Dirty Filthy Rich Men Read online

  The smirk turned into a grin. “Take it out on me later. You’ll feel better. I promise.” He slipped out the door before I could respond.

  I ignored the phone as it began ringing on my desk and stormed after him. “Donovan!”

  I’d opened the door in time to see him disappearing around the hall corner. There was no way he didn’t hear me call after him, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Which was probably a good thing since there was another figure waiting for me outside my office.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Hoder,” I said to my one thirty appointment, hoping I didn’t look as agitated as I felt.

  “I was just calling to let you know he was here,” Ellen said, hanging up her phone. The ringing stopped behind me.

  Dammit. There wasn’t anything I could do about Donovan now. Clearly, I’d have to deal with him later.

  The next two hours were spent in meetings with clients, but when I had a chance to breathe, I found that not only was I still mad, but that my anger toward Donovan had gone from simmering to boiling.

  Maybe I’d be able to get over his jackass behavior, but I needed some time to process. There was no way I could see him as soon as tonight.

  When I got a chance, I rang Ellen and asked her to get him on the phone.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Lind,” she said when she called back a few minutes later. “His assistant said he’s unavailable at the moment. Would you like me to leave a message for him to call you back?”

  I almost growled, and not in the sexy way, but in the I’m-going-to-kill-something-with-my-bare-hands way, especially if that something was named Donovan Kincaid.

  “What was that?” Ellen asked, trying to interpret the sound of my murderous rage.

  “No message,” I said and hung up loudly. Well, if he was avoiding my call, he couldn’t avoid a text. He didn’t usually have his cell phone out at work, but he’d get the message in time.

  Canceling dinner, I typed and hit send.

  His response came before I could even put my phone down. Why?

  Did this really require an explanation? I made my answer as simple as possible. You’re an asshole.

  Neither new nor relevant. Dinner is still on.

  I squeezed my phone so hard I probably almost broke it. There were so many responses rolling through my head, complete monologues of speeches I wanted to deliver.

  I settled on, Fuck you.

  Then I threw my phone in a drawer and ignored it so I could attempt to get some work done.

  It didn’t really help.

  I was still mad. Still hurt. And now I wouldn’t get the evening I’d needed so desperately, so I was also still horny as hell, which just pissed me off more.

  Another thing that pissed me off? Donovan had been right—the fact that he was an asshole was irrelevant. I knew it from day one, and I was still drawn to him. I was drawn to him because of it, even.

  What did that say about me?

  It was just after six when I finally pulled the phone out of my desk and read his response. The car will be there at 8. You choose whether or not you get in.

  The ball was back in my court. And I’d already decided I wasn’t going, so it wasn’t an issue.

  Except, I was curious about what his dinner would entail. Or rather, his dessert. Last time had been impromptu. Would a planned rendezvous be different?

  It didn’t matter. He’d been a giant dick and a half. He hadn’t trusted me, he’d manipulated me, he’d betrayed me. He’d hurt me.

  What if he tried to make it up? If I just gave him a chance?

  Clutching the phone to my chest, I threw my head back against my chair and sighed. For a relationship based only on sex, these kinds of choices should have been no-brainers.

  Why, then, did this one feel so hard?

  Twenty-Three

  I got in the car.

  It wasn’t a last minute decision either, though I tried to pretend that I was only doing a quick shave because that was standard behavior for a Friday evening. And the expensive lingerie and stockings that I put on after my shower? Well, sometimes it’s nice to be alone and pretty.

  And when I took the elevator down to the lobby, I convinced myself I was only checking my mail, even though I’d checked it earlier, so when the driver texted he was outside, and I was down there, it was easy to say, Well, I’m already here.

  I stewed the entire ride, but it was harder to validate being as pissed as I wanted to be with Donovan when I was on my way to meet him. It gave me less credibility. If I were really mad, I wouldn’t have gotten in the car. Or so logic said. Reality, on the other hand, said differently. I still felt the way I felt, and yet I was driving toward him when all instincts said I should be running the other direction.

