Filthy Rich

by Julie Kriss

  His jaw flexed. “I’ve been avoiding you because in Chicago, I wanted to fuck you raw. That’s why I left. That’s why I’ve stayed away from you.”

  The words hung there, stark and dirty. I couldn’t breathe.

  “You wanted it, too,” Aidan said. “You can say you didn’t, but you would be lying. Now who’s pretending that problems don’t exist?”

  My lips parted. I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to say, because I couldn’t lie. Not now. Not to Aidan.

  I put the book away and rubbed my hand over my face. “Aidan, we have a problem.”

  “It’s only a problem if you quit.”

  “We can’t work like this.”

  “We can, because you’re not going anywhere.”

  I dropped my hand and shook my head. “I don’t see how it can work. We can barely be in the same room. How are we supposed to work together? It’s better if I leave.”

  His voice was a growl. “You are not leaving.”

  “It isn’t because I want to,” I admitted. “I don’t. I like the job. I like the company. I even like you, when you’re not being an ass.”

  “I’m rarely an ass.” He sounded so fucking sure.

  I looked up at him, at his gorgeous face in the shadows of the darkened office. I’d missed his face. I could admit it. Seeing Aidan was one of the things I looked forward to every day. The first thing I looked forward to every day, to be honest. Not setting eyes on him for too long had made me unsettled and cranky.

  And now, if I left, I wasn’t going to see him anymore. Not ever again, unless I looked him up in the tabloids.

  “Samantha,” he said gently, as if he was reading my mind.

  “Do you know what I think?” I said, the honesty coming out of me again. What did I have to lose? “I think that if you and I were different people, in another place, in another lifetime, this story would have had a different ending.”

  Aidan blinked, something flitting behind his dark eyes. “Different people,” he said.

  “Yes.” I looked away, thinking of the book in my bag, of the characters. I felt my cheeks go hot again. “If we were just… someone else. Both of us. But we’re not.”

  He was quiet for so long that I looked at him again. To my surprise, he didn’t look angry anymore. Instead, there was a spark of something devilish in his eyes.

  “What?” I said.

  “We can be,” he replied. “Different people, I mean.”

  I thought of the book again. Then I remembered my real life, the one I lived every day. It was a nice dream to be someone else, but it wasn’t possible. “We can’t be different people,” I said. “Not forever.”

  Aidan’s voice was almost harsh. “Who said anything about forever? We’ll do what the book suggests. You and me. But not you and me at all.”

  It hit me, what he was saying. What he was suggesting. One Night With the Devil. The idea started deep in my belly, like fire, and then my whole body felt warm.

  Being someone else—someone entirely different—for a little while. One night. With Aidan. Was that the game?

  One Night with the Devil.

  We were silent for a long moment, looking at each other. I knew he could see my flushed skin, my dilated pupils. I knew he could hear my hurried breath. I’d had so many fantasies about sex with a stranger. If we did this, it would be like living out the fantasy. Except the stranger would be Aidan.

  I could think of a million reasons it was a bad idea. But I still couldn’t think of a way to resist.

  “It would have to be… for a little while,” I said at last. “And then it would end, and we’d be ourselves again.”

  “Agreed.” Aidan’s voice was low and quiet now. He said one more word. “Tomorrow.”

  Saturday. I had no plans, except to sit home with my dirty book and fantasize. Why do that when I could do the real thing? “Yes,” I said.

  Aidan nodded. He lifted a hand and touched his finger to my jaw—just the lightest brush, as if he couldn’t help himself. It lit my skin like fire.

  “Wait for my instructions,” he said, and then he was gone.

  Eighteen

  Aidan

  * * *

  I was strangely calm, all things considered. I went home to my penthouse and changed into my workout clothes. I went to the gym in my building and did my usual routine of running and weights, pushing myself until I felt my muscles rip. Then I went back to my place, drank a protein shake, and showered.

