Dirty Money (Roughneck Billionaires 1)

Wynonna: I don’t have time for this crap.

Well, she’d better make time. Ivy’s my real name now; I had it changed legally. Reba sounded like a redneck cliché, and when my teacher at my realtor classes suggested that I go by a less “polarizingly Southern” name, I jumped at the chance. I’ve been Ivy to everyone else for the last two years, but to my sister, I guess I’ll always be Reba Lee Smithfield.

Wynonna: I have a flat. Gonna B late getting home.

Ivy: Are you ok?

Wynonna: Rim’s bent I think. We got the money for that?

I wince. We don’t. We don’t even have the money for the insurance for Wynonna’s little 1992 Civic, but I’m trying to make it work. I type slowly, since my fingers feel too big and clumsy for the tiny smartphone screen.

Ivy: I’ll figure it out. Are you pulled over somewhere safe?

Wynonna: I’m fine. A friend is coming to pick me up, but the car’s on the side of the highway. You want me to wait for a tow truck?

Ivy: No, those cost too much. I’ll leave work and see if I can change the spare for you. Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.

Wynonna: Ok! Just text me when u get there. I’m sorry :(

Ivy: Don’t be sorry! The tires were old. We knew they would go soon. I’ll handle it.

Wynonna: K! Don’t work 2 late! Friend is taking me 2 a used bookstore so I can see if any of my college texts are there. Maybe I can get them cheap.

Ivy: Smart thinking!! XO

Wynonna: XO to u 2

I put the phone down and resist the urge to bury my head in my hands. Car repairs—the last thing I can think about right now. Wynonna needs her car to go to college, and I need to finish scraping together some money for her tuition. If it’s just a flat tire, we can eat ramen for a week or two and scrape by. If it’s more than that . . . well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. I’m just glad my little sister wasn’t hurt.

Of course, this means I really need to get some leads. Shoot. I might take a clipboard to the mall and pretend to do a survey, all so I can pass out some cards. It’s desperate, but heck, I am desperate at this point, and the Jacks keep stealing all my good leads. After that, I might stop by the library and the gym and pin a few cards to corkboards. Something will pay off eventually, if I just put enough work into it.

Well, no time like the present to get started.

I gather my things, stuffing my folders and then my laptop into my shoulder bag. No rest for the wicked, and I’m going to put in a long night tonight trying to drum up leads. I might even try Facebook ads and Craigslist, if that’s what it takes. All I need to do is sell one house in the next thirty days and I can pay for Wynonna’s tuition. If I get someone in escrow, I can ask for an advance until payday. I have options. I just need to get someone in the door. I’m sure I can seal the deal if that happens.

I rush out the back of the office and into the lobby—only to see Winky Jack heading back in. He’s got a coffee in hand and his sunglasses on. I smile at him as I pass by.

He stops and points at me. “Ivy!”

I halt, but inwardly I’m torn between snarling at him and just wishing I could race out the door. Instead, I keep a warm smile on my face and try to pretend that someone just stuck gum to the back of his expensive suit. “Hi, Jack, how did the open house go?”

“Fantastic. Got one or two couples that are very interested.” One of his cheeks twitches, and I realize he’s probably winking at me from behind his sunglasses. Eesh. “It was a great lead. Thanks for sending it in my direction.”

But I didn’t, I want to snap. You stole it. “Of course.”

He sips his coffee, ignoring the fact that I was trying to leave. “You said you had some comps, right? Mind emailing me those?”

“Sure.” I gesture at the door. It’s getting harder to smile by the second, but somehow I manage. “Listen, I have to go—”

At that moment, a man pushes open the glass double doors and walks into the lobby. He’s wearing a dirty trucker cap, an equally dirty T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. He’s got an enormous, bushy beard covering most of his face and glances around the building, thick brows drawn down as if he disapproves of everything he sees.

The receptionist gives him a blank look, and then her lips twitch with a smirk. She glances over at me and Jack as if to say can you believe this guy, then over at the client. “Can I help you, sir?”

He saunters forward with a cocky swagger, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Wanted to talk to someone about a house.” He’s got a thick Texas accent that tells me he’s from a small town and not a big city. They drawl more out east and west. I know, because it took me thirteen CDs of self-guided voice coaching to try to ditch my own accent.

The receptionist looks over at me and Jack.

Jack takes another sip of his coffee. “Looks like this one’s yours, Ivy.”

I’m torn. On one hand, I need sales. On the other hand, this guy doesn’t look like he has two nickels to rub together. That’s why he’s “mine.” Jack can’t be bothered unless it’s a million-dollar sale. I smother the stab of resentment I feel. “I do need to go . . .”

