Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2) Read online

  Creighton unlocks the hotel suite and holds open the door for me. I find the light switch and wander into the room. Neither of us have spoken since we climbed on the opener bus and Creighton directed me to pack a bag. And when I say directed, I mean ordered.

  Throughout this whole exchange, mixed emotions flooded my veins until I was sure they would cause me to burst from the intensity. Shock fought with anger while anger fought with excitement.

  I don’t know how to feel about this. Happy that he showed up? Or still hurt that he forgot about me? Or pissed that he came in and took over my life?

  I couldn’t get a lock on any one thing long enough to just feel it, let alone put it into words. As always, song lyrics began to float through my head, but like my emotions, they were a jumbled mess.

  This is what Creighton does to me, and I’m not sure if I love it or hate it. Isn’t there some saying that life begins at the edge of your comfort zone? Well, guess what? I’m living, because I’m so far outside my comfort zone right now, I can’t even find the trail back.

  These last months were all about trying something new and finding myself, and maybe this is just the next step. I know one thing is certain: I don’t want to lose myself to the commanding, overwhelming man that’s Creighton Karas. Regardless of what happens next, I need to hold on to the bits and pieces of myself I’ve fought for, because I matter too. This relationship isn’t just about him. If this is going to last beyond the silent ride to the hotel, we need to get clear on that fact.

  What did Creighton think when he came back to the penthouse to find it empty? Did he realize he screwed up? Did he go to Nashville first? Is he here to scold me like a child and drag me back by my hair? If that’s the case, he’s in for some severe disappointment. I’m not leaving this tour.

  The swirling possibilities are put to rest when he shuts the door to our room, drops our bags, and growls, “Strip.”

  My eyes snap to him. This isn’t how I expected this scenario to go. “Excuse me?”

  “Do I really need to repeat myself?”

  “I thought we were going to talk—” I start, but Creighton interrupts.

  “I’m done talking. I’m about to show my wife how I feel about her walking out, not answering her phone, and leaving me to fly to multiple states to track her down.”

  “You knew—”

  He interrupts again. “You left a note with two words, my dear. Two. Fucking. Words. They might as well have been ‘Fuck you.’”

  “Maybe they should have been,” I reply, dumbfounded—and pissed—at his reaction.

  “Strip. Now. Or I’ll do it for you.”

  His tone is implacable, and in that moment, I know I can’t cave. Maybe it’s fitting that I’m in San Antonio, because this might be my frigging Alamo.

  I shake my head. “I’m not playing, Creighton.”

  His expression turns feral. “Did something about this situation make you think I’m playing?” He stalks toward me. “You agreed. I call the shots; you follow.”

  “That deal went out the window when you made it all too clear that you can’t be bothered to acknowledge I exist except for when it’s convenient for you.”

  He jerks his head back as if I just slapped him, and stops mid-stride. “Do you really believe that?”

  “After yesterday? What else should I believe? You couldn’t even be bothered to answer a phone call, and you knew I needed to go!”

  “I knew you needed to be in Nashville today. That was the plan. I said I’d get you there last night, but something came up. It happens when you run a multi-billion-dollar company, Holly. That’s not going to change.”

  “I get that. Even little old me understands that, but what I don’t get is how you couldn’t even take a phone call from me to tell you that plans had changed. I’m on a short leash when it comes to the label. I’ve got no choice but to follow the rules, or I’m screwed. I told you I’d play by your rules, but when you start putting my career at risk because you can’t seem to remember that I have a commitment, that’s where my caring about what you want stops.”

  I fling a hand toward the window and the lights of the Majestic Theatre in the distance. “This is my life. This is my one shot at proving to myself that I’m meant for more than serving up greasy food to bowling teams who argue about who has the biggest beer gut and the biggest man boobs. Do you have any idea how fast this could all fall apart for me? Then I’d be right back where I started, and I refuse to let that happen just because I didn’t give this absolutely everything I’ve got.”