  Maybe I was mad at myself the most. Either way, I still planned on being a bitch when I saw him. I wasn’t sure I could be anything else with Donovan at the moment. Luckily, I didn’t think he’d mind.

  The drive was farther than usual. This time, I was dropped off in Lower Manhattan. I hadn’t been there before, and I didn’t see a name anywhere on the building, but it seemed to be a hotel.

  So Donovan had rented a room?

  Practical, I supposed.

  Cold and efficient, as well. Were we even having dinner? From what both Weston and Donovan had said about his sexual relationships, it made sense if there was only one thing on the menu. Donovan did straight-up sex, nothing else.

  Why was that having such a hard time sitting in me?

  “I’m not sure where I’m going,” I said to the driver, after he let me out and shut the car door behind me.

  “Inside the main doors. The hostess desk for the restaurant is to your left. Wait there for Mr. Kincaid.” He got in the Jaguar and drove off before I could think to ask anything else.

  Then we were eating dinner. And the hotel was just a coincidence. Or it wasn’t. We’d see.

  I found the restaurant easily. According to the sign, it was a Japanese place called Okazu. I checked in at the hostess desk. They didn’t have my name down, but they did have Donovan’s—who hadn’t arrived yet. I scanned the lobby and didn’t see him anywhere.

  “You’re welcome to wait in the bar,” the hostess suggested, a pale young woman who looked one hundred percent like she’d come from East Asia but talked like she’d lived one hundred percent of her life in the Bronx. “I’ll let him know you’re there.”

  Fine. I’d wait at the bar. But his tardiness wasn’t helping my already sour mood. He knew I was pissed at him. Shouldn’t he be trying harder than this to be smoothing things over?

  Apparently the rules of social etiquette weren’t foremost on Donovan’s priority list.

  With a sigh that could be construed as grumbling, I sat down at a high-top and considered ordering a martini to settle my nerves. Before I’d decided, I got a text. On my way. Take off your panties while you’re waiting.

  I grumble-sighed again, though this time butterflies did a bunch of aerial tricks in my stomach simultaneously.

  He really wanted me to take off my panties? Why? Just so he’d know? That was kind of hot. Thinking about sitting, bare, next to him did a bunch of fantastically scandalous things to my mind.

  Or was he planning on more? Like fingering me discreetly at the dinner table?

  I blushed at the completely impractical idea.

  And then was struck with a totally practical thought—take them off and put them where? My purse was exactly big enough for my phone, my house key, my credit card, my ID, and a tube of lip gloss. Was I supposed to carry them? Stuff them down my bra? Leave a hundred dollar pair of La Perlas in the trash?

  Nope. I wasn’t doing it. Besides, I wouldn’t reward him for his tardiness. I wasn’t even sure I was staying.

  Another quarter of an hour later, he still hadn’t arrived, and I was irritated. Especially since I had decided against ordering the martini. This was beyond rude. He could have just let me cancel when I’d told him I wanted to. This was intolerable. I refu
sed to wait another minute.

  I stood up and headed out of the bar toward the front of the lobby, and walked smack into the most delicious smelling man wearing a fitted suit over a solid chest. I recognized him by the feel of his torso and the way he gripped my arm to steady me. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Donovan.

  But I did look up. So I could shoot poison-tipped daggers with my eyes.

  “I apologize,” Donovan said with a decidedly unapologetic smirk. “I got wrapped up in something last minute at work and lost track of time.”

  I jerked my arm away. I would have understood if an emergency had come up. He was one of the CEOs. He sometimes had to put out fires. That he’d just “lost track of time”, however, added insult to injury. I’d been irritated with him all day long and not for a single moment had I been able to forget that I had plans with him later.

  Was I that unremarkable? Was that the point he’d been trying to make when he’d told me we weren’t in a relationship?

