“Just decided last night,” I repeated, my stomach knotting. He’d left because of me. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Then he wasn’t going to give us a chance.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “How long will he be gone?”
Weston ran a hand through his hair. “Depends. He might just stay to handle the merger, which could be a month, two months? Or he might stay longer if he thinks that’s necessary. He has to read the situation when he gets there.”
He put his hands behind his head and leaned back, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. I’m guessing that means things aren’t going well between the two of you?”
I turned my head and stared out the transparent walls of his office so he wouldn’t see my lip tremble. “There isn’t anything between the two of us.”
“Come on, Bri. Don’t give me that bullshit. That’s coming from Donovan, not you.”
A day ago I’d have agreed. Even that morning I might have confessed more of the situation to Weston. But that was when I still had hope that something might change. That was before I knew for sure that Donovan had no interest at all in working anything out.
I met Weston’s eyes and said sincerely, “It’s the same answer coming from both of us.”
Standing up, I gathered the reports I’d brought in and headed out of the office. Before I got out the door, though, my curiosity got the better of me. “Weston, when Amanda died, did Donovan ever say he blamed himself for her accident?”
He tilted his head, thinking. “No. Not that I remember. Did he say that to you?”
I shrugged. “I think it was just survivor’s guilt.” It was pointless to wonder about this further. “But…” As pointless as it was, I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “Did he ever mention working with a P.I. back then?”
“He had a P.I. look into the accident?” Weston asked, misunderstanding me.
I didn’t bother to correct him. I was already sharing too much of Donovan’s secrets. “Something like that.”
“Never told me anything about it.”
I nodded. It was my cue to go.
Except I didn’t go. I took another step toward Weston. “If I wanted to try to talk to the detective…” Maybe if I saw the report myself. Or if I talked to the guy that he had hired, I could better understand why Donovan blamed himself.
It was stupid.
Because even if I could find the detective—unlikely since I had no name to go on and it had been more than eleven years since he’d been hired—and even if he could shed light on the accident, what did I think I’d do after that? Fly to France and demand that Donovan give a real relationship a chance?
Laughing silently at myself, I dismissed the idea. “Never mind. This is an impossible task. I don’t know why I’m asking.”
I started to leave again, but Weston stopped me. “You know, if Donovan did ever hire a P.I., he’d have hard copy records. He’s funny about the Internet with that kind of stuff. Hacking and privacy and all that. Which is why he uses more cabinet space than anyone in the building. It’s annoying as fuck.”
Ah, something else I didn’t know about Donovan. There was so much I didn’t know. Why I ever thought we’d be a good fit was beyond me.
I forced a smile anyway.
“Point is, I don’t know if he’d have anything that far back, but you could check his files. Let me get you a code to his office.”
It was useless—I’d already determined that.
But what if it wasn’t? What if there was something to find?
I waffled for several seconds. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to overstep.”
Weston winked. “If he didn’t want me to use it, he shouldn’t have given me his code.”
Weston was right—Donovan did have more cabinets than anyone else in the building. But it didn’t take me long to realize that most of them contained standard documents for the office, so I didn’t spend much time perusing them.
It was the two-drawer cabinet behind his desk that interested me because it was locked.
“I don’t suppose you have a key to the small file cabinet?” I asked Weston when he answered his phone.
“Sorry. I gave you everything I got.”
“It was worth a try.” I hung up the phone and swiveled back and forth in Donovan’s chair. My eyes landed on a picture on his bookshelf—the same one that I’d seen the first time I’d talked to him in his bedroom back at Harvard. It was a picture of him and Amanda, an engagement photo, I remembered thinking.
This was the woman he’d been obsessed with. The woman he’d been addicted to. The woman he’d loved.
I wanted to see it closer. Wanted to see her closer.
The photo was on a high shelf, so I couldn’t examine it well where it was. I reached up on my tippy toes to grab it and bring it out for a better look. As I pulled it down, I found the frame was loose, and something fell from the back.
A small, drawer-size key.
No. It was too coincidental.
I was already laughing at myself, but I had to try it. I walked over to the cabinet and slipped the key in the hole. I turned it and tried the top drawer.
It opened.
It was wrong to look through his files—I knew that before I put the key in the lock. This wasn’t like Weston giving me the code to the office. This was crossing the line. This was going through Donovan’s personal things, and I’d pretty much convinced myself that I wasn’t going to actually look at any of his files. I just wanted to see if the key fit and all.
