Dirty Rich One Night Stand

  Dirty Rich One Night Stand

  by Lisa Renee Jones

  Copyright © 2017

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the supplier and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at lisareneejones.com/contact

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.lisareneejones.com

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Playlist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Walker Security Series

  Also Available by Lisa Renee Jones

  About The Author

  In My Head by Brantley Gilbert

  Unforgettable by Thomas Rhett

  Slow Hands by Niall Horan

  The Fighter by Keith Urban

  They Don’t Know by Jason Aldean

  Take Me There by Rascal Flatts

  Day 1: The Trial of the Century

  Coffee is life, love, and happiness. Actually, it’s just alertness, and on a day that I’ll be covering the trial of the century along with a horde of additional reporters, I need to be sharp. That need is exactly why I’ve dressed in my sharpest navy-blue suit dress and paired it with knee-high boots before enjoying a fall walk to the coffee shop three blocks from my New York City loft. Only two blocks from the courthouse, it’s bustling with people, but the white mocha is so worth the line, and I’ve allowed myself ample time to caffeinate. In fact, I have a full two hours before I have to be inside the courtroom, and I plan to sit at a corner table and draft the beginning of my daily segment Cat Does Crime before heading to the courthouse.

  I step into a line ten deep that slowly moves, and google the name of the defendant, looking for any hot new tidbit that might not have been live before bed last night. I tab through several articles, and I’ve made it to a spot near the front of the line when some odd blog linked to the defendant’s name called “Mr. Hotness Gets Illegally Hot” pops up in my search. Considering the defendant is a good-looking billionaire accused of killing his pregnant mistress, I buy into the headline and click. The line moves up one spot, and I move with it and then start reading:

  I need help. I’ve done something bad. So very bad. I was told he would take care of me. Protect me. That was three months ago. I remember that day like it was yesterday. But now, it’s today, a world behind me and in front of us. I enter his office and shut the door. We stare at each other, the air thickening, crackling. And then it happens. That thing that always happens between us. One minute I’m across the room, and the next I’m sitting in his chair, behind his desk, with him on his knees in front of me. Those blue eyes of his are smoldering hot. His hands settle on my legs just under my skirt, and I want to run my hands through his thick, dark hair, but I know better. I don’t touch him until he tells me I can touch him.

  I grip the arms of the chair, and his hands start a slow slide upward…

  “Next!”

  I blink out of that hot little number of a read and pant out a breath, feeling really dirty and gross, and with good reason. I’m hot and bothered over what I think is a fantasy piece about a man who is accused of pushing his pregnant girlfriend down the stairs and killing her. Correction, his pregnant mistress. Only the baby wasn’t really his, and he says he wasn’t her lover, and he was still charged over fingerprints on a doorknob.

  “Cat!”

  I jolt at my name as Jeffrey, who works the register as regularly as I visit, shouts at me from behind the counter. I take a step forward, only to have a man in a dark gray suit step in front of me. Frowning, I instinctively move forward and touch his arm. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t respond, and I am certain he’s aware I’m now standing right next to him. “Excuse me,” I repeat.

  He doesn’t turn around, and now I’m irritated. I tug on the sleeve of what I am certain is his ridiculously expensive jacket and achieve my intended goal: He rotates to look at me, the look of controlled irritation etched in his ridiculously handsome face telling me I’ve achieved my goal. He now feels what I feel, and as a bonus: He now knows that despite my being barely five foot two, blonde, and female, I will not be ignored. “I was next,” I say.

  “I’m in too much of a rush to wait for you to finish playing games on your phone.”

  “Games? Are you serious?” I open my mouth to say more and snap it shut, holding up a hand to stop him from doing or saying something that might land me in a courtroom today for the wrong reason. “Wait your turn, like the gentleman you should be.”

  His eyes, which I now know to be a wicked crystal blue, narrow ever so slightly before he turns to the counter. “A venti double espresso and whatever she’s having.” Mr. Arrogant Asshole looks at me. “What do you want? I’ll buy your drink.”

  “Is that an apology?”

  “It’s a concession made in the interest of time. Not an apology. You were the one on your phone playing—”

  “I was not playing games. I was working, while you were plotting the best way to push around the woman who was ahead of you.”

  “That’s the best you’ve got? I’m pushing around women?”

  “No, you’re not pushing around women today,” I say. “You tried and failed. I can buy my own coffee.” I face the counter. “My usual.”

