Dirty Rich Secrets Part One

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Table of Contents

  DEAR READERS

  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

  THE NAKED TRILOGY

  THE SAVAGE TRILOGY

  ALSO BY LISA RENEE JONES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the supplier and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at lisareneejones.com/contact

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.lisareneejones.com.

  DIRTY RICH SECRETS

  PART ONE

  LISA RENEE JONES

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  DEAR READERS

  Ashley’s story was originally supposed to be a standalone title. However, the delivery of that one full-length book (which will probably be longer than my normal full-length books when it’s all said and done) will be in three novellas. This is part one. Parts two and three will be released in August and September. I didn’t want you to have to wait long for them. The reason this turned into a trilogy of novellas is simply because I needed more time to develop Ashley and Aaron’s story. Theirs is a delicate one, and I found myself rushing certain parts that needed more attention and care after everything these two have been through. So I slowed down and gave them the time they needed as well as myself, to honor their story. I hope you understand and will love their story. Every ounce of myself as a writer went into this book, and I am both scared and beyond excited to share it with you.

  And with that, I leave you with part one…

  All my love,

  Lisa

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ashley (Sandy for now)…

  Witness protection sucks.

  After three months, I haven’t settled into acceptance of this new life at all, and most definitely haven’t stopped looking over my shoulder. A strong pull has me fighting that urge now, but I resist. Instead, I nervously huddle into my coat, pushing through the short walk home from work, the chill of one of the few cold days in Austin, Texas catching between the downtown buildings, the sun dipping behind the steel high rises. All the while, I’m wishing that I could turn back time. Wishing I never met Noah. Wishing I’d never fallen in love with a man who destroyed my life. Wishing I was back in New York City, still a paralegal, still an aspiring attorney, still named Ashley, still the right hand to one of the partners for the powerhouse law firm that had transferred me there from Houston.

  But no, now, I’m a travel agent named Sandy, fighting that urge to look over my shoulder.

  Because they even took my name, the only thing I had left that my parents gave me, except for my memories. Of course, being alone made me a target, no one to miss me and all that stuff. It also made me stupid silly for a hot man who went so far as to propose to me, when he ultimately would have killed me. I should have killed him. And I would have done it with the gun he taught me to use, all poetic justice perfection. A fantasy that’s interrupted by the increased intensity of that tingling sensation.

  I scan the area, and my unease makes the few blocks to my apartment feel too far. I cut right toward a busy Mexican restaurant that won’t be kind to my waistline, but I need to just sit, calm down, and take some time to breathe. I’ll blow my diet without hesitation if it allows me to do those things in a busy restaurant where no one can grab me.

  I enter the spacious location with wooden chairs and tables and soft Mexican music that adds to the environment. Mexico and Mexican food are a part of this city’s culture, which I might enjoy if I didn’t just want to be back in New York, where I had a job and friends. The hostess greets me and offers me a table by a wall of windows, but I decline when I would normally accept. I don’t need another way someone can watch me. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel safe by a window again.

  I end up at a table in the corner that allows me to see the entire restaurant which is now packed with about thirty people, fifteen of whom are all at one big party table that sits between me and the door. A waiter, who is in his mid-thirties with dark curly hair, greets me, and I’m relieved when he barely looks at me. I spent a big portion of my life wanting to be the gorgeous redhead my mother was and feeling as if I wasn’t. Now, I’ve ensured I never will be as I’ve gone brunette, even though I was told I didn’t have to, but it feels like an extra shield. Just like the karate and weapon handling classes I’m taking do as well. Classes he of all people convinced me to take back in New York, and ones I’ve continued here in Texas. That fact still makes no sense to me. None of it makes any sense.

  The waiter reappears, and I order food that I don’t really want and then sink back into my seat, scanning the restaurant again and frowning at the man sitting in the opposite corner of the restaurant behind the bar. I can only see his hands, and this bothers me. They’re strong hands, and as silly as it might seem, they feel familiar.

  My mind conjures an image of him, of Noah—tall, dark and good looking with wavy black hair and chiseled features. He was gorgeous, of course, but he was so much more than looks. He was charming and intelligent, and we had so much in common. I want to laugh at this, at myself. He was a CIA agent with a law degree who turned traitor, not an attorney turned financial consultant as he had presented himself. We had nothing in common.

  And damn it, I tell myself not to do this, but as I have so many times, looking for reason in it all, I’m back in the past, reliving the first time I met him.

  I hurry through the lobby of my office building, eager to get to the courthouse for a filing for my boss. Cole Brooks is taking on a case for a woman accused of killing her sister, and he believes she’s innocent. If anyone can get her off, he can. He’s that good, but if I don’t make this filing and the case stays in this district, it could get messy, and no one will care that there’s a rare Houston snowstorm starting to flare outside.

