Dirty Rich Betrayal Read online

  DIRTY RICH BETRAYAL

  LISA RENEE JONES

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  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.lisareneejones.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Excerpt from Dirty Rich Obsession

  Also by Lisa Renee Jones

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mia

  I pull my rental car to the gate of Grayson Bennett’s beachside Hamptons mansion, and I stare at the keypad. The code won’t be the same. It’s been a year now. He would have changed the code and yet, instead of punching the call button, my hand trembles as I reach for the numbers. I key in the code I once used often and the gate begins to creep open. I grip the steering wheel, some part of me wanting to believe that Grayson left the code in place because he hoped I’d come back. Which is ridiculous. The man betrayed me. He never loved me. He hurt me, and yet here I am, about to stand on his doorstep and ask to come inside his home and domain.

  I pull the basic sedan that I picked up in the city to avoid a chopper service, and pull it around the circle drive, stopping on the opposite side of the house, where I park under my favorite willow tree. The minute I kill the engine, my heart thunders wildly in my chest. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am. I’m here. I’m doing this. I slide my purse over my head and across my chest to allow it to rest on my jean-clad hip. I’m not backing out now.

  I climb out of the car and into a gust of chilly late-October wind coming off the ocean. My light brown hair lifts, and the chill on my neck has me snuggling deeper into my light blue sweater. I inhale the fresh scent of the ocean, the taste of salt on my lips follows and so do the memories of this place, of me here with Grayson. I can’t believe how emotional this feels. Why can’t I just get over this man? I am over him. This is just me reacting to a time in my life when this man stole my every breath. It’s a part of me, just as he always will be.

  With that mantra in my mind, I hurry forward and rush up the stairs of the understated mansion with three steeples and wood siding. My chest pinches with the realization that the last time I was here, Grayson had just inherited it from his late- father, a man I loved and respected. A good man with exceptional taste and standards. Raymond Bennett did nothing less than perfect, this stunning house included.

  I stop at the door and reach for the bell, but my hand falls away, my lashes lowering, with the attack of memories that charge through my mind; the fight, the betrayal, the tears, so many gut-wrenching tears he didn’t deserve, but there is also so much more—the history. The way he made me feel like I was his world when obviously I wasn’t, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I can’t seem to forget him and standing here now, I can still smell his woodsy cologne and taste his passion and my God. My eyes pop open. What am I doing? I can’t be here.

  I should have just called.

  I turn and head down the stairs, but my attempted escape comes too late. The roar of an expensive engine sounds moments before a black Porsche Boxster, Grayson’s car of choice, circles the drive, and speeds toward me. I halt at the last step as he, in turn, halts the car directly in front of me. I hold my breath, preparing for the impact this man has always had on me, telling myself he won’t anymore. I’m not the same person I was when we were together. I’m stronger. I’m harder. I’m more jaded.

  I won’t melt for Grayson Bennett.

  He kills the engine and pops his door open, obviously not going into the garage. I’m here. He wants to know why. He unfolds himself and straightens all six feet three inches of his hard body, the wind catching in his thick, wavy dark hair, as my fingers often did in the past. He shuts his door, his unassuming, faded jeans and long-sleeved black T-shirt hugging every hard inch of a body that is just as perfect now at thirty-eight as it was at thirty-five when we met. Back when I was twenty-seven, his junior by eight years, and his wisdom and confidence inspired admiration and attraction in me.

  He saunters toward me, his stride easy, but no less predatory, while oozing power and grace. He stops in front of me, towering over me despite the step down I have yet to take. He’s close, so very close. My gaze sweeps the hint of gray in his neatly trimmed goatee that I like a little too much. My lashes lower, and I breathe out before I force myself to look at him, my stare colliding with his potent green eyes and even with all my inner dialogue about not reacting to him, I am. I feel every touch I’ve ever shared with this man right here, right now.

  “Mia,” he says softly, and I swear I feel his voice like a caress of his hand.

  “Grayson,” I say, and his name feels right and wrong on my tongue. So right. So wrong.

  “I didn’t expect you,” he says. “Ever.” There is a sudden coldness to his tone that stabs me like a knife.

  I’m an attorney and I’m good at my job. I maintain my control and I do it well, but I react now when I don’t want to react. “This was a mistake,” I say. “Forget I was here.” I step around him and off the stairs, but he catches my arm and turns me to face him. Heat radiates from his hand, up my arm, and over my chest and Lord help me, my nipples are hard.

