Filthy Rich Read online

  “Ritzy. Classy. That means you also need to spend some time finding something appropriate to wear in that black hole of a closet of yours. Seriously, you’re in dire need of some retail therapy. All you have in there are suits, suits, suits. Navy, black, gray. Blouses, blouses, blouses. Cream, ivory, white. You know, Cara, there’s nothing wrong with dressing up a little, is there? God, with your long blond hair, skin an angel would pay to have, and body made for…well, you know. You never play up those amazing assets of yours, and you should.”

  Iris was exaggerating about the plethora of work clothes in Cara’s closet, only slightly. Over the last year, she’d found herself wearing a slinky dress, her blond hair loose and over her shoulders, and her face heavily made up—complete with smoky eyeshadow and matte-red lips—while inside a nightclub, grinding to the heavy beat, losing herself in the thick crowd. She hadn’t told Iris what she was doing, although she felt guilty about keeping a secret from her friend. It was as if she’d found a small way to break free of the burdens working at D&M placed on her.

  “I’ll do my best not to embarrass you, Iris.”

  “You don’t embarrass me. You make me damn proud, honey,” Iris said, a rare show of emotion in her voice. “You do so much for your family, I just wish you’d take some time to live your life for a change. I hate seeing you give so much of yourself and take nothing in return.”

  Cara closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then forced herself to smile. Iris couldn’t see it, but maybe she’d hear it in her voice. “It’s not forever, Iris. I’m lucky. I’ll have my time eventually.”

  “When?”

  When I win the lottery, she thought. But although not having to worry about money would certainly make her life easier, it wouldn’t solve all her problems. This desire to break free being one of them. And the lack of datable material would be another. She cleared her throat. “I’ll start by trying to have a little fun tonight. Promise.”

  “Call that guy,” Iris said quickly. “Greg. He might be egotistical, but maybe being around a hot dude might get you in the mood.”

  Maybe. Probably not. But Iris’s suggestion was worth considering. After disconnecting with Iris, Cara called Greg. As the phone rang, she hesitated.

  She didn’t want to go, she realized. Still, her hesitation confused her. Did she not want to go to the party, or did she not want to go with Greg? This was a work-related function. Whether or not she would be bored by either Greg or conversations with her coworkers shouldn’t matter. Yes, work-related functions were boring, and rightly so. It was far better to maintain the status quo than let loose and get crazy. And some of her work friends would be there, too. Gail from three doors down. Tammie, another analyst. It would be nice to chat with them. But God, she wanted more. Wanted to no longer be swimming in monotony. Wanted to no longer feel like she was twisting around in her own skin, held down…held back.

  But where were all these thoughts coming from? This restlessness, this desire for more, wasn’t her. She was exactly where she wanted to be. Working hard. Making a decent living but still cognizant of the fact that everything she was working for could be taken away from her at any moment, the way it had been taken away from her family—from her dad. She could never let her guard down. Never get too comfortable. People took advantage of those who had weak walls. Who trusted too much. And when people swooped in for the kill, they left only devastation.

  It was probably just Iris’s talk of love that was throwing her off. As streetwise as her friend was, Iris was a closet romantic at heart.

  Thankfully, she’d flushed that out of her system a long time ago. Romance was for those who had time and money to waste. Not her.

  When Greg answered, she caught her breath, then found herself saying, “Greg, it’s Cara. I, uh, decided to go. Did you still want to attend tonight’s party together?”

  —

  This. This is why dating coworkers is a bad idea, Cara thought later that evening as she watched Greg enjoying himself without her. Because now that I’ve confirmed I never want to see him again, I won’t be able to avoid him.

  As soon as the thought formed, Greg caught her gaze from across the room and smiled before turning back to joke with his posse, something he’d been doing for the past twenty minutes. Cara quietly snorted, and drained what was left of her drink before setting her glass down on a marble table with a clunk. Greg’s ability to be pleasant had disappeared about five minutes after they’d arrived—apparently he turned obnoxious in social settings when surrounded by his friends. Loud laughter. Male-snarky comments about the females in the company. Scanning women’s bodies up and down the minute they entered the room, letting his gaze linger on their breasts. And ignoring her, almost to the point of being rude.

