Lush Money (Filthy Rich) Read online

  She felt like herself again, mostly, when the prince opened the door a few minutes later.

  “I’ve called the car,” she said. “It should be here in a couple of—”

  “Let’s walk,” he interrupted, his hands in an olive-green coat, a black scarf doubled around his neck. The pizzeria door sealed shut, and the night suddenly seemed very quiet. “The hotel is only a couple of blocks.”

  Roxanne thought of her towering red shoes without breaking eye contact. The prince, whose baseball cap was still on backward, raised a dark, challenging eyebrow.

  Without a word, Roxanne lifted her chin and began to march past him, toward the hotel.

  He caught her arm. “Other way. I know a shortcut.”

  He swung her around and then slid her arm through the crook of his, making it rest there against the unyielding strength. She barely kept herself from tugging away.

  The chill air of this February weeknight had chased most San Franciscans indoors, and the raucous streets of North Beach were relatively quiet as they walked, him moving at a pace that implied they had all the time in the world. He turned off the main drag and up into the residential streets, buildings tucked tight together to keep from toppling down the steep street. She needed to hang on to him a bit to keep her heels from succumbing to gravity. His arm carried her weight like it was nothing.

  When he began to turn into a dark alleyway, she tugged him to a stop.

  “It’s the shortcut,” he explained.

  “Are you sure this isn’t where you’re going to dump my body?” she asked, trying to see into the gloom.

  “Is there a death benefit in that contract?” he drawled, grinning.

  “Very purposefully no.”

  “Then I say no also.”

  He tugged her lightly to get her started. A few steps into the alley, she realized that it widened, that the concrete became last-century brick, and that residents had taken advantage of the unexpected space by creating quaint patios behind their homes, bistro tables and flower boxes and tiny white lights turning the alley into a pretty, urban courtyard. It was dimly lit and invisible from the main street.

  Roxanne refused to be enchanted by it.

  “I find it interesting,” the prince rumbled quietly while her heels tapped against the brick, “that an offer to kiss you offends you more than me violating you in my lab. Why is that?”

  She forced ennui into her voice while her heart rate picked up. “Do we have to discuss this again?”

  “No,” he shot out. That arm that had been supporting her suddenly swung her toward him. Big, hot hands framed her face and her vision was instantly filled with gorgeous, determined prince, his eyes licking over her lips.

  Roxanne jerked out of his hands, pulled back two steps. “What are you doing?”

  “Not discussing it,” he said, his eyes hungry as he moved toward her. His hand slid up her jaw before she was able to stumble back from his reach again.

  “Stop it,” she demanded as his relentless walk told her he had no plans to stop. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Perhaps you don’t need a first kiss. But I do.”

  Roxanne’s heel hit a riser and she almost toppled back before he caught her, caught her and lifted her up on the step and pressed her back against the cool wall of the sheltered doorway. The dim lights of the courtyard were just able to catch the fire in his eyes.

  “We may be all out of order and fucked up,” he said as his fingers caught her behind her neck and his thumb tilted her chin up. “But if there’s to be a child from this, I need something that doesn’t make me ashamed every time I look at him.” His eyes hungrily roamed her face. “Something that makes it okay for me to want you this much.”

  The kiss—the kiss she expected to be devouring and erotically painful—was a sweet, tingling slide of skin against skin, a rub of that sulky mouth across hers. It filled the dark doorway with sparks. He did it again, the slide, a press at the corner of her mouth, and Roxanne felt her mouth slacken, giving him access to every millimeter of flesh. He kissed her top lip like he was soothing it, like he felt sorry for it. The bite into her bottom lip was tender, just a taste.

  She lifted her face to let him have more.

  He rumbled—he was happy, she’d made him happy—and the kisses continued, warm, lingering, while he tilted her head to get to every spot, while he made a destination of sweet kisses instead of a signpost raced quickly past, while she began to kiss as well, eager to trace the shape and smoothness of that mouth that absolutely killed her.

  He was a treat she couldn’t resist. She licked at his bottom lip with her tongue.

  “Aw, mi reina,” he groaned as his free arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her up on her toes and against him. “Bésame.”

  And she did kiss him, touched him with her tongue, stroked inside his mouth, while he continued to hold her face in one calloused hand, controlling her movements as if giving her free rein would be more than he could handle. When she stroked across his tongue, when she shivered in his embrace at the sensation, he broke. He pushed her up against the wall with his long, strong body, planted his hands against the wall on either side of her head, and took her mouth, making her feel like she was an endless well of pleasure and he was searching for every last drop.

