Filthy and Rich: A Billionaire Menage Romance Box Set

by Opal Carew

  Seth stared at her. There honestly wasn’t a flicker of recognition in his gaze, try as he might to recall her.

  With a soft laugh, she said, “Don’t strain your brain. It’s not worth it. I’m not kidding when I tell you I blended. Teachers never called on me, I didn’t get picked for sports—was merely relegated to a team because I was the last one chosen. The whole nine yards. It’s not traumatic, so don’t worry about it.”

  That part wasn’t traumatic. All the rest . . . Yes. Plenty of trauma.

  Luckily Sylvia had excellent defense mechanisms in place—don’t get close to people and they can’t hurt you.

  She also had a positive outlook on her future, with a new business venture, her first corporate endeavor. So the absolute best thing for her to do at this moment was to convince Seth it was time for her to go home.

  Disentangling herself, she reminded him, “Need that ride now. Before it gets too ugly outside.”

  “Shit.” He rubbed his set jaw.

  She said, “It was junior high, Seth. Get over it. I was only in Bayfront for two years. There were plenty of other girls filling your line of vision. Trust me, no offense taken. It was actually advantageous back then to go unnoticed.”

  Stepping away from him, she left the master suite and searched for her purse, wherever the hell it had ended up. When she found the small clutch peeking out from under the massive round table in the foyer, since she apparently had not placed it soundly on the wooden surface while Seth had been kissing her senseless, she collected it and waited for him to join her.

  He sauntered toward her minutes later, now wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. He helped her into her silver-fox faux fur coat, the three-quarter length garment thick and heavy enough to combat the frigid air they were about to step out into.

  He slipped on a brown leather bomber jacket and grabbed his keys from the table. They left his condo and the building and drove in silence back to the lodge. The party had obviously wound down, though there were still several cars in the lot.

  Seth pulled up to the valet station and slid his window down.

  “Good evening, Mr. Lofton,” an attendant greeted him.

  “Nice to see you, Derrick. Please bring Miss Carter’s vehicle around.”

  Sylvia handed over her ticket, which Seth passed to the valet with a generous tip. The attendant gave a friendly smile, then whirled on his heels and walked briskly to the kiosk to find her keys.

  Once they were alone, Seth’s head rolled on the headrest and he gazed at Sylvia. “Where were you before you returned to Bayfront?”

  She let out a small, hollow laugh. “Everywhere.”

  “Army brat?”

  “Foster care kid. The need to constantly move around is pretty much second nature.”

  “Damn.” His brows knitted. “Sorry about that.”

  “Not the happiest of times. Though I certainly don’t knock the system as a whole. I’ve seen plenty of success stories. Mine just wasn’t one of them.”

  Nor was her best friend’s. Chloe Lockhart was a bit of a lost soul herself. She’d followed Sylvia to Bayfront to work at Sylvia’s new day spa and this particular change of scenery was doing wonders for them both.

  To get the conversation off of herself, because she didn’t relish thinking of—let alone talking about—her past, she said, “I really like all of the Christmas decorations around the property and in the lodge. I didn’t grow up with the whole holiday jubilee scene, but this is very lovely. You’ve breathed life back into this place.”

  “It needed it.”

  “Agreed. But . . . why’d you suddenly decide to overhaul and expand the entire resort? Add two more lodges, seventeen new lift chairs, three trams, and all those condos and chalets?”

  “I always thought this place should be a bit grander than it was, even back in its prime.” Seth grimaced. “Besides, it was time I found some direction. A higher purpose. Can’t just ride out one Olympic medal for the rest of my life, you know?”

  That’d been six years ago. Sylvia recalled watching the winter sports that year. He’d scored silver with the men’s giant slalom. Then he’d blown out his knee and dislocated his shoulder during the aerials. That had been the end to his competitive skiing career—and his Olympic dream.

  Just like that.

  With the snap of a finger.

  Very tragic.

  “Do you still ski?” she inquired.

  Now he gave her a grin—the wildly charismatic one that made everything inside her go a little haywire. “Every chance I get.”

  “I’m glad. A medal is damn impressive—even if you feel the need to move on from it. More important is that you haven’t lost your passion for the slopes.”

