Dirty Filthy Rich Men

by Laurelin Paige

  The dress I chose had a split black skirt and a pale long-sleeved top in a style that made the dress look like it belonged in the office—if it weren’t for the plunging neckline and the way too short hemline. It would drive Donovan crazy.

  It wasn’t an outfit I’d wear alone with him, but we wouldn’t be alone. We’d be at an office party. With a ton of other people, including Weston. This was a night to have fun.

  To be sure I was all the way on board with the fun plan, I tossed back a shot of scotch before leaving my apartment. Then I threw on a jacket and headed out to catch a cab.

  The party had already started when I arrived at Red Farm, which was fine. I was the type who preferred being late to being early. I stepped out of the taxi and approached the front door of the restaurant.

  Before I could put my hand on the knob, however, Donovan appeared from the shadows. Grabbing my wrist, he pulled me several feet to the side of the entrance.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed, his eyes wide.

  “What?” I had barely caught my breath. I could feel the thrum of my pulse at my wrist underneath his hand, and I didn’t know if my heart was beating so fast because he’d startled me or because he was touching me. “I just got here.”

  “With Weston.” He tightened his grip, on the edge of discomfort. “What are you doing?” This time the question was slow, each word emphasized so as to be sure I would understand.

  And I did understand. Very clearly.

  “I cannot even believe you.” I was seething, my vision clouding in red. This was too much. I yanked my wrist away from him and turned toward the door.

  “You cannot be with him right now,” Donovan warned behind me.

  Pissed off, I turned back and pushed him, hard, both palms flat against his chest. Immediately, my body tingled as it remembered pushing him like that once before, years ago.

  “This is familiar,” Donovan said, his voice a low rumble.

  “Leave me alone.” Once again, I made for the door.

  “He’s engaged.”

  I spun around. “It’s a fake engagement that you pushed him into.”

  “He’s a grown-up,” Donovan spat back. “He can make his own decisions.”

  “That’s right.” I nodded. “He can. And so can I.”

  This time when I headed toward the entrance, I made it all the way inside without turning around.

  But once I was out of sight from the door, I stopped to catch my breath. I was shaking from adrenaline, and I had to hold on to the wall to steady myself.

  How dare he?

  How fucking dare he?

  That was all the time I allowed myself to recover. He could walk in at any minute, and I didn’t want him to think he’d affected me because how the fuck dare he?

  Our group was comprised of nearly thirty of the staff members and their guests who were working on the Phoenix campaign and took up a full table across the restaurant as well as some side booths. Weston saw me before I saw him and called me over. He was seated at the main table next to Nate at the head. The chair next to him was empty.

  There was still no sign of Donovan.

  “Told you I’d save you a seat,” Weston said, hugging me a little tighter than was maybe appropriate for a man who was engaged.

  He lingered in the embrace too, which was actually nice after the altercation I’d had outside. Unlike Donovan who was still in his suit, Weston had changed from work clothes to jeans and a T-shirt with a gray button-down sweater.

  I patted the fold of his shawl collar. “You look nice.”

  His gaze flickered to the very low cut of my dress. “Not as nice as you. I’m glad you made it.” He let his hand trail lightly down my backside then helped me with my jacket.

  We were doing this then—flirting. Playing around. It was likely going nowhere considering Weston’s current situation, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have a little fun if we kept it low-key. He probably needed it after weeks of being cooped up, so to say. I needed it to prove once and for all that he was exactly the kind of man I wanted to be with.

  Once we were both seated, Weston draped his arm over the back of my chair. “We’ve already ordered a ton of appetizers. We were thinking about getting a bunch of dumplings too and just sharing them all family style. Or you can get an entrée if you’d rather.”

  “No. Dumplings are good.” I honestly didn’t have much of an appetite. I was restless and distracted. My blood was still soaring with adrenaline and my skin felt itchy. “And a drink. A martini please.”

  Donovan finally came in from outside, which was a strange relief. When I’d thought he’d left, I’d wondered why I was even still out myself.

  Then he saw me, saw who I was sitting next to, and his expression grew hard and defiant, and my irritation returned.

  I put a hand on Weston’s arm and feigned excitement. “Look who’s here!”

  “Donovan!” Weston and Nate said in unison along with a few other employees.

  Donovan smiled tightly as he greeted and congratulated people, but one eye was always on me. I felt it even when I didn’t see it.

  I’d thought I’d lucked out when there weren’t any seats by us, but Tom and his wife had been sitting across from us, and now they had tickets to a show so they got up to leave just as Donovan was looking for a place to scoot in.

  Weston checked something on his phone, and I leaned in closer to him, just to show that I could, and Weston, who still had one hand on my chair, moved it closer so his fingers brushed against my shoulder.

  It was obviously intentional, and Donovan noticed so I shivered. On purpose.

  It might have been my imagination, but I swore I heard him growl.

  Weston had quite a different reaction. He moved his arm from behind me to in front of me—beneath the table. On my knee.

  Only the truly perceptible would have noticed.

  “Scotch. Straight,” Donovan said, his eyes still pinned on me, when the waiter took his order. He’d noticed where Weston’s hand had gone.