  His position, caging her, protecting her, gave her access to his body, and as she was rawly kissed by her prince, as she was wrapped in the outdoor spice of him in their tiny doorway, she stroked him for the first time. Her trembling hands spread wide to encase the brawn of his biceps and shoulders, to stroke down into the muscles of his back, the act made into a wondrous, horrible tease by the fact that his strength and warmth could be felt even through the canvas of his coat. Were she truly his queen, she would chain him naked to her throne. She would burn a million in cash right now for a touch of his hot skin. She buried her hands into his back pockets, digging into his rock-hard ass to press his rock-hard front between her legs as she sucked his tongue.

  “Fuck,” her prince groaned against her mouth, his hand dropping to his zipper. “I can’t wait.”

  “Don’t,” she begged, hands pulling him closer. “Don’t wait.”

  But there was a wait, an awful, trembling one as he bit at her chin and fumbled with his fly and Roxanne resisted writhing against him, and then he was kissing her again, devouring her again, and wrapping big hands around her thighs and lifting her up and propping her against the wall and sliding his hand up to shove the thong of her panties to the side and then...he was there. He was heat and velvet-covered steel sliding into her tight, wet warmth. He was enormous strength, hands and shoulders holding her effortlessly and soft lips asking if she was okay. And he was golden eyes, bright in the dimness, watching as her body eagerly accepted him. Watching as her mouth—the mouth that said she didn’t want to kiss him—fell open in overwhelmed pleasure.

  Roxanne was struck by a thought: Anything she tried to hide from him to protect herself, Mateo could easily see in the dark.

  “Wait,” she gasped. “Wait.”

  And he did. Gripping her flesh, Mateo stopped, dropped his forehead to her shoulder. His breath was harsh and velvety against her neck.

  Oh God, he felt good. Big. Hard. Overwhelming.

  Roxanne clenched him with her thighs and circled her hips and gave herself now what she’d regret later.

  His chuckle was helpless as he lifted her higher and began to thrust. “Gracias, mi reina. I don’t want to be...in violation of...our contract.”

  There was no more talk of waiting—and no more words—as the billionaire and her prince became two elemental beings of sensation in the dark alley of a San Francisco night.

  February: Night Three

  From: Bouchon, Brandon

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject: Cancellation

  Pr
íncipe Mateo Esperanza,

  I regret to inform you that Ms. Medina must cancel your appointment for this evening. I will contact you soon to schedule your March appointment with her.

  Brandon Bouchon, Assistant to Roxanne Medina, CEO and President, Medina Now Enterprises

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Bouchon, Brandon

  Subject: Your boss is a coward

  Brandon, inform Ms. Medina that unless she would like me to share graphic details of our “appointments” with her assistant, I expect to receive all communications directly from her from this point on. As her husband, I’m not interested in speaking through an intermediary.

  Also make sure to tell her that she’s chickenshit.

  Dr. Mateo Ferdinand Juan Carlos de Esperanza y Santos, Ph.D., founder and head viticulturist, Esperanza Certified Vineyard Material, University of California, Davis

  * * *

  From: Medina, Roxanne

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject: You’re a child

  I’m sorry that this is unclear and I have to explain this to you.

  1. Never abuse my assistant

  2. If you have “shit” to throw, you can wait until we’re behind a door.

  3. Do not use the word “husband” with the uninformed. There will be a stampede when the world finds out.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: What I would do to you behind a door...

  Darling wife, I would have been happy to take up my grievances with you had I been given a chance. Instead, you have your assistant make and cancel “appointments” with me as if I’m your masseuse or hair stylist. I didn’t volunteer for this place in your bed; you will not treat me like your cock-on-demand. Twenty minutes at a sperm bank would be more pleasurable and leave me with more dignity than this shit.

  * * *

  From: Medina, Roxanne

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject:

  You’re right. I’m sorry. And I mean it.

  I will still need Brandon to handle some logistics. But in the future, I will communicate with you directly.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject:

  Wow. Shocking. You made a concession without contacting the attorneys.

  Why did you really cancel tonight?

  * * *

  From: Medina, Roxanne

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject:

  What do you mean why did I “really” cancel? I’m swamped. I have a meeting with my VPs in five minutes.

  If it’s any consolation, since you seem so distraught about it, my VPs will be here late so they won’t be getting any nookie tonight either.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: :-(

  Am I disappointed I won’t be inside you tonight? Weirdly, yes. You’re not as intolerable as you made yourself out to be when we first met. And there’s something that happens when I get close to you, when I smell you and get a glimpse of that mouth and those eyes. That thing that happens, I don’t hate it.

  But I don’t think you like it. I think it made you lightheaded last night, when I was taking you up against the bricks and had to cover your mouth so you wouldn’t wake the neighbors. I have your teeth marks in my palm. I was going to make you kiss them better tonight.

  Another first for us to explore.

