Dirty Billionaire

by Meghan March

  My surprise rockets up a dozen more notches when I pull out the strap tucked in the case and take in the hand-tooled leather. My name is part of an intricate design of stars, guitars, and flowers. It’s . . . I’m speechless.

  Holy shit. I’m in trouble.

  But I push that thought away to hook the strap on and carry Eliza Belle to the living room where my notebook rests on a side table. It’s time to perfect some tunes.

  All the while I’m strumming the chords, I’m thinking about Creighton and how I’m going to find the words to thank him for this gift.

  I open the door to my penthouse at six forty-five that night, and have the strangest urge to yell out something like Honey, I’m home. Although after yesterday, I now know there’s no guarantee that Holly will actually be here, despite my threats.

  She seems inclined to do whatever she likes, and that’s something I’m going to have a hell of a time getting used to. When I give orders, I expect for them to be followed without question. But considering how much I enjoy punishing her for her lack of compliance, I suppose my complaints are not quite as intense as before.

  But when it’s her safety at issue, all bets are off. The idea of her walking around Manhattan by herself bothers me more than I would have ever imagined. She doesn’t understand that she could easily be a target because of me.

  Before I can say anything, though, the sound of Holly strumming the guitar and humming starts and then stops moments later.

  I walk farther into the penthouse and see her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, hunched over the guitar as she jots down something on the notebook in front of her. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, and she’s wearing leggings and a gray long-sleeved shirt. Her feet are bare, and I think as long as I stay silent, she’ll never realize I’m here.

  I decide to watch her for a few minutes to test my theory.

  My choice is rewarded when she starts again, closing her eyes as she plays a unique and unusually addictive tune. She doesn’t sing, but her lips move, forming words that only she’s aware of. In that moment, I want to see her in her element—onstage. My suspicion is that the confidence I see flashes of when she speaks so passionately about her career will shine even brighter when she’s onstage. She’s a unique creature, my wife.

  She stops again and leans forward, scratching out something on the sheet and writing something new. When she glances up, she finally sees me standing in the doorway. Her eyes widen in surprise and she lays her pen down on the notebook.

  “Hey, I didn’t realize you were back.”

  “I was just watching you.”

  Her smile is quick and her face lights up. “It’s not much yet, but it’s going to be a hell of a song.” Her head jerks toward the clock on the side table. “Oh crap, I didn’t get ready. You wanted to leave at seven. I’ll be quick. What do I need to wear? I kind of need some help in that area if you don’t want me to embarrass you.”

  The easiness of her posture when she was playing is gone, and I dislike that I’m ultimately the cause of it. I know my decision to ask Cannon for suggestions on what to do with Holly tonight was the right choice, because I want to give her that easiness back.

  With honesty, I tell her, “You’re fine the way you are. Grab your boots.”

  Holly’s face is a picture of shock. “Are you screwing with me?” She glances down at what she’s wearing. “Because I look like . . .”

  “A sexy-as-fuck woman?”

  “A girl from Kentucky.”

  “Which you are, so what’s your point?”

  “This is New York. I’m not New York chic. I already stand out enough; I don’t need to stand out more.”

  “You’re perfect. Grab your boots. We’re going out.”

  Creighton is crazy. He wants to take me out like this? I trail after him into the bedroom and tug on my boots, watching as he changes out of his suit into some slacks and a button-down shirt that’s marginally casual.

  “I’m not going to be underdressed?” I ask. “Because you’re looking a lot fancier than me.”

  He smirks. “Where we’re going, you’ll fit in better than I will. Trust me.”

  And once again, I have a decision to make. When he reaches the doorway I’m leaning against and holds out his hand, I make my choice.

  “If you say so. Let’s do this.”

  I tuck my hand into Creighton’s and we leave the penthouse, but not until he heads back to the master suite to get me a coat, hat, and mittens, as well as a jacket for himself. I’m surprised by the gesture, but it makes more sense when I don’t see a chauffeur-driven Bentley at the curb. Apparently we’re walking.

  Creighton leads me down the busy sidewalk, and we turn the corner onto an even busier street. People in New York truly never seem to settle in; they’re always hurrying from here to there. I try to avoid looking like a tourist and staring up at the buildings, so I instead look at the people around me as we walk farther and finally turn again. We’re heading toward a bank, and I’m completely confused.

  “Where are we—?” I start to ask, but then I see a small black sign next to the bank.

  Johnny Utah’s.

  “Right here,” Creighton replies as he steers me toward the door beneath the small sign. “It might be the only one of its kind in Midtown, and a friend suggested we check it out.”

  We walk inside, and not only is the place already packed with the happy-hour crowd, there’s a mechanical bull in the middle of a wrought-iron fenced-in circle, surrounded by thick pads.

  I jerk my gaze up to Creighton’s. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gonna ride the bull?”

  He smirks. “Are you?”

  My own smile grows wide, and for the first time since I met him, I’m not ashamed of the accent I let color my words. “Baby, this ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “Good girl. Because this I want to see.”