  I hadn’t planned the idea I’d sprung on Samantha, but as soon as it surfaced in my brain I knew it was right. Don’t get me wrong—the idea of the two of us shedding our identities in order to fuck was screwed up, and many people would likely disapprove. But it was the right idea for Samantha and me. I’d seen the certainty of that reflected in her eyes.

  I liked to be with strangers. It seemed she liked the same thing.

  Except this plan had a built-in failsafe. We already knew each other and—I hoped, at least—somewhat liked each other. We’d had three months of familiarity and a buildup of trust. For me, I wasn’t risking a night that I likely wouldn’t truly enjoy, with a woman who might demand more than I was willing to offer. And Samantha? She had more to risk than I did. A night with the wrong stranger could be embarrassing or humiliating at best, dangerous at worst. Women walked a tightrope that men never had to think about. With the plan I’d laid down, Samantha would get to play, yet know she was safe at the same time.

  And she’d obviously liked the idea.

  I wasn’t too worried she would get cold feet and change her mind. Samantha was nothing if not smart, confident, and brave. She wasn’t a pleaser and I’d never seen her waffle over a decision. She had a cool determination that most women would give a limb to have, which was one of the many reasons she was at the top of her profession. And in a work setting, I very much admired her calm.

  Saturday night, though, I planned to break it.

  I had come out of the shower and was drying myself off when my phone rang. It was the private detective I’d hired to look into the Egerton brothers.

  “I got the payment,” he said when I answered. “Thanks for being so prompt. It’s what makes you one of my best customers.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, scrubbing the towel over my hair and dropping it on the bed.

  “You sure you don’t need anything else? There were definitely a few unexpected pieces in the info I found. I can keep digging if you want.”

  “No,” I told him. “I’m done. I’m going to drop it.”

  “Really? That isn’t like you. I got the idea this was some kind of revenge thing.”

  “It was, but I’ve thought better of it now. I’m going to let the matter rest.”

  He sounded disappointed. Some of the tidbits he’d found really were juicy. “If you say so, Aidan. What are you now, forty? I think you’re getting soft in your old age.”

  “I’m thirty-four, and fuck off.”

  He laughed. “Have a nice weekend.”

  “I plan to.” I hung up and looked at the phone.

  I had lied when I said I was going to drop it. I had no intention of doing any such thing, but I didn’t want his services anymore. It doesn’t pay to have any one person know too much about you, especially if you’re hiring them. People you’re paying can always be bought by a higher bidder. It isn’t a fault of theirs, it’s just the way people are. You can’t buy loyalty, which plenty of ancient kings and current Mafia dons could probably tell you.

  However, you don’t need paid loyalty when you have friends like mine. I thumbed through my numbers and dialed Alex.

  “Howdy,” he said in a fake Texas accent when he answered, because he knew it sounded absurd and that it drove me crazy. I pictured him back in Dallas, sitting in his top-floor apartment, alone like I was.

  “Are you bored?” I asked him.

  “Always,” he replied. “Tell me you’re going to amuse me.”

  “I have a side
project if you’re willing to take it.”

  Alex knew me well, so it took him only a beat to catch on. “Does this have something to do with the Egerton brothers?”

  “Bingo.”

  “You gave a good impression in Chicago of having moved past being angry about that.”

  “I’m an excellent actor when I need to be.”

  “Damn, you are cold.” He sounded pleased. I heard him take a sip of something. “Go ahead.”

  Here’s the thing: Alex was the only one of us with a prison record. He wasn’t a career criminal, but he did have a certain willingness to cross lines that the rest of us couldn’t or wouldn’t cross. He knew people the rest of us didn’t know. Even as a teenager, Alex knew things like how to hotwire a car or how to spot an undercover cop patrolling our shitty neighborhood. He knew which guys on which corners sold what, even though none of us ever bought anything. When we first rented our apartment together all of us were underage, which meant none of us wanted to get caught up in the system. Knowledge was power, and Alex had a natural talent for the right kind of knowledge.

