by Lula Baxter
Dirty Player
An International Alphas Romance
Lula Baxter
DESCRIPTION
I’m risking Fifty-Million Dollars to make her mine.
ASTRID
Once upon a time, I was a simple girl from Boston.
Then, I became a pawn, a piece to be played with in the wicked games the wealthy play.
On one side of the Atlantic lies the conservative Old Money of Beacon Hill.
On the other side lies the playground of the filthy rich in Monte Carlo.
That’s where I saw Alexandre, blazing by on his motorcycle.
He introduced me to heaven on earth in the French Riviera.
Then my life turned to hell back home in Boston.
Now, he’s offering me a proposition of obscene proportions….
ALEXANDRE
My entire fortune has been built by satisfying my thirst for revenge.
Then, I saw Astrid sitting alone at that outdoor bar.
She started out as a pawn in my game of conquest.
I betrayed her to win at all costs.
I wasn’t supposed to fall for her.
Now, I’m risking an obscene amount to make her mine….
This is a FULL-LENGTH, STAND ALONE book with a HEA, Happily Ever After.
Warning: The steam level is HEAVY in this one, Filthy language, adults scenes, so 18+ ONLY.
Contents
About Lula Baxter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
FILTHY HEIR
CHAPTER 1
Dirty Player: Author’s Note
About Lula Baxter
About Lula Baxter
I am a lover of sinfully sexy romance. Alpha males who combine intelligence, wit, and charm, with that tiny bit of dominance and aggression to spice things up. Heroines, who have their own sinfully sexy side.
When I’m not typing away at my keyboard, in between sips of wine, you can find me out exploring New York City, where I live… or some other far away place, finding fodder for my novels.
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Chapter One
Astrid
I’m in love.
Monte Carlo is absolutely everything I thought it would be. Serpentine streets winding through gorgeously pastel-flavored neighborhoods. Vibrant nights filled with people having the time of their lives. Like the rest of Europe, it’s been an amazing place to visit.
It’s almost perfect. Almost.
“This one is nice, but the light blue dress compliments you better…or least it would if you managed to wear sunscreen like I keep telling you to, Astrid.” My mother gives me a frown as she eyes the golden hue of my shoulders, compliments of the past three days in Nice, France.
I fell even more in love with Nice while we were there. That city had a more casual vibe to it, with its quaint outdoor cafes and the long Promenade des Anglais abutting the beach where women could lie in topless abandon.
Helen Hawthorne would be scandalized to know that the only tan lines underneath her daughter’s white sundress are the tiny triangles in front and back where my bikini bottom had to stay firmly on during those secret trips to the shore.
I was thrilled when my mother suggested adding Monte Carlo to the itinerary of our European trip. I had visions of Grace Kelly and Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, or maybe even the heart-pounding excitement of some James Bond movie.
While I have yet to indulge in a thrilling car chase, or participate in some exciting caper, I think the city is gorgeous. Even if it is the same endless display of obscene wealth that I left behind in Boston. Here, it’s perhaps a bit—correction, a lot—more ostentatious than the sedate Old Money set that keep their noses firmly turned up in Beacon Hill.
“Does it really matter which color I get?” I sigh, looking at the selection before me in the little boutique where we’ve booked a session. Both the blue and the yellow dresses are lovely, as they should be, considering how much each will likely cost.
“I’d think you’d be interested in the sort of clothing you’ll be wearing from now on, Astrid. No more of those yoga pants and baggy t-shirts you wear at school.” She makes sure to give me another disapproving glance. Then, I swear, a dreamy smile comes to her face. “Just think, there will be lots of black-tie parties you’ll be attending and important charity boards you’ll be sitting on. You’re fortunate to have a fiancé who is willing to buy such nice things for you. When I married your father we barely had two nickels to rub together. Think of this as part of your trousseau.”
I have to keep my eyes from rolling at the term. Now that the Hawthornes are about to be securely in the black—and add a tidy little blue-blooded pedigree to our family tree to top it off—she likes using terms like “trousseau” and “Grand Tour,” which she has been calling this month-long trip we’ve been on since day one.
The fact that both terms harken back to an era when women were nothing more than property is just the right amount of too on the nose to sour me to this shopping spree. All of a sudden I feel claustrophobic in the small shop.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say, jumping out of the chair and grabbing my small purse to head out the door.
