His Dirty Bargain (Dirty Billionaires 3)

I nod, getting in. Only I’m not ready to go home. I give him the address to Dom’s club, I need a drink.

It’s only a little after nine when I enter the club. There aren’t many people, then again it is only Thursday night. The place is a members-only private club with a restaurant and bar on this level and gambling and another bar in the basement. Before I make it ten feet in, the bartender nods. “Dom’s on his way down.”

Turning, I find my cousin behind me. “Cugino, what brings you to my humble club?”

I go with honesty. “I have no fucking idea.”

He laughs. “Women troubles, I’ll get us a bottle. Head upstairs. I’ll be right behind you.”

His place isn’t humble in the slightest. Half the place is devoted to the bar, while the other is seating for one of the best Italian kitchens in the city. Not everyone pays the thirty-thousand-dollar member fee per year to gamble freely; for many the attraction is the food. The stairs go up to his office. From his office there is a door that goes into other parts of the building, all of which Dom owns. His apartment is on the second floor, with a door from his office as the only entry other than a fire escape.

I sag into one of the club chairs in the corner of the office. I’m wondering where he is when he comes in followed by a pretty blonde waitress. He’s carrying a bottle and two glasses, she’s carrying an antipasto platter and a plate of fried calamari. With a wide smile she leaves.

“A little something so I’m not getting you drunk on an empty stomach.” Dom pours a glass of the impressive scotch.

“I came from dinner but I didn’t eat much.”

“A woman keeping you from eating. What’s her deal

?”

Shrugging, I’m not even sure how to answer. I take another swallow of whiskey, thankful for the burn.

“I hear you’re in the market for a new place. You looking in my neighborhood?”

I nod. “Not far from here.” I name the street. “I’m pretty sure I found what I want. Now I’m wondering what it’s really going to cost me?”

“When the value is there the cost becomes negligible.” Dom knows I’m not talking about a house. “You also have to consider, what is it costing you to go without what you want?”

7

Chloe

Consciousness comes over me slowly, then all at once. Flashes of last night come back with technicolor brilliance. Oh god, I didn’t say that shit in front of Bethany and Dante. Burying my face in my pillow, I groan. Kill me, kill me now.

Russell bangs on my door; at least it’s still closed. “Wake up, it’s seven thirty. You owe me. When I get home tonight I expect all the dirty details, every last one. I’m out.”

Shaking my head, I groan again. I am not telling Russell a damn thing. I look down; Russell was nice enough to tug off my pants and take off my blouse. I’m wearing my bra, though, and it’s pinching like a motherfucker. A few moves and it’s off. I’m in granny panties, or at least my version of granny panties, the hipster briefs are my comfy, cozy panties.

I put up my hair as I turn on the shower. I’m trying to take a quick shower except my stupid body comes alive in memory of last night, me plastered against Enzo, me in Enzo’s arms. Dear lord, my body has never, ever responded that way to a man. Hell, it barely responded like that when I was alone with my vibrator.

No, don’t do it, only my body isn’t listening. My fingers slide down to find I’m wet, drenched from hungry need. I barely graze my clit and holy shit. Closing my eyes, instantly I’m back in Enzo’s arms, his hard body all around me. His scent, leather, rain, moss in every breath I took. How the heat of him turned my bones to soft butter. Oh god, oh god, damn it. I come with a body-shaking climax so strong I have to grip the edge of the stall to keep from falling down.

Head down, I press it harder and harder into the tile wall. What the hell is the matter with me? This is bad; knock it off. Three months of working with Enzo Sabatini lie ahead, and if you can’t keep it together it will blow up in your damn face. He is not for you. No men, remember, no men. All they do is take, and take until you have no more to give, then when you’re empty they leave and you’re alone all over again. These last five years have been great, peaceful, and I don’t want to go back to all of the chaotic, helpless agony of before. No, it doesn’t matter how good Enzo felt. He’s no different from any other man; if anything he’s more lethal. Let it go, Chloe.

***

Chloe

My ass has barely touched my chair when my cell phone goes off with a flurry of texts from Enzo. The names and numbers of contractors for me to contact. I’m informed I have his schedule waiting in my email inbox. He wants to be there for the first meeting. Per his cousin, he’s hired an architect for the basement and the kitchen who specializes in historic homes. I’m supposed to make an appointment with her no later than Tuesday, and he wants to be there as well as the contractors so everyone is on the same page.

I pull out my Klonopin, but damn it, my doctor has been stingy lately on refills. I don’t need it often, sometimes I can go weeks without it, other times it’s five days out of a week. When my doctor first suggested giving it to me, I resented the implication I couldn’t control my anxiety but the truth was I couldn’t control it. The Klonipin helped it was stupid not to use it. Best to keep what I have for when I actually have to be around Enzo. It comes back, me taking the Klonopin after Enzo’s call yesterday, then the wine only a few hours later. Damn it, it was the Klonopin combined with the glass of wine that fucked me up last night. Okay, fine, no more wine—when I’m around Enzo.

Rolling my eyes, I put my phone to the side as I go through my emails for my actual job. Thankfully nothing is time-sensitive. It only takes an hour to clear my box. Everything settled, I pull up the information on the contractors listed and the architect.

The architect, Jillian Franklin, has a reputation that’s impressive for someone so young. I ignore the sting of jealousy at how pretty she is. It doesn’t matter, not in the slightest. When I call, the receptionist is dismissive until I give the Sabatini name, then she trips over herself. Of course, Ms. Franklin is available, Monday morning at ten is best. I check Enzo’s schedule; it will work.

The contractor I call does the usual “they are too busy they don’t need another job,” until I give them the time frame, the budget, and Enzo’s name. All of a sudden they are more than happy to assist; how many men will the job need? I don’t know, why don’t they show up on Monday and we can discuss it then. They agree and promise to be there. When my phone rings I’m not surprised it’s Enzo.