Dirty Deal (Dirty Rich 1)

Chapter 1

The manager takes one look at my discount heels and my loose pencil skirt and shakes his head.

"Sorry, but the position is already filled." He leers at my chest. Raises a brow. Maybe you'd like to fill a different position.

I swallow the insult rising in my throat. "Do you know when you'll be hiring again?"

"It might be awhile."

"Keep me in mind. I have a lot of experience." Not so much the kind he's looking for. But I do know how to wait tables.

He takes my résumé but keeps his eyes on my chest. "Sorry, honey, but we're looking for something specific."

Yeah, I bet.

I take a not-at-all-calming breath. This guy is nothing. He's not going to make me lose it. I've dealt with a thousand entitled jerks worse than him.

I'll deal with plenty more tonight.

It comes with working at a nice place.

I nod a thank you and walk out of the restaurant slowly.

I keep my steps casual. Easy. Well, as easy as I can in these shitty heels.

The air outside is freezing. Even by March in New York standards. The white sky is heavy with grey rainclouds.

Usually, I like the drizzle. I like the temperamental weather—the snowy winters, the rainy spring, the humid summer, the crisp fall.

Right now, not so much.

I dig into my purse for my phone. Lizzy will cheer me up. She always does.

With my next step, I bump into something solid.

No. Someone. Soft wool wraps over a hard body.

My leg catches on his. I think it's a his.

My ankle shifts.

Shit.

I throw my hands in front of my face to catch my fall.

Ow. The concrete smarts. And it's fucking cold.

"Are you okay?" a deep voice asks.

So that's a him. Very him. His voice is masculine. There's something about the steady timbre. Something that makes me forget I'm splayed out on the ground, damp concrete wetting my skirt.

"I'm fine."

His shoes are nice. Leather. Designer. Expensive. His slacks fall at exactly the right place. They're grey. Wool. And they're covering long legs.

His black wool coat falls at mid-thigh. It's buttoned. It's hiding his torso. It's hanging off his strong shoulders.

He's looking down at me, his blue eyes filled with… with something. I'm not sure. It's hard to do anything but stare back at those eyes.

They're beautiful.

And he has this square jaw. The kind of jaw that belongs on a sculpture.

Or a Disney prince.

He's the hottest guy I've seen in months.

And I'm splayed out on the concrete staring dumbstruck.

Awesome.

"I… Um… You should watch where you're going." I pick up my purse and slide it onto my shoulder.

He leans down and offers his hand.

Okay.

I guess he's a gentleman.

That's weird, but it fits him, what with the whole Disney prince vibe.

I take his hand. It does something to me. Makes the air sharper, more electric. Sends heat from my palm, down my arm, through my torso.

It's a strong hand, but it's smooth.

And that suit—

And that I get what I want look in his eyes.

I know this guy. Well, I know his type.

He's pure money.

The kind of guy who has the world at his fingertips.

"I really am fine." I pull myself to my feet. Or maybe he pulls me. Either way. I take a step towards the corner—the subway is only a few blocks away—but my ankle isn't having it. Fuck. That hurts.

His grip on my hand tightens. "Sit down." He nods to the bench behind us. "If you can walk."

"I don't need your help."

"Oh, really?" He raises an eyebrow and nods to my shoe as if to say put it on then.

Oh.

I'm not wearing a shoe.

For some reason, my foot isn't cold.

None of me is cold.

He's just so…

Obnoxious for telling me what to do.

And incredibly, painfully appealing.

I shift my weight to my other ankle, but I can barely balance. "I have to get to work."

"You'll get to work. Trust me." He slides his arm under mine, like a human crutch, and he sets me on the bench.

His touch is comforting.

It should be scary—this guy is a stranger. I don't even know his name.

But it's not.

It's soothing.

Tender.

But that doesn't mean anything.

It's just that it's been so long since anyone has touched me with any care or attention.

I take a deep breath. It does nothing to slow my heartbeat. "What's your name?"

"Blake. You?"

"Kat."

