by Meghan March
Holly speaks up. “You’re not going to . . .”
He laughs. “No. But she won’t be a problem.” Dom nods at both of us, and then looks to Greer. “It was nice to finally meet you. I don’t expect we’ll see each other again.” His gaze lands on me again. “And if you’re wondering, the wiring in your building has malfunctioned mysteriously, and we were never here.”
Holly sucks in an audible breath, and I raise a brow. “And the doorman and other residents?”
He cocks his head. “We didn’t exactly use the front door. We’ll see ourselves out. Take care, Creighton. It was lovely to meet you, Holly. Good luck at the CMAs.”
We stand in stunned silence while the room once again goes dark, and the mob boss—my father—exits our life with his two bodyguards just as quickly as he entered it.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, Holly loses it. “Holy cow, Creighton. Holy cow-tipping, runnin’ from the cops, falling into a pile of shit. Oh my God, did that really just happen?”
From Greer, I hear a hushed, “Holy fucking shit.”
“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?” Holly asks.
The lights come back on, and I blink a few times before replying. “I have no idea. But my guess is, not unless he wants me to.”
I’m still trying to comprehend everything that I’ve learned in the last couple of hours. It’s surreal. The man I thought was my biological father was not. All the hatred that has come from my uncle all these years has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his own fucked-up issues. So, one burden lifted and another burden dropped like a wrecking ball through the very fabric of my existence.
Greer crosses toward us. “As much as I’m a little freaked out right now to leave your place, I gotta go.”
I hug my sister, and as she steps away, I tell her, “You’re getting a bodyguard. No more walking around Manhattan late at night because you don’t leave work until two a.m.”
“I’m not going to win this one, am I?” she asks.
“No.”
“I respectfully reserve the right to argue the point later.”
“Spoken like a lawyer. I’m calling Michael. He’ll be waiting downstairs in less than ten minutes. Don’t leave the building until you see him pull up.”
Greer sucks in a long breath. “Fine.” She raises on tiptoe to press a kiss to my cheek. “Call me if anything crazy happens.”
I ruffle her hair. “Of course. Now, go.”
Once my sister closes the door behind her, Holly and I are left standing in the middle of the penthouse, staring at each other. She breaks the silence first.
“Are we still on for Vegas?”
Not where I thought she’d start the conversation, but a good choice nonetheless. I’ve never wanted to get out of New York so badly in my life.
“Hell yes.”
She smiles. “Good. Then I have one more question.”
Her smile loosens something within me, and I feel my own lips curl up at the edges.
“What, baby?”
“Does that make you a Mafia prince? I’m not trying to make light of the situation.” She holds up a hand. “I swear, I’m not. Because this is crazy and emotional and intense. And just plain crazy. But that Mafia prince thing . . . if you’re down for some role-play when we’re in Vegas, I’m not going to say no to that.”
My chest shakes with bubbling laughter, and the most insane situation I’ve ever faced in my entire life dissolves away for the moment because of the quirky, amazing, gorgeous woman in front of me.
I drop a hand on each of her shoulders. “Let’s see what happens when we get to Vegas.”
“Karas International stock has risen sharply following the news that the shareholder suit against its chief executive officer, Creighton Karas, was dropped earlier this week. Karas commented from the floor of Caesar’s Palace, where he stood at his wife’s side during her run on the craps table. ‘I’m happy to see that my uncle understands that the health of the company is more important than any grudge he has against me personally. We’re looking forward to another record-breaking year in profits.’ There’s no doubt the world will be watching Karas International, and its CEO, closely in the coming months.”
I reach for the radio and flip it from the news station to my favorite channel, The Highway, which features up-and-coming country artists mixed in with all the old favorites.
“Glad they got the part about the craps table in there,” Creighton says.
“And that Dom was as good as his word,” I add.
Creighton lays an arm across the back of my seat. “Yes, yes he was. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
I smile and shift my new Mustang into gear. After Creighton showed me the basics of craps and dared me to lose ten grand, I threw myself into the game wholeheartedly. But I wasn’t able to lose. Nope, I just kept winning, at least until my inner Kentucky girl realized that I could buy a damn car with what I won, and I politely cashed out and walked away with my money.
When we landed in Nashville, I told Creighton I wanted to buy a new car. He asked the driver to take us to the Maserati dealer, but I vetoed his choice in favor of stopping at the Ford dealership. My one concession was allowing him to drag me out of the used-car section to look at the new ones—and I fell in love with a Shelby GT350. It was delivered this morning to the penthouse condo we’re temporarily staying in until we can find a house we both love.
So, the first order of business today is stopping at the studio to finish recording the last of my new songs, and then house hunting.