  I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned. “I think it’s interesting that you can’t even leave work when you have plans. Nothing’s important enough to tear Donovan Kincaid away from his office before he’s ready.”

  He raised an amused brow. “Want to know what I think?”

  “Fine. Let’s hear it.” I prepared myself for a matching pot and kettle remark. It was true I worked a lot of candlelight hours myself, but I never had places to go afterward. Never had anyone waiting for me.

  “I think you think about me too much.” He backed it up with the grin he used when he’d won an argument.

  My cheeks flooded with warmth. The statement was hard to refute, and thank goodness, I didn’t have to, because the hostess interrupted just then.

  “Mr. Kincaid, your table is ready.” She started to lead the way back toward the restaurant.

  Donovan put his arm out, waiting for me before he followed her. “Sabrina?”

  “I haven’t decided if I’m staying yet.” He’d made it clear I wasn’t important or significant to him. On top of that, he believed I cared about him more than I should. Now I wasn’t just mad and hurt, I was also humiliated.

  His expression said he found my emotional turmoil a bit boring or at least unnecessary. “Yes, you have. Why else would you have come at all?”

  He’d caught me. Because of course I wouldn’t have shown up if I weren’t going to stay for something. And he’d only just arrived, so I couldn’t go now. Things were just getting started. Who the hell did I think I was fooling trying to pretend otherwise?

  It didn’t make it any easier to accept. In fact, it felt like a trap. Like I’d been bullied, even though, of course, I was here of my own accord. Which was probably the worst part of all.

  My frown deepened. “Fuck you.”

  “We’ll get there.” This time his smile was a promise, and that was something I wanted him very badly to make good on in very bad ways.

  As if sensing my defenses weakening, he pressed on. “At least stay for dinner. You’re here. You’re hungry. So am I.” This time he backed up the promise with his eyes—they were dark, more brown than green, dilated with desire, telling me his hunger belonged to more than just his stomach.

  Yeah, I was hungry too. Very hungry.

  But he’d made me feel shitty. Then been late for our dinner. And then made me feel shitty again.

  “I know you didn’t eat much for lunch. You really should stay.” There was a note of concern in his tone that disarmed me.

  “How do you know what I ate for lunch?” I hadn’t had much. I’d shoved a few bites of a salad in between agenda items, and I was ravenous.

  “Because you had a team meeting, and you never eat much when you’re working.”

  Damn, he really did still notice everything. My anger melted as my chest warmed.

  “Fine. I’ll stay. Because I’m already here.” I let him put his hand at the small of my back and lead me to the front of the restaurant. It didn’t matter that I had two layers of clothing between his palm and my skin. The power of his touch came from the pressure he wielded as he directed me past tables, around this group of drinkers, around that crowd of lingering bar patrons.

  It felt like a form of surrender, and for a few minutes at least, it seemed like I could give everything over to him—not just the path I walked, not just my body, but these stupid tangled up sentiments dwelling inside of me. I could give him my anger. I could give him my embarrassment. I could give him my hurt. And maybe he didn’t know any better what to do with them than I did, but for however long he held them, I wouldn’t have to feel them. And what an amazing gift that could be.

  That alone would be worth staying for.

  But then we were led beyond the hostess station to the coat check where two dark wooden benches lined the sides of the room. Donovan dropped his hand and my jumbled up emotions flooded back like a damn had broken.

  “Please. Take your shoes off here,” the hostess said.

  I knew about the Japanese formality in households, but I hadn’t been to a restaurant that had required it. Donovan sat down to remove his shoes. I hesitated, too consumed with the absence of his hand on me. I missed it already. Missed its heat. Missed its authority.

  God, what was my problem?

  And of course I was still standing there, shoes untouched, looking like an idiot when Donovan was already done. He looked up at me, his head tilted, then tapped his thigh, indicating I put my foot there. So I did.