Those piercing eyes find mine. He presses his fingers against my ankle. "It's sprained."

"I've dealt with worse."

His stare is penetrating. It demands an explanation.

But why?

He doesn't know me.

He doesn't have any obligation to help.

He's someone and I'm no one.

He's not even going to remember me tomorrow.

Still, I want to wipe away the worry in his eyes. "I ran cross-country in high school."

He nods with understanding.

"I can't work on a sprained ankle."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a waitress." And I can't afford to not work.

I stare back at Money Guy. Blake. His expression is still streaked with concern. He's not going to leave me alone until he's sure I'm fine.

And I can't exactly make a quick exit. Not with my ankle this fucked up.

"I'll ice it when I get home. I promise." Ibuprofen will have to get me through my shift tonight. I've played through the pain before, back when I ran all the time instead of every so often.

"I'd feel better if you went to the E.R."

I press my lips into a customer-service smile. "Not happening."

"Where do you work?"

"It's not far. I can walk."

"I'll walk you." He slides my shoe onto my foot.

His fingers graze my ankle.

His touch is soft. Tender. Sweet. Like we're old lovers, not strangers.

It wakes up all my nerves.

I want those hands on my skin.

Under my skirt.

Tearing off my blouse.

Sliding my panties to my knees.

I swallow hard.

I don't think about sex like this. And certainly not with strange, rich men who insist on walking me to work.

Blake.

Money Guy.

He certainly has the tall and handsome thing covered.

If things were different, if Lizzy wasn't home, if I didn't have to work, maybe I'd invite myself out with him.

We could have dinner. Drinks. A night at a hotel. The kind with security. So it's safe.

I could finally punch my v-card.

But things aren't different.

I can't waste time with strange men.

Even rich ones.

I rise to my feet. "I can walk myself." I take a step to prove it. The first is fine, but the second makes me wince. Maybe I can't work on this. Fuck.

He slides his arms under mine, offering himself as a crutch again.

This time, I take his help without protest.

"You really shouldn't work on that." His voice is steady. Impossible to read.

"It's really none of your business."

He nods and walks with me. "It was my fault. I wasn't paying attention."

"You can admit that?"

"Should I not?"

"No." I take a few more steps. It's not so bad. I'm off tomorrow. With rest, ice, and plenty of over the counter painkillers, I'll be okay. "Just… I serve a lot of guys like you."

"Handsome?"

He… he's joking. I think.

I try to find the meaning in his expression, but I get lost in his beautiful eyes.

"Business types," I say. "Guys who are used to getting what they want."

"And they want you as dessert?"

"Sometimes." I get a lot of phone numbers. But that's normal. All the girls at the restaurant do. "They don't usually take no for an answer."

"And I?"

"I guess you're the same." I manage to put my full weight on my foot. It hurts, but it's tolerable. We turn the corner. It's not too far now. "Those guys… they don't like to admit anything is their fault. Even if they order the wrong entree. Or forget to say 'hold the onions.'"

"I know the type." He raises a brow.

We cross the street. I'm moving faster now. New Yorker fast. I nod to the restaurant two blocks down. "I'm there. I've got it." I step away from him.

He pulls his arms back to his sides. "I'm not different."

He pulls something from his back pocket and hands it to me.

It's a business card.

His voice is that same steady tone. "Give it a few days and let me know how you're doing."

"You mean how my ankle is doing?"

He holds my gaze. There's something in his eyes—some tiny hint of vulnerability. I look at the pavement, then back to his eyes. That vulnerability is gone. Replaced by pure determination.

"That's my personal number. Text or call anytime." He takes a step back. "Be careful."

I nod. "Thanks."

He turns, walks around the corner, and he's gone.

I look at the business card.

Blake Sterling. CEO of Sterling Tech. They're huge. Lizzy is obsessed with them. Uses their web services exclusively.

Blake is the CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in New York.

And he wants to know how I'm doing.

Chapter 2

Work drags on forever. By the time I collapse on the subway, my ankle is throbbing.

