by Regina Kyle
Regina Kyle knew she was destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age ten with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal briefs. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor. She is a two-time winner of the Booksellers’ Best Award. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives in Connecticut with her husband, daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s most likely singing, reading, cooking or watching bad reality television.
If you liked Dirty Secrets, why not try
Unbreak My Hart by Clare Connelly
Bad Mistake by JC Harroway
Sinfully Yours by Margot Radcliffe
Also by Regina Kyle
Dirty Work
Discover more at Harlequin.com
DIRTY SECRETS
REGINA KYLE
To everyone who works too hard.
Like Ferris says, life moves fast.
Don’t forget to stop and look around or you’ll miss it.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Excerpt from Unbreak My Hart by Clare Connelly
Excerpt from Custom Built by Chantal Fernando
CHAPTER ONE
Brie
I OWN WAY too much shit.
I’m pretty sure my driver wanted to kill me when he saw how many bags I had. If I hadn’t threatened him with a one-star review—and promised him a hefty tip that I can’t really afford—I’m betting he would have left me at the curb.
Now the trunk of his Honda Civic is full, and I’m crammed in one corner of the back seat, hugging my knees to my chest, surrounded by suitcases. I thought about sitting in the front for a hot second, but then I saw the discarded fast food wrappers, cigarettes, and empty Red Bull cans. It may be less comfortable back here, but it’s a hell of a lot cleaner.
I knew I should have ordered a bigger, better car service, but, sadly, money is an object, at least until I get my first check for the Netflix series. Fortunately, I won’t have to stay curled up like a pretzel for long. Connor’s apartment is only a few blocks away.
My gut twists when I think about where I’m going and what I’m about to do. I’ve known my brother’s best friend practically my whole life, but showing up on his doorstep, unannounced and uninvited, and asking if I can move in with him, is gutsy, even for me. Maybe that’s why I brought along all my worldly possessions instead of going back for them later. It’ll be a lot harder for him to toss me out on the street with all this crap in tow.
I hope.
The fact that I’m willing to pull this stunt shows just how desperate I am. But losing out on yet another apartment—my fourth in as many weeks, the New York City real estate market is brutal and my credit history isn’t exactly the best—was the last straw. I can’t keep squatting at Jake and Ainsley’s. Especially now that I’m going to be staying in the city for the foreseeable future. Or at least until the series gets cancelled.
Don’t get me wrong. My brother and his fiancée have been more than hospitable. But being a third wheel to their storybook romance is uncomfortable as hell. The lovey-dovey looks. The constant smooching. The wall-banging sex.
And that’s not a euphemism. I can literally hear the headboard of their California king slamming against the drywall. Every. Freaking. Night. And it’s not like my room is next to theirs. I’m down the damn hall.
Their late-night gymnastics have been totally messing with my sleep schedule. When the first A.D—that’s assistant director for those not familiar with TV production lingo—made a half-serious, half-snide remark to the makeup artist about needing to cover the dark circles under my eyes, I knew it was time to find new digs. I worked my ass off for this gig. Beat out hundreds of other girls. I’m not blowing it because my brother and his blushing almost-bride can’t keep their hands—and other body parts I don’t even want to think about because ew, my brother—off each other.
Hence my somewhat—okay, totally—impulsive decision to spring myself on Connor. He’s the only other person I know in this city, other than my brother, of course, who has an apartment big enough to house a freaking marching band. With any luck, he won’t even know I’m there. Once he says yes to me crashing with him, that is.
Plus, Jake let it slip the other night that Connor broke up with his live-in girlfriend a few weeks ago. Hopefully he’ll appreciate an extra hand around the house. I’m good at vacuuming. I actually like folding laundry. And I make a mean vegan coconut chickpea curry.
My car pulls to the curb in front of Connor’s luxury high-rise, and the driver picks up his phone and swipes right to end the ride.
“Nice building.” He turns around and surveys the piles of bags and boxes taking up most of the back seat. “I suppose you want me to help you bring all this crap inside.”
“Only as far as the lobby. I can handle it from there.” Fingers crossed. My plan is to get the doorman to take pity on me and watch my stuff as I bring it up to Connor’s penthouse apartment in stages. Then, when it’s all stacked up strategically outside his door for maximum you-can’t-turn-me-and-literally-everything-I-own-away effect, I’ll ring the bell and pray. “There’s a tip in it for you, remember? And a five-star rating.”
“Forty bucks.” He holds out his hand, palm up. “Paid in advance.”
That’s about twice what I want to shell out. But he’s got me over a barrel. There’s no way I can get everything inside in one trip, and I’m sure as hell not leaving anything out on the sidewalk for any Tom, Dick, or Harriet to walk off with. So I pull out my wallet, fish out two twenties, and fork them over. “Here.”
