Page 7 of Filthy Rich

“Blackstone Therapy Center, Lilah speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Hi Lilah, this is Brooke calling.”

“Your grandma is in a painting class right now, working on a seascape.”

“Ah, sounds lovely and I can’t wait to see it. Can you please let her know I’m working for Martin tonight? She will understand, and tell her I’ll visit tomorrow as usual.”

“Sure thing, Brooke, and thanks for letting us know so she doesn’t worry, because she would you know.”

Placing Nan in a temporary nursing facility while she recovered from a double knee replacement had been our only option. She couldn’t be left alone in the cottage all day trapped in a wheelchair while I was working in Boston. She never complained, but I knew she would rather be at home, as anyone would.

I wished she could have in-home nursing care and that I could provide it for her, but it just wasn’t possible on her very fixed income, or mine. Once the Blackwater estate closedand she was forced to retire, her money had to be carefully managed to make ends meet. She wasn’t old at only sixty-one, and I suspected she missed her job very much, as well as the camaraderie with her workmates. In fact, the fall that resulted in the need for her knee replacements had happened after she’d lost her job, while she was bored stiff all alone in her cottage. Thank God her friend Sylvie was due for tea later on that day and discovered Nan at the bottom of her cellar steps—frightened and in terrible pain.

I often wondered if the Blackstone family who’d employed my nan bore any kind of conscience at all to dismiss a loyal servant after more than three decades with hardly a thank-you and good-bye. No pension or departure compensation—nothing at all.Deplorablecame to mind.Selfish arseholesdid as well. There was no defense for their behavior. None at all.

Blackstone Island was primarily a place where a few very rich people, with oceanfront vacation homes worth millions of dollars, came to play at summer holidays. Unfortunately, it was also a place where a great many poor people worked very hard to serve those same rich people and had little to nothing to show for it.

Four

CALEB

The last thing I wanted to do at the end of my day of shit was go to a client appreciation reception for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres with my face looking like it did from being smacked by Janice’s Valentino. All day long I’d fielded the concerned inquiries from people who weren’t assholes along with the jokes and harassment from the people who were most definitely assholes. I don’t think many of them bought my lie about slipping in the shower and colliding with the marble soap dish. What they didn’t know was I couldn’t care less what they thought of me in my personal life. As long as they respected me in business, I was good. I could make money grow from just about anything. So what if I had terrible emotional skills when it came to relationships with women. I just didn’t feel anything for those women like I probably should if I cared about them for more than sex. But I’d never felt anything beyond an admiration for their beauty, along with the desire for some shared pleasure if they were interested in the same. I wasn’t stingy, either. Before we were done, I made sure they were well satisfied. I didn’t know how to operate any differently, and until I figured my shit out, I should just stay away from women altogether. It made the most sense.

The fact it was my father’s law firm hosting this gathering was the only reason I’d stepped foot inside the door. There was a part of me that still wanted to make him proud, even though I’d made my own successful career apart from his. Now he was gone, I’d taken on his business as well, and I knew his peers were watching closely to see how I would do. My brothers had their own interests and money, as well as a share in Dad’s holdings, but they weren’t involved in the day-to-day management like I was. Lucas lived like a hermit on the island, designing game systems, and Wyatt was in New York doing his thing, which nobody seemed to know much about. Being the oldest child, followed by identical twin brothers, and then five years later by another set of twins, but this time girls and fraternal, I was the odd man out. Willow was engaged to her Ivy League professor, and Winter was in grad school, so everyone was focused on their own goals as they should be.

My mother was very proud of the fact she’d given my father five children and only suffered through three pregnancies. And Mom made sure we all knew it wassufferingof the worst kind to give birth to every one of us. Maybe that was why she resented me. All that effort only produced one baby—me.

My relationship with my mother was just the start of my women troubles. I’d had a not-so-pleasant conversation with her on the phone earlier today. Janice had gotten to Mom quickly, crying out a sad tale of disrespect and broken promises on my part. I didn’t tell her that within five minutes of leaving me, she was deep-throating James Blakeny. Thinking my mother didn’t need that visual, I didn’t say much in response except that Janice wasn’t the girl we all thought she was, and she definitely wasn’t going to be anything more than a friend of the family to me from here on out. Mom then took the opportunity to tell me I’d made things very difficult for her friendship with Janice’s mother. I offered her the advice that a generous donation totheir nonprofit would probably smooth things over. I suppose she didn’t care for my suggestion because she ended our call quickly after.

I would give this thing two drinks max before I was outie.

Nodding and saying the right things, I shook hands with the colleagues who’d known my father and accepted condolences from others. I made a mental note of the people who’d made the effort to mention his name to me, and I would write them down with the event and date as soon as I got home.

I’d worked my way through the room, as I had been taught by my dad—by the best to ever work a roomful of potential deals—when I decided I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do tonight. It was time for me to go. After setting my glass down on an empty table, I started for the door...until I sawher.

Just like that. She appeared in my line of sight and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

The beautiful girl from this morning at the Starbucks on Hereford Street.

I knew it was her because how could anyone forget those sexy boots? Her blonde hair wasn’t down like it had been this morning, though. She’d pulled it back into a sleek ponytail…but she was serving at this event? I’d seen her go into that design studio next to Starbucks. She probably had two jobs. Industrious. Beautiful. Sexy.

I quickly returned for my half-empty glass and snatched it up from the table. I suddenly felt like an appetizer or two.

She saw me approaching and moved closer with her tray. “What are these called?” I asked without sparing her tray a second glance. Bad move on my part, but I was too busy taking in her golden eyes and hair, and everything else I could now see up close. Perfect skin, dark lashes that framed spectacular eyes, and a scar along the hairline of the right side of her face.Something had hurt her at some point in the past, and I found it utterly insane that I was disturbed by it.

She rolled her pink lips together as if she was trying to suppress laughter. “Well, they’ve told me it’s something called ameatball. Very unusual gourmet creation. You should try one. They’re said to be quite delicious.”

That voice of hers was…fucking beautiful.

“Okay.” I picked up a meatball and popped it in my mouth. Didn’t taste a thing. I could have been chewing slaughterhouse by-products and I wouldn’t have known. My brain had shut off everything except her beautiful voice.

“You are either messing with me or that blow to your head must have been devastating. I would wager you’ve had a meatball before.”

“I am.”

She lost her smile. “You are messing with me?”

“No, I am devastating—I meandevastated—by the blow to my head.” What in the mother fuck was I even saying to this girl? I sounded like Rain Man minus the IQ. I needed to stop talking.

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