Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(3)

Now cars screech their brakes around us and drivers are honking their horns furiously at our cab, which is crawling along at something like twenty miles per hour.

I’m about to open my mouth and demand that he drive like a normal person, when he abruptly speeds up again, now cruising along at the speed limit.

Yep. I’m in a cab driven by an insane person. Seriously, he must be f*cking crazy. I could die just trying to get to my new apartment. Wouldn’t that be rich?

It’s like New York City doesn’t want me here.

“Where you from, doll?” he comments like nothing has happened, and my stomach turns over.

Just then, my cell phone rings. My realtor’s name flashes on the screen, and I’m seized by a wild hope. Maybe she found a buyer for my house already.

“Hello?” I answer, shouting over the loud country music still blaring from the cab’s radio.

“Ms. Campbell?” my realtor says. She’s a woman who always looks a little frazzled and right now she sounds that way, too. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” I answer, hunching down in the seat and cupping my hand over my mouth. “What’s going on?”

“Well—” she says, and I can practically hear her psyching up to give me bad news. “There’s been a problem with your plumbing.”

“The plumbing?” This is a new one. When I left my house, it was in perfect condition, ready to be sold. As quickly as possible.

“Yes. Unfortunately, some pipes have burst in the basement level, and there’s just no way we can proceed with showings unless…”

I tip my head back against the filthy seat and close my eyes, letting her voice fade into the background. New York City doesn’t want me, and Colorado won’t pull its claws out of my flesh.

“Thanks, Sherrie,” I say when her voice finally peters out. “I’ll get in touch with someone local to make the repairs right away.” Just as soon as I’ve survived this death trap of a cab ride.

The driver makes a sharp turn, cutting across another lane of traffic. I end the call.

“So,” he calls back over the music, licking his lips, “you need help with some plumbing? I’m available right now, hot stuff.” He winks. Winks. I shudder.

We’re careening over the Williamsburg Bridge and crossing into Manhattan, and as the words leave his mouth, something inside me snaps.

“Stop the cab,” I yell over the music, my voice cold and angry.

He bursts out laughing. “Sweetie, don’t take it so personally. We’re just kidding around. We’re having a good time.”

“Stop the cab!” I shout, louder this time. “Right now, or I’m calling 9-1-1.” I hold up my phone so he can see it in the rearview mirror, my finger poised on the button.

The leering smile leaves his face as his mouth twists into a scowl.

“Fine, bitch,” he spits, then jerks on the wheel, cutting across a lane of traffic to reach the curb.

I’m out the door even as he begins to scream at me, incoherently, and the damn suitcase fights me too, sticking inside the door.

“Hey! Hey!” I finally make out some of the words. “You owe me! You owe me!”

“No f*cking way,” I shout back at him, putting all my weight into getting my suitcase out of the car. I just manage to wrench it free before the psycho pulls away, practically foaming at the mouth. Too late, I realize I never got his cab number or even looked at his information.

Now I’m standing in the rain, still several blocks away from my new apartment, and I have a massive suitcase to haul with me.

Taking in a deep breath of city air, I try to calm my racing heart.

I’m still alive.

Things could be worse.

A car zooms by too close to the curb, splashing me with another layer of dirty rainwater.

Could be worse.





Chapter 2

Christian





It’s Pierce Industries’ biggest event of the year, and I’ve got women on my mind.

Two, specifically. One, Angela, has been sending me text messages all evening. Photos with hot little captions. In each photo, she’s wearing one less piece of clothing, and it’s only 7:30. By the time I get out of here she should be wearing absolutely nothing. I sneak looks at my phone every few minutes as I continue pretending to appreciate the live jazz band playing tunes from a small raised stage at the far end of the ballroom.

Unfortunately for Angela—and despite how tempting the smooth curves of her body look in the photos—she’s no longer an option. We’ve been on three dates, the absolute maximum number of dates I ever go on with a woman.

I can’t let her get any closer.

The thought creeps into my mind like a foggy paranoia, and I brush it away. A tuxedoed waiter whisks past balancing a full tray of champagne flutes, the bubbly liquid glittering inside, and I grab one. It’s the next best thing to sneaking out the back entrance and heading straight to the Purple Swan or my penthouse.

I’m just lifting it to my lips when the second woman who has dibs on my attention slinks up next to me in a silky red dress that leaves little to the imagination. “Another drink?” she teases, her smile amped up with dark red lipstick. It’s a little too much for my taste, but Christian Pierce isn’t particular about shit like makeup.