Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)

I nodded.

“It’s hard to explain,” Emma said. “We have great parents and had a happy childhood. We’ve both done well. But when you’re not only adopted, but abandoned, there’s a piece that is always missing. Most adopted kids know there’s a record somewhere of who their real parents are, even if they can’t access it. Samantha and I don’t even have that. We’ll live our entire lives without knowing.” She looked away, her eyes serious. “And even when you’ve had a good life like we have, it’s like a puzzle piece that’s missing. The rest of the puzzle is there, but there’s that one hole, and you know you’ll never have the piece that fills it. You’ll never have the answers.” She looked at me. “Her puzzle started breaking apart. It wasn’t just that silly photo, Aidan. It was you.”

“Me?”

“You’ve pushed her off balance. She’s never had a serious boyfriend in her life, or any man she’s had real feelings about. Samantha is like me—everything is under control as long as true emotions aren’t involved. Deep feelings mess up your life. Everyone knows that.”

I looked at her. Emma might look obviously different from Samantha—the red hair, for one, and she was taller with fewer curves—but when you talked to her, you saw the similarity. Emma was as smooth, as unruffled as Samantha was. She was calm and imperturbable. All the qualities that made for a top-notch executive assistant. She had every detail in place, like Samantha.

At least, until I came along. Now Samantha was a woman who left town on a whim and played hooky from work.

“You’re saying she pulled this stunt because she has feelings for me,” I said.

“Yes.” Now Emma looked annoyed. “What did you do to her? I know my sister. A few dates and nice words from a good-looking man wouldn’t do it. Your money would have no effect on her. She’s hard to impress—you could put her on your private jet and she would just shrug. Even great sex wouldn’t crack Samantha, though I don’t want any details, please. So what the hell did you do?”

I dared her to play other roles and be other women, I thought. I pushed her outside herself and I made all the pieces scramble. “It’s just my charm,” I said, deflecting the question. “And I don’t have a private jet. I fly commercial. I’m rich, but I’m not an asshole.”

Emma still looked annoyed. “Well, if she’s just another fuck to you then I’m going to have to castrate you, Aidan. Because you broke my sister.”

I raised my eyebrows. I could very easily see this woman robbing a man of his balls and going on with her day. God help any man who tried to take her on—he’d have to have confidence the size of Staten Island.

But if she wanted to do a cold negotiation, then I was her match. Cold was the Man in Black’s middle name. “She isn’t just a fuck to me,” I said. “She’s the only woman I want, not that it’s any of your concern. And if you think Samantha is broken, then you don’t know her as well as you think you do. Are you going to tell me where she is?”

“No,” Emma said. “Of course not. That’s off the table.”

“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d leave, because I’m going to go find her.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You think you can do that?”

“I know I can do it within half an hour if I track her credit cards, but I don’t need to. I already know where she is.”

“You’re bluffing,” Emma said. “You can’t possibly know.”

“I already do.” I smiled.

“Big emotions, Emma. I’m going to go express mine to your sister. You might want to get out of the way.”

Thirty-Five

Samantha

* * *

Paris was even more beautiful than I’d imagined. It was a big city, full of life and intense energy. But the air smelled different than New York, the people were more elegant, and the architecture was some of the most beautiful I’d ever seen.

I stood in the winding neighborhood of Montmartre, looking up at the extravagant, white-domed church of Sacre-Coeur, watching the tourists pass by. I’d just had a baguette with fresh cheese, and in my bag I carried a well-thumbed guidebook and a pamphlet of conversational French phrases. It was all perfect for the role of “American tourist,” but this time it wasn’t a role. It was just who I was.

How I got here was a blur. There had been that photo of Aidan and my stupid reaction to it. My logical mind had told me that there was a rational explanation, that the Aidan I knew wouldn’t spend the morning making love to me while he was already fucking a supermodel. I’d told myself to talk to him about it even as I’d packed my bags and gone to the airport. It was like I was splintered into two people, and the crazy Samantha had already maxed out her credit card on a plane ticket before she even knew what she was doing.

Part of me wanted to be run. Part of me wanted any excuse at all.

I’d landed, found a hotel. Remembered to call work and tell them I wasn’t coming in. Crashed and slept. Then I’d woken up, showered and changed, and gone walking.

I looked around, letting it sink in for the millionth time. I was really in Paris. I’d gone to the Eiffel Tower first, then the Arc de Triomphe. Being the awestruck American tourist I was. I didn’t know where the best bistros or the coolest jazz clubs were. I’d learned the hard way that they didn’t do American coffee here, but shots of espresso topped with milk that powered you straight out of your jet lag. I wore jeans and a soft cotton T-shirt and carried a messenger bag. I wasn’t sophisticated, and I didn’t care. This was the city I’d always dreamed about, the greatest place on Earth.

At the bottom of my bag, my phone was off. Was Aidan still trying to talk to me, I wondered? Maybe he was angry with me by now. I felt an ache deep in my stomach at the thought of him that last day, the way he’d touched me. No man had ever touched me like that, and how it made me feel was terrifying.

I didn’t think he would touch another woman like that while he was making promises to me. It was just a photograph. But then again, we’d played a lot of games. Maybe Aidan played other games I didn’t know about.