  “And what makes you think I’d let that happen? That’s not something you need to worry about anymore.” Creighton’s frustration is clear in his tone, but he still doesn’t get it.

  “Bull. Your prenup makes it damn clear that I still can’t count on anyone but myself. Besides, I didn’t come this far on my own to start depending on a guy to take care of me now.”

  Creighton’s head tilts to the side. “Holly—”

  I swing my head back to face him. “No. You don’t understand. Once you put my future on the line, this stops being a game.”

  His brow furrows and his features tighten. “I’m well aware this isn’t a game. And I’m also well aware that I’m the one who fucked up by losing track of your schedule. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to put us back on an even keel the only way I know how.”

  I assume he’s talking about sex, because that seems to be the only part of this marriage where we’re compatible. But still, that doesn’t mean I have to like his methods.

  I stride into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, unzipping my right boot before tossing it across the room. Creighton crosses the threshold, and it flies perilously close to his head. It wasn’t my intention, at least not a conscious one. The second boot follows. He says nothing as it whizzes by his left side. A quick glance at his face reveals a crooked smirk. I tug off my boot socks and reach for the zipper on my skirt.

  His voice is quieter this time. “Holly, what are you doing?”

  “Following orders. What does it look like?”

  I shove the skirt and my underwear down over my hips and tug my top over my head. Each article of clothing lands at his feet as I toss them.

  I rip the duvet off the king-sized bed and climb up into the middle. I flip onto my back and spread my legs wide.

  “Is that good enough for you? Is that stripped enough for you?”

  Creighton closes in on the bed. “Are you going to explain this, or am I going to have to guess what you’re trying to accomplish with this stunt?”

  “No stunt. I’m just following orders.”

  Creighton’s lips twitch into a wolfish grin. “Oh, Holly, you know how to tempt me, that’s not in doubt. But I don’t think this is going to work out quite how you’re thinking.”

  I cock my head sideways on the fluffy pillow. “Really? I submit, you fuck me, I come, you come, and then maybe we repeat.”

  He tosses the duvet up and over me.

  Okay, apparently I’m wrong.

  “You make me sound so predictable, my lovely wife, and I can’t have that.”

  He circles the bed, sits on the edge with his back to me, and lifts the cordless phone from the receiver.

  “Room service, thank you.” Once he’s connected, he says, “A porterhouse and a filet. Medium rare. Two Caesar salads.” He rattles off the name of something I assume is an expensive wine, thanks the individual on the other end, and hangs up.

  I crush the duvet to my chest and sit up. “What the hell just happened?”

  Creighton stands and turns to me. “I decided I’m having your pussy for dessert rather than as an appetizer.”

  Once again, my mind spins. “I repeat, what the hell just happened?”

  Creighton ignores my second question and crosses the room to the closet. He unrolls the sleeves of his white dress shirt, shrugs it off, and hangs it up.

  “Holy shit, he’s wearing jeans. How is it possible that I missed that
?” I mumble to myself. But apparently my mumble isn’t quiet enough to escape Creighton’s ears.

  “Probably the screaming fans, poorly lit bus, and your plotting to rip me a new asshole.”

  “I didn’t know you owned jeans.”

  “You would have if you’d actually stepped foot in the closet where the clothes I bought you were hanging.”

  I stiffen, my fingers tensing against the fluffy down. “I didn’t need all that. Any of it.”

  “Even the guitar?” he asks, his dark gaze landing on me.

  I hate how he drives right to the heart of things when I don’t want to discuss them.

  “I thanked you for the guitar.”

  “And yet you left it. I’m assuming that was a personal statement rather than a practical one.”

  I refuse to break his stare. “You already bought me once, Karas. You don’t need to keep trying to buy me.”

  “The guitar is on the jet.”

  My heart clenches. I loved that glittery turquoise Gibson. Really, really loved it.

  I’m still trying to decide how to respond when Creighton says, “Do you want to shower before dinner? It should be here shortly.”