  “Already wrote up your cup,” Jeffrey says. “It should be ready any minute.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and while I should just move along, I find myself turning to Mr. Arrogant Asshole because apparently, I can’t help myself. “I’ll leave you with a helpful tip,” I say, “since you’ve been so exceedingly helpful to me today. The phrases ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ are not only Manners 101, but failure to use them will either keep a man single, or make a man single.” And on that note, I move on down the bar, which has a cluster of people waiting on drinks, but thankfully, I spot the corner table I favor opening up. Hurrying that way, I wait for the woman who is leaving to clear her space, and then murmur the “thank you” that Mr. Arrogant Asshole back at the counter doesn’t understand before claiming her seat and placing my bag on the table. Settling into my seat, I have no idea why, but my gaze lifts and
seeks out Mr. Arrogant Asshole, who now stands at the counter, talking on his cellphone and oozing that kind of rich, powerful presence that sucks up all the air in the room and makes every woman around look at him. Me included, apparently, which irritates me. He irritates me, and the only way you deal with a man like him is naked for one night, which you end with a pretty little orgasmic goodbye, and that is all. Anything else is a mistake, which I know because I’ve been there, done that.

  Once.

  Never again.

  It’s in that moment, with that thought, that Mr. Arrogant Asshole decides to turn around and somehow find the exact spot where I’m sitting, those piercing blue eyes locked on me. And now he’s watching me watching him, which means I’m busted and probably appear more interested in him than I want to appear. I cut my stare and pull out my MacBook, keying it to life, and just when it’s connected, I hear, “Order for Cat!”

  At the sound of my name, I eye one of the regulars, a twenty-something encroaching on thirty, who got fired from his job and started some consulting business. “Kevin,” I say, and when he doesn’t look up, I raise my voice. “Kevin!”

  His head jerks up. “Cat,” he says, blinking me into view.

  I point to my table and the coffee bar. He nods. I push to my feet and, not about to cower over Mr. Arrogant Asshole, who is now standing at the bar with his back to me, I charge forward. I’m just about to step to his side and grab my drink when he faces me, holding two drinks, one of which he offers to me. “Your drink,” he says.

  I purse my lips, refusing to be charmed. “Thank you.” I pause for effect and add, “But you’re still an asshole.”

  His lips, which I notice when I shouldn’t, because he really is an arrogant asshole, curve. “You have such good manners,” he comments.

  “My mother taught me right. Manners and honesty.”

  “I won’t argue the accuracy of your statement, considering the fact that I was an asshole.”

  “Well, good,” I say, curious about this turn of events. “We agree on something.”

  His eyes light with amusement. “I’d apologize, but then this would be over.”

  I frown. “What does that mean?”

  “Meet me here in the morning and we’ll negotiate the terms of my apology.” He steps around me, and I whirl around to face his back.

  “You’re an attorney, aren’t you?” I say, because I know the lingo, the style, everything about this man. And I am, in fact, a Harvard graduate attorney myself, as are two of my three brothers and my father. Them by choice, me by pressure that I stopped caving into two years ago next week.

  He stops walking and rotates to face me now. “Yes, Cat. I am. Which means that you can handle Manners 101 and I’ll handle Negotiation 101.” He smiles—and it’s one hell of a smile—before he turns and walks away.

  I watch him disappear in the crowd, knowing I have two options: Forget him or show back up. This is crazy. Men like that one are trouble, and I don’t like trouble, so why the heck am I staring after Mr. Arrogant Asshole? I’m not meeting him. End of story.

  Shaking off any other thought, I walk back to my table and glance at the computer screen, where I’ve typed “Mr. Hotness,” and decide that hot little blog post is half the reason that Mr. Arrogant Asshole was able to get to me. I’m not meeting him. Of course, if I did, I’d do so with the understanding that trouble can be managed, and in this case, in his case, that would be with a dirty, rich one night stand.

  Or by simply not meeting him again, but this is my coffee shop and I won’t be run out of it.

  An hour later, I’ve written my intro for today’s courtroom activity, detailing what I know of the crime in question and the accused killer himself, before heading to the courthouse. I arrive forty-five minutes before the start of the trial, and it’s a good thing I do. The outside of the courthouse is crowded with picketers and press. Inside the courtroom, cameras and people have hoarded ninety-nine percent of the space. I squeeze into the back row and remove my brand-new leather-bound notebook, open to the first page, where I write: Murder: Guilty or Innocent? I follow with random questions I hope to answer today and during the trial, as I did in the two major trials I sat in witness to prior to this one.