  We sidle up to the bar, and I slip my hat and mittens into my coat pockets as Creighton orders for both of us. I don’t argue, especially because he’s ordered two shots of whiskey. I’m reminded of our first night together at the Rose Club, amazed at how different tonight is despite how little time has passed. It’s crazy how everything can change so quickly.

  “Only Prettier” by Miranda Lambert is playing on the bar speakers, and I have to smile. Her start wasn’t all that different from mine, and look where she is now. She’s also unashamedly herself. I could probably learn a thing or two from her.

  But then again, she was married to a fellow country singer, like Tana, not a billionaire. This is a whole different situation. I’m trying to straddle two worlds, but at least for tonight, Creighton is making an effort to bring me to a world that isn’t quite so foreign.

  He slides one shot glass in front of me and raises his. “To us. We’ve officially outlasted at least one or two celebrity marriages. Britney Spears comes to mind.”

  I choke out a laugh before I can offer the toast back to him. “I can’t even believe you know that.”

  “I think everyone knows about that.” He continues holding up the shot glass and raises an eyebrow. “It’s bad luck to not reciprocate. Toasts . . . and other things.”

  I smile, and it’s genuine. This sense of humor isn’t something I expected. “Well, I don’t think we need any bad luck. So,” I raise my glass, “to us.”

  As we clink glasses and toss the liquor back, my eyes burn, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey sliding down my throat. I’m just stunned by the fact that there is an us.

  Me and Creighton Karas. My husband.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and beat the sneaky tears back before they can completely surface. Then I slap my shot glass down on the wooden bar.

  “Let’s do this.” I jerk my head toward the mechanical bull.

  A girl is riding it, her fancy black pencil skirt riding up and her suit jacket tossed to the side. Her boobs bounce against her tailored white dress shirt with each swivel and buck of
the bull. She only makes it a few seconds before sliding off onto the mats. Apparently someone was ready for the workday to be over.

  Now I’m gonna show them how a real country girl does it.

  “We taking bets?” I ask Creighton.

  “About how long you stay on, or how hard my cock is going to get watching you ride?”

  My giggle breaks loose. “I don’t need to take bets on your cock. We’re getting pretty well acquainted, and I have a good feeling that he’s going to like this a whole lot.” I slide off the stool and slip my coat off my shoulders and toss it at him. “Let me show you how a country girl does it.”

  Creighton leans down, my coat in one hand, and whispers in my ear, “I know how this country girl does it, and she’s got me hooked.”

  His words stun me into silence. It’s the first indication he’s given that he feels something for me beyond the need to possess me like his newest toy. I can’t process this right now, in the middle of a bar, not with Montgomery Gentry and “Hillbilly Shoes” just starting to crank on the speakers. It’s altogether too apt.

  Creighton doesn’t really know me. Not all of me. Not the heart and soul of me that I pour into my songs. Not the indescribable high I get when I’m standing onstage. Not the tiny town where I’m the girl who made good, and yet I haven’t been back. Not the important parts of me.

  Will he still be hooked then?

  I plaster a smile on my face to cover my racing thoughts. “I’ll see you after I’ve made the eight,” I say, and spin on my bootheel to walk toward the man at the edge of the bull pen.

  Holly makes the eight, and she looks like a goddess doing it.

  I want to tear every man’s eyes away from her, but even I’m too riveted by her smooth, graceful movements to do a damn thing but stare. It’s not lurid like some of the other women who rode the bull before her—chest heaving and making a spectacle. Holly manages to look beautiful and sweet even in this.

  When she climbs off and walks over, I’m waiting at the gate. My hand is out, and something surges inside me when she doesn’t hesitate to close her fingers around it. She’s learning to trust me, and that’s not something even I can command. It’s something that has to be offered freely, and she’s starting to.

  I’ll take it. All of it.

  I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. Not only because it’s my instinctual reaction, but because I want every man in this bar to be well aware that she’s not available and never will be. Holly’s mine.

  I see. I want. I conquer. I keep.

  “Your skills are outstanding,” I say, slipping her coat back around her shoulders.

  Her smile is triumphant. “At least there’s one thing in this city I’m sure I can handle.”

  Keeping my head low, I reply, “I think there’s more than one thing you’ve proven very competent at handling in this city.” Her blush is already rising when I add, “Let’s find our table.”

  Her eyes widen. “You want to eat here? Really?”

  “Come on.”

  I lead her to the hostess stand and we’re seated immediately, although I don’t see any recognition on the hostess’s face when she looks at me or Holly. As soon as we’ve put in an order for another round of drinks, Holly is staring down at her menu, lips pursed. She glances up at me, her eyes sparkling with humor.

  “Do you ever roll up your sleeves a little, fancy man?”

  “I’ve been known to.”

  “Good, because I’m ordering ribs, and there’s no way I’ll be able to eat them all, so you’re gonna have to get your hands a little messy and help me out.”

  I reach out and unbutton one cuff and begin to roll it up before doing the same to the other. “You’re not afraid of me, and probably one of the very few people who also isn’t afraid to give me hell.”

  “How many people are on that list?” she asks, laughing as she reaches for the beer the waitress places in front of her.

  I’ve told Holly next to nothing about my personal life, and considering what I pushed her to share last night, I decide it’s my turn.