  I think about the ten pounds of stage makeup I’m still wearing, and stand. I’m almost surprised that he phrased it as a question, but I don’t hesitate before climbing off the bed and going to my bag for my toiletry case.

  I take my time in the shower, replaying what just happened and trying to figure out this man I’m married to. Spoiler—I fail. He’s impossible to predict, and I think I’m going to drive myself crazy trying. I don’t exit the bathroom until I hear the outer door open and shut.

  Shrugging on a fluffy robe from the bathroom, I peek my head around the door frame and see a man unloading domed dishes from a cart and setting up our meal at the table.

  Memories of our sushi dinner once again filter into my brain. Given how tonight has gone, I can safely say we won’t be sitting on top of the table eating our steaks. But considering how long it’s been since I’ve had steak, I’m good with sitting properly and devouring it. I tell myself that I deserve it. One night off the Holly needs to stay skinny on tour so she’s visually appealing diet won’t kill me.

  The man lifts the covers, uncorks the wine, and offers further service, but Creighton thanks him and sends him on his way. I don’t leave my shadow-darkened post at the bedroom doorway until I hear the outer door close.

  When I step out into the living room, I find Creighton pouring me a glass of wine. The protest on my lips dies when I inhale the rich aroma of the meal. I get that lots of people have moral or other objections to eating meat, and I respect that, but I’m a Kentucky girl who loves a good steak.

  Creighton pulls out my chair, and I sink into my seat. Is this his way of trying to make amends? If he just wanted sex from me, he could have taken me up on my offer. So maybe I play this cool and see how it goes?

  I hate needing a strategy, but with Creighton I feel like I need to be ready for anything. How about just be normal, Holly? But what’s our normal? I decide to just be me. The nice version, not the one who throws shoes at a guy’s head.

  “That smells amazing.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  I smile. “I might not even complain about you ordering for me because you rocked it like a rodeo cowboy. But rest assured,” I say as I pick up my fork and steak knife, “the first time you order pâté or caviar and expect me to eat it and like it, your meal-selection privileges will get yanked faster than a weed from my gran’s garden.”

  “Duly noted.”

  I flick my gaze up to Creighton’s for only a moment before I cut into the filet. Lifting it to my mouth, I pop it inside and groan appreciatively as I chew. Other than the meal at Johnny Utah’s, this is the first time I’ve really indulged.

  After I swallow, I mumble, “Fourteen months without red meat. Should be a crime.”

  Creighton catches my comment. “Why would you go fourteen months without red meat if you clearly enjoy it so much?”

  I’m too focused on the delicious meal to give him anything but an absent account of the absolute truth. “Before the show, I was living on PB&J and ramen, putting every spare cent toward my gran’s medical bills. And during and after, it was on the don’t you dare think about putting that in your mouth list.”

  Creighton lifts his glass and takes a sip of wine. “Then I’m glad you’re having it tonight. Tell me about—”

  I interrupt what I’m sure will be a question about Gran. I may have brought her up, but I don’t want to talk about her. I’ve already bared my body tonight; I don’t think I can handle baring my soul.

  “Just don’t tell my manager or the costume people. They’ll get out the pitchforks. I’m not allowed to gain weight. Actually, I’m supposed to lose another ten pounds before the ACM Awards. But I hate exercise, and after tasting steak again, I’m not sure how I can go back to chicken and steamed vegetables.”

  Creighton’s fork clatters against the china. “That’s fucking ridiculous. I forbid it.”

  Cue my What the hell did you just say? look.

  “Um, excuse me, but it’s not your place to forbid anything,” I reply, losing the nice Holly attitude.

  “You lose another pound, and I will ensure it’s the last pound you lose.”

  Well. That sounds ominous.

  “And it’s still not your place to make that kind of call.”

  “Holly—”

  “Creighton—”

  We both lapse into stubborn silence for a few moments, and I drop my attention back to my plate. He does the same, and I wonder if he’s going to drop the issue. Then I take another bite of my steak and forget to care.

