Dirty Sexy Bastard

By: Laurelin Paige


Dear Reader,





Welcome to a preview of my Dirty Sexy Bastard, Weston King. He has a helluva story for you, which you may have already glimpsed if you read Dirty Filthy Rich Men and Dirty Filthy Rich Love. Trust me, though-you haven’t seen the half of it. There are still twists and turns you didn’t see coming.





This free novella is a prequel to the real story told in the Dirty Games Duet, which includes Dirty Sexy Player and Dirty Sexy Games. You don’t need to read this to enjoy the duet, but I’m sure you’ll love this little taste of my sexy couple.





xoxo,

Laurelin





One





Elizabeth





Feeling the weight of a hundred eyes on me, I stared at the pile of dirt in my hand. It felt cold and messy in my palm. Like the entire situation, really. What was I waiting for? Hesitating wasn’t going to change the reality of my life now. It wasn’t going to bring my father back.

I knew that. I accepted it. It was much harder to accept that this moment was supposed to feel more monumental than it did. It was supposed to feel sentimental. It was supposed to be a goodbye.

With a slight shake of my head, I spilled the dirt over the casket below me. This wasn’t anything but a formality. My father’s death had just occurred, but he’d said goodbye to me years before.

I stepped away from the hole in the ground and headed directly to my mother who was waiting for me with open arms. I didn’t really want to hug it out, but it was better her than the countless strangers who felt the need to express their condolences with unwanted touches and sentiments said so often they’d become meaningless.

At least my father had asked for his funeral to be in the States so he could be buried next to his parents in the family plot. It made it much easier to deal with the day without having to struggle with remembering my French. The last week at his side in Paris in the hospital had been bad enough. He’d been unconscious the entire time, and yet I’d felt it was my duty to stay there, to greet visitor after visitor as they came to pay their respects. People who had known and loved him. People he’d probably known and loved too. I’d wondered with each expression of sympathy, delivered in broken English or thick French accents, if the bearer realized the irony of the delivery. It should have been me extending consolation. I didn’t know my father, not really. He certainly didn’t know me. As for love...well, it was hard to believe he’d felt much of that for me.

I still wasn’t sure how I felt about him. Would that ever change? Probably not now.

My mother offered her own version of comfort, rocking me side to side as she embraced me. “You made it through, honey. And you looked so beautiful as you did, too.”

That’s what equaled strength in her eyes—looking on point. Being put together.

“Thank you, Mom.” I pulled out of her arms and blinked back the moisture sticking to my eyelash. They weren’t tears. I wasn’t crying. A glance at the sky said that the dark clouds had finally burst, and it was now raining. Icy, cold November rain. Fabulous. Rain at a wedding was good luck, they said. Rain at a funeral? Appropriate was the only word I could think of for it.

A hand pressed flat against my back. Resisting the urge to shrug it off, I turned to face the latest consoler.

“You’re Elizabeth, right?” the older woman asked. Old as in my mother’s age, which wasn’t really that old since she’d had me in her early twenties, and I was only going on twenty-five. She was nearly as pretty as my mother as well. And my mother was very pretty.

“I am.” I studied her, sure that I’d seen her before. “Do I know you?”

“Eileen Sanchez. You probably don’t remember me. You were just a little girl in pigtails when I first met you. I was your father’s secretary for about a year before he moved the headquarters to Paris.”

Oh, yes. I remembered her now. Even at the age of nine, I’d found the relationship she’d had with my father seemed awfully friendly. My parents had already been divorced by then, but Eileen—Ms. Sanchez, as I’d known her—had been the first “other woman” I’d encountered. The first of many that had come into my father’s life, each of them seeming to earn more attention than me, and they were already second to his company.