  “It’s a short list, that’s for sure. My sister would be at the top.”

  Holly chokes on her beer before setting it down and reaching for her napkin. “You have a sister?”

  Her shock doesn’t surprise me. “She’s never in the papers, and I’ve made it clear that my personal life is as off-limits as I can make it. The only reason that works is because I own one of the three largest media companies on the planet.”

  Holly’s confusion is evident. “So you control the flow of information about yourself? That seems like a dangerous power to have.”

  I shrug off her comment. “As much as I can, but there are plenty of others out there who won’t bow to my dictates. You saw the headlines we made. That proves I don’t have ultimate power.”

  “So back to your sister, what’s her name, and is she older or younger?”

  “Greer. She’s younger by nine years. She’s a first-year associate at a big law firm here in town. She’s currently working her ass off while she could have a cushy job with me. But she’s stubborn as hell, and won’t come over to the dark side, as she calls it.”

  “First, her name is awesome, and second, doesn’t being a lawyer in general make you part of the dark side? Who’s really keeping track of that, right?”

  I laugh, amused that she shares my skepticism of lawyers in general. “There is some truth to that. Although I’m sure there are some decent ones out there. Maybe. Mine are sharks, so they don’t count.”

  “So she’s a smart girl, wants to make her mark without riding her big brother’s coattails?” Holly asks.

  “Yes, that’s exactly it. But she can’t change her last name, so she doesn’t escape notice completely. Part of me thinks Greer requests the toughest projects with the shittiest hours just so she can prove herself. It would definitely be in line with her character.”

  “So she can make fun of you and not end up at the wrong end of that death stare of yours?”

  “Death stare?” I tilt my head. “Is that what you call it?”

  Holly nods, biting her lip. “You know the one; it says stop talking or you’ll regret it.”

  “Ah. That death stare.” I know exactly what she’s talking about. “It works, doesn’t it?” I glare, or at least do my best to glare while I’m trying to keep from laughing. “Not anymore, it doesn’t.”

  “We’ll see about that. So other than little sis, who else?”

  I have to actually think about the answer to this question, and the timing is right because our waitress returns for our order. As promised, Holly orders ribs, and I go for a steak. When the waitress leaves, I answer.

  “That’s pretty much it. Maybe Cannon, my EVP.”

  “What’s an EVP?” Holly asks, reminding me that she’s the one person in my life who doesn’t speak corporate acronyms.

  “Executive vice president. He oversees all of the division presidents, and keeps me from having to be involved in day-to-day bullshit unless it rises to a level of importance where I’m truly needed. It frees me up to deal with strategy and other things.”

  “Am I ever going to meet this Cannon guy?”

  Cannon is one of the most important people in my life, and knows more about Holly than she’ll likely ever know about him. If he didn’t know I’d put out a hit on him, he’d probably try to steal her from me.

  “That’s very likely.”

  “Maybe I can meet him the next time I’m in town.”

  Holly’s statement isn’t all that subtle. She’s checking to see if I forgot that she’s leaving tomorrow.

  What she doesn’t realize is she’s not the only one who’s leaving. I’m not about to let my wife out of my sight for an extended period of time. It has nothing to do with trust, and everything to do with the fact that I’m not ready for her to be that far away from me.

  “I’ll have the jet ready to go tomorrow. I need to take care of a few things during the day,
but I’ll get you back to Nashville in time for dinner. It’s a quick flight.”

  Her brow scrunches. “Does that mean you’re going with me?”

  “Did you expect me not to?”

  She shrugs, and I wait a few moments before she finally speaks. “I don’t know. I mean, you have your life and I have mine. I kind of figured we’d go to our separate corners and do what we need to do, and then regroup later.”

  Her plan is unacceptable on multiple levels. Any humor in my expression dies away.

  “That’s not happening. I’m not letting you out of my sight, let alone go to another state without me.”

  Dropping her gaze to her beer and the label she’s now intent on peeling off, Holly is silent for a beat. “Okay, then.”

  “It’ll be more than okay,” I reply. “Just wait.”

  “Just wait, he said. Just. Wait. I didn’t realize he meant it so damn literally.”

  My words carry no heat or anger, just the heavy weight of disappointment. So much for Creighton and his big promises. I’d woken with a smile on my face this morning, remembering how much fun we’d had at the bar last night, but that smile had faded as the hours crept by today without a single word from Creighton. I’ve filled the time by working on my songs, but I thought he’d be back by now. Not only is he not back, he hasn’t even called.

  I look at the time on my phone again, and the text message that came in twenty minutes earlier from my manager.

  CHANCE: You back in Nashville yet? I need you here ASAP. Call me as soon as you’re in town.

  I tap on my phone’s browser and check the flight times to Nashville. If I leave now, I can get to JFK and be on a plane and back in Nashville by nine. A couple of hours later than the private jet that Creighton promised, but I have no choice.

  Finally, I lose my temper. “Why won’t he freaking answer me?” I yell at the room.

  When he didn’t show at four, I started to wonder. By four thirty, I couldn’t stop myself from texting; he didn’t reply. At five, I called; he didn’t answer. It’s five fifteen, and I decide to try one more time.