  I’m almost finished with my dinner when Creighton’s cell rings. He pulls it from the pocket of his jeans and apologizes.

  “I have to take this.”

  He leaves the room, and I can’t hear much of his side of the conversation except for a few comments like “that motherfucker” and “we’ll never concede.” Neither of those two sentiments indicate he’s enjoying the phone call.

  While he’s gone, I polish off the rest of my steak and salad, and one of those jumbled song lyrics from earlier starts nagging at me. I’m at the desk, scribbling away on a pad of paper, when Creighton returns.

  His hair is sticking up in the front, as if he’s been jamming his fingers into it over and over. Just one more sign it wasn’t a good phone call.

  This is where a real wife stops what she’s doing and asks what’s wrong. I finish off the lyric and decide to give that wife thing a try.

  “What’s up?” Okay, admittedly it’s not the most brilliant of conversation starters, but it’s open ended, and I’m inviting him to share what all the cursing was about.

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  And there it is—the difference between this marriage and one where the spouses are actually trying to make a connection. Something about it breaks a little piece inside me. A piece of what, I refuse to speculate.

  “Oh, you don’t say. Darling, that’s awful. I wish there was something I could do to help.” My babbling, batshit-crazy response earns me a sharp look from Creighton. “What? I’m trying to pretend that I’m a wife whose husband actually just shared something in his life, and I give a crap.”

  His look, if possible, gets sharper. But it’s his words that surprise me the most. “You really want to know?”

  “Lay it on me, hubs. I’m living dangerously tonight,” I drawl, letting my accent loose.

  Creighton crosses the room to the desk and leans against it so he’s facing me, his thigh only inches from my arm. Which means his dick is probably only a foot from my mouth, and I can’t help but think about dessert.

  I tear my eyes away from his package, which is displayed rather prominently in his jeans, and meet his dark brown stare—a stare that’s still narrowed on me. He’s taking my measure, gauging my actual interest in what he’s dealing with.
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  I decide to make it easy for him. “All sass aside, I really am here if you want to talk about what’s going on.”

  Something flashes through his expression, but before I can pin it down, it’s gone.

  “That was Cannon.”

  “Okay,” I say, prompting him to continue.

  “We have an activist shareholder causing trouble. He’s getting the street wound up about the company’s business strategy, and he’s demanding changes as well as additional independent directors on the board to balance the decision-making.”

  I’m following him, but most of this means nothing to me.

  “What exactly is an activist shareholder?”

  “Someone with enough of a stake in the company that we have to take him seriously when he makes a big public stink. It’s an inflammatory way of trying to effect change in the way the company does business.”

  “Okay.” I consider his explanation for a beat. “Isn’t that kind of par for the course in your business?”

  He nods. “Yes, but in this case it’s even more of a nuisance because the activist shareholder is also my uncle.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Your uncle?”

  His smile is grim. “Yes. The uncle who was responsible for my upbringing from the age of ten to eighteen.”

  I like words, mostly because I like to twist them into songs that convey some kind of emotional reaction. Creighton, I’ve come to notice, chooses his words carefully. He didn’t just say the uncle who raised me.

  “I’m assuming you’re not close.”

  “You’d assume right. He made his money in the foreign currency exchange markets, and then got an ego boost when I did the same thing—regardless of the fact that he didn’t teach me a damn thing himself. Once I took my company public, he decided he wanted a big enough piece of it to piss me off.”

  “It sounds like your relationship is . . . complicated.”

  A muscle in Creighton’s jaw ticks. “You could say that.”

  “So, is this the kind of trouble that’s just annoying? Or is it serious?”

  Creighton shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “In all honesty, I’m not entirely certain yet. Up until now, he’s just been a nuisance—demanding that I start selling off some of the businesses the company owns, which is something I refuse to do to silence him. But now, suffice it to say he’s trying alternative tactics.”