  “I did for a while. Then I came to my senses.” He chuckled, and that sensual, rumbling sound she was now addicted to reverberated throughout her. “How about you, Sylvia? Do you ski?”

  “I board. Took it up when I lived here. I’d ride the free shuttle to the base of the mountain and practice endlessly there, since I couldn’t afford tickets after buying all of my equipment—used.”

  “A snowboarder.” His gaze slipped to her mouth. “That’s sexy. I hereby grant you lifelong passes and you can demo the latest and greatest boards and boots from our new pro shop, all complimentary. Your name will be in the computer system. You can come up anytime you want. Just be sure to stop into my office and say hey.” He winked.

  She melted. “That’s really very kind of you.”

  “Try out the new boarding park, professionally designed. I’d like to get your review. And this way I might be able to finagle a lunch with you from time to time.”

  “Really, all you have to do is ask.”

  He leaned in close and murmured against her lips, “I want to see you again, Sylvia Carter. Make no mistake.”

  Her breath hitched.

  Seth kissed her in his leisurely, deliciously intimate way. Until she almost forgot why the hell she’d passed on the sleepover. Because now all she could think of was getting tangled up in the sheets with him again.

  But as he pulled slightly away and stared into her eyes, she remembered her convictions. Getting too deeply involved had the potential to lead to emotional disaster. Something she’d already experienced. One too many times, unfortunately.

  Coming to her rescue was the valet as he pulled her Prius around.

  Sylvia told Seth, “I appreciate the tickets. I might just take you up on a few.”

  His fingers swept along her temple. “Your enthusiasm turns me on. Everything about you turns me on. Your gorgeous body. The sparkle in your eyes. These satiny lips I want to feel on my cock . . .”

  Sylvia’s pulse jumped.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. Handing it over, he said, “Text me your number.”

  Sylvia stared at the cardstock with a photo of the main lodge in the foreground and one of the gleaming red trams heading up to the snow-capped peaks in the distance, the resort being touted as the new Aspen, soon to be the hotspot for the rich and elite, the celebrity A-listers, et cetera.

  But her stomach knotted at a different scenario.

  One-night stands weren’t supposed to run the path of follow-up meetings, lunches, the exchange of contact information. So she didn’t swap cards with Seth, proud though she was that her spa would be opening soon.

  She was saved from the awkward moment of her hesitation as the valet opened her door.

  Well . . . almost.

  “Take the card, Sylvia,” Seth urged.

  She smiled, despite herself, accepted the offering, and let the attendant help her out of Seth’s luxury Range Rover. The valet held an umbrella over her head, since the snow was falling harder now.

  “Be careful getting down the mountain,” Seth said.

  “Promise.” She rounded the front end of the Prius and slipped into the driver’s seat. She tucked away his card, and slowly navigated her way toward Bayfront.

 
; Anxiety crept in on her as she considered whether she’d gotten in over her head with Seth Lofton this evening. Though . . . she couldn’t deny that every second with him had been absolutely mind-blowing.

  It just all needed to be containable on a temporary basis.

  Because Sylvia wasn’t equipped to handle anything more.

  Chapter Three

  “Hey, isn’t this supposed to be the Sunshine State? It is still coming down out there!” Chloe Lockhart declared as—with a gust of chilly December air—she blew into the foyer of the day spa.

  Sylvia heard the thumping of her friend’s hot-pink rubber boots on the hardwood floor as Chloe passed the locker rooms on either side of the long hallway—one for men, one for women. And then she burst into the sitting/reception area with its large fireplace, sofas and a mammoth Louis XVI appointment desk, all currently covered in plastic. Farther back were four treatment rooms and a six-person Jacuzzi.

  “That’s Florida,” Sylvia corrected. “California is the Golden State. Hence the Golden State Warriors . . .”

  “Who are they again?”

  Sylvia laughed. “Never mind.” She knew her friend was not a sports fanatic by any stretch of the imagination. Not that Sylvia was either—the days of her fellow teammates’ disgruntlement over being stuck with her in gym class were not forgotten.

