Dirty Rich Secrets Part Three Read online

  “Give me what I want, and I’ll let you live,” I counter.

  “That’s not how you work. We both know it. Release me. Let me clean up my mess, or better yet, help me clean up. Then we’ll—”

  I snap her neck and let her fall to the ground as Savage comes in through the window. “Alright then. I guess she gave you what you wanted?”

  “I know where she keeps her treasures,” I say. “She just didn’t know I knew.”

  “Then why’d you even mess with her?”

  “I wanted a read on her,” I say, bending down to grab her cellphone, which I scan for calls. There’s one to an unknown number that I’m guessing was Mick.

  “And I guess you got it?” Savage asks.

  “She was buying time,” I say. “She called in help, which means she planned to go to Mick and fuck me over again, and that we’re about to have company.”

  I walk to her bathroom, stepping up on the toilet seat. I hit a button that looks like a screw by the vent above me, and it opens. Inside, I find a box, which I pull out and then hop down. “Let’s go,” I say. “Before Mick’s men get here.”

  “Mick is on his way personally, per our team.”

  My lips quirk. “Interesting.” The front door bursts open with what is clearly a forced entry. My eyes meet Savage’s, and my message is clear. He can stay and fight with me or leave through the window. He smirks and draws his weapon. I shove the box in my hand under the bed.

  Thirty seconds later, we’re battling a half dozen men. Another sixty seconds after that and Savage and I are the only two standing. “Fun and love, man,” he says. “Fun and love. I love this shit, and love is fun. But where the hell is Mick?”

  “I’m right here.”

  I turn to find the big brawny man, I used to consider a friend, standing in the doorway. “I turned everyone you trusted against you,” he says. “Even your beloved mentor. He fell for a woman, just like you have. I threatened her. I protected her. He died to save her. Now, you can do the same. Kill yourself, and she lives.”

  That’s all I need to hear. I know how big this is. I know how dangerous this is. I know he means what he’s saying. So I do just what he wants: I pull my gun, and I shoot him dead.

  Savage steps to my side. “Look, man. I’m glad he’s dead, but that was kind of anti-climactic. I wanted the assassins’ battle, two warriors beating each other’s asses. Lights. Cameras. Action.”

  I ignore him and walk to Mick, squatting down to search his body, finding nothing, not even a wallet. Savage calls his team and says, “Move in,” allowing a search and seizure of the house where Mick has been operating. But they won’t find anything. Mick is too smart for that. But Nicole is too smart to have nothing on Mick. I walk back into the bedroom, grab the box I’d found in her ceiling and open it. There, I find photos and documents that prove Mick to be the spy that he was. I also find a passport with my name on it and Mick’s photo.

  I will soon be free of all charges.

  Ashley will soon be free, too. Free to stay or to go. Free to leave me. Free to live the life she’d chosen before I chose her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ashley…

  Aaron doesn’t return that night. I practice shooting. I pace. I practice some more. It’s midnight when there’s a knock on my door at Savage’s place, and I yank it open to find the man himself. “He’s safe. Nicole’s dead. Mick’s dead. Aaron was flown to CIA headquarters for debriefings. It happened suddenly. They stripped his communication devices. He’s safe, though, and so are you.”

  “How do you know he’s safe?” I ask, a nervous wreck all over again. “The CIA believed he was a traitor. They kill people. What if they kill him?”

  “We got the proof needed to clear his name.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “When they’re done with him. He said to give you this.” He hands me an envelope.

  I accept it and stare at my name written on the front in Aaron’s writing. “You can stay here as long as you like,” Savage says. “Stay until he comes for you.” He eyes the note in my hand. “You gonna read that?”

  “Alone,” I reply.

  “Ah. So, get lost, Savage. Got it.” He backs away, and I shut the door, ripping open the envelope and reading:

  It’s over. You’re free. I’m including the key to your freedom. Take the money it leads you to and then choose. Start over or wait on me, and we’ll start over together. Just remember this. There was no one but you before I ever met you. There was no one but you after I met you, and there never will be. If you wait on me, I can’t promise you there will never be danger again. You know what my life will always be. At least, now I know that you are free to choose how to live, with me or without me. I love you.