  I exit the building, into the rush of the storm, and turn right. I’ve taken about half a dozen steps when I hit a patch of ice and go down hard. Thankfully, my coat is a buffer, but I’m not wearing gloves, and my palms all but stick to the ice. I’d curse whoever should have cleared this walkway, but the storm came hard and fast, and it’s nothing this city knows well. Besides, I’m too embarrassed to get mad and with good reason: there are dozens of people roaming here and there, all staring at me like I’m a fool.

  “Need help?”

  I look up to find a gorgeous man in an expensive coat and scarf over what I suspect is an equally expensive suit, with rich brown eyes and dark hair. My boss is hot and so are half the men I work with daily, but I’m not all that affected by it anymore. Per
sonality and arrogance can ruin a good man, but this time, with this man, I feel butterflies, and my embarrassment is tenfold. “No thanks. I’m good.” I try to get up and make it almost upright when I fall all over again.

  Mr. Good Looking kneels beside me. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Just mortified.”

  His lips, which are very nice lips, curve. “Don’t be. We’ve all hit a few icy patches along the way.” He offers me his hand. “Now do you want help?”

  I stare at his hand, and I have this sensation of change, like the minute I touch him, I’ll be changed forever. But I do it. I accept his gloveless hand and warmth rushes up my cold arm, over my chest, sliding low in my belly. His eyes narrow, a hint of something in their depths, like maybe he felt what I felt, though that’s unlikely. I’m just having some kind of Cinderella fantasy right now, and he’s starring as the hero.

  He stands and takes me with him, and I end up planted against him. He doesn’t let me go. He stares down at me, his gaze lowering to my cold lips and then lifting. “I’m Noah.”

  “Ashley,” I say.

  “Have coffee with me, Ashley.”

  “I can’t. I have to get to the courthouse.”

  “Then have drinks with me later. Do you know the Twelve Caverns?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “It’s by the courthouse. I’ll be there at seven for a meeting. Meet me at eight.”

  I feel this overwhelming need to run to this man as surely as I want to run away. I don’t understand it. It makes no sense. “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “I hope you’ll think in my favor,” he says. “I did save you from a wicked patch of ice determined to keep you as its own.”

  I laugh. “Yes. You did.”

  He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses them. “I hope to see you soon.” He releases me and leaves while the warmth he’s created in me lingers.

  I blink back to the present and to the man whose hands inspired the memory, but he’s gone like Noah is gone. I’m alone now. My food arrives on that thought, and I take my time eating, that first time meeting and touching Noah in my mind, the passionate love affair to follow, something I’d never known before, and I doubt I will know again.

  Once I’m done eating, I pay my bill, and when I look toward the table with the man who feels familiar, he’s still gone. I have this odd mix of disappointment and unease that stays with me when I exit the restaurant, and, once again, I feel that tingling sensation. I start walking, and this time, that sensation is so strong that I all but run. I can’t get home fast enough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ashley (still Sandy for now)…

  I’m a block from my building when a homeless man jumps from a dark alley, and I yelp.

  “You got money, lady? I need money!”

  “No money,” I say, having already been warned by neighbors that once I’m targeted for money, I’m in trouble. I hurry past him, and he actually follows me.

  “Just some change,” he calls out. “Some loose change.”

  I don’t look at him, but his voice is low, almost familiar, and I decide I’m really losing my mind. I approach the corner, and the light turns, telling me to stop, but I don’t care, and I don’t stop. I lived in New York City; you take an opening when you get one. The only car coming is far enough away that I dart across the walkway, and I’m at the other side by the time the car is passing. I turn and look for the homeless man, but he’s nowhere to be seen. It’s like he didn’t even exist. I’m officially in a really weird place tonight. This on the run, hiding stuff is getting to me. I need to get to my apartment.

  I scan for the homeless man again, and when he’s still nowhere to be found, I turn and start walking. I have my apartment in sight, and I have no idea why I choose now to do so when I need to be aware of my surroundings, but I sink back into the past. I’m reliving the night I met Noah. I’m back in the bar where I met him. Or rather, outside the door:

  I stand in front of the bar, and nerves assail me. What am I doing? I don’t know this man. I feel awkward. I feel like I shouldn’t be here. I don’t date. Maybe this is why. I don’t take chances. I don’t feel comfortable with strangers, and I can’t date the many men in my professional world. I can’t risk them affecting my career or my boss’ reputation. A good looking, charming man has invited me to drinks. I need to just do this.

