Filthy Beast (Filthy Fairy Tales #1)

by Vanessa Booke

  I swallow back the lump in my throat, trying unsuccessfully to calm my nerves. The more I look at them, the more I can’t help but think they look like they’ve just stepped out of one of Hart’s novels

  Yeah, I would definitely sell my soul.

  It isn’t until I hear Richard clearing his throat that I realize I’ve been staring at the two of them this whole time. Cheeks flaming red, I step back and let Grant take the lead.

  “Good morning, Richard,” the blond says with a look of cold, blue steel.

  These two must be the infamous new owners of the company. It seemed like just yesterday I overheard Jenny from accounting talking about how the owner’s son had bought out the company. For a while, I think most of the employees here, including me, were worried about losing our jobs. Thankfully, I still have it. Well, at least for now. Hopefully, this meeting doesn’t include plans on for downsizing. I’m not sure what I would do if I lost my position. Not only do I love being an editor, but also there’s no way I would be able to pay my father’s rent.

  “We’re meeting with all the department heads today, you included, Grant.”

  Nicholas StoneHaven looks over at me with a smile that plays across his lips. The sight of it is enough to knock the air out of me. My eyes glance down at his hands that sit lightly drumming the table. Not surprising, there’s a thick wedding band encircling his finger on his right hand. Of course, he’s married. All the best men in NYC are. It’s probably the reason why I haven’t found the right guy. That and all the good ones seem to be fictional.

  His dark-haired companion waves me over and gestures to a nearby seat. I obey without a second thought, leaving Richard standing awkwardly by himself.

  “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Olivia Evans,” I practically squeak.

  “Hello, Olivia. My name is Tristan. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  He steps forward and shakes my hand. His skin is warm and slightly calloused. Not something you’d expect from someone with money. My body relaxes as a grin spreads across his face. He’s a lot more relaxed than I anticipated for the owner of a billion dollar publishing company. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.

  “Pardon my ignorance, but what is your job here at the company?” Tristan asks.

  “I’m-I’m—”

  “She’s my assistant,” Richard says, shooting me a cautionary look. Richard finally steps forward and takes a seat next to me.

  “Is that what you want to be?” Nicholas StoneHaven asks.

  My gaze snaps to the blond Adonis sitting at the other end of the table. His question, although odd, brings up something I’ve been asking myself the past year. Do I want to be Richard’s assistant? No.

  “Uh, well, obviously, I’d like to be Richard one day,” I confess. “I mean a senior editor.”

  Something unexpected happens. Nicholas chuckles, and it isn’t the kind that says he’s laughing at my silly little dreams. I blush, flustered by his smile. His wife is definitely a lucky, lucky woman.

  “I’m glad you have goals for your career here.”

  “I love my job.” I smile.

  “Good. So I feel the need to ask, would you be willing to take on some extra responsibilities?” Nicholas asks, looking at the document on the table in front of him. Why is this starting to feel like an interview? My gaze glances to Richard as he sits next to me, still as a sculpture.

  “We understand that Declan Hart hasn’t fulfilled his contract,” Tristan says, jumping in.

  Shit. I can practically feel Richard’s anger vibrating off him. It takes me a second to realize that although this is supposed to be a meeting with him, all we’ve talked about is me so far.

  “We’d like to extend you the opportunity to work one on one with one of our biggest clients,” Nicholas says. “Declan Hart is one of our most prolific authors. We’ve realized a phone call, and email isn’t enough. We need boots on the ground if you understand my meaning.”

  I nod for a moment, not really paying attention. Until his words sink in. “Wait, what?”

  “We want you to fly to Las Vegas and check-in with Hart. We need to get him back on track, and I can’t really trust one of the newer editors with this. You’ve been working with Richard for two years now, so I’m sure you’ve dealt with him some now. Obviously, your flight and hotel would be paid for, and we’ll also give you a stipend for food. That said… we are expecting results.”