  “There are many mistakes between us,” he says. “Don’t make coming here and backing out another one.”

  He’s right, but that’s my only thought. I can’t think when he’s touching me. I’ve never been able to think when this man touches me. “Can you not touch me, please?” I whisper.

  He releases me like I’ve burned him when he’s the one who burned me, his jaw hardening, his eyes icing. “Let’s go inside,” he says, motioning me forward, and I know this man. I still know him so very well. I hurt him just now. Why do I care that I hurt him? He practically took a knife and cut me open.

  And yet, I do. “Grayson,” I begin, not sure what I’m a
bout to say or if I’ll regret it, but he cuts me off.

  “Let’s go inside, Mia,” he orders, anger in the depth of his voice when he rarely allows anyone to see anger, but then, this is me and I was always the one that broke through all that steel and control. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just thought I did because nothing was what I thought it was with Grayson.

  I head up the stairs and he doesn’t pull the power play of following me. That’s not his style. He’s at my side, and we fall into step as we walk to the porch, giving me the façade of sharing control. You don’t share control with Grayson. You just think you do. That’s where I went wrong with this man. I thought I was different. I believed I shared control with him. I believed I shared a lot of things with him, but I didn’t. He owned me and the problem is that I wanted to be owned, but those days are over. He will never own me again.

  He opens his door, and I don’t know why I do it, but I look over at him and when his eyes meet mine, I do just what I said I wouldn’t do. I fall into the sweltering heat of our years of history and melt for this man in a way no other man has ever made me melt. I hate him. I love him. I hate him. And as if it somehow protects me from all that he is to me, I dart inside the foyer of his home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mia

  The past, two and a half years ago…

  I leave the first day of my job as an associate with my head spinning. The Bennett firm is a massive operation, expanding across the world, and even outside the legal profession, which I now know is driven by the heir-apparent son. Grayson Bennett apparently wants to rule the world and he’s succeeding. It’s exciting to have this much opportunity after being stuck in a small firm that had a ceiling, thanks to my finances forcing me to attend a small school part-time to get my law degree. Finally, I’ve opened doors to a better future. Finally, I have the chance to yank my father out of poverty in Brooklyn.

  Exiting the elevator, I start thinking about the case that I was put on today and how to approach winning. I need to have a plan that helps the partner I’m working under. I need to prove I can handle my own cases, the way I did at my prior firm. I hurry toward the exit and push through the glass doors on a mission. Home. Work. Research. I turn right and collide with a hard wall with such force it rattles my teeth.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp, as strong hands come down on my shoulders, while my hands have now settled on the broad chest of a man wearing an expensive three-piece suit. “I’m sorry. I was—” I lose that thought as I look up into his green eyes and my lips part in stunned shock. He’s gorgeous. Perfect. Overwhelmingly perfect.

  “No apology needed,” he says softly and oh so very intimately, or maybe I’m imagining that because come on. What girl doesn’t want this man to speak to her and only her? “In fact,” he adds. “I think this is the best part of my really crappy day.”

  I swallow hard. “I uh—don’t know how to reply to that.”

  The man to his right clears his throat. “We’ll meet you upstairs,” he says and only then do I even realize that this gorgeous man is standing in between two other men, but I don’t look at them. Not when he’s still looking at me and ignoring them. Not when his hands are still on my shoulders. The two men leave.

  “Have a drink with me later,” my newfound sexy stranger says, a push that is almost a command in his voice. He’s older than me, thirty-five I think, while I’m twenty-seven, and he radiates the kind of confidence I need to own myself. He’s no associate. He’s no subordinate to anyone and I like this about him.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I say.

  One corner of his really delicious mouth curves and he says, “You will tonight. If you show up. Meet me at Morrell Wine Bar at eight. You owe me the date for running into me, but I’ll buy the wine.” He reaches up and strokes my cheek. “You have beautiful blue eyes, by the way.” And then he leaves me there, stunned and warm all over.

  When I can finally walk again, I’m not sure what to do. He has to work for Bennett. Am I allowed to date a co-worker? I don’t even know. I hurry toward the subway, and I try to reason with myself. He might not work for Bennett. Maybe he’s just using their services. I haven’t dated in a year. I’ve been too busy. I’m too busy now, but—there is just something about that man. He’s inspiration for all I want and need to be. He owns who he is and what he is. You know this even without knowing him. I need to breathe that in, I need to have a glass of wine with that man.