  I suck in a breath and open the door, entering the dimly-lit bar with clusters of brown leather chairs surrounding marble tables and an L- shaped bar to the right. There is no hostess, and I scan for Noah, but I don’t see him. Feeling extra nervous, when I’m really not usually nervous at all, I start walking to the right, where there seems to be another seating area, and as I turn in that direction, I look left to the other side of the bar and freeze. Noah is standing there, chatting it up with a gorgeous redhead. Heat rushes over me, and in that moment, his gaze lifts and lands on me.

  I don’t wait to see his reaction to me showing up. I rush toward a bathroom sign, hoping for a rear exit. The hallway is long, and the path doesn’t include a way out. I enter the ladies’ bathroom and thank God, it’s a single stall. I lock up and press my hands to the sink, staring at my image in the mirror. I’m redheaded, but not redheaded like that woman out there with Noah. I’m just a girl on her own in this world, with barely-there C cup breasts and a chin that is a little too pointed. I shove off the sink. Why am I talking down to myself? I swore that was over when—when things happened to me that I’m not going to think about. I’m walking out of here with my pointed chin in the air or lifted. In the air would be ridiculous.

  I face the door and open the darn thing to suck in a breath when Noah is standing there. And damn him, he’s even better looking than I remember, all perfectly male and well, perfect all around.

  “You came,” he says. “And then you ran? Why?”

  “This was a mistake. I need to go.” I try to pass him, but he steps into me, backing me into the bathroom, and the next thing I know, the door is shut.

  “What are you doing?”

  “That woman is a client, the one I told you I was meeting.”

  “Right,” I say. “A client.”

  “A married client with two kids.”

  “Married means nothing.”

  “Happily married.”

  “You don’t need to tell me this,” I say. “Can you please open the door?”

  “Not until I do what I’ve wanted to do since I met you this morning.” His hand comes down on my arm, and suddenly, I’m pressed to all that perfect manhood of his, and his fingers are in my hair, his lips near mine. “I’m going to kiss you unless you tell me to stop.”

  I blink back to the present, and I’m standing at a bench outside my apartment building. I didn’t say no to that kiss, and it was truly a kiss that changed my life or this warehouse-style apartment in Austin, Texas wouldn’t be my life. I wouldn’t be Sandy. I walk into my building and enter the stairway, heading up three flights of steps to the highest level where I live. I scan the walkway to the left where one other apartment is located, and the emptiness spooks me all over. I pull out my key and place it in my lock, but it doesn’t open. I try again. Nothing. My key won’t work.

  I’m not sure what to think of this, but I quickly run down the stairs and head to the landlord’s apartment. I pound on his door and he answers, looking every bit his thirty years young, his dark hair sticking up, a cigarette in his mouth. He holds up a key. “Need this?”

  I grab it. “Why does that exist?”

  “You’re the one who asked to have your locks changed.”

  “I didn’t ask to have my locks changed.”

  “You left me a note and money this morning.”

  I don’t know what to think about this. I turn away from him, and I don’t know what to do. I pull my phone from my pocket and send a text to the number I’ve been given to contact if I think I’m in trouble. Should I even go to my apartment? I think I have to. How will whoever comes to
save me find me if I don’t? Maybe they—whoever the agency is that hid me away is—had this done for safety reasons. I have a gun upstairs. I should be carrying it. I need that gun, and I need it now.

  On my way upstairs, I grab my phone, punching in 9-1-1 to be ready if I need to dial. I reach my apartment and unlock the door. I enter and flip on the light and scan the open space of the living room and kitchen, but aside from my scant furnishings, it’s empty. I listen and listen some more, but there is no sound. Huffing out a breath, I shut the door and lock it, then run into the kitchen and pull out my gun. I load it and decide I can’t stay here. I don’t know who else has a key. Coming here was a stupid decision except, well, now I have a gun.

  With that gun in hand, I walk toward the archway that’s the only door to my bedroom, and the minute I step inside, I flip on the light and gasp. In the corner, in the leather chair, by my window is a man and that man is Noah.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ashley (Still Sandy but not for long)…

  He sits there, in my room, in jeans and a T-shirt, looking as casual, and cool, and perfect as he ever did in one of his expensive suits, a lethal edge oozing from him. That’s the quality about him that I always knew existed, that I denied, but if I’m honest with myself, it appealed to me. It still appeals to me, and it scares the hell out of me how much I still want him, how much I still love him. I should shoot him. He could shoot me.

  My world spins, and I turn to run because I’m supposed to be running from him, my God, I’m hiding from him. He’s a dirty CIA agent.

  “Don’t run,” he says softly. “I’ve waited too damn long to see you again to have you run from me.”

  The emotion in his voice halts me, that whiskey-rich masculinity, and I grip the archway. I can’t run. I can’t walk away. What the hell is wrong with me? But I know. I know that I have to get answers. I know that one of us is going to die tonight.