It takes a good ten minutes, but we finally get everything out of the cab and into the lobby. I thank the driver, promising again to leave him a glowing review. Then I work my magic on the doorman—he’s prickly at first but he changes his tune when I show him my driver’s license and he realizes I’m “Mr. Lawson’s” sister—and he agrees to keep an eye on my things while I bring the first batch of stuff up to “Mr. Dow’s” apartment on the seventh floor.
The “Mr.” thing cracks me up. I mean, intellectually I know Connor and my brother are big-shots. Top Shelf—the club they own—is one of the hottest night spots in the city. They’ve been on Forbes 30 under 30 and countless lists of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors. But to me, they’re still my annoying big brother and his constant, geeky sidekick who liked to play Tomb Raider and Magic: The Gathering and—even worse—wouldn’t let me, five years their junior, join in on the fun.
Five trips later, and it’s go time. All my crap is piled in the narrow hallway between the elevator and Connor’s door. The only thing left for me to do is ring the damn bell.
It takes a few minutes and more than a couple of rings before the door swings open and—gah. Connor’s so—naked.
Okay, so he’s not exactly naked. But he might as well be for how little those tiny gym shorts are covering. What is this, the seventies?
Not that I’m exactly complaining. What’s not covered looks damn good. Why have I never
noticed how yummy he is before? He’s gone from geek to Greek god. The slight sheen of sweat makes his muscular arms and torso glisten like an Olympian in ancient times, all oiled up for competition. And when did he get a tattoo on his ribcage? It makes his six pack look even sexier. If that’s possible.
“Brie.” He runs a hand through his dark, damp hair, messier than usual. “What are you doing here?”
Crap. He sounds pissed. What if I’ve come at a bad time? What if he was sleeping? Or even worse, still in bed but, um, otherwise occupied? I know he just broke up with his girlfriend, but maybe he’s got some rebound chick in there. That would explain the mussed hair, the sweat, the almost total lack of clothing.
I swallow hard and force a smile. “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
He reaches one hand up to grab the door frame, making all those glorious, shiny muscles ripple. My mouth goes dry and I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans. I’m going to have to figure out how to keep my stupid hormones in check if we’re going to be sharing space. Even if that space is the size of a ski lodge.
“I was in the middle of a workout,” he says, shifting his weight and drawing my attention to his cross trainers.
Okay. Better than morning sex. But still not exactly getting off on the right foot.
“Sorry. I’d come back later but—”
I wave a hand at the stacks of stuff behind me and he blinks as if noticing them for the first time. Which maybe he is.
“What the hell is all this?” I start to answer, but he holds up an hand to stop me. “Wait. Let me guess. You want to hold a garage sale in my apartment. Or Jake finally kicked you out.”
What does he mean, finally? Has my brother said something to him about wanting me gone? No, that’s not Jake’s style. If he had an issue with me, he’d tell me to my face. He always has before. Damn Connor for making me doubt him.
“Neither. But it was time for me to move on. My brother and his fiancée need their space.”
And I need my sleep. Not that I’m about to discuss my brother’s sex life with his best friend. I glance over Connor’s shoulder into his palatial digs. There’s lots of neutral tones and clean lines. Very upscale. Very masculine.
“Can we take this discussion inside? I’m assuming my things will be safe out here for a few minutes, seeing as you’re the only one on this floor.”
“Do I really have a choice?” He steps back, opening the door wider and waving me inside. “I can’t exactly slam the door in my best friend’s sister’s face. Which I’m sure you were counting on when you came over here.”
“Thanks.” I breeze past him, ignoring the jab—because, well, it’s true—and trying my hardest not to accidentally-on-purpose brush against him as I walk by. “I know this is your place and all, but would you mind, uh, putting on a shirt. All that bare flesh is very...distracting.”
He closes the door and follows me into the apartment. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You barge into my personal space and complain that I’m underdressed?”
I shrug. “That pretty much sums it up.”
“I’ve got to give you credit. You’ve got balls of steel, Blabby.”
I wince at the childhood nickname. Okay, so I have trouble keeping my mouth shut. And Gabby rhymes with Blabby. Hence why I started going by Brie—also short for Gabrielle—when I started high school.
“The last time I checked, I didn’t have balls.”
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
He grabs a T-shirt from the back of a chair and covers up. While he’s occupied with that, I do a quick survey of my surroundings.
Sweet Caroline. I thought my brother’s place was swank. This makes his digs look like the Super 8.
“So.” Connor arches a brow at me. “What brings you—and all your crap—here before ten on a Saturday?”
I plop myself down on one of his neutral-toned, clean-lined arm chairs and cross my legs, preemptively making myself at home. It’s like that old saying. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Or, in this case, the apartment you want. “Aren’t you going to offer me a glass of water? Cup of coffee? Maybe a light snack?”
“I’m all out.” He folds his arms across his chest, pulling his shirt tight over his pecs. Damn thing is doing nothing to kill my dirty sex fantasies.
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“Even water?” I manage to croak past dry lips. The more I study the way his shirt molds to his torso, the more I’m desperate for a damn drink.
“Just spit it out,” he says with a sexy smirk that adds even more fuel to the aforementioned fantasies. “The suspense is killing me.”
“I was hoping I could stay here for a little while. Only until I can find a place of my own.” I add the last bit hastily, before he can say no.
But it doesn’t stop him from turning on the heel of his Reeboks and running from the room like I asked him to be my baby daddy.
CHAPTER TWO
Connor
SHE WANTS TO WHAT?
I fling open the door of my stainless steel fridge with way more cubic feet than any one person could possibly need and grab an IPA from one of my favorite local craft breweries. Okay, so it’s not even 10:00 a.m., but I’ll make an exception to my strict no-alcohol-before-noon policy for this.
My best friend and business partner’s little sister wants to move in with me. Which you wouldn’t think would be a problem. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were kids. I should want to help her out, right?
Right. Except for one tiny—or not so tiny—thing. Namely my dick, which is already doing a happy dance at the thought of having Brie sleeping in the next bedroom.
Have I mentioned that she’s my best friend’s sister? His little sister? And that I’ve had the hots for her since I was old enough to figure out girls were good for more than just teasing?
But it’s against the bro code to mess around with your buddy’s sister, especially when you and said buddy are in business together. I’ve managed to do a pretty damn good job of keeping my distance from Brie for years now. But having her take up residence in my luxury loft, no matter how spacious, is going to make that—not to mention my aforementioned dick—awfully hard.
I pop the top on my beer and slug it down. I’m going to have go back out there soon. I can’t hide in my goddamn kitchen forever, like the coward that I am. But I need some liquid courage first. I’m not a ladies’ man like Jake. Or, God forbid, my father. I can get a little tongue-tied around women. Especially ones I’m attracted to.
Until I get them in bed. Then something goes off in me, like a switch, and I’m the king of dirty talk. And it’s not only me who says so. I’ve had more than one woman praise my linguistic skills in the bedroom.
But I digress. The point is, I’m not great at chatting up chicks I’m into unless we’re between the sheets. Add in the fact that I have a hard time saying “no”—to anyone, for anything—and it’s clear why my current situation is a recipe for disaster.
“Everything all right in there?” Brie’s voice floats in from the other room.
“Uh, yeah. Be right out. Want a beer?”
See what I mean? Instead of tossing her sexy ass out the door, I’m offering her drinks. Idiot.
“At ten in the morning?” she scoffs.
“Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” Just not here.
I toss back the rest of my IPA, rinse out the bottle, and put it in the recycling. Okay, so I’m a neat freak. And eco-friendly. Sue me.
When I finally work up the nerve to go back into my own damn living room, Brie’s in front of my bookcase, studying the array of family photos. Ironically, there are more pictures of her family than mine. Not surprising given that I spent more time at their house growing up than my own.
She bends over and picks up one photo t
o examine it more closely, and my heart and my dick simultaneously twitch at the sight of her ass on full display. She’s got a booty like Beyonce, ripe and round, tempting me to—
Stop. This is exactly why Brie and I can’t be roomies. My mind may be willing to keep her in the strictly platonic box, but my flesh is definitely weak.
I clear my throat, and she turns around, picture still in hand. It’s one of the few I have of my family in happier times. Before my mom’s ALS kicked into high gear and my dad went off the deep end and started screwing everything in sight.
“Your mom was really beautiful,” she says, a little choked up. “Like Grace Kelly in that movie with Cary Grant.”
I’m surprised at the emotion in her voice. It’s not like she knew my mother all that well. Our families didn’t move in the same circles. My father wouldn’t have allowed that. Hell, he barely tolerated my friendship with Jake. I think the only reason he let us hang out was because he thought it might make me more jock than geek, like some of Jake’s natural athleticism would rub off on me if we spent enough time together.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t. Sure, Jake introduced me to the gym, which eventually helped me go from scrawny to brawny. But I’m still shit at sports, and I still prefer a well-played round of chess to anything with touchdowns, baskets, or home runs.
Much to my father’s disappointment.
“To Catch A Thief,” I supply, taking the picture from her and glancing at it before carefully putting it back into place. She’s right. My mom was beautiful. And classy. And kind. Everything a mom should be.
Great. Now I’m starting to get choked up.
“That’s the one. I always mix it up with North By Northwest.” Brie eyes another photo, this one of me and Jake at our high school graduation. We’re a study in contrasts, him the big, burly four-sport letterman and me the shorter, slighter computer nerd.
She looks at me, then back at the picture, then at me again. “What’s your secret?”
“Secret to what?” I ask, grateful to be talking about something other than my mom.