  “Why me?” I blurt.

  “I know Declan Hart. I think you’d have better results with him than Richard,” Tristan says. “Besides, Richard is needed here.”

  My face scrunches in confusion.

  “He needs someone on site with him, to keep on top of him... Excuse me, to keep on top of his progress and make sure he meets his deadline,” Nicholas says.

  “What kind of timeframe would it be?”

  I can’t be gone for months. I have an apartment to pay, and I can’t just leave my father alone. We have no other family here in the city.

  He nods. “Let’s give it a month,” he says.

  I close my eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. This is BIG. This is the kind of opportunity you dream about.

  “Ms. Evans, I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime here. Your first client. A lot of people would be thrilled to be in your shoes.”

  I smile. “Thank you so much.”

  My heart tightens at the thought of flying across the country to meet Declan Hart. Can this really be happening?

  “Good. Then it’s settled. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

  2

  DELCAN

  No woman wants to fuck you when you look like me.

  The thought passes through my mind as I stare at my repulsive reflection through the computer screen in front of me. My eyes focus again on the desktop that sits there taunting me with an empty page. That damn thing has been empty for the last six days. In fact, it seems longer than that. It feels like I haven’t written a word in months. Years, maybe. The muses aren’t speaking. They’ve been silent since my accident, since the night I made the idiotic mistake of driving when I wasn’t sober. I thought I was invincible. Untouchable.

  I don’t deserve to be alive, but I am.

  Well, most of me.

  The months of physical therapy for my leg is a reminder of just how much I could’ve lost. I push away the thoughts in my mind and click to open a tab from my most recent porn site. An author without words isn’t good for business. I’ve already kept my publisher waiting long enough for this manuscript. I’m not even sure if they’d allow me another extension. This book was supposed to be done a year ago. For an author with dozens of books under my belt, this is starting to feel pathetic.

  For the past hour, I’ve been perusing porn videos on Tumblr instead of working on my latest manuscript. Then again, who could blame me? How am I supposed to write about sex when it feels like a century since I’ve had any? Before the accident, with one look, I could practically smell how wet a woman was for me. Now, the only woman who can bear to be around me is my housekeeper, Adele. And Adele is anything but the little French housemaid that you might conjure in your mind.

  Instead of one perfectly sculpted woman with a nice ass, Adele is a stumpy little old maid who looks like Mrs. Claus meets the woman from Murder She Wrote. She even has snowy white hair and little bifocals to complete the look. As much as I’d love someone to answer my sexual beck and call, Adele definitely doesn’t fit the bill. I chuckle. Not that she could ever stand more than five minutes of being in the same room with me.

  A gentle knock at my office door startles me, and I quickly close my laptop feeling guiltier by the second for the cat-like mewling playing on my screen.

  “Are you up?” a familiar voice on the other side of the door asks.

  I frown, glancing at my deflating cock. Yup. I can’t even get any from my own hand. My eyes scan the clock to my right. It’s almost noon. I haven’t slept this late in years. I bar
ely sleep at all anymore. What’s that old adage? No rest for the wicked. Seems fitting.

  “Come in, Adele,” I call over my shoulder.

  The heavy wooden door glides open silently, and my housekeeper enters, her halo of wispy white hair preceding her. She holds a tray in her hands, my usual lunchtime tea service arrayed on a silver tray with a single red rose for decor. The faint scent of chamomile floats over to me with the steam from the teapot, and my eyes flutter closed. Chamomile is one of few comforts I allow myself these days.

  I close my eyes wearily. I don’t deserve even that much.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come downstairs today,” Adele suggests in a mild voice, placing the tray on my desk with shaking hands. The chipped mug rattles against its saucer, and I frown. Age is getting to the woman, not that she’d ever admit it. The tea tray can’t weigh more than about eight pounds, but you’d think she’d just deadlifted a sedan by the way her neck is straining.

  “I don’t see why I should,” I reply. Everything I need is right here in my suite. My bed, my books, my computer. I even have monitors to survey the CCTV security system that runs throughout the estate. Adele brings me food and drink as needed. Why would I want to leave this room?

  The world outside is just a cruel reminder of everything I lost and everything that is wrong in my life.

  Adele frowns, her thin lips pursed in disapproval, but otherwise,, she makes no reply.

  Normally, I appreciate her customary silence. I’d rather be left alone with my thoughts. But today, it feels off-putting, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.

  “Did you need anything else?” I ask when she lingers longer than usual.

  “We have a visitor today,” she says, her tone casual like she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on my gloomy Tuesday afternoon.

  “What fucking visitor?” I growl. She raises an eyebrow at me, and I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “What visitor, Adele?” I ask in a quieter, yet still angry tone.

  She looks up at me, her brown eyes shining with something I can’t really identify. “Your publisher sent over a representative to keep track of your progress.”

  I glare at her as though it’s her fault I’m almost a year late on my deadline. “I don’t need a goddamn babysitter. I know how to write a novel.” I’ve done it over a dozen times before, after all. And all but one has made multiple bestseller lists.

  She throws her hands up, as though giving up. Good. She should give up on me. I have no idea why she sticks around. No, I do. It’s for the money. Why else would she? No one else has.

  “You can discuss that with her if you come downstairs,” Adele says.

  “Richard knows where I am in the process—”

  “It’s not Richard,” Adele says, raising her voice slightly to be heard over my shouting.

  “It’s not?” I ask confused.

  She shakes her head. “No, they’ve sent some other young lady. Olivia Evans.”

  “Sent?” My tone makes it sound like a curse.

  How the hell do we know for sure this isn’t some undercover reporter or paparazzo? Without thinking, I turn to my computer and open my web browser, running a search on her name. It comes up with several hits, including the website for StoneHaven Publishing. I briefly scan the site before turning back to Adele.

  She nods, trying to hide a smile. “Yes, and Luke just arrived with her,” she says. “She said she would take a taxi here, but I thought why waste cab fare when you have a driver you never use.” She glances at her wristwatch. “I should probably tell Frank we have a guest.”

  That earns her another glower. “And when did you first hear about this?”

  There’s no hiding her smile now. “Oh, a couple of days ago.”

  “A couple of days?” I shout, and she shrinks away from me. But I’m past the point of caring. “Why the hell would you keep this from me?”

  And just like that, her smile fades and her eyes flash with anger. “You left me in charge of your household. That includes all your communications.”

  I stand, towering over her. “And my express orders were to tell me immediately about anything important. This would qualify as important.”

  She straightens her spine as best she can, squaring her shoulders. She’s a tiny, frail old woman, but the look in her eyes says I’m about to get my ass handed to me, at least verbally.

  “I didn’t tell you about this because I knew you’d behave like a beast. This young woman is here to help you get your career back on track, so you had better not be rude to her!”

  “I don’t want a career anymore, goddamn it!” I roar. “The career nearly killed me!” I run a hand over my face, feeling the ghosts of the flames licking my chin, my cheek. I was passed out by that point, supposedly. Probably best for me not to know I was being roasted alive. But sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night feeling as though my skin is boiling. It feels so real, so visceral, that it muddies my memories of the crash. A year later, I hardly know what’s real and what’s imagined.

  Adele looks up at me, jaw hard, and eyes furious. “No, Declan, you nearly killed yourself. Your selfishness, your foolishness, nearly destroyed you.”

  I reel as though she’s slapped me, realizing she’s right. I was the idiot who thought driving drunk around an unknown city was a reasonable reaction to an unsettling encounter between the sheets—with a girl whose name I never even bothered to get. I’m a selfish son of a bitch, and I always have been. The worst thing was that I didn’t die. I should have died. It’s what I deserved. Who is ever going to love me when I look like this?

