Dirty Beautiful Rich Part One (4 page)

“Would madam care for a cocktail while she waits?” a servant suddenly asked, appearing as if from nowhere.

It was tempting. But she didn’t want Mr. Fitzgerald thinking she had a drinking problem given that she was totally blitzed not twelve hours before. She shook her head and the perfectly dressed servant exited.

And then she heard it.

His
voice.

A shiver ran straight down her spine and rested between her thighs.

How did he do that? She swallowed and locked her gaze on the Colorado river stone arched doorway. Even from down the hall, she could feel his presence. The dark timbre of his voice touched with the slightest lilt had her whole body tingling.

Damian Fitzgerald paused before the doorway, iPad in hand, speaking with a much younger and slighter man. After a barely audible order, the young man took the iPad and headed down the hall.

Slowly, Fitzgerald turned to her, his entire face changing from what had to be a stone cold business facade to that slow burning smile. He took his time, his gaze lingering over her face.

“You came,” he observed.

Those two words were so full of approval that she had to fight the urge to preen under his attention. Jeez. She nodded. “Well, O’Neil is hard to resist,” she teased.

He stared for a moment then laughed, a low rumble. “He’ll be delighted to hear it.” He gestured to the table with a large hand.

God, she loved his hands. It seemed such a silly thing. So boring. But his hands looked like Michelangelo would have followed Damian Fitzgerald to the ends of the earth just for the privilege to replicate those hands in stone.

“Julie?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m ravenous.” He covered her awkward response easily, an amused glint in those golden eyes of his. “Are you?”

Uh. Was that a trick question? Because while yes, she was hungry, she was ravenous for something different than food and quite frankly she’d never felt this way in her entire life and she had no idea what to do with the emotions. So she nodded.
So brilliant.
Oh, she was so brilliant. If O’Neil was right and he did have a plan for her, it was going to be something innocuous like organizing books. Or maybe she really was going to be scrubbing his floors.

She fought a sigh and walked to the chair he’d indicated. Surely, they’d add two more place settings? “Aren’t we waiting for Kat and Stella?”

Mr. Fitzgerald  paused. “Ah. I do believe they will be arriving after luncheon.”

They were going to be alone? A five alarm bell went off inside her head. Alone. With him. Could her nerves take it? “But I thought. . .”

“I’m sorry if O’Neil gave you that impression,” he said simply. “I’ve arranged an outing for the three of you after luncheon.”

He strode up behind her and that gorgeous expensive scent wafted toward her.

It was so intense, she desperately wanted to turn, grab his shirt, and bury her face in his neck. Luckily, she was able to resist. So, she’d have to make it through, what? A half an hour with him before her friends arrived? She could do that, right?

He slid the chair easily into place as she sat and he crossed to the seat across from her.

As soon as he sat, another young man entered in a simple white shirt and gray slacks, a tray balanced easily on his hand. Without comment, he poured white wine from a crystal decanter into Julie’s first crystal goblet and then water into Mr. Fitzgerald’s. Then, he placed a large tray of oysters on the half shell, resting on a bed of crushed ice between them accompanied by lemons, horseradish and red sauce.

She stared at this dance of etiquette. Mr. Fitzgerald was placing his napkin in his lap, and thanking the young man.  

“They were flown in from Galway this morning.” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “So no need to worry if they’re fresh.”

Galway. Galway, Ireland? Just seven or so hours ago, those little fellows had all been happy in Galway Bay. Now, they were here, waiting for her to eat one. The shellfish was better traveled than she. She let out a sigh. Then realized his first wine goblet had been discreetly slipped away.

“You’re not drinking?” she asked.

He raised his crystal glass of clear liquid. “Just water.”

“But I have wine,” she pointed out, picking up said glass.

“I don’t drink,” he said simply.

“I feel a little strange drinking alone.” Still, she’d never had oysters from Galway and  she was going to have them with her wine. She wasn’t about to deny herself the full experience.

“Do you have a history of substance abuse in your family?” he asked factually.

She nearly choked on the sip of wine. “No.” She coughed. “No, I don’t.”