  Actually, Greg was being rude. Earlier, he’d tugged her into a corner and attempted to kiss her. When she’d tried to gently push him away, he’d felt her up. Fortunately for her—or for Greg, she wasn’t sure, since she’d just about kneed him in the balls—her friend Gail had come up and initiated a conversation with her, leaving Greg to gape at the other women at the party.

  By the time Gail had taken off, Greg had found his group of likeminded friends and was studiously avoiding her. Cara had ended up refreshing her own drink twice, and he’d still not moved from his coterie.

  So obnoxious. In fact, obnoxious to the point where Cara had decided wandering the party by herself was infinitely preferable to spending any more time than necessary in Greg’s company. But a drawn-out conversation about equities with Jackson Riley, one of the young traders who sat in the bullpen on her floor, had her swallowing a plethora of yawns. She’d been right in wanting to avoid this party—boring would be a kind word. At this point, she greatly regretted the fact she’d come to the party at all and wanted nothing more than to run home, change into her pj’s, and dig into a container of ice cream while watching one of her favorite movies on Netflix. Gail had already taken off, claiming a headache, and Tammie never had shown, leaving Cara on her own. Her boss, Max Dubois, had awkwardly chatted with her for a short while before noticing one of their big clients and abandoning her at the drinks station. The host of the event, apparently a major client who owned the house, hadn’t even made an appearance.

  The uncomfortable feeling that she didn’t belong here was beginning to get to her.

  Turning abruptly, she headed to the grand foyer that adjoined the living room. She looked around at all the fancily dressed people drinking their fancy drinks in the fanciest house she’d ever been in that no doubt belonged to some blowhard who was probably as boring—both in bed and out—as Greg. Not that she knew for sure Greg was no great shakes in bed, but it was a pretty safe bet given the few clumsy kisses he’d planted on her after their previous meet-ups, and his roving hands from earlier in the evening—hands that made a mammogram seem sexy.

  In the foyer, more well-dressed guests milled about, drinks in hand, polished shoes traversing gleaming marble as their owners inspected and clearly coveted this painting or that vase as music boomed from discreet but powerful speakers. Her head throbbed in time to the beat. Here, close to the bar, the crowd was mostly young and predominantly male. Larry Gills, one of the more senior traders, was the eldest, even more so standing next to Rafe Sampson, the young and overly eager trader who followed Larry around like a puppy dog. John Turner, another old-timer, looked out of place with his salt-and-pepper hair and slight paunch as he stood next to the young men whose rock-hard bodies indicated any leisure time was spent at the gym or rock climbing. It was as if a trading office building on Wall Street had emptied out and arrived en masse to drink hard and talk business and brag, before the last train or hired drivers got them back to Manhattan.

  Which, of course, was the case. The majority of D&M was here, at the party, along with a few people she recognized as clients.

  The gathering seemed sedate on the surface—no one laughing hysterically and no dancing on tabletops. But Cara knew that the legendary orgies of
yesteryear weren’t quite consigned to the past. Crazed parties with strippers and whatnot, staged for big clients who expected no less, still happened behind closed doors, far from the ears and eyes of lawyers specializing in sexual harassment cases with potential multimillion-dollar payoffs. The movie The Wolf of Wall Street hadn’t been too far off the mark.

  Getting blasted was still considered okay. But it wasn’t just booze that fueled the pulsing energy beneath the relatively polished manners of the guests. Some of the traders snacked all day on the same uppers they’d been prescribed since first grade, boosting the effect with the newer Modafinil. Whatever it took to make them feel smart and perform at peak was cool, as long as they literally kept their noses clean. The older guys in the office still reminisced wistfully about white powder and nosebleed binges, but plain old cocaine was passé. These were games she didn’t play and avoided at all costs. Too bad her date seemed to be in the thick of it all.