Two people squeeze onto the bench next to me, a woman and a man in their 30s.

He wraps his arms around her waist.

She climbs into his lap.

The two of them mash their mouths together like they're competing in some sort of face-eating contest.

I scoot to the edge of the bench, but it doesn't help me escape their groans.

It's almost sweet how badly they want each other. It must be nice to need someone so badly you're willing to dry hump on the L train.

Is Blake into that kind of thing?

No. He's far too polite to screw in public.

But then, it's always the quiet ones…

I let my head fill with ideas about the stoic CEO. Images form in my mind. A short comic strip.

A sketch of him standing there in that suit. Blake stepping onto the subway, his eyes streaked with confidence. Blake ordering some pretty woman to strip out of her coat and plant on the bench.

It's been forever since a comic has floated into my mind. Since any image has floated into my mind.

Once upon a time, I spent all my free time drawing. I wanted to be an artist.

But that was before the accident.

That was back when I had the time and space to think about things like hobbies and guys and sex.

I'm so lost in thought I nearly miss my stop.

The horny travelers are still going at it.

I fight the jealousy that rises in my throat. I want to lose myself like that.

I step onto the platform as lightly as possible. My work shoes—thick, black, non-slip sneakers—soften the blow. But not enough to ease the ache.

Usually, I relish my walk home. The Manhattan skyline is gorgeous against the dark sky. Silver steel and yellow fluorescent bulbs against a brilliant blue. It's a color that belongs only to New York City.

I pass rows and rows of brownstones. A few trendy restaurants. People smoking on their stoops. Cars circling the block for a space.

It's quiet by our apartment. I climb the porch and check the mailbox. Angry red letters read past due. The bill for the mortgage.

It's a steal compared to rent anywhere nearby—our parents bought this place before Brooklyn was an It Spot—but it's still too much. I could afford it if I got a job like the one I lost out on today. I could even help Lizzy with school.

Right now…

Ankle first. Then my future.

There's a bunch more junk mail. Electricity bill. From New York University.

Lizzy's letter.

It's thick. Legal-pad sized.

She got in.

This must mean she got in.

I rush inside even though I'm limping. "Lizzy!"

Her bedroom light flicks on. She pulls the door open, and wipes her sleepy eyes. "You're supposed to be the one who warns me it's a school night."

I wave the letter.

"What? Hold on." She steps into her room and returns wearing her trendy black glasses. Her eyes go wide. "I can't open that."

"You have to." This is the best news in forever. Lizzy got in. That means she can stay here. With me. My best fri

end, the one person I trust, can stick around.

"No." Her eyes pass over the return address. Her lips press together. "You open it. Please, Kat." She presses her palms together. "I can't. I can't even think."

"Are you sure?"

"Have I ever asked for your help when I wasn't sure?"

"Have you ever asked for my help?"

She laughs. "I never have to."

It's true. I'm a little… overbearing. I know that. But I can't help it. Lizzy almost died that day three years ago.

It's cheesy, yeah, but I really do feel lucky she's alive.

Alive and ready for an awesome future.

She deserves it.

I tear the envelope open and unfold the letter. Dear Ms. Wilder; We are proud to offer you acceptance—

My heart swells. Warmth spreads out through my body.

She got in.

Everything is going to be okay.

We'll make it work. Somehow.

"You're not saying anything." Her fingers curl around my wrist. "Is it bad? Tell me it's not bad."

I shake my head. "It's good. Really good."

She scans it carefully. "Oh my God." A smile creeps onto her face. "Kat! I… I can't believe it!"

"I can." I wrap my arms around my little sister. She works so hard. She deserves it.

"But we can't afford this. Not unless they're offering a full ride. And NYU doesn't do that. It's not like if I got into Columbia."

"We'll find a way to afford it."

"Will we?" She stares back at me, studying my expression. It must be obvious I've got nothing, because she sighs and crushes the letter into a tiny ball. "I still have Stanford and USC. And there are bunch of SUNYs."