DOTTY (The Naughty Ones Book 3) (34 page)

Chase

“This is cold…even for you.”

I shrug, not giving two fucks that Gabe’s right, and continue to scan the dossier in front of me. I’ve looked at this thing so many times I don’t need the physical copy to see every word on every page.

I also don’t need to see the photographic evidence, but I look anyway, needing it to bolster myself—to justify what I’m doing. Maybe to—
oh, who am I kidding?

I look at this file and see every single one of Brian Carson’s transgressions, and I relish knowing that he will soon lose the one thing in his life that is at all worthwhile. And then I'll crow about the fact that she will soon be mine.

Not yet, though, not until she finally signs those papers she’s had sitting in her desk for over four months. Once her signature is there, I will consider her completely free, and then, well, I’ll take her in every known position my kinky mind can come up with.

“Look at this. The man is married to a goddess and he’s running around screwing
her cousin!
How fucked up is that?” I snarl, flicking at the photo with a growl. “Who marries such perfection and taps out to play with a-a—”

I stop myself because I do not personally know Helena Harrow, but from what I’ve seen, and the ease with which she’s betraying Remy—her own cousin—I don’t much like her.

That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for her shitty personality though because, let’s face it, they’re making my goals a lot easier to achieve. No way will Remy stay when she finds this out.

“You’re purposefully setting out to ruin a man.”

“Yes—as I ruined all the others.” I concede without an ounce of guilt.

My mission in life since I was forced to leave the U.S. and go back to mum in the U.K. has been to bring down every man who’d fucked with me those last months in high school. I’d spent innumerable hours following their progress, successes and failures and used it all to take from them what they took from me.

My pride.

My ability to get back up.

They’d pushed me to my breaking point and I’d caved, having no choice but to leave my father and scuttle back to my mother, licking my wounds like a fucking beaten dog.

And I’d let them take something else from me that I will never forgive: my Remy, the girl I’d adored. The girl who’d laughed with me when we’d won debates together and talked about math problems that I got and she could not for the life of her understand.

We’d been friends of a sort, and I’d loved her even then, if only from afar.

“Chase, buddy, maybe you should take a break and rethink this. The man is going to be a senator one of these days.”

“He
was
going to be a senator. Now he’ll be lucky if he can get elected mayor in some Podunk town.” I mutter, smiling at the thought of the great Brian Carson, the golden boy quarterback, Mr. Popular, falling from grace and forced to crawl away with his tail between his legs.

“This is—”

“I told you why I’m doing this, and I don’t give a damn if you agree with me or not. If it was just my pride, I could drop it and walk away, but I won’t rest till every single one of them suffers for what they did to her.”

That gets me a frustrated sigh, and Gabe pulls at his hair as he paces the carpet in my home office, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

“She doesn’t even know half of it and she seems just fine all these years later.”

“Yes, but
I
know. According to what Weston got, she spent three months on antidepressants and another month with her grandmother in Florida. That makes me think that she didn’t fare too well afterward and then that swine swooped back in and carried on as if nothing had happened—as if he wasn’t involved!”

The familiar rage boils back up and it takes more than a few minutes to get back under control and calm enough not to go after those men and beat them all to death with my bare hands.

My late nanna is right though: revenge is more than a quick fix. No, the only way to make them suffer sufficiently is to take away everything they hold dear: money, power and freedom, and watch as they writhe in a cesspool of their own making.

“Fine, do it, but for God's sake, leave the woman alone. She’s a nice kid. She’s not window dressing, dude.”

“You think I don’t know that Gabe? I’ve watched her smiling vacantly while that idiot struts around like God’s gift to women for years. She’s not happy with him.”

Gabe shakes his head and flings off his jacket, loosening his light-blue tie even as he paces to the bar and pours two large snifters of Lagavulin, obviously wound up enough to need a drink at six in the afternoon on a Wednesday.

I accept mine with thanks and lean back, awaiting his next salvo. The man is a great friend and an even better right hand man, and I can honestly say that he’s been as vital to my success as my driving need for it, but he’s a damn moral compass I don’t need at the moment.

“You think she’ll be happy with you? You work no less than eighty hours a week, sometimes more if you’re on another tear like you were this week.”

That’s true. Sleep is not my friend and I can live with four or five hours a night before hitting the gym and then starting my day. Part of that is the driving urgency I’ve started feeling lately.

Remy’s been married to that jerk forever, and I can’t stand it anymore. Plus, I need to get all of my business squared away so that I can focus on her and her alone.

She is now my sole focus, the sun that I revolve around, and I won’t let anything interfere, not even the business that has sustained me through the years.

“I don’t think she’ll be happy with me, Gabe. I know it. But I can ensure that nothing bad ever touches her again.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes at my conviction.

“I hate to break it to you, boss, but the woman thrives on walking into bad situations and fixing them. She’s a social worker and crisis counselor; I don’t see her leaving that any time soon.”

“Which is why I’m going to keep her so busy with the latest projects that she won’t have time for anything but that and me.” I counter, smiling at his eye roll when he downs his drink.

