Dirty Scoundrel (Roughneck Billionaires 2)

“Ain’t nothin’ the matter,” I confess, and take another swig of my beer. All of us have bottles in front of us—mostly because you can’t take the country out of the boy—but Ivy’s drinking water. I finish the beer and get to my feet. “Gonna get a refill. Anyone else?”

“Sit down and spill,” Boone tells me. “You’re hidin’ something.”

“Yeah,” Knox says, a sly grin on his face. “You should tell everyone what’s going on.”

Shithead. I rub at my hair, wishin’ I had my hat on so I could hide my eyes. “So, uh, you know how last year Boone bought up all them properties to impress you? ’Cause he had the money to throw around and he figured, why the fuck not?”

Ivy’s brows go up and Boone’s go down. My brother probably thinks I’m gonna say something to piss Ivy off. He’s been all Papa Bear ever since she got pregnant and it don’t take much to set her off.

“Go on,” Ivy says.

“Well, I thought I’d skip buyin’ myself a house and a golf course. I went to my ex-girlfriend’s house and told her I’d pay off her debt if she’d be my personal assistant for a while.” I feel all weird bein’ on my feet and everyone else sitting. Feels all weird to be the one makin’ a big proclamation instead of tryin’ to smooth things over, too. “‘Cept I didn’t really mean assistin’, I meant fuckin’. Anyhow, I’m gonna be throwin’ a few mil her way and just figured if anyone saw her hangin’ around, that was the situation.”

Ivy’s jaw drops.

Gage snickers. Knox just grins into his pot roast.

Seth cocks his head at me, confused. “Dude, hookers are waaay cheaper than that.”

“She ain’t a hooker,” I tell Seth, arms crossed. Though Nat did say the same thing. “She’s an assistant.”

“She gonna assist you into her snatch?” Gage asks slyly. Knox elbows him, smirking at the joke.

I scowl at my brother, because that ain’t funny. They shouldn’t be laughing at Nat. She might be stuck-up and the one that broke my heart, but I won’t tolerate anyone talking shit about her. “Enough.”

Everyone looks surprised at my response. I’m normally the one to laugh off anything, but some things are off-limits. Nat’s mine, even if it’s just to get my revenge on her. And I’m not gonna allow that sort of thing.

“Surely there are better ways to ask a girl out,” Ivy begins, casting a helpless look in Boone’s direction.

“Don’t know, don’t care. This works for me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What good’s all this money gonna do if it just sits in a bunch of coffee cans buried in the woods?”

“Oh dear,” Ivy says softly. “You bank the same way your brother does.”

Boone just gives me a canny look. “This the one?”

I haven’t mentioned anyone’s name, but Boone knows exactly who I’m talking about. There’s only ever been one ex-girlfriend for me that ever counted. No one before her has a face—and there was no one after her. I just nod.

He rubs his chin. “Good luck. Don’t spend too much on ’er.”

“Boone!” Ivy sounds shocked.

My brother leans over toward his wife. “Now, baby, you know we’re not nice guys. His money, and he’s got more of it than he knows what to do with. Why can’t he spend it the way he wants?”

Ivy’s exasperated sigh echoes in the enormous dining room.

Boone’s got a point, though. It’s been seven years and I ain’t no happier with a shit-ton of money and no Natalie. Might as well give some of that money away and see if I can get Natalie out of my system.

Ruthless, I remind myself. Hold nothing back. Give it everything I’ve got, because you never know when it’s going to be gone.

I’ve fucked around enough. Seven years is entirely too long to wait. Natalie’s gonna be mine. I don’t care how much I have to pay.

Chapter Seven

Natalie

When Monday rolls around, I pack my suitcase and quietly wait for Clay to arrive. My palms are sweaty with nerves, and I can’t stop wiping them on my jeans. Even though I’ve been obsessing over what I’m going to wear when he arrives, I’ve settled on a black cardigan over a pale pink blouse and jeans. My hair’s pulled into a simple tail over one shoulder and I curled the ends. Makeup? I might have spent two hours perfecting my “nude” and “barely there” look. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying too hard, after all.

In reality, I want him to think I’m pretty. I don’t want him to look at me and think I’m fat or over-the-hill. One of us changed for the worse since high school, and it wasn’t him. I shouldn’t care what he thinks . . . but realistically, I also shouldn’t be signing a contract to give myself to him, and I’m doing that, so I feel like logic has gone out the window anyhow.