  Having deposited her umbrella up front—it was raining as heavily in the cove as it had snowed on the mountain overnight—Chloe carefully balanced a cardboard carrier as she announced, “Cappuccinos, bagels and lox, the mail, and the newspaper.”

  She deposited the carrier on the desk and then unloaded her laptop bag.

  Chloe Lockhart was a perky Gilmore Girls Sookie type, dimples and all, with a lilting southern accent to rival Annabeth Nass on Hart of Dixie. She had straight blond hair cut in a long bob and angled at the chin and neck, warm brown eyes and a natural effervescence that radiated from her.

  Sylvia had known her since they were twelve years old and living in the same foster home. They’d become instant best friends. Sisters, even.

  Turning to Sylvia, Chloe exuberantly demanded, “What did I tell you about climbing those tall ladders when I’m not here? Especially while you’re wearing four-inch snow leopard suede ankle boots!”

  Sylvia dropped her slim brush in one of the cups of paint sitting on the foldout tray at the top step of the ladder. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this, even in four-inch heels.” Which complemented her long, snug-fitting black sweater and leggings.

  “That’s a twelve-foot ceiling you’re trying to reach. One slip and you are toast, girlfriend.”

  “Nerves of steel,” Sylvia quipped. “Besides, I needed to do some touch-ups. The painters we hired didn’t quite get our sienna-and-gold textured paint to reach the ceiling. Tons of tiny gaps where the walls meet it.”

  “We’re the painters we hired, Sylvie.”

  “Yes. And, sadly, we suck.”

  “I take exception to that and your OCD. I slaved over that texturing. It’s supposed to be all random and artsy, but you were all like, ‘Balance it out, Chloe. For the love of God, Chloe. Balance. It. Out!’”

  Sylvia grinned. “So much sass for seven-thirty in the morning.”

  “You know I’m at my pluckiest when I spring from bed. And I know you loathe the crack of dawn and all things related, so what are you doing here so early? I saw your car along the curb, which was why I grabbed you a coffee.”

  And from the rapid-fire conversation Chloe engaged her in, one would think the woman was on her third or fourth cup. Not the case. Just typical Chloe.

  “I was excited to get things rolling. Still so much to do, you know?”

  “Uh-huh . . .” Chloe mused skeptically. “And chipper on top of it all.” She swirled a finger in Sylvia’s direction. “Now I am deeply suspicious. Rosy cheeks. Sparkling blue eyes. And that smile . . . You don’t smile before ten a.m. What’s gotten into you that—Oh, my God!” Chloe gasped. “It’s not what has gotten into you, but who! Sylvia Rene Carter, you got laid last night!”

  Heat burst on Sylvia’s cheeks and raced up her neck at the thought of everything Seth Lofton had done to her in his big, gorgeous bed. But she tried to appear nonchalant. “I might have had an orgasm or two . . .”

  “Oh, you little slut! Spill all—immediately. If not sooner!”

  With another laugh, Sylvia said, “You won’t believe me if I tell you.” She propped her hip on one of the rungs and said, “But I’ll tell you anyway.”

  “Because Juicy is your middle name.”

  “Rene is my middle name. As you pointed out in such a motherly way.” Despite them being the same age, twenty-six. “And I have had absolutely nothing juicy to report in my life since . . . oh, geez—2013.”

  “Bobby Tyson, studly lifeguard, Huntington Beach.”

  “No, that was 2011, the guy that led into my two-year celibacy that was then remedied by Rad Carlton, bad-boy surfer, Cabo San Lucas.”

  “Ahhh, yes. Him.” She whistled under her breath in a yikes, we should erase that heartbreaker from our memories—stat! sort of way. “The catalyst for the Great Dry Spell of 2013–2016.”

  “Indeed. So I feel wholly justified to have dipped a toe in last night.”

  “From the shimmer in your eyes, girlfriend, something tells me it was more like a splash.”

  Exhilaration shot through Sylvia, making her shiver with delight. “Let’s just say that this man knows a thing or two about pleasing a woman.”

  “Yumm-eeee.” Chloe rubbed her hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Total eye sex across the room—and I just knew he was going to rock my world. Apparently, he did, too. Or so he said.”