“Christ, am I glad I’m not someone you’re focused on. Anyone ever tell you you’re scary controlling?”

“Many times.” I muse, grinning broadly. “I’m happy to report that my confidence hasn’t taken a hit yet.”

“We’ll see.”

Remy

Gosh. The house is…huge. A massive white colonial monstrosity that takes up a full block, easily, surrounded by rolling green lawns that are so bright green they looked painted on. And my goodness the trees…

I love trees, especially towering hulks like the ones lining the long drive all the way down to a circular drive that’s dominated by a fountain. I’m officially overwhelmed and cowed at the prospect of meeting the man who owns a place like this.

“Here we are ma’am.” The driver says after opening the door and offering his hand to help me out.

“Thanks.”

I walk up to the door and pause with my fist halfway to the wood, wishing again that I could have gone home and at least changed out of my gray pencil skirt and light pink silk blouse.

My hair is a total mess of frizzy curls, which I’ve rolled into a messy bun that will have to do because, short off a flat iron and a shitload of gel, nothing good will happen there.

My gray flats also aren’t what I would wear for a meeting with a billionaire philanthropist, but again, I had no time to do anything but finish up my last meeting at six before rushing to the waiting car Mr. Marshall had sent.

I’ll have to have the driver drop me back at the office so I can get my car and drive home, so I have transportation in the morning…shit, that’ll make me way later than ten o’clock, and Brian already threw a fit when I called and told him I couldn’t make dinner tonight.

And then mom and dad had called and laid into me. And then Gareth and his wife, Priscilla. I’d turned my cell off after that, thankful that the driver was tactful enough not to have listened as I begged them to understand, and then flat out told them all to take a leap.

I don’t love Brian. Brian does not love me. I want a divorce so that I can move on with my life and find a man who’ll make me happy and love me. Brian wants his window dressing firmly at his side, doing the queen’s wave and bolstering a wholesome image. My mom is totally pissed that I would not only let Brian down by skipping our anniversary, but the family as well since they all decided to invite everyone to the dinner.

Not very romantic, but I’d been relieved to have that buffer for the evening to hold Brian back. He’s not that into sex with me, but birthdays and anniversaries are a nightmare since he seems to think it’s obligatory to be intimate on those days.

“You look about a million miles away.”

Snapping out of my daze, I realize that I’m still standing with my fist raised and blush when I realize the door must have been opened quite a while ago.

“Oh, golly, sorry,” I stammer, feeling all kinds of foolish when I look up into…
an angel
…

My God this man is hot. No, not hot…
magnetic
. His dirty-blond hair hangs in waves, just shy of being too long and his eyes are…okay, wow, he really does have two different-colored eyes, and my God, is that sexy as hell.

I now fully understand how women can dreamily say that the eyes are the door to a man’s soul because what I see in them as they catch my own is pure appreciation with an intensity that floors me.

We stare at each other for minutes, my eyes flitting from his strong face to his casual black dress slacks and lightweight gray jersey to…the man is built like an Adonis, built…

And, for some reason that I can’t place, I feel like I’ve known him for years. That, and
only
that, is the reason that instead of blushing and stammering like a fool, I offer him a mischievous smile and playfully wipe my brow.

“Well, good Lord, Liv was right, you’re quite the looker, huh.”

His eyes go wide for a beat before he throws his head back and laughs in a loud boom that makes me jump a little. The sound is a genuine expression that is so contagious I find myself chuckling along with him as he stands back and waves me in.

“You’re going to be full of sass I can see.”

Oooh
, his accent is a cross between rolling r’s and a crisp, polished British English that somehow just goes together, giving him an air of sophistication and wildness all at the same time.

“Where are you from Mr. Marshall? I can’t quite place that accent.”

“My dad was American and my mum is British. I live here a while and over there for a while.”

He takes the coat I have thrown over my arm before leading me through a grandiose foyer all the way to the back of the house and a state-of-the-art kitchen, and onto a patio that’s set up with a large array of food and swaying candlelight.

I’m almost breathless with shock and a strange delight when he takes my elbow and leads me to the table, seating me before taking his own and watching me take it all in. To the left is a large Olympic-size swimming pool that is so clear and tranquil looking, I long to just drop everything and dive right in.

To the right is a large, cozy area that boasts a fire pit and stone benches topped with colorful cushions.

I don’t look anywhere else because, at this rate, I’ll be spellbound for hours; the place is huge, but I love it all and can’t keep from telling him so.

“Your house is lovely. It’s surprisingly cozy for such a big place.”

That seems to please him and he smiles, holding my gaze intimately before looking out at his domain.

“Thank you. I wanted a place with lots of space. I had a family in mind when I bought it, so I try to make it as comfortable as possible.”

We talk about nothing too specific as he starts serving and fills our plates with shrimp salad, what looks like barbecued ribs, and my absolute favorite, twice-baked potatoes.

“My God, this is possibly the most delicious meal I have had in ages.” I moan, breathing it in like the carb junkie I am.

At home, Brian’s chef has a strict diet plan to follow for meals, and I only get potatoes when the guy knows my husband will be out of town—never enough for my liking, so I fully intend to delight in this carb fest while I can.