  Cara was pretty sure that Greg’s unexpected obnoxiousness was being ramped up by something synthetic, another strike against him, now that she was keeping track. She could barely tolerate boredom, but never drugs. She refused to touch any of it, preferring to rely on self-generated energy and natural drive. She oversaw the direction her life took, every single step, from personal to financial to professional. That necessitated maintaining control, and Cara didn’t associate with anyone who might endanger that.

  Right now she was feeling slightly less than composed. She needed a breather. Plus whoever was deejaying had amped up the volume on a dance mix that on nights when she was alone in a club would have her moving, but now only made her want to leave. Or find earplugs.

  Automatically, she began moving toward the front door, which was framed with high arched windows revealing a glimpse of shimmering black water beyond the vast lawn. Built on a spit of land that jutted out into the water of Long Island Sound, the mansion was extraordinary, with wraparound views.

  The glamorous North Shore setting was in every way the opposite of Ashtogue, Long Island, the blue-collar town where she’d spent most of her childhood, growing up in a white clapboard house built on the usual concrete slab. The other houses on her block looked much the same, except for the ones with added second floors or gabled rooms built on when more kids came along. The small lawns were carefully maintained or patchy with dandelions, depending on how much time the owners had to fix up their small piece of suburbia.

  She’d loved her home. It had been humble, yes, but she’d known only love. Respect. Admiration. Her father had made her a swing out of an old tire and would push her so high she’d swear her tiptoes touched the sun. Glenn had dragged home a few pieces of plywood from a construction site up the block and together, she and her brother had built a tree fort in the old alder in the backyard, where she’d sit on hot summer days, reading her favorite books and dripping Popsicle all over her legs.

  But that was before everything came crashing down.

  Later, after she’d grown up, Cara had never wanted to revisit her childhood home. She preferred to remember the town the way it was. Before her family had gone under. Way before she’d moved to the outskirts of New York City with her brother and widowed mother. Long before her father had died.

  She pushed through the crowd, but no one among the noisy guests paid the slightest attention to her, which was perfect. She needed some moments of peace and quiet to regroup. It would be nice to breathe in air that didn’t smell of five-hundred-dollar-a-bottle perfume and expensive liquor and costly ambition. When the front door opened, only one power couple stepped inside, but Cara could see more cars coming up the circular drive.

  Two Bentleys. A Maybach. Bringing up the rear, a couple of shiny new Mercedes Benz sedans, the poor relations. The nouveau riche were always followed by the strivers. She hated to think of herself as being in the last category, but it was difficult to deny. She was always striving to leave her past behind and move toward a kinder, gentler future. It wasn’t massive wealth she craved, but what she did want—respectability, comfort, and stability—necessitated accumulating a healthy supply of cash without going overboard and without advertising it, either. Take her outfit—a simple cream skirt and blouse that Iris would hate but would grudgingly approve of on her. Add the fashionable shoes—designer, sure, but sturdy. Nothing outrageously expensive. Subdued enough not to stand out. Stylish enough to project class.

  The old adage was true—it took money to make money. It also took money and quite a lot of thought and planning to project an image that you were not to be messed with—but also not worth messing with. Stay in the know and swim with the sharks, but at the same time stay off everyone’s radar.

  The experiences her father had gone through had taught her well. She’d watched in silence as his world—and the world of her family—had been ripped apart. As a child, there was nothing she could do but observe. Take notes. Assess what worked and what didn’t. In one fell swoop, she’d gone from the laughing kid with the skinned knee and perpetual book in hand to the silent observer, solemn and determined.

  For the most part, projecting a confident and quiet exterior was what Cara excelled at. But not now. Not tonight. Somehow having Greg ditch her for his Adderall-sniffing friends and not having Gail or Tammie at her side, she felt amazingly alone. And off her axis. Like the facade she’d worked hard to put up had slipped and she’d been exposed somehow. Now she felt like she was swimming in a fish bowl, vulnerable and alone.