  —Aaron

  ***

  Four weeks later…

  A million dollars and an address. That’s what I found in the lockbox.

  Huddling into my jacket, I stand on the North Carolina beachfront and stare out at the ocean, waves crashing onto the shore, the sun setting low over the sea. It’s been a month since I threatened to shoot Aaron over another woman. A month since I touched him. A month since I kissed him. A month since he disappeared. A month that I’ve waited for his return, worried that he’ll never come back. I decide, right now, that I will wait another week, and if he’s not back, then it will be time to decide, time to accept that he may not come back. My heart hurts with the idea, and I turn back to the house, ready to go inside. Ready to be anywhere but on a beach alone.

  I make the short walk to the porch and reach the bottom of the stairs when I notice the curtains blowing inside the house, across the sliding glass door. I shut the door and I reach behind me to grab the gun in my waistband that is now my best friend, and freeze as Aaron steps through the curtains on to the porch: tall and gorgeous in black jeans and a T-shirt. I have to blink to ensure it’s him.

  “Aaron?”

  “Noah, baby. Noah to you.”

  Relief washes over me mixed with joy and urgency. I’m up the steps and in his arms in about ten seconds. He grabs me, holds me, then cups my head and kisses me, and the taste of him is familiar and right, in every possible way. “Tell me you’re here to stay,” I order against his mouth. “Tell me—”

  “I’m here to stay. I agreed to do one last job for the CIA, and they agreed to set me free. I’m free. You’re free.”

  “I didn’t mean what I said to you before you left. I know you didn’t want Nicole. I know we’re what matters. I was scared and insecure and—”

  “I didn’t tell you because she didn’t matter. You are what matters.” And then he’s on a knee, holding a box, and opening the lid to expose my stunning Princess cut diamond, the one that sealed our fate together a year before.

  “Will you, knowing all you know about me, knowing we will always be one step from war, marry me, Ashley?”

  Tears pool in my eyes. “Yes. Yes. Yes. I want to be your wife.”

  He slides the ring on my finger and stands up, cupping my face. “And I want to be your husband.”

  He kisses me, and I’m lost and found in this man, now and forever. I will be his wife. I will fight by his side. And no one, not even him, will ever take my gun away. Because I’m ready to fight for me and for him, forevermore.

  THE END

  ***

  What’s next for me?

  October 22nd—Love Kills (the fourth Lilah Love book)

  October 29th—Tangled Up in Christmas (a standalone Texas heat novel)

  November 19th—Two Together (the final book in the Naked Trilogy)

  December 17th—Savage Hunger (the beginning on Savage’s own trilogy)

  Keep reading for chapter one from TANGLED UP IN CHRISTMAS, chapter one from my NAKED TRILOGY and information about the SAVAGE TRILOGY!

  ***

  Don’t forget, if you want to be the first to know about upcoming books, giveaways, sa
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  READY FOR A COWBOY ROMANCE?

  I’M RELEASING A STANDALONE, CONTEMPORARY COWBOY ROMANCE ON OCTOBER 29TH! YOU CAN PRE-ORDER TANGLED UP IN CHRISTMAS ON ALL PLATFORMS NOW!

  THIS IS THE SECOND STANDALONE BOOK IN THE TEXAS HEAT SERIES—THE FIRST BOOK: THE TRUTH ABOUT COWBOYS IS AVAILABLE IN EBOOK AND MASS MARKET EVERYWHERE!

  CHAPTER ONE OF TANGLED UP IN CHRISTMAS

  Hannah…

  I sit next to “Joe from Houston” on my flight to Dallas. Joe, a mid-thirties guy who might be nice enough if he didn’t use the gap between his teeth as a resource to spew inappropriate remarks my direction. In the hours since we boarded the same flight in Los Angeles, his efforts to acquire my phone number have gotten less and less restrained, his crude remarks making it quite clear that’s not all he wants. I’m not sure what that says about where I’m at in my life right now, probably not much, but starting over at twenty-eight, well, that’s another story. One I don’t wish to live, but I am.