  “Which, FYI, you were so in need of. So who is this God’s Gift to the Bedroom? There was a bed involved, right? Or just . . . some hard surface you were bent over? Or a shadowy corner where someone could have stumbled upon you two at any time—all hot and bothered and in a scandalously compromising position?”

  “As if!” Sylvia exclaimed. Then pursed her lips for a moment. “Well . . . there was the chance of that happening at first. And there was also the back of his condo door that I was pressed up against while he was kissing me like there was no tomorrow.”

  “Jesus. I wanted to hear this?” Chloe rolled her eyes and fanned her face.

  Sylvia said, “Then you will be thoroughly disappointed to hear he lit dozens of flames and we did it in, like, a double king-size bed.”

  “So already the guy has size issues.”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking.” Sylvia wiggled a brow. “Chiseled to perfection with all that goin’ on downstairs. I assure you, the custom-made bed was warranted.”

  “And who is this Magic Mike XXL? Do tell!”

  Sylvia drew in a long breath. Her pulse was a bit erratic and her clit tingled as she slowly exhaled and dropped her bombshell. “Seth Lofton.”

  “Jump back!” Chloe stared at her. Glared at her? As though Sylvia had just announced she’d solved world peace and had found the cure for cancer during one of her many orgasms—and her nose had just extended a foot Pinocchio style over her outrageous tale.

  Sylvia insisted. “Swear. To. God.”

  “Seth Lofton.” Chloe took a few seconds to digest. Then ventured, “As in . . . the guy who owns Bliss Mountain Ski Resort . . . the surrounding area . . . possibly the whole damn mountain?”

  “I believe he does own the whole damn mountain, yes.”

  “Geez, Louise.” Chloe let out a low whistle. “When you go big, you go for Olympic Gold.”

  “Well, he won the silver, actually. But World Champion status can be granted for what he did with his head between my thighs.”

  Chloe’s eyes popped.

  Sylvia shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

  “Total slut!”

  “Guilty as charged, my friend. Guilty as charged.”

  “This is just a side to you I am not used to seeing.” Chloe ha
nded over a cappuccino.

  “It was well-deserved and long overdue, let me tell you.”

  “Not denying it,” her friend said as she sipped from her own cup. “In fact, I’m glad you have something to obsess over other than work and the perfect paint job.”

  “Speak for yourself. I don’t see you chatting it up with any eligible Bayfront bachelors.”

  “Ah, but we’re not talking about me. I will say, however, that this is all very fortuitous. You were getting a wee too uptight with the whole all labels on our products must be facing a thirty-two-degree angle when placed on the glass shelves business.”

  “You know,” Sylvia said as she wagged a finger at her friend. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hating on the OCD.”

  “Oh, I am hatin’ on the OCD. Make no mistake.”

  Sylvia smirked.

  “But I still love you and am hopelessly devoted to you,” Chloe assured her. “Even when you follow along behind me and pick up after me.”

  “You do tend to leave a trail of coffee cup lids, trashy tabloid magazines, and Mentos wrappers in your wake.”

  “One should always have fresh, minty breath. Especially in the event Mr. Ri-hi-hight suddenly struts through the doors.” Chloe’s gaze was on the entrance down the hallway as the chime over the glass-and-wood-framed door rang. “Oh. My,” she murmured. “What is in this town’s water that makes these guys all so damn gor—hello,” she quickly came around and greeted their visitor with a smile.

  Sylvia craned her neck to get a good look from her spot along the far wall, just as a six-foot-something, dark-haired, devilishly handsome man emerged in the reception area.

  She bit back a gasp.

  Holy. Hell.

  What was in the Bayfront water, indeed!

  “Morning, ladies,” he said in a deep, intimate voice that seeped into Sylvia’s veins and heated her blood. In a heartbeat. “I see I popped into the right shop. I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the local coffee house.”

  His glowing tawny eyes were on Sylvia and they were lit with a hint of fiery orange around the rims that instantly mesmerized her. He wore all black—dress pants, sweater, leather jacket and boots. And he had the sort of powerful, commanding presence that not only set her pulse racing, but seemed to consume every square foot of the reception area. As though his very essence—and his highly arousing cologne—permeated the room and her senses. Rendering her speechless.