  “Up your game?”

  He nods. “Starting with a big fuckin’ house.”

  The realtor in me thrills to hear that. “Mr. Price—”

  “Boone,” he corrects.

  “Boone,” I echo, and his name feels like a scandal on my tongue. “If you want a big house, I will sell you the biggest house I can find in all of Texas.”

  He grins real slow, and my heart flutters again. “That’s real good.”

  “But you should also know that I have only been practicing real estate for about a year, and if I’m being honest, I’m not in your league.” Maybe it’s the wine that leads me toward self-sabotage, but I feel guilty. He needs to know I’m not some real estate savant before he trusts me with a million-dollar home.

  Wait. He wanted forty rooms. This might be millions of dollars of home. That would be thousands and thousands of dollars of commission for me, even with my lousy half a percent.

  This would get me to the next threshold of commissions with Three Jacks.

  This would pa
y for Wynonna’s college and a few more suits for work. A car with a bumper. Lots of things. Oh god, I’m getting excited and all he’s done is mention a house briefly.

  “You’re the one that I want, Ivy.”

  The way he says that makes it seem like a double entendre. Heck, that comment is so loaded it might as well be a quadruple entendre.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re honest, for one.” His smile crooks under that mess of beard. “And because you’re classy. You’d sell me a classy house.”

  “And you want classy? Something to make everyone eat their words, I’m guessing?” At his slow nod, I can’t help but point out, “But any realtor could do that for you, Boone.”

  “Yes, but I want this one.” He points at my face on the paper between us. “I wanted her the moment I saw her.”

  It gives me goosebumps. I stare at his finger on my face, then look up at him. “Why?”

  The possessive look he shoots me feels like a rocket under my skin. “Because I want everything, Ivy. I want the big fucking house and the classy woman.”

  And I realize he’s talking about me.

  Chapter Four

  Boone

  Her face is expressive. I can see the exact moment she realizes I just declared my intentions. Hell, I did more than that. I fucking planted a stake on that hill and stood on it, beating my chest. There should be no doubt anymore what I mean when I say I want her.

  And meeting her? Interacting with her? Hearing her laughter? Seeing the tiny smiles that curve her mouth when she’s pleased and the blushes when she’s embarrassed? Watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear? Watching her lips touch the rim of her glass? It’s all making me so fucking rock hard I can’t even think straight.

  I want her. This is dog-on-a-bone Boone talking, maybe, but I’ve decided.

  Her cheeks are bright with color, her mouth rosy from the wine. Her lips are parted and she stares at me, shocked by my blunt words. Maybe I ain’t the biggest prize in the land, looks-wise, but I’ve got enough money to make her happy, and I’m willing to throw it in her direction if that’s what it takes to get her in my bed.

  “Mr. Price,” she begins.

  “Boone,” I correct. Mostly because I’m bound and determined to get her to call me by my first name. It’s fucking sexy as hell when she says it.

  “Boone,” she says, and it’s throaty and caressing and feels like a stroke on my dick. Damn. “You could have anyone, I’m sure.” She glances over at our waitress, then back at me. “I’m flattered, but I’m really not sure I’m the woman you truly want.”

  “Oh, I’m completely sure I want you.” Hell, just sitting across from her in the restaurant is making me itch to touch her.

  She looks adorably flustered again. “I really should not date clients, Mr.—Boone,” she corrects, and sips her wine to cover her nervousness.

  Her glass is gettin’ mighty empty, so I pick up the bottle of wine and refill it, then gesture for the waitress to come and take our order. Not that Ivy’s even looked at her menu. I just need to get food in her before she gets tipsy. “Then don’t date your clients. Date me.”

  “Oh, but I need you to be a client.” She seems troubled. She must want the sale.

  “I still want to buy a house from you,” I tell her. I think about it, and then add, “A golf course, too.”

  “A golf course?”

  “Yeah, I decided I want one.” One in particular. So I can raze it to the fucking ground. “Doesn’t change the fact that I want you, too.”

  But she looks worried. “I don’t know that I should be your realtor and date you. It feels like a conflict of interest.”

  “All right, then, marry me.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

  “Marry me and you can shop for your own home.” I like this idea. The moment I say the words, they feel right. I’ve found the one for me. I’m convinced. The only one that still needs convincing is her. Marriage seems like a fucking brilliant compromise to me, and I get her in my bed that much faster.

  Win-win situation right there.

  “I can’t.” Ivy gives a graceful little shake of her head, and she pushes away her wineglass. “I really can’t. To all of this.”

