Dirty Scoundrel (Roughneck Billionaires 2)

I don’t want to move on. I still want him. And it hurts.

I press my palms to my eyes, trying to will back the tears that threaten. If I didn’t know what happened to him, in a sense, he was still mine. Knowing that he’s moved on to someone else means that he’s gone for good. I feel . . . gutted.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. Then another. Then another. I’m sure Lexi’s thinking I’ve died, so I dash away the tears that slipped out and pick up my phone again.

LEXI: $$$$$$$$$

LEXI: $$$$$$$$$$$$

LEXI: $$$$$$

Huh?

NAT: Is your key stuck?

LEXI: No dumbass

LEXI: He rich yo

LEXI: Silly rich

LEXI: Go google him. I’ll wait.

Not . . . married? He might be, and maybe she just didn’t mention it. Even though my stomach feels like it’s in a knot, I pull up the browser on my phone and type in Clay’s name and “Texas.” I’m a little startled when a full page of links appears. And even more startled when a lot of them lead back to money and investing articles. I click on one, skimming it. I see Price Brothers Oil mentioned several times, and then a side business Clay’s working on financing called IntelligentCamo. There’s a Forbes article showing all five brothers, and a bunch of pictures of them on oil rigs or wearing hard hats.

I . . . I don’t understand. I thought Clay went to go work roughnecking on a rig. How did he become an oil tycoon? He’s only twenty-five.

It explains the limo they drove off in, though.

I Google again, this time looking for a different sort of answer—“Clay Price” and “wife.”

No names pop up.

He’s not married. Never has been.

Some small part of him is still mine.

I’m overwhelmed at how much sheer joy courses through me at that small realization. To think that Clay hasn’t married after all this time. To think that he’s returned . . . and he’s coming back to the museum tomorrow. I switch back to the text window.

NAT: He’s not married!

LEXI: Did you miss the part where he’s rich?

NAT: I don’t care about that. Now tell me how I can lose five pounds overnight so he’s not grossed out how fat I got after high school.

LEXI: Wrap your body in Saran wrap and sweat all night.

NAT: What??

LEXI: You asked! Now tell me what you’re going to wear tomorrow for when he shows up again.

Chapter Five

Clay

Today on my hand, I’ve written a big H for “hard.”

Not my dick, although it’s been hard ever since I saw Nat’s curvy little self yesterday. It’s for my heart. I’ve got to be hard. Ruthless. Cold. I can’t fall for a pair of big blue eyes, no matter how much she wrapped me around her finger in the past. I need to remember that Natalie was cold as ice when we broke up seven years ago. She acted like I was trash.

Now she’s the trash and I’m a billionaire. And that means I get what I want, no feelings attached.

Funny how I still want her after seven years and all that fucking heartache. But I always have. I’ve never stopped dreaming of her body, of her gasping kisses, the way she felt against me. There’s never been anyone for me but her.

Since I’ve got all this money, I’ve decided I’m going to fuck Natalie Weston. Not mentally—just physically. I’m going to take her in a bed, pull off her panties, and fuck her . . . and hopefully get her out of my head forever.

Back in high school, I never got to fuck Natalie Weston. At the time, I thought it was because she was a shy virgin, and I was content to wait. I loved Natalie, and she was my girlfriend. It didn’t matter how long it took for her to decide that it was time to have sex, because I knew she was going to be mine forever. She was worth waiting for.

But then Natalie dumped me. I never got to claim her, never got to make her mine. Never got to sink into her and become one. Never got to bust my first nut inside a girl, either, though that was less important to me than losing Nat. As time went on, I figured I’d eventually forget her, meet someone else, and then lose my virginity. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with waitin’.

Except I’ve never forgotten her, so I’m still a virgin at twenty-five. Seems wrong.

All of this seems wrong, actually.

With my money, though, I’m going to make it right. I don’t care if it costs all my billions, I’m going to fuck Natalie Weston and get her out of my head for good. Maybe once I’ve had her, I won’t care about her any longer.

I trace the H on my knuckles again, thinking.

Hard. Yeah.

I can be hard. I can be ruthless. I just need to remember how she dicked me over. How she gave me blue balls for almost two years when we were dating . . . and then decided I was too filthy to touch her precious Hollywood-royalty panties.

I can’t wait to touch ’em now.