I floor the Mustang, my laughter echoing in the cabin as Creighton grabs the oh-shit handle above his seat. I’m pretty sure the man is not going to let me drive much, because he doesn’t seem to approve of my newly adopted drive it like you stole it style.
When we arrive at the studio—in record time and all in one piece, I might add—Creighton lays a hand over mine on the gearshift.
“Are you sure you don’t want a driver?”
I tilt my head. “You’re going to lose on this one. I promise.”
He narrows his eyes, and a low sound that mimics a growl comes from his side of the car. “Holly . . .”
“It’ll be fine. I swear. I’m just seeing what she can do.”
“She?”
With my free hand, I pet the steering wheel. “Of course it’s a she. Her name is Cherry Bomb.”
Creighton shakes his head with an indulgent smile. “If you name my cock . . .”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who says I haven’t?”
His gaze sharpens on mine. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
My smile threatens to split my face. “Nope,” I reply, making sure to pop the p. “You’ll just have to wonder.”
“Oh, you’ll tell me. I have my ways.”
I let another laugh break free as I push open my door.
I meet my band in the studio, hugging each of the guys while Creighton shakes their hands. We haven’t seen them since the tour wrapped up, and I think they’re as anxious to lay these tracks down as I am. Once inside the recording booth, I sling Eliza Belle’s strap over my shoulder, and we spend the next several hours getting everything but the vocals recorded.
After a break for lunch, it’s time to finish up. My gaze darts to the glass window of the booth where Creighton leans against the wall just beyond. He’s never heard the lyrics to this one, and I wonder how he’s going to react.
The tracks we just laid down play through my headphones and I start to sing. Normally I tend to record with my eyes shut, feeling every note with my entire body, but today, I can’t help but stare into the eyes of the man I love.
When we get to the end of the chorus, I let loose with everything I have in me.
I thought I’d be lost on Fifth Avenue,
but I was only lost until I found you.
When we finish recording, I remove my headphones and make my way out of the booth. Creighton hasn’t moved from where he’s lea
ning against the wall. As I walk closer, I note the glassy sheen in his eyes.
When he speaks, his words are low so only I can hear them.
“I was the one who was lost. I just didn’t know it until I found you.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me close. “I love you so goddamn much, Holly. I never want to go back to being that man.”
I reach up with my free hand and wrap it around his neck. It’s amazing to see how much my husband has changed since Christmas Eve. Yes, he’ll always be demanding, dominant, and deliciously dirty, but the intensity of the feelings underpinning all of those things makes all the difference in the world.
“I’ll never let you go back to being that man, because I’m never giving you up, Creighton Karas. I love you. You’re mine. Always.”
I lean up to press my lips to his, and he threads his fingers into my hair, deepening the kiss. When I finally pull back, I meet his gaze as it burns into mine.
“Mine. Always,” he says. “Now, let’s go find our new home.”
Home. When he says the word, I realize that mine is wherever Creighton is. It could be Nashville, New York, or New Delhi, but as long as he’s there, I’m home.
Nine months later
Watching Holly climb to the stage in her glittering gold dress to accept the New Artist of the Year award from my seat in the arena is surreal. I’ve made a habit of winning in my life. Winning the game. Winning the bet. Winning the deal. Winning the woman. But nothing compares to watching her win this award.
Nothing.
I’ve found contentment in my life, despite the whirlwind it now resembles as I try to keep up with both my schedule and Holly’s. Although honestly, I’ve backed off a lot from mine and handed off as much as possible to Cannon. He’s kicking ass and taking names, and has groomed a sidekick of his own.
These days, Holly and I are spending more and more time in Nashville, and less in Manhattan. Our place in Tennessee is feeling more like home than the penthouse in the city, mostly because Holly loves it so much. She has also stretched her wings in the business world as well. She’s not CEO of Homegrown Records, but she’s been involved in a lot of the business decisions. Her practical nature and straight-up cheapskate attitude is exactly what that place needs to get back in the black.
I spin the titanium ring on my left hand, following Holly’s every movement as she accepts the polished crystal award and congratulatory hugs from the presenters.
She gave me the ring a few days after I first heard the lyrics to “Lost on Fifth Avenue,” the song that rocked the charts—and netted her the award she’s about to accept. On the inside of the band, the words Lost until I found you were engraved. She said it wasn’t about telling the world I was taken, but about carrying a piece of her with me everywhere I went. Someone will have to pry that ring off my cold, dead body, because I’ll never take it off otherwise.
Holly steps up to the microphone with a brilliant smile, her left hand hovering over the baby bump the tabloids have been talking about nonstop. This morning, we learned that she’s carrying our daughter. There was no argument over her name either. Rosemary Elizabeth Karas, for Holly’s grandmother and my mother.