  ***

  Grayson

  I’m packing up my office with one thing on my mind—the woman with the gorgeous blue eyes—when Eric walks in, his jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up to expose his tattooed arms. My father hates those tattoos, but then he doesn’t understand that Eric isn’t a master investor and project manager, because his father owns an empire that he walked away from. It’s because of the depth of his life experiences; and those tattoos represent years in the military while his Harvard degree is a product of the mastermind with numbers and strategy he’s proven himself to be over and over. More so, his honesty and character make him a friend I trust.

  “Your father is on a rampage,” he says. “He’s pissed about—well—everything.”

  “That usually means people get things done right next time.”

  “True,” he says. “Though I prefer your quiet intolerance.” I round the desk and he offers me a folder. “Those numbers you wanted on the building acquisition in Atlanta. They look good. I’d do it.”

  “Then we’ll do it. Make it happen.”

  “After you look at the numbers. We’re good because we see different things on paper. I don’t want to sign off until I know what you see.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  “You’re going to see that woman.”

  “I am.”

  “She’s a new associate.”

  I arch a brow. “You checked?”

  “Of course I checked. You’re a fucking heir to a billionaire who’s just made his own personal billion.”

  “With your help,” I concede, “we’ve both taken a chunk of change and turned it into a whole lot more for this place and ourselves. For me, that’s living up to my father’s expectations. For you, it’s a ‘fuck you’ to your father.”

  “And I want many more,” he says. “My job is to watch your ass. I emailed you her file and then some.”

  “I’m not going to look at that. I’ll know all I need to know when I’m with her.” I start walking. I’d suspected she might work for the company, which is exactly why I booked our meet-up in my apartment building, not the offices.

  “For the record,” Eric calls out behind me, “on paper she’s one of two things: the best thing that ever happened to you or the worst.”

  I stop at the door and look at him. “Sounds like the beginning of anything new.” I turn and exit the office, and I don’t even think about looking at that email. There is something about this woman that speaks to me. I can’t explain it, but I don’t want it ruined. I want it pure and I want to learn about her from her.

  My car service is waiting on me and in roughly ten minutes, I’m exiting in front of my Central Park building. I hand the doorman my briefcase and tip him well enough to have him ensure my bag makes it to my apartment safely. Nix is a good man, who’s been here the entire five years I have. I trust him. I always surround myself with people I trust, at every level.

  I enter the bar, which is an intimate location with low hanging lights, a triangle-shaped bar, and booths lining the walls. I don’t choose a booth. I head to the bar that allows me a view of the entire place and control. I also always choose control. I’ve barely sat down when the bartender sets my usual in front of me, an expensive whiskey they custom order for me. I’m not a man of extravagance by nature, but this whiskey is worth every dime I spend on it.

  She walks in before I even take a sip, still wearing the same navy-blue suit dress that while conservative and appropriate for wor
k, has a zipper that slides down the front. I noticed, but then I also noticed the tiny freckle on the corner of her eye. She looks around, scanning for me, and the curl of her fingers into her palms tells me she’s nervous. She spots me and inhales a telling breath. Yes, she’s nervous.

  She walks in my direction and I watch every step, admiring her long, slender legs and the sway of her hips. I want this woman. I want her naked. I want her beneath me and I want to know who and what she is, and I have to know. I am a man with much to lose and she is too close to me and my company for me to wade blindly into anything. She stops at the seat next to me.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say, finding her charming and sweet as few women strike me these days, and yet, intelligent. I see that in her eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

  She doesn’t attempt to sit down. “I almost didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a lot on the line. I can’t blow this job. I’ve been thinking about this and I need to know why you were at the Bennett building.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because I’m new there and I don’t want to break any rules. So, before I sit down, I need to know if I really should.”

  I am a man who doesn’t just like to trust people. I expect people to be honest. Because like my father, I’m honest, even when it makes my life harder. I like where she’s going so far, but that doesn’t mean my name won’t show a side of her I won’t like.

  I stand up and my hands go to her waist. I turn her, placing her back to the bar, my body pinning her to it. “I appreciate your desire to follow the rules. Bennett allows inter-office relationships because I don’t believe it’s realistic to believe people can work together seventy hours a week, in a company this big, and never cross that line. I simply expect that they handle it professionally and let HR know.”

  She blinks. “I’m confused. You believe and expect?”

  “What is your name?” I ask.

  “Mia,” she says, and like the good attorney she should be, she immediately circles back to her question. “I’m confused. You said—”