I get out of the limo, indicating that my patient driver should wait awhile. Today, I ditched Knox and decided to fly solo. Having my brother there, light-fingering all the stuff in the rundown gift shop, hovering and listening in on the conversations? Just made me all nervous and weird. I don’t need nerves—I need to be focused.

I even have a speech I practiced just for this moment.

Natalie, I’m offering you a bargain. I’ve done the research on your father’s fortunes, and it’s clear that he’s spent every last dollar that he ever had from his movies. I know you’re broke. I know the upkeep on this ranch costs more than it brings in every month. I know exactly how much you owe the banks, and I’m prepared to make you a deal. I’ll save your family and your business, but you’ve got to give me what I want.

Seems pretty cut-and-dried to me. No emotions, no relationship. Just a contract for business. She has something I want, and I’m willing to pay for it.

I enter the front of the museum, even though it’s a full half hour before scheduled opening time. The bell on the door clangs obscenely loudly, and the front of the place is empty. Somewhere in the distance, a vacuum is running and immediately shuts off the moment I enter.

“Coming!” someone calls out, and my dick immediately responds at the sound of the female voice. I know who that is. I surreptitiously adjust my junk in my jeans, not wanting to be obvious.

A moment later, a figure comes rushing out, swiping her hair back from her face. Her skin is dewy with a hint of sweat, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that Nat Weston still takes my breath away every time I see her. Her cheeks are pink, making her blue eyes seem even bluer, and her pretty mouth is highlighted by a bit of lipstick. Instead of pigtails, her dark hair is loose and tumbles around her shoulders in a wavy curtain. She wears a black top with a low-plunging, deep neckline that shows off her fantastic cleavage, and a pair of tight jeans that are just begging for me to rip ’em off of her.

Nat blinks wide, and then a little smile curves her mouth. For a moment, she looks truly delighted to see me. “Hi again.”

I rub my mouth, because this wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought maybe she’d be all wary of me coming around again. Or angry. I could deal with angry. This smiling beauty’s throwing me off my revenge game. “Hi.” I hesitate, then offer her my hand to shake. Seems like it’s either that or a hug, and I don’t know if I can hug her without getting hard.

She looks surprised at my gesture and hesitantly puts her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers delicate as they brush over my skin. “I didn’t picture us shaking hands when we met again,” she murmurs.

The H on my knuckles stands out like a brand as I stare at our clasped hands. Hard. Ruthless. As cruel as she was to me. I need to remember. The thought makes my tone a little harsher than anticipated. “How did you picture it, then?”

Nat pulls away, composing herself. She seems surprised by my harsh tone. “I don’t know.” She puts that fake, overly bright smile back on her face. “How can I help you, Clay?”

She’s still close enough that I can see into the deep vee of her cleavage, and a bolt of lust fires through me at the sight. I need to not ogle her tits. I need to keep my cool if I want to get my way. No regrets. I resist the urge to rub the H on my knuckles and decide to launch into the speech I’ve prepared. “Natalie, I’m offering you a bargain.”

Her brows furrow. “Huh?”

“I’ve done the research on your father’s fortunes, and it’s clear that he’s spent every last dollar he ever made from his movies. I know you’re broke.”

Natalie reels as if struck. “You what? You came here to throw that in my face?” She gapes at me, clearly shocked. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t come to do that,” I say swiftly. I need to regain control of the conversation. Somehow when I ran this through my head, I didn’t picture the hurt look on Nat’s face. I thought she’d be angry. Indignant. Sneering. A wounded Natalie makes it harder to do this, and it shouldn’t be hard. She crushed me beneath one of her dainty heels seven years ago. Why can’t I do the same? I launch into the next section of my speech. “I know the upkeep on this ranch costs more than it brings in every month—”

“You don’t know shit,” she retorts furiously, taking a step backward. Her hands go to her hips and she glares at me, clearly angry. “How dare you?”

Good. Her anger makes this easier. I straighten, keeping my cool as I continue to speak. “I know exactly how much you owe the banks,” I say calmly. “And I’m prepared to make you a deal. I’ll save your family and your business.”

Her expression goes soft again. “Wait, what? You will?” She reaches out and puts a hand on the wall, as if bracing herself.

I nod. “But you’ve got to give me what I want.”

Nat goes still. “I don’t understand. What . . . what is it you want?”

I cross my arms over my chest, and I know I’m looming over her, just a little. Not in a threatening way, I hope. Just want to exude authority instead of feeling like a slobbering schoolboy around her. “You agree to become my personal assistant for as long as I want you.”