  The wheels hit the runway, and I stare out the window, wondering if Texas still smells like queso, margaritas, and hot cowboys to me, as it once had. I fear not, though. I know not. The day I moved away to Los Angeles, right out of college, I stepped beyond those distractions and others. Distractions like Roarke Frost, the man who ripped out my heart and shattered it, and did so at a time when I needed him more than ever.

  But I didn’t need him, I remind myself. I made it on my own and quite well, at least until now. Now my plane has just pulled up to the gate, and as soon as the pilot winds down the engines, I’m in knots, wishing I was back in Los Angeles. Maybe that makes me a coward, hiding from the past, but nevertheless, that’s what I feel. Only there’s nothing back there for me. My famous photographer boss is in trouble, and I’m blacklisted right along with him. My dream job is no more. And since the cost of living in LA is more nightmare than dream, and my studio apartment above his studio is now under siege by the bank, home sweet home is all there is for me.

  It’s time to deplane, and my heart thrums in my ears. Joe from Houston is speaking to me, but I don’t hear many of the words coming out of his mouth. “You make cowgirls look good,” Joe says, and yes, I heard that and what follows. “How about that number? I can show you how good over dinner.”

  This will be my first time on Texas soil in six years. I’m not spending one night with this man. “I’m on my way to Whataburger,” I say. “And that’s a religious experience that requires I go alone.”

  He blinks. “Religious experience?”

  “Joe from Houston, if you’re from Texas and don’t know that Whataburger is a religious experience, you and I should break up before we ever get together.” We’re now deplaning, and he stands up. I do the same, grab my purse, and dart forward in front of him, praying I can escape him as we exit.

  Nervous energy overtakes me and I slide the strap of my purse across my chest because I do. Because it’s something to do as I wait my turn to exit. Soon, too soon, and somehow not soon enough, I’m walking up the ramp and darting in between people to avoid Joe from Houston. This mission actually aids in my mental state, keeping it focused on the task at hand, not the past, not the return to a home that is no longer home. I clear the waiting area and turn left with one goal: the bathroom, but I make it a few more steps and stop. My camera. Oh my God, I left my camera on the plane. A really expensive camera. My only really expensive camera. I can’t afford to launch an event planning business, as I hope to, and replace that camera.

  Panic ensues and I race back toward the plane, running right into Joe. “She came back. I knew she would.”

  “Move, Joe. Move now or I swear I will knee you for every woman who you ever talked to the way you talked to me on that plane, and I am so not joking right now.”

  His eyes go wide, and he quickly releases me. I take off running, rounding the corner, dashing through the gate seating area and back down the ramp, where I find myself bumped and cursed, but I’ve lived years in Los Angeles. Crowds don’t bother me. Bumps don’t bother me. Losing my camera, my way of earning income, that would destroy me right now. Finally, I manage to work my way past the exiting passengers, to reach the entryway to the plane. “My camera,” I announce at the door. “I left it on my seat.”

  “Which seat, honey?” says the flight attendant, a nice Texas woman, with a big blonde hairdo and a vocabulary of “y’all” and “fixin’” that I know all too well.

  “I don’t remember my seat number,” I say. “Can I just go look?”

  “Yes, yes, go.” She motions me forward. “I’ll help you.”

  I all but run down the tiny aisle, and thank God, another attendant is walking toward me with my camera. My relief flows out with appreciation, and it’s not long before I’m exiting the plane, wondering where my head is that I’d leave my precious camera, one that had taken me years in LA to afford, behind. Back in LA is the answer. I want to be back in LA, working my way through and up the fashion world chain of command.

  But I’m not, so I refocus on an old mission that minus Joe, is now one dimensional. I hunt for a bathroom while my cellphone rings, and I don’t have to look at the number. I answer with a greeting. “Hey, Linda,” I say, knowing this will be my best friend from college who is now a rather accomplished photographer in her own right. She’s also my ride.

  “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re here. You’re home, honey and just in time for the holidays to ramp up in three weeks. Though good gosh, it’s going to be a hot season. It’s still ninety outside today.”