“You’re enjoying the food…good.”

He seems so pleased that I grin and find myself admitting my horrid secrets.

“I don’t get a lot of carbs at home since my husband and my mom are image freaks who think a little cellulite will stop the world turning. I’m probably being a total pig, but I’m going all in while I can.” I say, closing my eyes when the melted butter and potato hit my tongue.

When I open them, I see him staring at me, his eyes so cold I swallow without chewing and sputter around the lump.

“You should be allowed to eat what you like.”

I snort at that and take another bite, leaning an elbow onto the table and gesturing with my fork.

“You’d think.”

Why am I even talking to this guy about my life and hinting at my shitty family? I couldn’t tell you except to say that he makes me so comfortable I feel like we’ve been friends for years. Plus, I really like him. He’s hot, smart, and a man with a passion for downtrodden families and the elderly.

What I wouldn’t give to have met him before Brian got his hooks into me.

“Anyway, that is not at all important. You just single-handedly changed the lives of an entire neighborhood. I went to check out that community, and I have to tell you, I am more than impressed.”

His eyes go soft for a minute and he smiles.

“It was well worth the hassle of dealing with politicians and contractors, believe you me. And I cannot stand the dangers that woman have to face living in places rife with drugs and gangs. The city has a responsibility to keep people safe.”

Exactly!
I’ve had this same argument with Brian and my parents for years because, yeah, I am one of those crazy people who labor under the notion that the police force should be as concerned about the poor as they are about who stole Mrs. So-and-so’s million-dollar diamonds.

“Wow. Okay. This is a first for me Mr. Marshall.”

“Chase, please,” he says, smiling at my grin.

“Chase. No one ever agrees with me about this kind sort of thing, so let me bask in my potato and glee for a minute here.”

He laughs at my exaggerated expression and pours me more wine, his own food going untouched as he keeps eyeing me intently.

“You believe in the Utopian ideals too?”

“I didn’t used to. I was the classic cheerleader, a brainless airhead who did what mom and dad said I should and drifted through life with a very secular view of the world.” I admit, cringing to remember that girl and her vacant life.

My parents are very upper-class types who wanted their children to fit the mold. My siblings had done just as I had, and played football and been on the cheerleading squad. I’d done it all and been so sure of my place as a popular jock’s girlfriend who didn’t have to make much effort but to look pretty and follow the status quo.

Shallow, and so blind to the needs of others, I’m ashamed to admit that I still feel guilty even now after I've changed my life.

“You don’t strike me as an airhead.”

I look up at his soft tone and smile ruefully, abandoning my food for the wine and the memories I haven’t explored in years.

“You’d be wrong. I totally was. I was such an idiot; I didn’t care about anything, including school till one of my teachers threatened to fail me. She gave me one chance to get my head outta my ass and actually work. I took it, not really thinking I’d put in much effort till I got to the debate team and found out what real work is about. God, I was so uninformed; I went home that very day and started cramming as much info as I could.” I laugh, remembering my feverish googling and the things I’d learned.

“So you picked yourself up.”

A statement, not a question, and boy do I wish I could live up to that amount of confidence. Unfortunately I can’t.

“Not exactly. After a night of reading and general learning, I gave up even trying really and just resigned myself to floating along for a while till the teachers stopped focusing on me. But a great thing happened a few days later. I met this great boy, I mean he was so smart and funny and he had this way of talking to me that didn’t make me feel like such a fool. I learned that I do want to be better and see people—really see them—and contribute to making the world a better place.”

One person at a time.

“One person at a time,” he says, finishing it before I can say another word.”

“Yeah! Exactly. So I buckled down and got to work. My parents and boyfriend flipped out—big time. I changed almost overnight from the bubbly idiot they liked so well to someone who cared about…
everything
.”

And they just kept going, pushing at me, yelling, sometimes even ordering me flat out to quit the team and the friendships I’d developed with those they considered unworthy. My new crew had been the dorky kids and the less privileged, though I never saw them as less because, in a lot of ways, they had more than I ever would.

Money is great, but it can’t make up for a mother who watched my diet and a father who bought me a car to try to get me to refocus on the squad and my old, backstabbing friends.

Brian had gone nuts and acted like a controlling dick till I very gently but firmly told him to get lost. And then the incident— I shiver, cutting off the thought and focus instead on the rest. I’d been hurt and afraid, needing some understanding.

And then my friend Alex had disappeared, and instead of staying strong and keeping my head down, I’d fallen apart and right back into Brian’s arms.

“What happened?” he finally asks, pulling me back to the present, and the sadness I always feel.

“Well.” I take a deep breath. “I, uh, my friend left, and I had a lot going on at that point. I managed to graduate, though just barely, and I made it to college. I decided to study something more than art history or literature, and chose social work instead. What a nightmare.”

We both laugh when I pull a dorky face and shudder.

“You made it though.”

“Yup.”

“You missed him? Your friend?” he asks, staring intently.

I nod and swallow a little, my face turning wistful.

“Every day.”