  Maybe you have a meeting. Maybe you don’t.

  But it is vastly gratifying to realize that, even with my signature on your papers and your leash around my neck, you’re not as in control of this thing as you’d like to be.

  * * *

  From: Medina, Roxanne

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject: Wedding announcement

  When would you like to announce our marriage? Would next week work for you?

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: RE: Wedding announcement

  No, next week does not work.

  I truly am “swamped.” My crew and I have been working around the clock to gather the scion wood to fill our vineyard orders. Vineyards use this wood to grow new vines; they must be collected and sent now while they’re still dormant, before the spring months. My crew and I have been working 16-hour days as it is. I don’t have a spare moment to handle the media circus that will accompany our wedding announcement.

  I am sorry that I outed you to your assistant. I assumed he knew.

  * * *

  From: Medina, Roxanne

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject: I know what scion wood is

  You’ll be pruning in March, managing the growing season through the summer, and harvesting in September.

  I would prefer to announce our wedding before our daughter is born.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: April?

  I understand. Things will slow down in April. I will have copious amounts of time to play whatever role you’d like me to play then. The world will have never seen such a devoted husband.

  Why do you keep insisting the baby is going to be a girl?

  * * *

  From: Medina, Roxanne

  To: Esperanza, Mateo

  Subject: RE: April?

  I’m not sure April will work for me. I have to consider my calendar. My obviously far-less-important, non-vineyard calendar.

  I have to run now. My imaginary VPs are waiting for me in my conference room in the clouds where we will have a pretend meeting about whether we must close an Iowa factory and put 625 make-believe people out of work.

  It’s been real. See you in March.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: Sorry

  Perhaps I was a little hasty in assuming your motives for canceling.

  Please don’t make any announcements until we speak again.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: Please get back to me

  Could you give me a call? I’m concerned how we left things last night in our last email.

  * * *

  From: Esperanza, Mateo

  To: Medina, Roxanne

  Subject: I will beg if that’s what it takes

  I’ve left a couple of messages with your assistant. It’s galling that he won’t give me your number. If he did, I would plead on my knees.

  Please don’t make an announcement before I see you again. Resist, and I will be the picture of obsequiousness. I will be the lap dog you’ve always wanted.

  In all seriousness, please don’t. I can barely get a spare hour to eat and sleep right now.

  Mateo

  March: Night One

  Part One

  Mateo sat in the backseat of the Escalade, staring blindly out of the tinted windows at the Bay Bridge blurring by and white-knuckling his buzzing phone in his hand. He’d looked at the ID; he knew who it was. He was already on his way to deal with the billionaire, so he might as well face the other nightmare in his life. Continuing to ignore the king’s calls would only inspire the man to thrash harder with his scepter.

  It wasn’t as if his father could call Mateo something worse than what he thought about himself.

  He answered. “Díme.”

  “You’re a disgrace,” his father barked in a clear, unaccented English. “You’re letting that woman make a joke out of you and the Monte. All you had to do was keep her happy tickling her pepita unti
l you stuck a baby in her; you’re not man enough to do even that.”

  While little that King Felipe Miguel de Esperanza y Santos said bruised Mateo anymore, the man could always be counted on to give it the old sporting try.

  “Yeah, I’m a disgrace,” he said quietly in gritted-teeth Spanish. His eyes flashed to the driver, whose aviator lenses were pointed at the road as he expertly negotiated the last of San Francisco’s rush-hour traffic in the middle of the three-car security caravan. The man may or may not speak Spanish. But since Mateo didn’t have Roxanne Medina’s linguistic skills to lean on, he figured he would at least try to make his secrets a challenge to learn. “It’s disgraceful that I agreed to this deal you two dreamed up. The Monte became a joke the second I let you tie its future to one of your fucked-up schemes.”

  “Listen to yourself. Always the victim. A king does what he must to take care of his people. This is how you’ve taken care of them: ‘Beggar Prince Wins the Lottery.’ ‘Billionaire Saves Impoverished Kingdom.’” The king’s voice dripped malice as he read some of the choice headlines that had appeared about Mateo over the last three weeks. “This one’s a favorite: ‘Billionaire Gives New Gleam to Golden Prince.’”

  Mateo closed his eyes against the burn of anger and humiliation as his father continued to read in his deep, barrel-chested voice: “The príncipe reportedly proposed to her from the top of the Castillo del Monte’s medieval tower that overlooks the storied vineyards. ‘I have little to offer,’ the príncipe whispered on bent knee. ‘Only my hand, my kingdom, and my heart. None are worthy of you.’”

  “I know what it says,” Mateo growled. His father was loving this. The man finally had an opportunity to get back at his sanctimonious, high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou son.