  Abruptly, she changed direction and headed up the mahogany staircase that rose in a classic curve. No way could she take one more inane conversation about work—she was done. As she reached the landing, the throbbing music and incoherent chatter behind her died down, as if someone important had just arrived. Whom it might have been didn’t matter—she just needed to get the hell out of there. She didn’t pause, didn’t look back, and instead moved even faster, practically running, until she finally turned a corner and made it to the next floor, which was dimly lit, quiet, and most important, unoccupied.

  Most of the doors in the long hallway were closed, but not that of the nearest room. She peered inside to see an impersonal but serene space dominated by a long, angular black leather sofa outlined with bronze studs. A low glass table stood in front of the sofa. A white cashmere throw, tossed over one well-padded arm with meticulous casualness, seemed to have been left there for anyone.

  Cautiously, she stepped inside. The thick charcoal-colored rug beneath the minimal furniture muffled her footsteps. She decisively closed the door behind her. Then, leaning back against it, she closed her eyes. With a twist of her mouth, she acknowledged that if someone was watching her, she’d likely resemble some airheaded actress in a horror movie, fleeing for her life before finding temporary sanctuary. Briefly, she imagined Greg wearing a hockey mask and wielding a chainsaw. She laughed out loud, then swiftly cupped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

  It wasn’t like anyone could hear her. She opened her eyes and looked around again. In a gigantic house full of guests, she was completely and utterly alone. As if Iris were nagging her from afar, Cara wondered how it was she could end up solo at a party with so many available—and good-looking—men. Not her fault—it was just that none of them were the right kind of man. That was nothing new.

  Was Iris’s implication—that she hadn’t been laid for way too long—the thing that had her churning from the inside, or was it something else?

  Or maybe she was just frustrated that all her hard work, all the years spent pounding the books in first her high school then her college library, was all for nothing.

  She glanced around the room, knowing there was no way she’d ever get so rich as to afford a place like this. Or even know anyone this wealthy. She pushed away from the door and wandered around the room, realizing it was far more spacious than she’d thought at first glance. She studied the stark beauty of the understated decor more closely. Everything looked new, though nothing was ostentatious. Their host was likely
someone who’d made it big on the Street, and relatively recently at that. Presumably a financier or hedge-fund king who could afford the best had added the property to his real-estate portfolio. She didn’t have the feeling that anyone actually lived here.

  Cara ran a hand over a wall covered in something that wasn’t wallpaper, but something luxurious, with an unusual texture. Natural. Shagreen? Was that the right word? No—that was shark skin. Shantung. That was it. A heavy silk. She closed her eyes once more. Opened them. Immediately wanted to close them again. She hadn’t eaten before their arrival and she’d waved away the catering-company waiters circulating with trays of canapés. Clearly, an empty stomach, combined with her late nights at the office and the drinks she’d just downed, was making her drowsy.

  She rubbed her temples. Thought about going back downstairs. Bit her lip. One more conversation about numbers crunching or equities or fair trade values with someone like the young trader Jackson or her boss, Max, and she’d scream. No, she’d much rather stay here. And if Greg wondered for half a second if she’d retrieved the rented car from the valet outside and abandoned him to find his own way home, even better.

  She paced the room. After only a brief hesitation, she kicked off her high heels, sat on the sofa, then swung her legs up to lie down. Yeah, no way she was going back down there. The party might be in full swing, but it was definitely over for her now. She could call a cab to come get her, but not just yet.

  The cool leather of the sofa invited her touch. No doubt about it, whoever owned the mansion had taste. Of course, that was easy enough to buy.

  The enveloping silence of the room enfolded her, easing her into something like sleep. An elusive sense of contentment and safety washed over her. She surrendered herself to it.

  Until what felt like only moments later, an odd sensation brought her out of it.

  A hand caressed her cheek. Her slowly returning consciousness registered it as masculine, strongly so. Startled, Cara opened her eyes and struggled to sit up even as she clutched the cashmere throw that now covered her. It was soft. And it smelled good. Clean. Spicy. Even before she sensed movement, she knew a man was there—and that it was his scent she was enjoying.