Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

“You mark my words,” Jade said. “There’s something going on. And sooner or later the gossip sites are going to pick it up. Then you’ll see some fireworks.”

I was in my office, scanning contracts for the confidential server, when my phone rang. It was Aidan.

“What’s up?” I asked him when I answered.

“Come outside,” he said. “I want you to come with me.”

“Go with you where?”

“I want your opinion on something.”

“All right. Give me a minute.” I hung up, locked my office, and took the elevator to the ground floor. It was a beautiful day—the rain had cleared the skies, and a warm breeze was blowing. June was finally here. In a month, New York would be hot and unbearable, mostly smelling like rank sweat and garbage, but today it was a nice place to be.

Aidan’s company car and driver had pulled up to the curb. He pushed open the back door and gestured me to get in.

“This is a little mafia-like,” I said as I got in.

“Hardly,” Aidan said. He was wearing his signature black, his laptop open on his lap. Aidan tended to work in the car while on the way to meetings—he said it was the best way not to waste time. “It’s just a meeting.”

“With who?”

“An agent for the building we’re thinking of buying. I can’t decide if it’s a good investment or not.”

When he didn’t continue, I filled in the blanks, incredulous. “You mean you want my opinion?”

“Yes, I do.” Gone was the

man who had picked me up on Saturday night. This was all-business Aidan, calm and impenetrable. His scary-ass self, as Jade said. He handed me some papers, and his knee brushed mine. I ignored the fact that my skin tingled with even that slight touch.

“These are building records,” I said. I’d seen plenty of these since working for Aidan. “We’re going to the Lower East Side?”

“One of Manhattan’s resurging neighborhoods,” Aidan said. “For decades one of the poorest parts of the city. Now being gentrified like everywhere else.”

He didn’t sound impressed. “You’re not a fan?” I asked.

“Of the Lower East Side? Sure, especially the restaurants. Of gentrification? I’m not convinced every neighborhood needs a Sephora megastore and an artisanal juice bar. But who am I to dictate the free market?”

I liked Aidan when he was like this. It was always interesting to pick his brain. He wasn’t college educated, which meant he sometimes knew unusual things. There was a moment of quiet in the car, and I found myself enjoying it—Aidan’s presence next to me, his scent, his knee brushing mine. Saturday night had been incredible, but I also liked just being near him.

“I didn’t know Tower VC owned the Masoku Gallery,” I said.

His dark eyes flickered to me, and I saw something in their depths—he knew what I was getting at. “It’s one of my favorite properties of ours, I admit,” he said. “It doesn’t generate the most profit, but it’s a place that makes the neighborhood unique and interesting.”

I looked casually down at my papers. “You were spotted there by the gossip sites on Saturday night. They said you weren’t wearing black.”

He was quiet for a second. “I wasn’t. I told you I own other colors.”

“Still, since we’re in private here I thought I should warn you. If you don’t want to be seen, you need to be more careful.”

“Noted,” he said.

I raised my gaze to him again. He was looking at me.

“It was something of an impulse,” he said gently. “I like the people who come to the gallery.”

I bit my lip. “There’s gossip at the office, too, as long as I’m warning you. People think you’re seeing someone.”

He looked a little icy at that. “If I am, it’s nobody’s business.”