  After he undid the buckle of one strappy sandal and removed it slowly from my foot—which, holy hell, was maybe one of the sexiest things ever—he gestured for me to switch feet. When I did, my skirt caught on my garter, and though I fixed it almost right away, I saw Donovan staring before I did.

  As fussed as I’d been all afternoon, the buzz I had from catching him checking me out was amazing. It was especially amazing when he had to adjust his pants when he stood again.

  After we checked our shoes and coats, we followed our escort downstairs where the restaurant was actually located. As we walked down the narrow hall, we passed individual dining spaces, each separated by sliding shoji doors. Another set of doors was available to shut the rooms off entirely, but most of them were open. In each room, the dining table was low to the ground, and instead of chairs, they were surrounded by cushions for guests to sit on. Kneel on, actually.

  I’d seen those kinds of tables in movies but never in a restaurant. In fact, they were exactly what I imagined when I thought of dining in a Japanese home.

  “The tables are those kind,” I said, not knowing how else to express my surprise. “All little and low.”

  “They’re called chabudai. I have one at my apartment.”

  “That’s interesting.” Kind of cool was what I meant, but I wasn’t all the way ready to be friendly yet. Especially now that he no longer had his hand on my back.

  “Okazu is a traditional Japanese restaurant,” he explained. “These are called tatami rooms, named for the straw mats, which are easily damaged and hard to clean. It’s why we took off our shoes.”

  I smiled as we passed a little boy who waved at me over his soup bowl.

  “Hard to clean but they’re kept under people when they eat food?” I was willing to bet that little kid alone had as much rice under his feet as he did in his belly.

  The hostess stopped and gestured for us to enter our room.

  “Have you never eaten Japanese before?” Donovan asked smugly from behind me as we walked in.

  “Yes,” I said, offended. In fact, my first experience eating it had been with Weston back at Harvard all those years ago. Not something I intended to bring up now. “I might not be as experienced in the world as you are, but I am a somewhat cultured eater.”

  I knelt where I was directed on the cushion near the far end of the table. “Now I haven’t eaten at a Japanese restaurant anywhere as fancy or as traditional as Okasu, but the food’s essentially the same, I’m sure.”

  The hos
tess gasped while Donovan, who was unbuttoning his suit jacket so he could sit down, broke into a grin.

  My eyes darted from one of them to the other. “Okay. What did I say wrong? Is the food totally different?”

  Donovan knelt at the head of the table next to me. “It’s Okazu . Not okasu. The first, which is the name of the restaurant, is a word that means food that accompanies rice. The second is a verb. That means rape.”

  I rolled my eyes, taking a menu from the hostess before she scurried out of the room. “Who would name a restaurant something so close to a word that you’d never want the place to be called?”

  Donovan bent over his own menu. “Both could be appropriate depending on how well our dinner goes.”

  I scowled, but something hummed deep in my belly and spread between my thighs. And I was pretty sure my scowl didn’t look as sour as I’d meant it to, so I hid behind the menu for as long as I could.

  Which was about three seconds.

  Then I sighed when I couldn’t read a single word. “This might as well be Chinese,” I said, throwing it down in front of me.

  “It’s Japanese.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I managed a smile at my stupid word choice. “I guess you can order for me.”

  “I already planned to.” It was another remark that deserved a glare, and I was sure to deliver.

  When the waitress arrived a few minutes later, she brought a porcelain container and two cups, which she set down on the table in front of us. Then Donovan proceeded to order in fluent Japanese, which was also a lot sexier than I could have imagined. As was seeing him sitting so comfortably on his knees. Basically, I was learning that almost everything where Donovan was concerned was a lot sexier than it should be.

  Which made things complicated. I could understand a sex only thing between us, but if he made everything so sexy, then what did that leave as not sex?

  The whole thing was frustrating, and that wasn’t helping my underlying mood.

  When the waitress left, Donovan poured the liquid from the container into one of the cups and turned to me.

  “We need to talk about why you’re still wearing your panties.”