  Not that I was paying attention to anything Donovan said or did.

  We continued like that for a while—Donovan noticing me, me “not” noticing him, Weston playing with his phone and playing with my thigh. Without words, I could tell Donovan was more than displeased. Even across the table, the tension wrapped around us, as though we were a set, bound together by Cellophane. It smothered, making it hard to breathe. Making it hard to see anything outside of him.

  Then things really got interesting.

  Shortly after the first round of community dumplings arrived, so did Weston’s fiancée.

  “Elizabeth.” Weston’s hand left my leg for the first time since Donovan had arrived. He stood to greet her, surprise written all over his face. “What are you doing here?”

  He bent in to kiss her, but just before his mouth met hers, she moved and his lips landed on her cheek, which left him disgruntled at best.

  “My fiancé had a celebration,” she said gruffly. “Thought I should be here.”

  “I’ll move so you two can sit together,” Nate said, offering to slide into the spot across from Weston.

  Elizabeth waved him off. “Don’t be silly. I don’t need to sit by him. I’d much rather sit by Donovan.”

  Anyone who heard her would think she was teasing her groom-to-be, but to those in the know, it was obvious the level of tension between the couple had risen significantly.

  I almost exchanged a glance with Donovan about it but remembered he was an asshole so I exchanged one with Nate instead while Elizabeth climbed over to the open spot.

  “Now. Next time the waitress comes by, I’m going to need a drink.” She put her arm on Donovan’s back and ruffled the hair at the base of his neck. “So. I’m here!”

  Donovan responded by bending forward to take a bite of a dumpling, acting as though the hand on his neck didn’t have any effect on him at all.

  I scowled. Elizabeth’s fondling of Donovan was irritating, even
if she and Weston weren’t really a couple. No wonder he was having problems with her.

  Weston seemed to find it annoying as well, if his actions were any indication. His hand found its way back to my knee, but only once he was sure that his fiancée was watching.

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to scowl.

  “You said you weren’t coming,” he said, low enough so that only those in our corner could hear.

  “I hadn’t planned to. But.” She turned and looked at the man next to her. “Donovan called and told me I needed to be here.”

  I clamped down so hard on the shrimp in my mouth that I bit my tongue. All the sound in the room seemed to whoosh by my ears, and my vision turned red.

  Donovan called.

  That’s what he’d been doing after I’d left him outside. When he’d realized I was going to come in and be with Weston, Donovan had called Weston’s fiancée.

  “Wasn’t that thoughtful of him,” Weston said through gritted teeth, though I was sure he believed Donovan’s intervention was about looking good for business or about not losing a bet on whether or not Weston could keep his pants zipped.

  He had no idea that the real reason his friend had interfered had to do with me.

  God, I was so mad I wanted to throw something.

  Or fuck something.

  It was strange to be so angry and so aroused, but that was how I was around Donovan—always excited and ready to go off in any way possible.

  Under the table, I wrapped my leg around Weston’s.

  He took my cue. Or else he had his own battle to win. “Sabrina,” he said, scooting his chair closer. “Have you tasted the seared pork and shrimp dumplings yet?”

  “No. Where are they?” I had barely tasted anything, but that was beside the point.

  “Have some of mine.” He lifted his chopsticks to my lips, feeding me a bite of the morsel. I made sure to groan.

  “Donovan, the pan-fried lamb—” Elizabeth started to say.

  “You can have it,” Donovan said, picking up the dumpling on his plate with his chopsticks and dropping it on her plate before she could ask him for a bite.

  She frowned but quickly recovered. “Guess that’s better than swapping germs.” More importantly, she finally stopped playing with Donovan’s goddamned hair.

  “Elizabeth’s a germophobe,” Weston said snidely.

  “I am not.” She moved a dumpling around on her plate, apparently struggling with her chopsticks. “Just because I’m concerned about the diseases that come into my house doesn’t qualify me as a germophobe.”

  “She’s asked for a report of clean health.” There was no doubt as to what kind of clean health report Weston was referring to.

  Elizabeth shrugged, chopsticks poised in the air with the small bit of food she’d managed to wrestle between them. “I think that’s reasonable.” She lifted the bite to her mouth, dropping the dumpling just as it reached her lips. “Goddammit.”

  “Guys,” Nate hushed them, trying not to laugh as he did. “Lovers’ spats are fun and all…” He trailed off, probably figuring that Weston and Elizabeth would get the hint and remember that there were other people around.

  Apparently, Weston didn’t. “Why do you even care when there’s no way I’m sharing anything I’ve got with you anyway?”

  Nate winced.

  Under the table, Weston’s hand moved farther up my thigh, as if to spite Elizabeth.

  Donovan remained stoic, his gaze on me, reading me. Watching me.

  Elizabeth was the only one who seemed unfazed. Reaching over to steal the unused fork from Weston’s setting, she said, “Big words, King. Just remember the thing you want out of this relationship isn’t as replaceable as the thing I want.”

  That seemed to silence Weston. In fact, it silenced our end of the table for a few thick minutes, but then Nate told a story and soon everyone was laughing and smiling like a bunch of people out for a celebration.