“What about your dress, Astrid?” she calls after me with a hint of alarm in her voice.
“You already know my size and the best color and fit for me, Mom,” I yell behind me. Heaven knows it doesn’t matter what I think. She’ll nitpick away until I’ve chosen what she wants anyway. Much like the rest of my life, I’ll have little final say in the matter.
That’s not fair, Astrid.
My parents haven’t forced me to do anything I haven’t willingly signed on for, at least by all appearances. If they knew the truth, they’d have me on the first plane back to Boston, putting an end to this Grand Tour, along with everything else. I did what I had to for their sake. The proverbial bed has been made, and I will soon be lying in it.
Most likely alone.
I look at the huge emerald and diamond ring on my finger. Another lie. This one is the worst of all. This one represents the rest of my life. The reality of it still makes my stomach burn with resentment.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll destroy your family. Forget about the money. I’ll make it so no one else in this city, this state, hell, this entire country, lends him a cent. It won’t just be your father’s company that suffers, it will be your entire family’s reputati
on as well. My family name goes back a lot further than yours. No one with any hint of respectability will welcome the Hawthornes. Financially, you’ll be nothing. Politically, you’ll be nothing. Academically, you’ll be nothing. Socially, you’ll be nothing. If you think I won’t do it, just watch me. Destroyed, do you understand? Completely destroyed.”
I can still feel the painful grip Bruce had on my arm while he growled these words in my face. As I tried pushing him away, I could see the huge ring he had planted on my finger only a week before, with both our families smiling on. It sparkled between us like a warning light: End it! End it!
But I am trapped, as he made so abundantly clear with his final words.
“And if you’re thinking of calling off the marriage, you can forget about it. You belong to me now. Till death do us part.”
The memory of it makes me want to rip the damn ring from my finger and throw it out to the city below me. Let some fortunate passerby have better luck with it than I ever will.
Instead, I pull it off and slip it into my purse. Who knows, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get mugged. The Campbells would have a fit. Apparently, it’s some special design by an exclusive French company. As aesthetically beautiful as it is, I find it revolting.
At least I was able to get them to hold off announcing the engagement publicly. I didn’t want the taint of it ruining this trip. Not that I phrased it that way, of course. Instead, a huge engagement party has been planned upon our return. This trip is my last bit of freedom and I fully plan on enjoying it, even though I know what’s waiting for me when I return home to Boston.
A shiver runs down my spine despite the glorious sunshine that hit me as soon as I set foot outside the shop. The weather here is the closest thing to perfect I can imagine. It’s the city’s crowning glory. I turn my face up to absorb more of it and the first smile of the day finally touches my lips. This, I could get used to.
My little purse swings by my side as I make the precarious trek in my sandals down the severely winding roads of the main part of the city. I’m headed toward the marina, where some of the world’s largest and most expensive yachts are docked.
Hopefully, one of the outdoor bars that get so crazily vivacious at night is open. It’s already almost eleven o’clock, but I can see how completely empty they all are, which doesn’t bode well. Still, I note that all the cushions have been set up on the raised outdoor lounges, so maybe there’s hope.
A waiter pops out of a bar to finish setting up the outdoor area attached to his bar. I rush over to him trying to get his attention.
“Are you serving yet?” I ask in my extremely broken, two-years-of-college French.
He wrinkles his brow in confusion, either at my incomplete grasp of the language or the absurdity of the question itself. Most people here are probably still recovering from the late nights this city is famous for.
He looks down at his watch, then back at me. His gaze scans me up and down. Presumably finding me worth making an exception for, he smiles and shrugs, waving me up to the raised area with chic sofas and ottomans.
“Merci,” I say, smiling gratefully as I take a seat nearest the marina. He plants a menu in front of me. I quickly order a glass of the first white wine listed.
I was never into the underage drinking thing in college. Now that I’ve just turned twenty-one, about to begin my senior year at Boston University, I’m still a novice when it comes to alcohol. One thing I have managed to accomplish during this summer trip is an appreciation for decent wine and Champagne.
“Bonjour!” the waiter announces, coming back and placing the glass of cool wine before me, then nodding with a smile.
“Merci,” I say, smiling back.
As I sip my drink, I gaze out at the blatant display of wealth before me. This part of the city is just a home for floating mansions and the occasional luxury cruise ship. I shouldn’t judge since this will be my own life as soon as I graduate, or at least some version of it. A life filled with yachting parties and polo matches and charity balls and sitting there and looking pretty. Perhaps it won’t be so dull. Maybe I can find a way to tie in my love of art.