Waiting around after I’m done with my makeup and hair makes me restless, so I go upstairs and check on my dad. He’s asleep, his face peaceful, and I fight back a surge of emotional tears at the sight. I’m doing this for him. I’ve done everything for him, just how he wants it. I could wake him up and tell him that I’m going to be leaving for a while, but I don’t know that he’ll remember even if I do tell him. It’s hard to think about leaving, though—will my dad be taken care of correctly? Will the nurse that’s hired be any good? Will he miss me? Will he be all right if I’m not here to sit with him when he’s upset or confused? My heart squeezes a little at the thought and I have to fight hard not to cry. It’ll ruin all the eye makeup I’ve spent an hour laboriously applying.

I head back downstairs on quiet feet and notice that there’s a couple of trucks parked in the museum’s small gravel parking lot. One looks like it’s for roofing, and another for carpentry. Huh. It’s not unusual for us to get people that came down the wrong exit and use our parking lot to turn around, but these are parking as if they intend to stay. Curious. As I watch, another truck pulls up.

I’m . . . confused. Are all these contractors coming to visit our museum? They don’t seem the type. Normally we get tourists, not . . . handymen?

I’m even more confused when yet another truck pulls up, this one with an attached trailer. When a riding lawnmower starts up and several men get out of the back of the truck, it’s time to head outside and see what’s going on.

As I go outside, more people emerge from their trucks. It feels like there’s a swarm of handypeople descending on me.

“This the roof?” one asks, squinting up at the house.

“Do you see another?” I ask, incredulous.

The men chuckle, even as another one moves past me on the walkway with buckets of what look like paint and rollers. The lawn crew fire up edgers and machinery roars to life while someone else hands me a clipboard. “Do you prefer this look for your gardens or this one?”

I glance down at the pictures attached to the clipboard. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Mr. Price sent us,” says another man, coming forward. He’s balding with glasses and has a friendly look on his face. He’s also wearing head-to-toe denim, and offers me a big hand to shake. “I’m Bill Slocum and I’m going to be overseeing this particular project.”

“Project?” I echo.

“Yes’m. Mr. Price wants this place cleaned up. The grounds are to be revamped, the parking lot poured with concrete, the building reroofed, repainted, the lighting improved . . .” He releases my hand and taps the clipboard tucked under his arm. “Among a few other things. As I said, I’m the project manager and I’ll be overseeing everything. If you have questions, just let me know.”

“Oh, I have a question,” I say. “Who’s paying for all this?”

But I know that answer already. This wasn’t part of our agreement, and I’m half angry that he’s being so high-handed . . . and half relieved that the problems are going to be taken care of. I didn’t ask for any of this, but Clay’s always been thoughtful. He must have seen how the place was falling apart and decided he needed to step in.

“Mr. Price is handling all the bills. Is there anything in particular we need to focus on?”

“I . . . ah . . .” I get distracted when I see someone post a big CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS sign at the far end of the parking lot. “Who says we’re closing?”

“I’m afraid with all the things we’ll be doing to improve the building, the business will need to be closed for at least a week.” Bill Slocum holds a business card out to me. “I will be on call constantly and on-site at all times, so you feel free to let me know if there’s something you want us to tackle that we’re not already handling.”

“Plumbing,” I blurt out, and then feel myself blushing. “And, um, is Mr. Price going to pay for my lost revenues?”

“That’s my understanding, yes, ma’am. And the plumber’s already here. We’ll get him to take a look at everything.”

I bite my lip. I don’t want to give in to this tidal wave of people, but at the same time, I know the ranch is in disrepair and half of the stuff that should be working doesn’t. The stove hasn’t heated for months, and there are certain lights that I don’t turn on anymore because I worry about the wiring. I should mention all of this, of course, but what comes out is, “My father. He’s not leaving.”

Mr. Slocum nods. “I understand that there is an elderly gentleman that lives in the house. Mr. Chap Weston, is it?” He grins. “I loved his movies as a kid.”

“I don’t know about all these repairs,” I confess, worried. I bite down on a fingernail, thinking. “Dad gets easily confused and he can’t leave the premises. He’s comfortable here.”