  Weston’s hand stayed on my leg though, brushing up and down my skin every now and again. Then, when everyone around us was preoccupied with other conversations, he leaned close and whispered, “In a few, I’m heading to the back of the restaurant. Toward the kitchen. Wait five. Then follow.”

  He shifted to joke with Nate, not waiting for me to answer. If I showed up, that would be my answer.

  But what was my answer?

  I turned to my drink and noticed Donovan watching. Again. He’d probably seen the whole exchange. He couldn’t know what Weston was saying, but he had to guess the nature. There wasn’t much he missed.

  As if confirming my suspicions, Donovan narrowed his eyes, giving me what could only be called a warning glare.

  Fuck him.

  He’d wanted me with Weston. So he could fuck right off.

  I threw back my shoulders and threw back my drink and five minutes after Weston disappeared from the table, I followed.

  The restaurant wasn’t large, and the kitchen was easy to find. I headed in that direction, even though Weston was nowhere in sight. I’d almost made it when, for the second time in one night, I was pulled unexpectedly off my path, this time into a cubby filled with shelves full of linens and table settings, closed off from the public by a thin curtain. Firm lips met mine, asking permission, as my body was pushed against the narrow wall.

  I opened my mouth, letting Weston’s tongue meet mine. It was easy to kiss him. It was familiar and safe. He tasted like gin and curry sauce and misbehavior. Not the fun kind of misbehavior, but the kind of misbehavior that left regrets in the morning, if not even the night before.

  He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against mine. “I’m going to be completely honest, Sabrina—this is a booty call and nothing else. You have every right to slap me and walk back out there. But I hope you don’t. I’m sensing you need a release right now too.”

  It was what I’d come back for, but now that I was here, it felt wrong. Weston’s body felt staged against mine, as if we were two mannequins propped up in a window display. He wasn’t even pressed up all the way against me. His hand was caressing my arm, but it was awkward and mechanical. And while I’d been wound up for weeks, aroused and restless, I didn’t feel turned on now. I just felt tired.

  And Weston seemed tense.

  Outside our hiding space, a rustling caught our attention. He leaned away so he could open the curtain and peek out.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Weston shook his head, but I’d caught sight of someone in a suit. It could have been Donovan, I decided. Because I wanted it to be Donovan.

  And because I felt more thrilled wanting it to be Donovan than I did hiding in a makeshift closet with Weston, I knew it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

  Now I just had to tell Weston.

  I lowered my head and stared at the buttons on his sweater. He was solid and sexy and sweet, and still he wasn’t the guy I wanted, no matter how much I tried to want him. No matter how much I tried not to want someone else.

  “I can’t do this,” he said.

  My head snapped up. “I was just going to say the same thing.”

  He let go of me and ran his hand through his hair instead. “I’m sorry.” My words registered a moment later. “You were?”

  “Yeah. It’s not…” I’m not, was the better phrase. I’m not right for you. You’re not right for me. But maybe that wasn’t the kind of thing meant to be discussed in restaurant closets. “The timing,” I said.

  “The timing,” he agreed.

  “I’ll go out first.”

  When I got back to the table, Donovan was gone. I didn’t bother pretending to myself that I didn’t notice. I was past that. After grabbing my jacket, I thanked Nate for the party, said goodbye and went home. There couldn’t be any more loneliness waiting for me there than there was here.

  Eighteen

  I was exhausted by the time I reached my building, so I waved to the doorman instead of stopping to give my usual hello. Inside the elevator, I kicked o
ff my heels and leaned against the back of the car and remembered the night I’d gone to Gaston’s with Donovan. Remembered being in an elevator with him. If I hadn’t pushed him away, would he have taken me home that night?

  If he had, he’d have fucked me and been done with me. I’d still be alone tonight.

  But maybe I’d be over him by now too instead of just finally realizing that I wanted him.

  And, oh, did I want him. Like I hadn’t wanted anything in a long time. Like I hadn’t wanted anyone since I’d wanted him back then. Like I’d always wanted him but was too proud to admit.

  Some fatalistic part of me was sure that it was a realization that made no difference. Whatever I wanted didn’t matter because I would do what was best, like I always did, and Donovan was not it.

  The elevator opened on my floor before I’d reached any conclusions, not that there was anything to conclude, and I trudged barefoot out into the carpeted corridor and froze. Down the hall, standing by the door to my apartment, was Donovan.

  For the smallest fraction of a second, less time than it took to inhale a full breath of air, I got excited. I didn’t care if he was there to tell me why Weston was the perfect guy for me or lecture me about not seeing him until he wasn’t engaged. I didn’t care if he was there to ask for my thoughts on Phoenix or the campaign. I didn’t care if he wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. He was standing at my door, and that was everything.

  But then I remembered that I was mad at him, and the thrill faded. Donovan Kincaid had been an epic asshole. Not only that, but he’d been an epic asshole to me.

  With a solemn expression and my eyes forward, I strutted toward my apartment. Even as I refused to look at him, though, I saw him. On the surface, he looked composed and put together like he always did, but there was something about his posture, something about the way his foot tapped and the way his jaw stuck out like it was flexed that suggested he was keyed up.

  Well, that made two of us.