  I’ve just finished my list when the courtroom activity begins. The jury enters. The defendant and his counsel enter, but the stupid cameras block my view. The judge enters next, and we all stand, which means I have an even worse view. Finally, we all take our seats and the lead counsels for both sides approach the bench. They are only there for a minute at most before they turn back to the courtroom. It’s then, as Reese Summer, lead counsel for the defense, takes center stage for opening statements that my lips part in shock, and with good reason. Reese Summer is Mr. Arrogant Asshole. I sit there, staring at him, dumbfounded for the first five minutes of his opening before I even remember that I need to take notes. I start writing, studying him as he walks, talks, and presents not just his case, but himself, to the jury, audience, and cameras.

  “Nelson Ward met Jennifer Wright when she was scared of her boyfriend and he didn’t look away like most people would. He looked at her. He saw her instead of seeing through her or past her. He told his wife about her. And together he and his wife, helped her seek shelter and a job. Nelson did not have an affair with Jennifer Wright. The DNA has proven that the child Jennifer Wright was carrying was not his, but rather her boyfriend’s, who was abusing her. The prosecution wanted to make the public happy and they needed a victim to convict. And that’s what my client is: A victim. The prosecution will present fingerprints on the doorknob of Ms. Wright’s house as evidence. That was the bombshell that landed Nelson Ward in this courtroom. My fingerprints are all over this courtroom. Did I commit a crime here? No. I did not. Has a crime been committed here? Yes. In fact, there have been three murders on this very property. According to the prosecution’s handling of this case, you all must now need lawyers. Why? Because that is the only evidence they have against my client, fingerprints on a door. I don’t know about you, folks, but I’m terrified at the idea that we can be convicted of a crime off nothing but our fingerprints on a door. Not on a weapon. On a doorknob used over and over by many people.”

  He continues, and there are quips, and murmured laughter, and intense scowls. He takes everyone on an emotional journey. When he’s done, I sit back to assess his skill, and I judge him as a man that can seduce a courtroom as easily as he seduced me.

  He’s trouble.

  Big trouble.

  And it’s now my job to make him my obsession for the remainder of this trial. Which means a dirty, rich (naked) one night stand can’t happen until there can be that pretty little orgasmic goodbye. Anything else would be a mistake I’ve already made. Once. Never again.

  Day 2: The Trial of the Century

  I wake up the next morning with no intention of meeting Reese for coffee. Any personal encounter with him would be inappropriate, and I’d risk my credibility as a reporter with a potential scandal. Which means, instead of my normal routine that would include showering and dressing before heading to the coffee shop, I’m still in my PJs when I walk into my kitchen and put a chocolate-flavored pod in my Keurig. While it brews, I proceed to think about the man I’m avoiding. If I were another reporter, I would take him up on the invitation and corner him for an interview, but I’m not big on the sex-for-information kind of reporting, and that’s how that reads to me. Besides, no one likes to be stalked by the press, and while Reese Summer might be an asshole, I’m not. Nor am I chasing headlines, but rather meaningful, objective commentary that has often been the reason I am awarded interviews I would not otherwise be awarded.

  Steaming cup in hand, I sit down at my white marbled kitchen island and proceed to finish two cups of coffee, while doing what I do every morning. I read my Cat Does Crime write-up in hopes that I won’t hate what is now published, and today, thankfully, I do not, though sometimes I do. And I didn’t have much to work with to start. There were op
ening statements, some heated words between counsels, and the judge pulling them back behind closed doors, in what became the end of the day. But reading over my published piece, I made it work. There is a nice mix of personal insight into the case, the judge’s general attitude and presence, as well the jury’s engagement in the courtroom events. Additionally, I share my opinions on what should happen, has happened, or has not happened. Finally, I end with a closing statement of my own:

  The prosecution’s opening statement promised to prove a good-looking billionaire to be a monster in disguise. The defense, led by Reese Summer, in turn, promised to prove them wrong. It’s a predictable narrative, of course, except for one thing. The sensationalism in the courtroom for the defense, in what appears to be the JFK effect of good looks and charm, wins the day. Summer slays the jury and the audience, convincing them that the prosecution is on a witch hunt. And since the prosecution chose to present their case with over-the-top drama akin to a B-rated, poorly shot, Friday the 13th movie, they better have facts as backup to win. Until then, —Cat

  I left out the part about me having met Reese, finding him to be an arrogant ass, and that he still had me actually contemplating getting naked with him. I don’t even know where my head was. Reese personifies the very man who has always been a problem for me. I know Reese is trouble. If the prosecution doesn’t know that by now, they will. Just to arm myself with facts, to back up those statements, I google him now. In the name of research, of course. I write down the details in my notebook: