Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  At the top of the stairs, we enter a room shrouded in shadows and he doesn’t turn on the lights. He sits me on a bed, and then he’s gone, leaving me to eye the one thing I can make out clearly in the room. A giant wall of more windows, the sky now black, as if clouds have wiped out all light. The way Shane and I both want to wipe away the darkness. You’re running, he’d said, and it hadn’t been an accusation, but rather a statement of fact.

  The sound of a condom package tearing has me twisting around to find him standing at the edge of the nightstand, naked—like the way he makes me feel inside. He comes back to me then, joining me on the bed, and my shirt, his shirt, is gone in a flash, his hands replacing it. His tongue and mouth are everywhere. And when he finally turns my back to his front, and he is inside me again, his body wrapped around mine, our pleasure colliding, our bodies collapsing in release, he holds on to me and he doesn’t let go. And he doesn’t hurry away, nor do I try to move. We just lay there, in the darkness, together, and therefore we are not alone.

  I blink awake in the midst of a now familiar nightmare, jerking to a sitting position, my hand at my throat in the midst of panic and terror. Forcing air into my lungs, I become aware that I am in a bedroom and in bed alone, but it’s not mine. It’s Shane’s bed, and the autumn scent of him is everywhere around me, even on my hair and skin. A chill runs down my spine, reminding me that my nightmare is a product of the reality I’m forced to hide from, when I just want to face it and make it go away. That, and I’m naked. I grab the blanket, tugging it to my chin, the sound of rain splattering on glass calling my attention to a wide expanse of windows hugged by curtains to my left. The room is cozy, my memories are not.

  “Stupid nightmare,” I murmur, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, noting the time as six thirty, which must mean Shane is already up and getting ready for work. Shaken by the idea that I hadn’t noticed he’d left the bed when I can’t afford to be that oblivious to my surroundings, but then last night comes back to me, and good lord, I’d fallen asleep with him still inside me. And now I’m here and he’s not and it’s the awkward morning after. Unless … he’s not even here. That would certainly wipe out the awkward part and I both hate and love that idea. Whatever the case, Shane isn’t here, and that means I need out of this bed and into my clothes.

  Scanning the room, I take in the details I couldn’t see last night: an oversized dresser made of heavy gray wood sits directly in front of me with a flat-screen TV above it. A door I think leads to a closet is to my right. And to my left are the giant window and a chair where I am relieved to find my clothes. Of course, there appears to be nothing in view to cover myself so I’m going to have to run across the room naked, most likely at the exact moment Shane walks into the room. And the longer I sit here, the more that becomes a possibility.

  Decision made, I throw the blanket aside, climb out of bed, and dash for the chair. I snatch my skirt, quickly stepping into it, tugging the zipper as I step into my high heels. Frustratingly, my bra is missing and then I give my blouse a woeful inspection that tells me I’ll be walking home with my breasts hanging out if I don’t steal one of Shane’s shirts. The one laying on the chair will work just fine, and I snatch it up to realize it’s my size, and reads FOUR SEASONS. Shane obviously hit the gift shop for me, proving he might be giving me a silent good-bye, but he did so with some gentlemanly class. And really, I’m glad to avoid the face-to-face meeting that would only make me wish for what I can’t have.

  I tear off the tag and pull it over my head, more than ready to grab my purse, check the two phones I carry inside it for calls, and head home. One step toward the door, though, and I stop myself. There is no way around it. I have to pee so badly it is a physical ache. I rotate and head for a door I think is the bathroom. I pass through the doorway, I flip on the light, and shut the door. I take a step and once again, stop, my lips parting in stunned appreciation for the gorgeous, all-white bathroom, with an oversized oval tub framed by another giant window as the centerpiece.

  Memories of a time when I lived like this stir in my mind, followed by a whirlwind of emotions I don’t have time to endure in Shane’s bathroom. Shoving them away, I hurry forward to do what I came in here to do. Once I’m done, I stop at the mirror and good lord, my hair is so puffed up it looks like squirrels played in it when I was sleeping. I hunt for a brush and find it in a drawer next to a razor, and waste no time taming the wild affair on my head. That’s when I notice the new, unopened toothbrush sitting beside a tube of toothpaste. Shane left this for me and since I stupidly fell asleep, I have no gauge on what this means. Probably it’s like the shirt—he’s being a gentleman. And he’ll probably have a car waiting for me, which I’m not going to take because that means the driver will have my address.

  Whatever the case, I brush my teeth, toss the brush in the trash, and then face the door. Now, I’ll leave. He’s not here, so why am I nervous? I’m just going to grab my purse and head out the door. I reach for the knob. What if he is here? He’s not. He’s not here. I open the door and yelp as I find Shane standing in front me, already dressed to kill in a black suit, royal-blue tie, and starched white shirt.

  “You’re really good at scaring me,” I accuse, balling my fist at my racing heart, elated that he’s still here when I should be welcoming a quick departure.

  “Not my intent. I was going to knock and make sure you found the T-shirt.” His gaze lowers and lifts. And I see you did.” He drags me to him and gives me a fast, quick, but oh-so-drugging kiss, the taste of man and rich, strong coffee, exploding in my senses. “Minty fresh,” he says softly. “Looks like you found the toothbrush too. Unless you used my toothbrush.”

  “No,” I say appalled. “I’d never do that. Has someone actually done that?”

  “They never get the chance since I don’t invite women to my apartment.”

  “What?” I ask, stunned yet again by this man, and by the fact that my hand has found its way to his chest, right where I want it.

  “I never invite women to my apartment and damn sure don’t curse the phone call that got me out of bed with them.”

  My heart is thundering, but so is his under my palm, and that crazy, addictive energy that charged the air around us last night is back. “What are we doing, Shane?”

  “Figuring it out as we go.”

  “I’m not … I can’t…”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  “No. No, we can’t. We said—”

  “No PTA,” he supplies. “Just a lot of fucking and whatever else we decide to let happen.”

  “Shane—”

  The doorbell rings. “And that will be the coffee I ordered. I was afraid mine would put hair on your chest and I like you how you are.” He kisses me fast and hard. “Meet me downstairs.” And just like that, he’s leaving and I’m staring after him, once again with my fingers on my mouth where his lips just were. I can’t do this. Can I? Maybe just another night or two won’t hurt. I can do that. I want to do it. I am doing it.

  Charging forward before I change my mind, I exit the room, and hurry down what in the light of day is truly a stunning bamboo staircase attached to the wall. At the bottom level, Shane is nowhere to be found. I hurry to the bar to grab my purse and check my phone. The minute I reach the bar, I find him on the opposite side. “White mocha,” he says, setting a Starbucks-style cup in front of me. “That’s what they recommended downstairs.”

  I reach for the cup. “Thank you.” This man is too charming for my own good. “It’s my favorite.” I take a sip. “And it’s excellent.”

  His eyes light up. “Then I owe Tai an extra tip.”

  Really too charming. “He didn’t mention a bra randomly falling on someone’s head did he?”

  He laughs. “No. He didn’t, but that would be good for a laugh.”

  “That would be humiliating.”

  “They’d never know it was yours.” He lifts a bag. “Bagels. They make them here.”

  “Don’t
you have to be at work?”

  “Eventually.”

  One of my phones rings and I bend down to grab my purse and somehow—it’s unzipped and I end up pouring the contents everywhere. I squat and scramble to pick everything up, reaching for one phone, and then the other, but it’s too late. Shane is on a knee in front of me, and he’s got the second. He glances at it and at the one in my hand. “Two phones.”

  Unease ripples through me. “I bought a new one when I lost mine.”

  I can see his mind working, perhaps remembering me telling the guard the phone I’d lost was new. “Two new phones,” he says, confirming that’s exactly what he was thinking. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me help you.”

  A ball of emotions tightens in my chest. “We’re sex, Shane. This isn’t your problem any more than I should have commented about you looking into your father’s date last night.” I shove the phone, as well as my compact back in my purse, holding out my hand. “Can I have that please?”

  He stands with my phone and I follow him to my feet, slipping my purse over my head and across my body. We stare at each other, and those gray eyes study me, intensely gorgeous. I hate that I met him now, this way. “Shane—”

  He steps to me, taking my hand and pressing the phone into it, holding on to it and me. “You’re right. It’s none of my business. Yet. But I plan to change that.”

  “I don’t want you to change that.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  He’s wrong. Because I like him. Really like him and he’d most likely hate me if he knew the secret I’m hiding. “You don’t understand—”

  “Make me understand.”

  “It’s complicated. We both agreed we aren’t doing complicated.”

  “I’m good at complicated, sweetheart. Try me.”

  If only it were that simple. My phone starts to ring in our hands. “It could be about a job,” I say, grasping at a chance to breathe and think.

  “Of course. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

  Talk? I can’t talk to him about anything remotely close to the truth. He releases my hands and his own phone starts ringing. I glance at mine to discover a local number and quickly answer only to miss the call that had to be about a job. I wait for the message to beep when I hear Shane say, “You got to be fucking kidding me. There’s a big tip for you keeping him in the lobby. I’ll be right there.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone. “Stay here. My father is trying to pay us a visit.”

  “Oh my God. Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s my father.” His hands come down on my arms. “I’m sorry about this. Let me get rid of him before we leave.”

  “I’ll be here waiting,” I say, wanting it to be the truth, but knowing it can’t be.

  He steps around me and the voice mail on my phone beeps. I stare at it, waiting for the sound of the door shutting. The minute it does, I punch the button and listen to the call, letting out a sigh of relief. At least one of my problems is solved. I squeeze my eyes shut, rejecting the idea that Shane is officially another problem, but I can’t. I open my eyes again. I know his father showing up downstairs is my escape. I know I have to leave before he gets back, but I don’t want to be gone. I dig the second phone out of my purse, and punch in the only number I ever call on this phone.

  SHANE

  Watching the elevator floors tick by, I am certain of two things. I’m not letting Emily get away and I’m done playing my father’s games. The doors open, and I step into the hotel lobby to find my father leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his black pinstriped suit, his red power tie in place and his white shirt starched, which can mean only one thing. He has a room in this hotel that he maintains, including a change of clothes. And damn it, I am as pissed at him as I am at that piece of shitty news, among other things, I still notice how thin he is, probably one eighty when he’d been two hundred pounds when I’d arrived last year.

  I stop in front of him and he smells like perfume. . “Good morning, son,” he says, not the least bit irritated that I wouldn’t allow him upstairs to an apartment he owns. But then, why would he? He dictated my presence.

  “Your message is loud and clear, Father.”

  “Do tell, son,” he says, a slight rasp to his voice I’ve never noticed before now. “What exactly is my message?”

  “You’ll do what the hell you want and approval is the last thing you give a damn about.”

  “Is this where you threaten to go back to New York again?” he asks, not denying or confirming my statement.

  I give him an assessing stare. “I backed you in a corner over Derek and the pharmaceutical branch and you didn’t like it.”

  He pushes off the wall and stands toe-to-toe with me. “That was a gift and consider it the last one you’ll get. Control your brother or go back to New York because somebody has to run this company when I’m gone.” He starts to turn and stops. “You’re wearing your weak spot like a badge of honor.”

  He starts walking and I follow his progress, watching as he rounds the corner and for a moment after he disappears, I stare after him, a tight ball forming in my chest that I try to reject, but it just keeps getting bigger. I turn and jab the elevator button, the doors opening instantly. Stepping into the empty car, I hit the code to return to my floor, and I’m quickly sealed inside, that ball now a hot spot expanding in my chest. Son of a bitch. That wasn’t my father playing one of his head games. It was him, in his demented way, telling me the cancer is getting worse. Bringing that woman here was about pissing me off to avoid any pity I might throw his way.

