by Amelia Wilde
I don’t have to look for him to know that he’s furious.
I also know that he won’t slink out of here and out the back door. It’s one thing for his sons to think he’s a coward. But the country? Never.
And I know why.
He owns the papers.
He owns the papers and the website and everything else as part of his media empire. The fact that he doesn’t own CNN is astonishing, but not as astonishing as the realization that he used his own papers to manufacture a crisis.
That’s what happened, all those days ago when I met Bellamy. I’m sure of it.
I have thrown the ball into his hands.
I grin at Rachel Knight. “Thanks for having us, Rachel. We’ll check in after our trip to the Bahamas.”
While Rachel smoothly transitions into the outdo for a commercial break, I pull Bellamy off the stage, unclip her mic, and kiss her.
“What the hell was that?” My father is purple with rage. “You’re going to drag me out there?”
I flick my tongue against Bellamy’s lip before I pull away to address him. “No. I don’t care what you do.” I keep her hand firmly in mine when I turn to face him. “Interview. Don’t interview. But stay away from Andrew. And stay away from me. Keep your own dirty secrets.”
“Son—”
“Stop fucking calling me that, you pathetic piece of shit.”
The redheaded assistant inserts himself between us. “Mr. Blackpool. Mr. Blackpool, can you sit here? We have someone standing by to help with—”
My father allows himself to be guided to the interview chair.
No surprises there.
In the hallway I press Bellamy against the wall and take her face in my hands. “Don’t ever walk out on me again.”
Her jaw quivers. “You dared me to.”
“That’ll never happen again.”
She drags a finger down the line of my collar, her nail pressing against my skin. “Why? Did you have some big revelation?”
“Yes.” I press my lips to the side of her neck and breathe her in. “I always wanted the chance to be someone’s best. I don’t need that anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m yours. And you, sweetness, are mine.”
“Graham...you don’t have to do this.”
“Hush.” I go down on one knee. “Shut those pretty lips and listen to me.”
“What are you doing? Get up—there are people—”
I take a jewelry box from my pocket. “Bellamy Blackpool, I have loved you since the moment you chased me out onto a sidewalk a million years ago. Will you be my wife?”
She puts her hands on my shoulders and laughs. “Again?”
“Again and always.” I open the box. There’s a delicate necklace inside to match her wedding band.
Bellamy goes still, but she’s looking into my eyes, not at the box. “As long as we can be free.”
I stand up and take her into my arms. “I’m only free when I’m with you, sweetness.”
She throws her arms around my neck. “Then let’s fly away. I’m not going anywhere.”
Epilogue
Bellamy
“Politics are bullshit.” Graham reclines on a poolside chair, the sun gentle on his hair. “It’s just one facade after another.” He takes in a deep breath. “At least my rat of a father has fled from the public eye.”
“Don’t talk about politics, love. We’re on vacation.” The warmth kisses my skin. I feel lazy and happy and safe. A revelation.
“Who’s on vacation?” Jett Brandon comes out of the villa, trailed closely behind by a waiter with a tray full of drinks. “Not you, I hope.”
“Damn right we’re on vacation,” Graham shoots back. “I’m never going back to work. Andrew’s not done putting all my people back in their places. So pathetic, stealing them for his arsenal.”
Jett laughs. “Are you still hung up on that incubator of yours? Jax, get out here. Blackpool’s not over his little business.”
“Which little business? All of his companies are tiny.” Jax steps out of the villa and proceeds directly to the pool, where he dives in, all grace and man.
“You’re an asshole,” Graham calls to him the moment he surfaces.
“I’m only being accurate,” he says, winking at me.
Yes.
This is vacation.
Graham’s friends—my friends—and an enormous villa to spend the week in. Or the month.
After three weeks alone, crisscrossing the world in Graham’s private jet, he was desperate for a party. Jett was already en route to the Virgin Islands. One thing led to another, and here we are.
I never want to go back.
But sooner or later...
“Did I tell you? I heard from my mom today.”
“What’d she say?”
“They’re lifting the sentence. Good behavior.”
Graham grins coyly.
“Oh, my god. What did you do?”
“I would never influence the judicial process. Not with my wife being such an upstanding and hot lawyer.”
“I don’t have an offer yet.” I take one of the drinks from the waiter’s silver try with murmured thanks. “So I don’t know if that counts.”
“No. You have a firm.”
I sip my drink until his words hit me like a tidal wave and I choke, coughing and sputtering. “What?”
Graham raises his sunglasses as Jett laughs. “He didn’t tell you about the firm?”
“What firm?”
My husband—my real, honest-to-god husband, beams at me. “I was saving that information for the right moment.”
“When was the right moment going to be? How do you even buy a firm? Jesus, Graham, what did you do?”
He sits up, mirroring me, and takes my free hand in his. “I didn’t buy a firm, I bought a building. And I paid someone to start collecting resumes. You’ll be in charge of staffing, though. Unless it’s too much work. All you need to do is say the word.”