But once the drawer was open, the label on the very first file caught my eye. And now I couldn’t stop looking because it said in black, bold letters: LIND, SABRINA.
The folder was thick, and it definitely wasn’t an employee file. Those, I knew for a fact, were kept in HR. There was no reason for Donovan to have a file on me. So why did he?
With my heart pounding, I pulled it out of the drawer and carried it to the desk. I sat down and opened it up.
Inside, there were pages and pages of information on me. All kinds of information. My transcripts from college were there. A copy of my rental lease for my first apartment in California. Another document appeared to be an invoice from the headhunter who had found me my job at NOW in Los Angeles. The bill, it appeared, had been paid for by Donovan Kincaid.
There was more. So much more. Candid photos of me over the years. Copies of articles I’d had published in various marketing magazines. Receipts for security installations in places I’d lived. An itemized list of all the things the movers had packed up from my house and moved to New York City on Reach’s dime.
And then there were the papers regarding Theodore Sheridan, a slim stack of court documents that showed he was serving time for a sexual assault. The date showed he’d been prosecuted three years ago. There were invoices from the victim’s attorney. These were also paid for by Donovan.
It took me almost half an hour to go through everything in the file. When I finished, I sat back in the chair, my skin tingling, my chest tight, my mind buzzing.
There was too much to think about. Too many emotions to sort through. I didn’t know where to begin, and even if I figured that out, I sure as hell didn’t know where to go from here.
But, as messed up and confused as I felt, there were two things I now understood without a doubt about Donovan Kincaid.
Number one—this was what he meant when he said he got obsessed with women he loved.
Number two—Donovan was in love with me.
Epilogue
“Can I get you anything, sir?”
The stewardess was attractive. Big tits and blonde hair. Barbie doll attractive. Not beautiful like Sabrina. I’d never used this stewardess before. Flying last minute like that, I took what I could get.
“I’ll have a scotch, neat. Nothing else.” I added the last part, hoping she’d get the hint that I didn’t want to be bothered. It was a long flight to Paris, and she was the kind o
f woman who liked to think that meant it was okay to get cozy.
“Yes, sir.” She gave me the kind of coy, innocent look that only the dirtiest women know how to give. That one was going to be trouble. I was already planning for it.
To be honest, there was a time when I might have taken her up on whatever I was sure she was going to offer, though I preferred to be the one doing the propositioning. But I didn’t have an interest in it anymore. Not when I could still taste Sabrina on my lips. Not when I could still feel the weight of her pleas tugging at my chest.
The stewardess brought me my drink, and I thanked her with enough of a growl to set her scampering. I took a hard swallow, letting the burn dull all other feeling. Then I pulled out my phone and loaded up the only picture I kept of Sabrina on my cell. I had hundreds of her, sure, but this one I’d taken myself, while she’d been sleeping in my bed. It was my favorite. She was naked, the sheet only pulled up to her waist, but what made it special was that she was curled up in my arms.
It was the only picture that had ever been taken of us together.
If I wanted to keep her safe, there would never be another one again.
“We’re ready for takeoff, Mr. Kincaid, as soon as you are.”
I looked up to see the pilot standing in front of me, waiting for my command.
I wasn’t ready to leave her. I’d never be ready.
But I knew what I had to do.
After finishing off my scotch in a single swallow, I nodded to the pilot. “Let’s go.”
Donovan and Sabrina’s story concludes in Dirty Filthy Rich Love. Preorder it now.
Up next for Laurelin Paige, with Sierra Simone, Hot Cop!
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You have the right to remain sexy.
Anything you say can and will be used to get you in my bed.
You have the right to use my body to give yourself a delirious, life-changing orgasm.
If you have trouble...don’t worry, I’m a bit of an expert in that department.
There’s nothing ‘thin’ about my blue line, if you catch my drift, and trust me, I know how to put those handcuffs to good use.
Preorder Hot Cop now to make sure you have it on release day!