  And there it is. The real reason why I’ve been blocked for so long. I rarely thought about love after the divorce with my ex-wife, but now I thought about it often. Sex isn’t going to make anyone stay with me, no matter how great at it I am. But love? That’s a different story. I look back at Adele, chastened. For a moment, she looks like she’s winding up for more, but something in my face clearly gets to her, because her expression softens. She lets out a defeated breath, and I think I’ve never seen her look so tired.

  “Just meet with the girl. Humor her. Maybe she’ll be able to help you get over this writer’s block.”

  I scowl at her. “I am not blocked.” Lies. “I just haven’t wanted to write.” More lies.

  She narrows her eyes. “That’s not what that blank page says.” She nods her head toward my computer screen. “What it’s been saying for the last week.”

  “I pay you to take care of the house, Adele. Not to snoop.”

  Her answering look is unapologetic. “Just come downstairs to meet her.”

  I turn back to the computer, intending to dismiss my housekeeper. But the web page from the publisher’s site has loaded, and I see Olivia Evans’ photo for the first time. Oh, fuck. I freeze, captivated.

  Bright hazel eyes are staring back at me. Her long chestnut curls remind me of autumn leaves—deep brown with flashes of red and gold. There’s something disarming about her round face, her smooth skin. My whole body stirs at the sight of her mouth slightly parted, her full, pink lips looking lush and kissable. My fingers reach up to my own face, passing a hand over my chin again. Where freckles cover her face, skin grafts and ugly scars cover mine. She’s beautiful. My face would only frighten her away.

  I shake my head, closing my eyes. “I’m not going down there. Tell her...” I sigh. “Tell her I’ll return Richard’s calls tomorrow. She can go back to New York. I don’t need her here.”

  It’s better this way. I don’t need to drag that unsuspecting woman into my pit of suck. I hear Adele take a deep breath, as though she’s about to tell me off again.

  My eyes snap to the security monitor, and sure enough, Olivia Evans is standing near the foot of my staircase, her full, curvy body encased in a wrap dress, a small briefcase in her hand. I suck in a breath at the sight of her, and for the first time in a long time, my cock stirs. Jesus. This woman is gorgeous.

  “Would you like to meet her?” A
dele asks. I glance over at her, taking in her sly smile.

  I shake my head slowly. “Just get rid of her, would you?”

  She chuckles, a dry, wheezing sound. “We’ll see.”

  I frown as she leaves the room, wondering what she means by that. I turn back to the monitors, watching as she makes her way downstairs to the front door.

  This is the right thing to do, I remind myself. The last thing that woman wants is someone like you. And you don’t need her. For work or any other reason. But as I watch Olivia sweep gracefully into the house through the monitor, I find myself filled with a potent desire. So potent, it leaves an ache in the pit of my stomach. My cock twitches at the sight of her generous hips swinging with each step she takes, and I groan.

  For a moment, I regret my decision not to go downstairs and meet her. If she looks this stunning on CCTV, how much better must she be in person? But then I shake my head. Even if she’s all I’ve ever hoped for and dreamed of, it doesn’t change reality. I don’t deserve for my hopes and dreams to come true. But I still can’t shake the urge to get closer. So silently, like the fucking creep I am, I step out into the hallway. At the top of the steps, I pause to watch as I hide in the shadows. Watching as Adele leads Olivia Evans around the layout of my house.

  3

  OLIVIA

  My breath momentarily escapes me as I stare at the opulence of the inside of Hart Manor, a two-story mansion set against a pair of sun-kissed mountains. Declan’s home sits nestled between the bustling, vibrant city of Las Vegas and the breathtaking beauty of Red Rock Canyon. When I arrived, I was almost certain the entire thing was a mirage, a palace made of glass and stone in the middle of the desert. It seems almost fairy tale like. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be standing here.

  “Welcome to Hart Manor,” Luke says with a polite smile. “I’ll get Adele.”