Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

We were at an impasse.

Samantha’s room was dim and quiet. Nothing had been moved or rearranged, so she hadn’t been out of bed. There were no room service dishes, so she hadn’t eaten, either.

I walked softly to the bedroom. My assistant was still in bed, sound asleep, but she’d been tossing and turning. The covers were pulled out and twisted, and one long leg lay across the top of the coverlet, sleek and almost unbearably sexy. Her shirt was twisted up, exposing her smooth hip beneath the cotton of her panties. Her hair was tangled in the pillows, her face slack. The migraine had obviously receded, and now she was sleeping it off.

I wanted to touch her. I wanted to slide my hand up her bare leg, over the perfect curve of her ass. I wanted to wake her up with my cock pressed against her, my mouth on her nipples. I wanted to do every fucking dirty thing to her, and then do it all again. And again.

Samantha was my assistant. My employee. My just being here was completely wrong, crossed every line. For God’s sake, I was in her bedroom, watching her sleep. Fantasizing about fucking her. On a business trip.

Somehow we’d gone from professional colleagues to something very, very dangerous. Something neither of us should want any part of.

And still I wanted to get into that bed with her. I ached to do it.

I took a step back. I was bigger than this, smarter than this. I was a man who managed his sex life with ruthless precision, who had his desires under cold control. I could stay out of my assistant’s bed and treat her with respect instead of fucking her senseless. Everything about this was wrong.

That was the reason I liked it. But what I wanted didn’t matter. Get a grip, Winters.

I left the bedroom and put her key card on the table next to the door. I slipped out of her room, closing the door silently behind me, and walked down the hall to my own room.

I walked to the minibar, poured myself a slug of Scotch, and downed it. In my pocket, my phone vibrated silently—a message. I had my ringer off. It was my private number, the one that very few people were in possession of. I pulled out my phone and checked who had called.

It was the hospital where my mother was currently a patient. Because after years of not caring for Ava and me, my mother was losing her mind, irrevocably, piece by piece. And putting her in the hospital was the only thing I could do.

She’d been a single mother to me and Ava when we were growing up. Our father had hit her—Ava and I were too young to remember—so she’d left him. She’d worked long hours at a factory and left us alone much of the time. Not her fault, but even when she was home, we were treated like an annoyance. Be quiet. Go to your room. Go play. Go to bed. I don’t have time. When I was ten, I’d heard her tell the woman next door that she wished she’d never had kids. Some women just aren’t made to be mothers, she’d said. That’s me.

At fifteen, I’d packed a bag and moved in with my friends. My mother had never told me to come home.

It wasn’t exactly a loving upbringing, but I’d survived. It was harder for Ava. Ava was the one who needed affection, who craved it. Who just wanted someone to love her. That person wasn’t going to be our mother. We could wish things were different, but it was never going to happen. As adults, there wasn’t much my sister and I could do about it except get therapy—in her case—and soldier on.

And then, a few years ago, our mother had been fired from her job for absent-mindedness. She got pulled over and her driver’s license had lapsed because she’d forgotten to renew it. When the traffic cop asked her questions, she looked at him in confusion because she thought he was her cousin Garrett.

She was young, the doctors said, for that kind of deterioration. But it wasn’t unheard-of, and there was no treatment. Maybe someday there would be, but not now.

So now, at thirty-four, I paid for the care of the woman who had barely acknowledged me for twenty years. I visited her when I could. Sometimes she remembered she had a son, and sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes I thought she only pretended not to remember.

I’d called the hospital earlier to arrange a visit before I left Chicago. Now I checked the message they’d left. Mr. Winters, we’re very sorry, but today is not a good day to visit your mother. She has said that she doesn’t want to see you.

“Fuck you,” I said to no one in particular. Not my mother, who couldn’t help who she was and the sickness that was taking her. Not my partners. Not Samantha. Maybe I was saying it to God. Or to myself.

I hung up the phone. I could drink; I could spend the evening jerking myself raw, thinking of Samantha in the room a few doors down. I could get pissed and feel sorry for myself. But I had a better idea.

I pulled out my suitcase and started to pack. It was time to go back to New York.

Seventeen

Samantha

* * *

As the plane approached LaGuardia, I closed my laptop and put it away. I ignored the empty seat beside me, where my boss was supposed to be sitting.

It was Thursday. Aidan had left Chicago sometime while I slept on Tuesday, leaving me a simple text: Gone back to New York. Hope you feel better. I’ll be in touch. Enjoy your day off. A.

Of course, the first thing I wondered was whether his change of plans had something to do with me. Was he upset that I got sick on the day of the partners’ meeting? Then I realized that was egotistical and ridiculous. Aidan was a powerful man who could, and did, do anything he wanted. None of his decisions revolved around me.

We had corresponded since by text and email, and everything seemed fine. I had taken his advice and enjoyed my day off yesterday, spending the day with my parents in their small suburban bungalow, wat

ching golf and talking gardening with my dad, going shopping with my mom. They had cooked me a big dinner—Dad fired up the barbecue—and fed me to bursting. All in all, it had been a great day.