Also by Laurelin Paige
The Dirty Universe
Dirty Filthy Rich Men (Dirty Duet #1) (March 27, 2017)
Dirty Filthy Rich Love (Dirty Duet #2) (September 11, 2017)
Dirty Filthy Fix (a spinoff novella) (November 7, 2017)
Dirty Sexy Player (a spinoff novel) (Early 2018)
The Fixed Universe
Fixed on You (Fixed #1)
Found in You (Fixed #2)
Forever with You (Fixed #3)
Fixed Trilogy Bundle (all three Fixed books in one bundle)
Hudson (a companion novel)
Free Me (a spinoff novel – Found duet #1)
Find Me (Found duet #2)
Chandler (a spinoff novel)
Falling Under You (a spinoff novella)
First and Last
First Touch
Last Kiss
Written with Kayti McGee under the name Laurelin McGee
Hot Alphas
Miss Match
Love Struck
Written with Sierra Simone
Porn Star
Hot Cop (Coming Summer 2017!)
Acknowledgments
Donovan Kincaid and Sabrina are characters that gnawed at me and fought to have their story told in ways that no other characters have before. I think I would have gone crazy with their pestering if I hadn’t gotten the chance to sit down and write this, and I absolutely wouldn’t have been able to work on this book without the help and input and support of so many people. I’ll try to name them here the best I can.
First and foremost, I have to acknowledge Billy Wilder and Samuel A. Taylor for writing the play Sabrina Fair and then gush over Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart for starring in my favorite romantic classic movie, Sabrina. This story was the inspiration for Dirty Filthy Rich Men. I hope I didn’t dishonor it with my own twisted version of events.
To Sierra Simone for rolling and fussing and going through the death process with me on a daily basis. It probably doesn’t get any better. But, hey! It probably doesn’t get any worse! At least there’s Donovan. Thank you for loving him enough to make me want to keep writing him.
To Roxie Madar for being an absolute candle in a dark time. And for loving D and telling me what I did “wrong” with no hesitation. Maybe we should be looking in New Zealand instead of Australia…
To Liz Berry for always knowing just what to say and how to say it, and for telling me to write that epilogue. It was the right choice. Thank you, my friend.
To Kayti McGee—Donovan came in the way of Screwmates, and for that I will always feel guilt. But I love you so much for understanding and knowing what I needed to be doing instead. You carried our baby well to the end. I’m proud of you, Mama.
To Melanie Harlow for reading early and saying all those nice things that made me feel so special and amazing. Pretty girl attention always feels good, but Melanie Harlow attention is indescribable. You make me warm and gooey inside, you cold-hearted bitch.
To Ashley for being my keeper and my jouster and my friend. I’ll likely always tell you that you’re wrong. Thankfully you’ve realized that isn’t a deal breaker, and, besides, you’re getting really good at convincing me otherwise.
To Rebecca Friedman for everything you are. You’re my soulmate, and I love you pretty damn hard. To Flavia Viotti and Meire Dias for promoting and pimping and supporting and loving my books. And for just being the best people on Earth.
To Jenn Watson for having a great ass. I meant for having great ideas. (And a great ass.) Also to Social Butterfly PR. What a wonderful company. I’m so glad to be a part of it!
To Candi Kane and Melissa Gaston for keeping me from falling apart. You are both incredible, talented, insightful women and I’m so lucky to know you and work with you. Thank you so much for being part of my team.
To Lauren Blakely, Christine Reiss and Kristy Bromberg for talking me off ledges and teaching me how to do my job all the time. I’m useless without you gals. And for the friendship. It means so much in this crazy world we’ve found ourselves in.
To ShopTalkers and FYW and FUNK and WRAHM and Order and all the women and authors who engage and share and teach me on a daily basis. I appreciate you more than you could know.
To the members of the Sky Launch—I love you ladies so much! You thrill me and excite me with your enthusiasm. Please keep sharing your love for books and romance. I enjoy watching you—especially the men you post.
To all the bloggers and readers who read and share and review and message—I wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for you. Thank you. Everyday, everyday, thank you.
To my most favorite people—my husband, Tom, and my three littles (who aren’t so little anymore). We’re a messy bunch, but we fit together, and I’m glad I have you. We’ll get through. I promise.
To my God who sees what I don’t see and knows what I don’t know and gives me every breath I breathe. Help me remember that you’re only always as far away as air.
About the Author
Laurelin Paige is the NY Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Fixed Trilogy. She's a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy any time there's kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn't seem to complain, however. When she isn't reading or writing sexy stories, she's probably singing, watching Game of Thrones and
The Walking Dead, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She’s also a proud member of Mensa International, though she doesn’t do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio.
@laurelinpaige
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