“Then don’t feel strange. I do. So, I don’t risk tempting that beast.” 

“Are there other beasts you tempt?” she asked before she could stop herself.

And there it was again. That slow burn of a smile. A smile which seemed to promise that he was going to devour her whole and she’d love every minute of it. “What do you think, love?”

Her toes curled with wicked pleasure. Well, maybe not literally. But holy crap. The way he said love was like a stroke to her whole body and she wanted to rub against him like a cat. She took another swallow of wine, starting to feel demoralized despite her pleasure. Did he do this to everyone? Surely, she didn’t have the same effect on him?

“Last night,” she said desperately. “Thank you. I was having a really bad day and you did something kind.”

He didn’t deny it. “I was glad to help it. But why was the day bad? I certainly understand about that crawling amoeba that bothered you. But what else?”

She bit her lower lip and his dark brows lifted in understanding.

“Ah. You were roasting a man.” 

What an odd way to put it, and for a second she could have sworn that his whole body tensed and his voice went cold.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I guess you could say that. I broke up with someone.”

“Someone totally undeserving. Eat an oyster. They’re delicious.” As if to solidify his claim about the small shellfish, he picked one, placed a bit of red sauce on it then brought it to his lips. He opened his mouth and swallowed.

She gaped. Somehow, without intention, the whole process of eating that oyster had been ridiculously sensual. Did he enjoy eating that much?

Yes, she realized as he took another oyster, studying it with pleasure then slipping it to his mouth again. He did take that kind of pleasure from eating.

How incredible. She had a constant battle with guilt. She couldn’t enjoy food without feeling like she was committing some epic crime. A wave of something tiring crashed over her. Why did she live life like that? As if she should feel guilty for anything that wasn’t hard?

He nudged the plate toward her.

She smiled then took one, squeezed a little lemon on, then a dollop of the sauce. She lifted the shell to her slips and swallowed. The slippery mouthful went down like a dream and her eyes widened as she met his gaze.

He was smiling again, beaming with approval at her. “Delicious?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Have another. Then tell me about the undeserving arse.”

She picked up another oyster, took a sip of wine and replied. “He’s not important.”

“He hurt you.” A dangerous glint suddenly darkened his eyes.

Her throat tightened and she looked at the oyster, unsure now how to swallow it.

“Julie, its alright to admit it. Pain is part of life.”

“There’s seems to be a lot of it.”

“You’ve not had it easy,” he agreed.

It was a statement of fact, not an observation or a testing of waters.

She narrowed his eyes. “You know about me, don’t you?”

He blinked. “Yes,” he said, not even trying to deny it.

“How?”

“Did you Google me this morning?”

Damn O’Neil. She shifted on her chair, wishing she could take the high road. “I did,” she admitted.

“I have better resources that Google.” He ate another oyster than licked his thumb and forefinger. “I had you checked out, if you must know.”

She stared. She couldn’t help it. Just the sight of his fingers in his mouth was intoxicating. Clearing her throat, she remembered to ask, “And what did you find?”

He hesitated. “We don’t have to do it quite like this?”

“No, I think we should get all the facts over with.”

An elegant shrug was his answer and he leaned back. “Your father was a dreamer, a good man, but largely unable to work after a car accident when you were five. He died when you were nineteen, your freshman year, of cancer. It was intestinal. Quick and brutal. He died so fast there were no debts because Hospice took him on immediately. Your mother was a teacher, and she died of cancer two years ago. Her illness was much prolonged, treatment wasn’t affordable and you didn’t know someone like me then who could have helped you. She died and you sold the house to pay off the debts. You are still in debt from your MFA program and the private loan you took so you could afford not to work and nurse your mother yourself as she died. Is that all correct?”

Julie pushed her wine away and wiped her mouth with the napkin suddenly feeling sick. “All correct. Yes. We couldn’t afford the four hundred dollar shots she needed weekly on top of the copays and everything else. I took out that personal loan to try to pay but we needed the money for things like groceries. . .So I could care for her. . .” Julie looked away, the room swinging. She forced herself to keep going. “She just got too sick.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words were simple and honest and far kinder than any platitude. Still, she hated talking about it.

“Thank you,” she said dully.

“You’re a very strong woman, Julie Doyle.”

“Am I?” She was fighting a desire to run. In the last two years she’d avoided priests, counselors, and any family that had tried to corner her and get her to
talk about it
.

“I don’t think you know how strong.”

“Well, its either that or lay down and die, right?”

“Yes.”

Well, there it was. They agreed about something. She looked away. Even if they did, she wasn’t going to talk about her mother’s death right now. She wasn’t going to say how she’d had to quit her MFA program twice to help take care of her mom and how her mom had just gotten sicker each time that hope had been ripped away from them. “Why am I here?”

“First, tell me about the arse.”

She eyed him carefully. She really was unsure what she was doing here. Last night, he’d said the most dirty things. Things that had made her shiver. Now, he was being so damned direct. So honest. Why? It hardly felt like a seduction. “Are you a stalker?”

“I’m well informed. And if I’m a stalker, so are you.”

“Good point,” she said. Hadn’t she found out as much as she possibly could about him from her Google search and there had been several not so nice articles about his father and his drunken nights at the Savoy bar. “How was the Royal Wedding?”

“Boring, but my sister loved it.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “There’s something about girls and royal weddings.”

“No matter the country.”

“Or class?”

He arched a black brow. “I won’t deny it. I think every titled girl let out a howl of angst when Prince William chose a genuine commoner.”

“They don’t approve of Cinderella?”

Mr. Fitzgerald gave a mock look of horror. “The gentry and aristocracy approve of a servant marrying the prince? Good god, no.”

“Why?”

He leaned forward and whispered, “Because Cinderella might learn they had absolutely nothing interesting to say.”

“Does that include yourself?”

“I have many interesting things to say but that’s because I choose to associate with more than a hundred inbred families and the people I went to school with.”

She winced. “That’s tough.”

“That’s the truth. Now, tell me about the arse.”

She pulled her wine glass back and took a drink just as the same servant came back in, cleared the oysters and set a small goat cheese salad before them. Why should she tell him? She’d known him for all of two seconds and yet. . . . There was something about him that had her opening her mouth.

“His name was Derrick and he thought he was a god.”

“Ah.” He started in the salad with as much appreciation as he had the oysters. “But his feet were made of clay.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.” She felt her blood getting ready to boil and took a breath. It was impossible not to think of Derrick’s good looks and simultaneous degrading behavior. And she’d fallen for it. “He had ideas about how a woman should look that I didn’t fit. And he had an idea about how many women he could see at a time.”

He paused, fork midair. “Sounds like an absolute charmer.”

“Oh yes.”

“And you were with him?” he asked, not entirely shocked, but apparently doubtful.

“I’m an optimist.” She fiddled with her fork wishing she had a radar detector that told her when someone was going to rip her guts out and serve them to her on a platter. “It takes me a while to realize that the person I think is so nice is actually just someone I’ve created in my head.”

“That’s self aware.”

“Not self aware enough to keep me out of trouble.” She stabbed at her salad. “Now, what am I doing here?”

To her own surprise, she found herself holding her breath. Hoping against hope that he might repeat some of the passionate things he’d said last night in the light of day.

Putting down his fork, he leaned back in his chair his whole demeanor changing. “I’d like to offer you a position.”

She dropped her fork, which of course was really classy. “What?”

“You have an MFA in creative writing and I’d like to give my grandmother a Christmas present.” 

“I don’t follow.” She picked her fork back up, forcing herself to appear calm.

“You’re going to fly to Ireland. Shannon to be exact and then you will come stay in the family castle while you study the archives and create an unbiased yet slightly kind family history.”

Ireland, a castle, and a project that might actually be a real job, using her real education? The thrill of hope that raced through her was so incredible that she could barely allow herself to feel it. In fact, she wanted to scream with joy. But she had a strong feeling that that would be a bit too American for Damian Fitzgerald.