  “I’m going to forward you the report I got,” I told him. “There are a lot of details, but the basics are that the Egerton brothers possibly stole the original code for their stupid, multimillion-dollar app from a rival six years ago.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Alex asked.

  “Probably because you have an IQ to speak of.”

  “That’s information that could make their investor value tank right before their IPO.”

  “Certain people would see it that way, yes.”

  “And where is the former rival now?”

  “That’s the funny thing. At first he tried to sue. It got pretty far, but then the case was dropped. No settlement or legal agreement. It was just dropped and the man moved to Florida.”

  “Maybe he likes beaches and malls. I hear it’s beautiful there.”

  “Maybe a thirty-year-old programmer is a little out of place amongst the retirees.”

  “Sounds like an interesting theory. Why don’t you pay your investigator to dig him up?”

  “Because I don’t completely trust him,” I replied. “Because this has to be done right, which means no leaks. Because I want this guy dug up, and I don’t really care what means are used.”

  Alex took another sip of whatever alcohol he was drinking. “Let me get this straight, Aidan. You’re asking me to leave my very important position brokering deals for Tower VC and go to Florida, so you can take completely insane revenge on two guys who made comments about your assistant’s ass.”

  “And her pussy,” I said, because I was still pissed about it. “Otherwise yes, you’re correct. Come on, Alex. Doing oil and ranching deals has you bored out of your mind. You want a challenge.”

  He was quiet for a second, and then he said, “What I want, apparently, is some alligator repellant and a mosquito net.”

  I smiled to myself in triumph. “Thank you. Enjoy yourself.”

  “You know, you’re right. I probably will. What do we tell the others?”

  Dane and Noah weren’t going to be brought in on this little scheme. Not until it was already over. “I’ll convince them you’re on vacation,” I said.

  Alex snorted. “Good luck with that, but that’s your problem. I’m off to buy some SPF 50.”

  After I hung up, I had a brief moment of second thoughts. Samantha likely wouldn’t approve of what I was doing. Not that she had any affection for the Egerton brothers, but she wasn’t the type of person to take out a long, protracted, expensive revenge.

  I was.

  I’d told her I wasn’t a very good person.

  Besides, it didn’t matter. Tomorrow, we weren’t going to be ourselves anyway.

  I picked up my phone and texted her. Jacques Bar, 10:20 p.m.

  I had told her to wait for my instructions, and here they were. Bossy and a little imperious. I’d made the time puzzlingly specific in order to throw her off her game.

  There was an agonizing minute in which I got no response, and then another. Finally, a single word came through by text:

  Yes

  I smiled and tossed my phone down. The game was on.

  Nineteen

  Samantha

  * * *

  Jacques Bar, 10:20 p.m.

  I swiped the wand of mascara over my lashes, leaning close to the mirror. When I was finished I stood straight and studied the finished product.

  My dress was black, knee length, sleeveless, fitted. It was snug in the bodice with a low, square neckline, the suggestion of corset-like curves at my waist. There was a slit three inches up my left thigh and the whole thing fit me like a glove. It was a dress that cost more than even my considerable salary allowed, but today I had bought it anyway.

  I’d accessorized it with a silver necklace, silver bracelets, and black heeled mules. I’d bought an expensive sapphire ring, and I put it on the third finger of my right hand. I had my hair up in the back, with large pieces drifting down in front and framing my face. Dark, smoky liner around my eyes. Understated gloss on my lips.

  I never looked like this. I could dress properly, and I usually did, but this… this was entirely different. The dress, the hair, the ring—all of it was classy, yet somehow it was showy at the same time. The sort of look that said I’m a very rich woman, so rich I buy what I want. And although I had a good job now, I had come from very humble beginnings, so that woman was not me.