I’m about to take another sip when I hear the offending roar of an approaching motorcycle. The glass pauses at my lips as I watch a Harley Davidson, of all things, cruise around the corner and down the little street that separates the bars from the marina.
Something about it, even beyond the noise of the engine, holds my attention. Maybe it’s the way the man sitting atop it fills out his t-shirt and jeans. Maybe it’s the tanned and muscular arms that lead down to the handlebars.
He has a helmet on, so I can’t see his face, but he obviously catches me looking and slows down to a complete stop beside me, much to my surprise. He turns off the engine and kicks the stand down to lean the bike. Then he pulls the helmet off.
Whoa.
He’s older, maybe early thirties, but gorgeous. His dark hair is cut to a well-groomed length, but in its presently reckless state has a sort of foppish look to it. The kind of thick mass that has you itching to rake it off his forehead with your fingers. His positively dreamy, green eyes fill with amusement to match the smile on his full lips as he takes me in.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he says with a seductively rich voice.
Even if my French wasn’t so terrible, I’d be at a loss for words.
Chapter Two
Alexandre
Well, this is a surprise.
I was struck as soon as I saw the pair of long, tanned legs leading up to the rest of the admirable body sitting at the outdoor bar. Then I saw who that body belonged to.
Astrid Hawthorne.
She’s young, younger than my thirty-one years at any rate, but there’s a subtle maturity that shines through. A maturity that hints at a certain cynicism with life already. It’s a cynicism that I certainly didn’t see in her photographs.
I was expecting some timid ingenue, or some silly young coed, one of many American college girls who flock to Europe between semesters. There is nothing timid or silly in the way Astrid is looking at me now.
This could be more interesting than I predicted.
Her blonde hair blows in the wind, framing the face that makes me think of that girl-next-door look that American women are famous for: large blue eyes, button nose, generous mouth that probably holds an easy smile when she isn’t staring at someone with such awe, the way she is now.
She still hasn’t replied to my greeting, which causes the smile on my face to broaden. I’m used to women being impressed with me, though usually it’s for all the wrong reasons. Despite her overt admiration, this one still has a perfect innocence about her that I find refreshing, and extremely alluring.
“A woman like you should not be drinking alone. It’s an offense.”
She blinks in confusion. “An offense?”
“To the single men of the world, like myself. You should let me join you.”
The blush of pleasure that colors her tanned cheeks makes her even more appealing. She takes a long swallow of her wine to try to hide it.
“Better yet, why not join me? I was just about to go for a ride on my little boat.”
My original plan was to spend the morning on my smaller boat alone, a bit of rest and relaxation before tonight. Monaco, in general, is my escape from it all, an escape from my responsibilities back in Paris. The idea of sharing the day with a woman who has no idea who I am—yet—sounds ideal. Someone who won’t require anything more from me than company, and hopefully, an enjoyable time on the water. It’s a slight change in my overall plans, but this version could be far more intriguing.
Gabrielle would not be pleased. That makes it an even more attractive idea.
But Astrid is now gaping at me as though I’ve just asked to have sex with her right there on the outdoor bar area. Perhaps I’ve been too forward after all.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Alexandre,” I say and I hold out my hand to her.
She stares at it, then back at me, then blushes again. I watch the debate behind her eyes as she wonders whether or not to respond to my advances. As though hit by lightning, there’s a sudden bright blaze in them as they broadcast the definite answer: yes.
“Astrid,” she says with vigor in her voice as she takes my hand to shake it.
Before she can complete the handshake, I turn it in mine and lean in from my bike to brush my lips across her knuckles. I smile against her fingers as I hear the soft intake of breath the moment she feels them.
“Astrid,” I echo, pulling myself up with a smile on my face that I know can charm anyone. I nod my head toward the marina behind me. “Come with me. You’ll enjoy it.”
I sound like the big bad wolf. What woman would take a perfect stranger up on a ride in a boat? But I’m an expert at taking gambles and this one is low risk—but very high reward. My eyes scan the body underneath her sundress.
Rewarding in more ways than one.
I’m not surprised when she finally says, “I have to pay.”
I pull out the wallet from my back pocket and grab a fifty-euro note. I toss it on the table near her half-finished glass.