  Facing the wall, I press my fist against the wood, hanging my head, damn glad I have a few minutes alone to grapple with the razor blade of emotions cutting through me. I hate him and I love him. How is that even possible? The hate is justified, guilt-free in the past, but death, fucking cancer, changes everything. I dig through my mind for a source of my love for him and I can’t even find a memory to cling to. And yet, I’m still in knots, still wearing guilt over my hate like a weighted glove.

  The elevator dings and I shove off the wall, stepping out into the hallway, a mix of emotions driving my long strides. Anger. More guilt. More fucking anger. I’m at my door and I barely remember the walk. The very idea of the woman inside, her smell, her taste, and the way she feels in my arms, calms a bit of the beast that is my emotions raging inside me. I enter my apartment—no, my father’s apartment, a matter I need to remedy now, not later—finding Emily absent from the bar where I expect her to be waiting. Her coffee is there though, and I reach for it, finding it untouched.

  Scanning the kitchen and lower level, there is no sign of her presence. A bad feeling rolls through me and I glance toward the balcony, the rain splattering the window ruling out the idea she might be there. Listening, I look to the steps, but there is silence encasing me, and I know she is gone. And I know I’m going after her. I head for the door, exiting into the hallway, and I don’t stop until I’m at the elevator, inside the car, and punching the button for the lobby level. Perfectly still, I stand there, staring ahead, shoving that beast born of my emotions into a mental box to be analyzed at a more appropriate time. Right now, I have one agenda. Emily, who beyond reason, is important to me. Maybe it’s the timing of meeting her. Maybe it’s the hope and optimism in her eyes and her words that defies whatever she thinks has beaten her but I know has not. Whatever it is she does to me, I need it, which means I need her.

  The elevator dings again, and I step to the doors, exiting the car the instant they part, and striding toward the front of the hotel.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brandon,” someone murmurs.

  I lift a hand, my gaze scanning for Emily, my approach to the front of the building never slowing. Finally, I reach the double glass doors, and they part, and I exit to find Tai just outside to my right, rain pounding the awning above us, splattering the ground beyond.

  “Did you see Emily leave?” I ask him.

  He looks baffled. “No s
ir. Should I have?”

  “Did anyone else?” I ask, ignoring his question.

  “I’m certain she didn’t come through the front of the building. Considering the weather, she’d have needed a car and I would have handled that for her.”

  “If she didn’t come through here, where would she be?”

  “This is the only exit other than the garage. She must still be in the building.”

  The garage. Fuck me. “If she shows up, stall her and call me.”

  “Of course,” he says, but I’m already giving him my back and entering the hotel again, my legs quickly eating up the space between me and my intended goal. I reach the elevators and opt for the stairs, heading down a level to the only floor allowing access to the street. Entering the garage, I scan and find no signs of Emily, and considering she’ll be walking in the rain, I head for my car, fully intending to search for her. Clicking the locks, I’m about to open the door, when I spy a note on the front window. I grab it and find the delicate scribble of a woman’s hand.

  I’m too complicated. I can’t do that to you. I’m sorry.

  Don’t let your tongue be your worst enemy.

  —John Franzese

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHANE

  I tell myself to let Emily go, but the idea of her being battered by the storm has me driving the nearby streets, ensuring she’s not in need of aid. But I don’t find her, and she’s made it clear she doesn’t want my help. The problem is, I can’t seem to shake the idea that she needs it, nor can I dismiss her as a passing fuck. Shoving the note she’d left into my pocket, I reluctantly accept that for the moment, my search is over, and I drive toward the office. My father’s words when I’m gone run through my mind, and I quickly detour to the highway, heading toward my parents’ house with the full intent of finding out what is going on with both of them.