But Jack’s already turning and walking away. That . . . jerk. Grr. It’s not the client’s fault for having bad timing, though. It’d be rude for me to take my frustrations out on him. So I look over at the man with the beard and give him a smile, offering my hand. All right then, I said I wanted a sale, and fate is providing. “Hi there. I’m Ivy Smithfield . . .”

And my voice dies off, because he’s leaning against the receptionist’s counter, dripping red dirt from his hat and shirt, and devouring me with his eyes. I’ve heard that expression before but I’ve never experienced it. I’ve never felt like anyone was pulling my clothing from my body with their freaking gaze and eye-fucking me . . .

Until now.

Good . . . goodness. I’m flustered and don’t know what to think.

Chapter Three

Boone

This was a fantastic idea. For once, my brothers were smart and led me in the right direction. And even though I feel a bit like an asshole for coming into this fancy office with its shiny floors and glass everywhere I look. The receptionist looks at me like I’m scum, but it’s all worth it the moment she turns and I see her.

The woman from the flyer.

She’s more perfect in person than she is in the picture. Her long, blonde hair seems brighter, her smile more sincere. Up close, her skin seems translucent and flawless, and her mouth is a soft pink bow that is just begging to do filthy things to a man’s cock. Her eyes are a vivid greenish-brown that I can’t stop staring at. She’s wearing the same suit and skirt she did in the photos, right down to the shoes, and her tits look just as fucking amazing in it as they did in the photo.

As she extends her hand to me, I see perfect fingers tipped with a pale peach manicure. Her hand is soft as she slips it into mine, but her grip is firm. “I’m Ivy Smithfield,” she says, and her voice is soft, slow, and sweet. Fuck, it’s giving me a hard-on just to hear her voice.

I’m glad I did this, because I want her. I want her in my bed, right now, her long legs wrapped around my hips as I pound into her. She can even wear those beige heels of hers. I’ll let her put ’em on my shoulders while I fuck her. She can tell me dirty things in that smoky little voice of hers until I bust my nut.

Yeah, I like the sound of that, too.

Her cheeks are flushing with color and she gives my hand a little shake. “And you are . . . ?”

Right. Guess I’m too busy mentally boning her to do introductions proper. “Fucking happy to see you.”

Her entire face flames red. That’s fucking adorable. “I see.” She tries to pull her hand out of my grip.

I hold on tight to it, because she’s mine now. She didn’t laugh at me when I came in, like the receptionist. She didn’t look at me like I was fucking dirt for daring to step into her world. She came and gave me her hand, just like I was a client that mattered. She’s classy, just like I thought.

And she’s sexy as fuck.

She’s mine. All mine. Anyone that looks at her sideways is gonna get a fist in their mouth.

I’m still eyeing her when she gives her hand a little jerk, and the flushed look on her face gives way to mild panic. I don’t want to scare her—I want her in my bed. So I let her hand go. “Sorry. Name’s Price. Boone Price.”

I wait to see if she has any sort of reaction to that. People that read the financials absolutely know who I am. But she only continues to smile, sweet and warm and friendly. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Price. Welcome to Three Jacks.” She gestures at the lobby. “Did you just happen to walk in?”

“Something like that.” I glance around. “Nice building.”

She smiles proudly, like it belongs to her or something. “We’re on the historical register. The owners refurbished the place after it was nearly condemned twenty years ago. It’s got a fantastic history if you’d like to hear it.”

“Some other time.” It just looks expensive and fancy to me . . . just like her. That’s all I need to know.

She inclines her head. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a bottle of water?”

“I’m good. Can I buy you a drink?”

The look on her face becomes shuttered, her smile tight, and I know I’ve gone too far. “I don’t date clients, Mr. Price.”

Good. I like that she’s got a firm moral backbone, even if I’m scaring the dickens out of her. I’ll just have to cool my jets a bit. Just enough to get her comfortable. “Of course. I’m just used to being a straight shooter and all.”

“I see.” She gestures at the sea of desks in the back office behind her. “If you’d feel more comfortable, I’d be happy to let you talk to one of my associates—”

“I want you,” I say flatly. When her mouth gets tighter, I put my hands up in the air. “All right. I’m putting my foot in my mouth with everything I say, aren’t I?” I throw on a bit of the charm to make her think my words aren’t sincere—truth is, I mean every fucking word of it. She’s mine. All mine. But I’ve got to play it cool and sneaky until she lets her guard down a bit more. “I want you to sell me a house. We don’t have to date. In fact, we can just pretend I never opened my fool mouth and said any of that.”