My heart flutters in my chest. I thought all my dreams had come true. A life with Graham is already more than enough. But this? This?
“I don’t deserve this.”
“Are you joking? You scoured the city for jobs. I know you still get rejection emails.”
“Don’t talk about those.”
“Fine. But you know what? You’re never going to get fired if you’re the boss.”
A wave of uncertainty sweeps over me. “Graham, I can’t—I can’t do that. Run my own firm? I’m not—”
“You can do anything.” His green eyes reflect the crystal blue of the pool. “You can chase a rich and powerful and sexy man out onto the sidewalk to give him a hundred dollars he doesn’t need. You can pretend to be his fiancée to save his brother’s sorry presidential ass. And you can run your own law firm. That’s probably the easiest thing you’ll ever do.”
My throat goes tight. “You’re sweet.”
His grin turns wicked. “I’m not that sweet.”
“Why not?”
He leans in close. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted to stay at this party for a while longer.”
I laugh out loud, joy filling every available space in me. “We’ve been here three days. You’re acting like I’d have made you leave after an hour.”
“You would if I told you the rest.”
I slap him playfully on the shoulder. “Tell me the rest. Right now.”
“As you wish.” He puts a hand to his chin. “The firm won a Blackpool grant. Its purpose is to help represent women who are treated unfairly by the court system and need better lawyers.”
“A Blackpool grant? You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. You’ll need to pay your people what they’re worth until your clients can afford to pay you. And some of them might not be able to.”
“But I don’t want your money.” The same feeling rises in my chest as when I chased him out of Capitol Bean. “It’s not right.”
“It’s so
right. Think about it. You’re changing fate.”
“I’m changing your fate.” I stand up from the chair and Graham’s face falls. “Shit. Do you really want to leave?”
Jett shakes his head. “Shouldn’t have told her.”
“You told her, you unholy—”
“Hey. Mr. Blackpool.” I snap my fingers at Graham. “I need your help. Inside. In the bedroom.”
He’s by my side in an instant, bending to kiss me. It’s pure heat, pure light, pure love. Graham bends to speak directly into my ear. “Don’t snap at me like that. Or you’ll get what’s coming to you.”
“Do your worst.”
“You’re going to regret that.”
“Only one way to find out...”
“Hey lovebirds,” Jett calls. “Don’t take too long. Everybody else is going to be back from parasailing in thirty minutes, and I’ve got plans.” He looks out over the ocean. “Holy shit. Is that who I think it is? Graham, look.”
“I don’t care,” Graham calls over his shoulder. His eyes never leave mine. His voice lowers, sensuous and smooth. “I’ve got plans for you.” The shiver rocks my whole body.
Before I can say another word, he scoops me up in his arms and takes me to bed.
Right where I belong.
Need another story to sweep you off your feet? Look no further than the romance of Dayton Nash, a wounded warrior who’ll steal your heart, and Summer Sullivan, the one woman he was never supposed to love. Get it on Amazon here.
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Note to the Reader
Hey, friend! If you’re new here, welcome to the world of The Dirty Series. All of this began in 2016, when I first dreamed up a billionaires’ club in New York City. The Purple Swan has always been a place for the hottest bachelors in the city to drink, dance, and find love, and it was no exception for Graham.
The other characters mentioned in this book all have their stories to tell, too. And while their covers get a sexy new makeover, I’m including them here, in this volume, just for you.
Keep reading to discover the original Dirty Series heroes, beginning with Jax, who’s about to meet his match in the place he least expects it in Dirty Rich.
Thank you so much for coming along for the ride!
Amelia
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Dirty Rich
1
Cate
Carl swings at me, a vicious right hook, and my body moves before my brain has time to think hook, twisting, ducking, legs bending in a half-squat so I can pop up on the other side of the motion. Head cocked, I keep my eyes nailed to his hands even as I rise up on the balls of my feet, ready to make the next move.
He’s no amateur.
Neither am I.
Sweat drips from my hairline, and a lock of dark hair has fallen across my vision. I dismiss it.
Light on his feet, Carl steps out of my range but I’m right there with him, pressing in close. Closer. I go for his gut but barely connect, the force of the blow mostly meeting the air where his muscles used to be.
Guard up, I spring back a few feet, opening the distance between us. My heart hammers in my chest but I keep my breathing measured. Don’t give anything away. Don’t give anything away.
“Had enough yet?” Carl calls, his voice echoing against the bare walls. There’s nothing plush to cushion his voice.
I let out a barking laugh. “Fuck off.”
He grins. His cut muscles flex under a sheen of moisture and his tank top is dark in patches. “I’ll give you one last chance.”
“You’re too kind.” Even as I say it I’m rushing back in, adrenaline spiking through my system all the way to the tips of my fingers.
With a tiny shift of my weight I lead Carl on for a fraction of a second, a head fake that gives me enough time for an uppercut followed closely by a left hook that barrels toward the side of his face. He takes the full brunt of the uppercut but at the last moment gets a hand around to block the hook, the crack of his dismissal ringing back at me.
I’m not done. I assess the risk and drop my guard to go at him with my other hand, everything I have, last-ditch effort. Laser focus on every move he makes, every shift, every shuffle, lungs screaming. He’s batting away some of it but he can’t catch all of it. I’m on another level, relentless, unstoppable. His exhales get harder, harder, and I press what little advantage I have, the fierceness in the pit of my stomach, the drive that keeps me up at night channeled into every swing of my fists, every tiny step that advances me closer to Carl, closer in, closer still. I’m going to back him into a corner, no matter that he has six inches and fifty pounds on me, I’m going to—
The alarm on my phone rings loud, blaring, the sound ricocheting off the walls and bouncing back into my ears, jolting me out of the moment. I take two steps back, dropping my guard, all the tension and fire going out of me.
As I head for my phone, perched on the top of my gym bag, Carl lets out a little sigh, almost too soft for me to hear it.
In the ten steps to my bag I slip off my sparring gloves and headgear, dropping them to the floor as I scoop up the phone, swiping once across the screen to silence the alarm. Quick scan for emails or texts from Sandra. It would be rare for five in the morning on a Monday but not out of the question.
There are none.
My heart rate slows.
Carl drops his own equipment into a chair next to my bag and reaches for the bottle of water he put there earlier, drinking from it deeply. After he swallows, he gives me a brotherly pat on the shoulder.
“You’re something else, Cate. That was pretty kickass.”
“You think?” I pull the elastic from my hair and smooth my hair away from my face, tying it up again in a neat bun on the top of my head. I’ve been training with Carl for almost a year, paying him well for opening his studio before dawn so I can fit in private sessions.
“Yeah. I wasn’t going easy on you.”
“Good.”
“I mean it.”
“Me too. I’m not interested in being coddled.”
He laughs, his voice warm in the white room with a floor covered entirely in black mats. “I got you, Cate. I do.”
While I pack my gear into my bag, he disappears behind the counter at the front of the studio and comes out with his own bag. I straighten up, giving him a look. He usually doesn’t leave with gear. As far as I know, he comes straight from home to work out with me and goes home after.
“Where are you headed, Carl?”
He gives me a sly smile. “What’s it to you?”
I shrug, a tiny blush spreading across my cheeks. “You never bring a bag.”
“Correction: I never brought a bag.” He flips the light switch, plunging the studio into darkness, and we walk to the door of the studio together. Carl holds it open so I can step out first into the hallway. It’s a second-floor walkup. One half of the building is Carl’s boxing studio, and the other half is a yoga studio. The word “studio” is about all they have in common. About a year and a half ago, I spent three months taking classes there before all the chanting and peaceful energy started to grate on my nerves. Something drew me to the other side, literally and figuratively, so one day after an endless forty-five minute vinyasa class I slung my mat in its matching bag over my shoulder and went across the hall, slipping in as silently as I could.
Carl had been with another client then. It took two minutes of watching them go at it before I wanted in.
“Turns out,” Carl says, turning the key in the lock, then dropping his key ring into his bag, “you’re not the only one who likes to be up early.”
“But you hate getting up early.” Carl told me that during
one of my first few sessions with him. He normally doesn’t open the studio until 2:00. Getting him here at 4:30 isn’t cheap.
“You know what I love?” he elbows me lightly in the ribs, and I shove his hand away with a laugh. “Money.”
“So you’re cheating on me, is that it?”
He throws up his hands. “Hey, hey, I showed up. I didn’t even make some bullshit excuse about working late.” Our feet are thunderous in the empty stairwell. “No, I told Money Bags the earliest I could be there was 6:30, so he settled.” Carl flashes me a winning smile. “I’d never do anything to lose what we have going on.”
“You’re the worst, Carl,” I say, shaking my head but smiling too. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”
He purses his lips, pretends to lock them and throw away the key, a dainty gesture for a muscled boxer with more tattoos than a t-shirt could hope to hide. “Not supposed to tell. Let’s say…he’s rich as sin and can pay my outrageous early morning rates.”
We stop outside the black town car idling by the curb. After my first year working for Sandra, she called me into her main office and gave me a laundry list of criticisms, followed by a clipped, “You’ll have a car now. Twenty-four hours. Be available.”
“Need a lift?”
Carl shakes his head, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I’m good. You woke me up in there, Cate!” He cups his hands around his mouth and lets out a whoop.
I laugh, but standing near the car has hit the kill switch on my workout buzz. I trace the outline of my phone in the outer pocket of my gear bag. The list tumbles into my mind, beginning with the four meetings before lunch that need to be confirmed.
I can hardly let the thought all the way to the surface of my mind, but now that I’m changing to work mode, the fatigue is starting to set in. It’s hard to keep up this breakneck pace.
What other choice do I have?
I can’t fail.