Holly’s mother hasn’t been seen or heard from since the day she showed up at the gate of our house in Nashville to beg for money after she spent every dime from the Yammer payout. Her pleas were met with Holly’s “No fucking way on God’s green Earth will you get another cent from us,” and a threat to call the cops.
Holly waits for the crowd to quiet before she begins her acceptance speech. “Hey, y’all. Thank you so much for this. I can’t even tell you how it feels for a girl from Gold Haven, Kentucky, who used to watch this show on the tiny TV in a singlewide trailer, to be standing on this stage accepting it. Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it. I want to thank my husband, Creighton Karas, a man insane enough to place a missed connection ad looking for a one-night stand.”
The entire audience bursts into laughter at Holly’s blunt words.
“Because his insanity is the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. I would’ve never written the songs on the album without it, and the single that got me your votes would’ve never come to be if I hadn’t met him. I love you, Crey. This is for you. It’s all for you.”
She holds the award over her head for a moment before lowering it and continuing. “I’d also like to thank my agent, my manager, and my very own label, Homegrown Records. This past year has been absolutely amazing. Thank you all.”
She steps toward backstage, and I rise to slip down the aisle and around back of the arena to meet her. Holly doesn’t know it, but following the after party, the jet is waiting on the tarmac to take us on our actual honeymoon. It may have been delayed a while due to our busy schedules, but three weeks in Bora Bora without Internet is exactly what we need. I’ve got new journals for her and her guitar already packed. Along with a few bikinis.
She’s posing for pictures when I get backstage, the award gripped in her hand.
Holly turns her head mid-pose while the dozen or so cameras continue flashing. She doesn’t even care that she’s screwing up all of their shots, because she’s caught sight of me.
“Excuse me. Can you give me a minute? Oh, and hold this.” She shoves the award into the hands of some random photographer. He drops his camera, which is luckily caught by the strap around his neck, and clutches the award to his chest.
Holly doesn’t even wait to see if he’s going to drop the thing; she just runs toward me. And when I say runs toward me, I mean she launches herself off the heels of her tall boots toward me. I catch her, wrapping my hands around her waist and holding her up, because she can’t twine her legs around me like she normally would, given the dress she’s wearing.
“I did it! I really, really did it!”
“Yeah, you did, baby. You sure did. Congratulations, Holly. You earned it.”
Her arms wrap around my neck, and she whispers, “I think you need to get me out of here because I’m about to ugly cry.”
My heart clenches at the rich tide of emotion underpinning her words. “Baby, it’s okay.”
Holly lifts her head, and sure enough, tears are already gathering in her eyes. “You need to get that award, and we need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“You really want me to make our excuses?”
She nods vigorously. “Okay.”
I take two steps to the photographer, who is already holding out the award. “Thank you. Is there an empty room around here?”
His eyes bulge dangerously close to out of his head. “Uh . . . uh . . . That way.” He points to the right with the award. “Around the corner and down the hall. Try the second door on the left.”
“Thank you,” I say, swinging Holly up in my arms like a bride. Her face is still tucked into my neck. “Reach out a hand and grab the award, baby,” I say under my breath.
Holly complies, and I head in the direction the photographer indicated. When I find the room, I shoulder open the door and fumble for the light switch. It turns out to be a dressing room, much like so many others I’ve been in with Holly. I lower us onto a couch, and try not to think about the number of groupies who’ve been fucked on it. Taking the award from Holly’s hand, I set it safely aside.
That’s when the tears start falling. Happy tears, I hope.
Holly shakes against me, and I hold her tighter.
“I can’t believe it’s real. It just doesn’t seem like it could be real.” She swallows back a sob, and I rub her back.
“It’s real. And you earned it. You worked your ass off to get here. It’s as real as it gets.” At my last words, she lifts her tearstained face.
“As real as it gets? That’s what you said about us before.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Took me a while to believe that too.”
“I have a feeling you’ll believe this one sooner. After all, you’ve got the trophy to prove it.”
She shakes her head. “The rea
l prize here is you.”
When I lean down to press my lips to hers, I whisper, “We’re the prize. The absolute best fucking prize of my life.” I stand and swing her into my arms again. “Now, what do you say about a honeymoon before this baby starts running our lives?”
Holly blinks, and a mischievous smile spreads across her face. “A honeymoon? Where are you taking me?”
“Does it matter?”
She moves her head from side to side, shaking it slowly. “I’ll go anywhere with you, Mr. Karas. Take me away.”
The End
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Also by Meghan March
THE DIRTY BILLIONAIRE Trilogy:
Dirty Billionaire
Dirty Pleasures
Dirty Together
BENEATH Series:
Beneath This Mask
Beneath This Ink
Beneath These Chains
Beneath These Scars
FLASH BANG Series:
Flash Bang
Hard Charger
Author’s Note
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Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in the woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut.