  I’m pushing too fast, too soon. I know that, but pushing normally gets me what I want. So I continue, doing my best to be charming. “Is it because there’s someone else?”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “So there is someone else.” I fight the stab of jealousy I feel at the thought of Ivy in someone else’s arms. Some other bastard undoing that sleek, elegant ponytail of hers and rumpling her.

  “There is not,” she says firmly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Then it’s me that turns you off?”

  “No,” she says quickly, and then the flush colors her cheeks again when she realizes she just admitted she likes me. “It’s that I just met you, Boone. I don’t know a thing about you—”

  “Not true,” I say, spreading my hands wide. “Didn’t I just tell you my life story?”

  “You told me a bit, but I don’t know anything else. I don’t know your likes, your dislikes, if you have family beyond your brothers, anything.” She looks more and more flustered with every word, and I admit it’s fascinating to watch. It’s like she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, or she’s trying to reason with herself why it’s a bad idea to turn me down. “I don’t know your birthday, or your religion, if you’re allergic to anything—”

  “I’ll bring a doctor’s note—”

  She makes an exasperated sound. “You know what I mean! We don’t know each other. How can you possibly propose marriage to me an hour after meeting me?”

  Because I know. I know that she’s mine like I know when there’s a gusher of a well under the ground. I just know.

  She can fight . . . for a time. I’ll get her to change her mind. “The offer will stay on the table,” I tell her. “No pressure. You can just tell me when you’re ready to get married.”

  Ivy huffs with irritation, crossing her eyes at me. It’s so childishly silly in comparison to her elegant demeanor that I throw back my head and laugh. I love it. I love discovering these new facets of her personality. I’m fascinated by her already, and I can just see that fascination growing with time. But I’ll let her fight it for a few days if she must. “Would you be more comfortable if we just talk about houses, then?”

  “Yes.” She rummages through her bag and pulls out a pen and paper. “Now please, let’s talk about what kind of house you want and stop talking about how you’re going to get me to marry you.” Her eyes are sparkling with amusement as she says it, which tells me she’s not taking me seriously. That’s all right; I’ve mentally filed away every bit of information she’s thrown at me tonight.

  She needs to know my birthday and personal information about me.

  She needs to know my history.

  She needs to meet my family.

  I can do that shit.

  And as I do, I’m going to seduce her. She needs pretty words? I’ll give her pretty words. She needs flowers and jewelry? I’ll give her those, too. She needs my face between her legs? I’ll fucking tongue her for hours on end and love every moment of it.

  I can win her. I know I can. I’ve gotten everything I’ve ever wanted as long as I fought for it, and I fully intend on winning Ivy Smithfield.

  Chapter Five

  Ivy

  My sister’s car isn’t on the stretch of highway she described to me, which means it was likely towed away. That means a ticket for vehicle abandonment and an impound fee that I don’t have. I should be really upset right now, because my bank account can’t handle a new tire, much less extra costs on top of that.

  Strangely enough, though, it’s barely on my radar. I don’t give it a second thoug
ht as I drive home, past the suburbs, exit off the highway, and then head down a familiar gravel road. The rocks thunder against the undercarriage of my car and I swerve heavily to the right, then the left automatically. It’s a private road and the potholes here won’t be fixed by the city, and they’re big enough to lose a tire in. I’m on autopilot, though; I don’t need to think as I’m driving, which is good because my mind is fixated on Boone Price.

  I . . . received a marriage proposal from a billionaire tonight. It’s so strange.

  Not only that, I turned it down. Part of me wonders if that is crazy. If I shouldn’t have agreed to it, regardless, and walked away a few weeks later with whatever chunk of his money that the prenup would have gotten me. That’s mercenary, but it’s hard not to be mercenary when your bank account is empty and the bills keep piling up. I didn’t take him up on it, though. For some reason, it’s weirdly important to me that Boone not think I’m just after his bank account.

  Or rather, I’m interested in his bank account, but only in how it can help him purchase a house.

  And then, of course, I’m thinking about Boone again. Despite his uncouth appearance, Boone can be real charming. I ponder this as I drive up to the single-wide that I call home. The lights are on, which means Wynonna’s home, too. I should have bailed on dinner the moment he started hitting on me, but he never pushed so hard that I felt uncomfortable. Just hard enough to let me know that he meant business. Once I firmly established that I would not be marrying him, we talked about houses and what he’s looking for.

  Boone pretty much just wants one thing: grandiosity. So tonight, I’m going to start scouring the Internet for the biggest, most impressive houses that South Texas has to offer.

  Riiiight after I tell my sister about the bizarre day I’ve had.

  I park my car in front of the trailer and head inside. Wynonna’s sitting tucked on the small plaid sofa in the trailer, a stack of books in front of her and her laptop open on a nearby table. She looks up at me, surprised, when I open the door. “You’re home late.”