  My smoke-lined eyes kept drawing my attention in the mirror. I was a professional, and though I never went out in public without makeup, I always kept it understated. Years of working for CEOs had taught me never to give anyone in the office the wrong impression. Too-short skirts gave the wrong impression, as did too-low tops and too-high heels. And fuck-me eye makeup definitely gave the wrong impression. So I never wore it.

  But I was wearing it tonight. I was wearing all of it. And I felt… perfect. Free.

  I flipped off the bathroom light and picked up my small purse. At the door of my condo, I paused for just the briefest second as the doubts came in.

  He’s not going to be there.

  He was joking.

  He was horny and not serious.

  He doesn’t think like you do, doesn’t want you the same way you want him.

  He’s going to stand you up. On Monday it will be awkward, he’ll apologize, and both of you will pretend it never happened.

  It was a test, just to see if you would do it. A dare, that’s all.

  This isn’t going to work.

  And most of all, again: He’s not going to be there.

  The Jacques was one of the classiest and most expensive bars in the city, attached to a five-star hotel on the Upper East Side called the Lowell. I had never been there. To be stood up at the Jacques, after I’d spent a good percentage of my paycheck, would be embarrassing. Humiliating, even.

  But the game was already in motion. If Aidan Winters—or whoever he was tonight—was going to stand me up, I would find out in the next twenty minutes. Taking a breath, I left my place and locked the door behind me.

  It was ten o’clock p.m.

  It was a beautiful bar. It was small enough to be intimate, large enough that couples could sit at the tables and talk without being overheard. The maitre d’ gave me a nod and a smile as I entered and told him I was going to have a drink at the bar. At first I thought he must recognize me from somewhere, but then I realized it was the dress. In the dress I looked like I belonged here.

  There was only one available seat at the bar. I let my eyes sweep once across the backs of the other customers—he wasn’t here—and then I sat, silently admiring the dark brown and gold finishes, the subtle lights, the impeccable white jacket and black tie of the bartender. When he asked what I wanted, I ordered a martini. When he gave it to me I sipped it, letting the place soothe my excited nerves.

  It was understated, but the other patrons here were rich. I worked for rich people, and I kn
ew them when I saw them. I also knew people who wore their wealth like a well-worn old coat, one they were comfortable in and never took off. Somewhere in their logical minds, these people knew that wearing a three-thousand-dollar blouse wasn’t real life for most people, but deep down it didn’t compute. It was real for them, and that was all that mattered.

  They weren’t obnoxious, and they didn’t show off. Couples, most of them older, sat talking quietly, and a couple groups of suited men had quiet, intense conversations. Probably deciding the financial fate of the world as they sipped whiskey. Or maybe they were just talking about golf.

  No one looked twice at me. No one told me I didn’t belong, that it would be best if I left. Even the bartender, who likely knew most of these people by name, didn’t give me the side-eye. I had spent years studying, and as a result I played my part well.

  But it was ten twenty-five, and I was still alone. Then ten twenty-seven. Ten twenty-nine.

  The sixtyish couple sitting next to me at the bar paid their tab, got up, and left. A man slid into the open seat beside me. And just like that, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Because I knew that scent. I knew that man.

  “Bourbon,” he said to the bartender, his voice in that one word going down my spine.

  My heart did a little spin of triumph, but I tamped it down and tried to get into character. I could do this. I was almost completely in control when I let myself glance at him, just once, the way I would glance at a stranger. I had to look away in shock.

  Aidan wasn’t wearing black. He was wearing a dark blue four-button suit with a white shirt and a tie of lighter blue. The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie was loosened an inch, as if he were unwinding from work. He was clean-shaven and his dark hair was mussed. A gold watch I had never seen before glinted on his wrist. I had never seen my boss wear anything but black, and the effect was startling, as if he were a different man.

  That was the idea. I had to think of him as a stranger. The blue suit made it easy, just as I hoped my dress and makeup made it easier for him. I smiled privately to myself as I sipped my martini. For once, I was wearing black and he wasn’t. The switch was delicious.