  “Three weeks from now is Halloween and yes, my birthday, neither of which is a holiday and home is not Dallas, it’s Sweetwater. And just to be clear, it gets cold for about a day or two, the week of Halloween every year in Texas, if you can call the first time it gets to fifty degrees for the season, cold.”

  “You’re from Texas, which makes this home. Furthermore, your parents don’t own the ranch in Sweetwater anymore. They moved to Austin, but you chose to return to Dallas because it’s familiar. Just another reason, you’re home. End of topic. Next up. Your birthday most definitely is a holiday, as is Halloween. Good grief, woman. I have work to do on you. It’s a good thing you are home. I’m out front,” Linda continues, “and a really rude police officer just threatened to tow me, so you need to get here now.”

  “Oh God.” I hustle my pace. “You, woman, are always getting in a fight with someone.”

  “You don’t get in enough fights as far as I’m concerned, or you wouldn’t have been blacklisted along with your boss for his mistakes.”

  “He was blacklisted for something that didn’t happen.”

  “He should have protected you.”

  “He can’t even protect himself right now.” And, I add silently, reminding myself to stay focused. I have skills, not just with a camera. I coordinated many a huge event through him. I can put those skills to use.

  “Oh God,” Linda groans. “I have things to say about your boss, but the jerky officer is at me again.” There is what I believe to be knocking on her window. “I have to go. Hurry! Get to me quick!” She disconnects, and ugh, so much for the bathroom. I see the sign but pass it by. I can’t have Linda getting towed, or worse, spouting off like she does and getting in bigger trouble. Thankfully, Dallas Love Field is rather compact and the walk is short or it was, way back when. It’s remodeled, and nothing is as it was or where it was. I navigate here and there and pass through the security exit to find Linda standing there, her red hair piled haphazardly on top of her head.

  “He directed me to a parking spot,” she says, hoisting up her boobs, which might not be bigger than mine, but she bravely displays her assets today with a deep V of cleavage cut into her T-shirt. “These helped.”

  We burst into laughter and then laun
ch ourselves at each other, hugging fiercely before she pulls back. “I only have ten minutes. Let’s get to baggage claim.” She tugs me forward, and I groan with how full my bladder is.

  “I have to pee, like now. I have to. This is non-optional.”

  She grabs my arm and drags me forward. “This way. I know where a bathroom is.”

  This motivates me, and I step up my pace all too willingly, and it’s only a minute before her phone is ringing, and she stops. “This is important. It’s about a job. I have to take it.”

  “Bathroom?”

  She points. “That entrance on the left. They just changed the signs, and they’re hard to see, but that’s the women’s restroom.”

  That entrance is not nearby and I really can’t linger to wait on Linda. I hurry forward and my phone rings now, too. Afraid it’s the real estate agent who’s supposed to show me rentals, I dig for my phone, grabbing it only to find it’s Linda calling. My brows furrow and I look behind me to find her motioning wildly, but I don’t have time for this. I have to go to the bathroom. I round the wall to the entrance as she’d directed and smack hard into a body. A man’s body. A man in the women’s bathroom.

  “Wrong bathroom, woman,” the grumpy man snaps, giving my well filled out T-shirt a once over.

  “Are you serious right now?” I demand.

  “Get out of the way.” The man literally grabs my arms and sets me against the wall.

  “Are you crazy?!” I demand, ready to call security, but he’s already walking away.

  I drop my bag that’s killing my arm, push off the wall, and face the bathroom, looking for a sign; certain that man was a jerk to hide his embarrassment for going into the women’s restroom. Instead, the sign reads “Men” and I want to crawl into the hole my embarrassment is digging in the floor.

  I turn to make a rapid departure, grab my bag, and proceed to run into another hard body. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I—” My gaze lifts and I gasp at the familiar man now holding my arms, touching me for the first time in six years. I’m touching him, too, my hands curled on the black tee that stretches over a chest that proves to be more impressive than ever. He’s a man now, but then Roarke Frost was always all man. “Roarke,” I whisper as if the name in my mind isn’t enough confirmation. I need it on my lips, the way I once needed him on my lips.