Dirty Devil / The Fling

About the Authors

JACKIE ASHENDEN writes dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who’ve just gotten the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, the inimitable Dr. Jax, two kids and two rats. When she’s not torturing alpha males and their gutsy heroines, she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, wasting time on social media or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband. To keep up-to-date with Jackie’s new releases and other news, sign up to her newsletter at jackieashenden.com.

STEFANIE LONDON is the USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary romances and romantic comedies.

After sneaking several English lit subjects into her “very practical” business degree, Stefanie worked in the corporate world. But it wasn’t long before she became bored of writing emails for executives and turned her attention to romance fiction. Stefanie’s books have been called “genuinely entertaining and memorable” by Booklist, and her writing praised as “elegant, descriptive and delectable” by RT Book Reviews.

Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero and is currently in the process of doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, lipstick, romance novels and anything zombie related. For more information on Stefanie and her books, check out her website at stefanie-london.com.

Also by Jackie Ashenden

The Knights of Ruin

Ruined

Destroyed

Kings of Sydney

King’s Price

King’s Rule

King’s Ransom

The Billionaires Club

The Debt

Also by Stefanie London

Melbourne After Dark

Unmasked

Hard Deal

Close Quarters

Faking It

The Fling

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Dirty Devil

Jackie Ashenden

The Fling

Stefanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09929-5

DIRTY DEVIL & THE FLING

Dirty Devil © 2020 Jackie Ashenden The Fling © 2020 Stefanie Little

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dirty Devil

Back Cover Text

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

The Fling

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-Six

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

Dirty Devil

Jackie Ashenden

Self-made billionaire Damian Blackwood catches—and seduces!—Hong Kong’s sexiest thief in this first installment of Jackie Ashenden’s Billion $ Bastards trilogy!

My parties are legendary—as is my security. So when Thea Smith almost successfully steals a priceless necklace from my penthouse, I can’t help being impressed by her skill. But I didn’t make my billions letting others take whatever they want and walk away. Instead of calling the police, I’ll unravel the mystery and shatter her tight control—using all the seductive skills I possess.

Vulnerable and strangely innocent, Thea is unlike any thief I’ve ever met. Now that I’ve made her delightfully responsive body mine, I want to show her she deserves better than the life she’s chosen. The more time I spend with her supple limbs wrapped around me, the further she sees past the playboy facade. I know I’m a bastard, but she sees the pain and loneliness in my soul. And I must push her away before she steals my guarded heart...

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

For Veronica. Hope you enjoy this one, too!

CHAPTER ONE

Thea

I ALWAYS KNEW that breaking into the skyscraper apartment of Damian Blackwood, one of richest men in Hong Kong, would be a risky move. But he had something I wanted, so I had no choice.

His security was insane, though, and the only time I’d been able to get into his apartment unnoticed was during one of his infamous parties, when he himself would be distracted and there would be too many guests wandering around for security staff to discover that there was at least one person in attendance who shouldn’t be there.

Privately, I was pleased with myself that I’d even managed it, since the parties were notoriously difficult to get into, even impossible, for those not in the know. Blackwood liked to keep his parties very, very private and very, very exclusive.

I was not exclusive. I was an unremarkable woman of indeterminate parentage, ordinary in every way. I was someone you wouldn’t look at twice, which was what made me so good at what I did. You couldn’t be a good thief if you were memorable. Or, at least, you didn’t last long if you were.

Still, a lack of invitation hadn’t stopped me from going where I wanted before, and it didn’t stop me now. I’d managed to get hold of an ID and uniform for the catering company dealing with the event, and had distracted security from looking too closely at their staff lists by undoing an extra button on said uniform and bending to grab the pen I’d ‘accidentally’ dropped.

It had worked like a charm. Mr Chen had always told me to use whatever I could to my advantage when it came to jobs, so I did. Being a woman was sometimes a pain, but it came in handy every so often.

Especially because men were idiots.

Now I stood on the huge rooftop terrace of Blackwood’s Central District apartment, trying to balance a tray of glasses and bottles of Cristal in my sweaty palms.

Music drifted in the air, a hard, driving beat, while beautiful and very famous people dressed in high-end couture talked, danced, drank and laughed. Through the heaving crowd partying on the terrace, wait staff like myself moved, dressed in black, distributing eye-wateringly expensive drinks and tiny, exquisite canapés that would satisfy exactly no one’s appetite.

Over by the deep blue of the infinity pool came a splash as some idiot pushed another idiot in, followed by screams of laugher and shrieks. A third idiot—some famous actress in a white cocktail frock, probably worth more than my tiny Mongkok apartment—jumped in too. Then, after a lot of splashing, she held a ball of white fabric overhead to much cheering.

Clearly we’d reached the naked part of the evening.

I’d spent quite a bit of time researching Blackwood’s parties beforehand and apparently anything went. Nakedness. Public sex. Blatant social climbing. Line dancing. It was all out there for anyone to see and join in.

Rich people... They were a whole thing.

Mr Chen, my mentor, had once told me to expect anything when dealing with the very wealthy; that the old saying about absolute power corrupting absolutely was true and that it applied to wealth as well; that you couldn’t trust them as far as you could throw them. Which wasn’t very far.

Not that I needed those lessons he’d drilled into me. There were only two people I trusted in the entire world and one was dead. The other was myself.

I might not be the world’s most beautiful woman, but there was one thing about which I was confident: my ability to slip into a place unnoticed and steal whatever I found there. Though ‘steal’ was kind of a strong word to use for what I did.

Mr Chen called it ‘reacquisition’ and it was his ‘reacquisition’ business that he’d passed on to me after he’d died.

Basically, it involved ‘reacquiring’ stolen or missing items from people who shouldn’t have them and returning them to their rightful owners. It wasn’t technically stealing, as the items had been stolen to start with. You might say that was a job for the police rather than us. But some people didn’t like to involve the law for one reason or another; they preferred a third party. Hence the nice little ‘find and return’ business Mr Chen had worked hard to build up and in which he had trained me.

His last wish before he’d died was for me to keep that business running, his legacy to the world, and as he was the one who’d pulled me off the streets, given me a home and a job, I felt I owed him.

So that was why I was here. On a job. A request had come through via the third party who acted as our intermediary for a necklace called the Red Queen. It had been stolen some twenty years ago and now had miraculously turned up in Damian Blackwood’s possession. Its previous owners wanted it back and they didn’t much care how that happened. Hence hiring me.

Ignoring the shenanigans beside the pool, I glanced once more at the man from whom I was to ‘reacquire’ the piece in order to make sure of his location.

The typical Hong Kong humidity was making me sweaty, my uniform prickling, but I’d learned to ignore all physical discomforts when on a job, and I didn’t let it get to me. Instead, I adjusted my hold on the tray and took a moment to study Blackwood himself.

He was sitting in the corner of the terrace, where a number of couches had been arranged, in the centre of a group of stunningly beautiful, incredibly attentive women, all hanging on his every word.

I wrinkled my nose and tried to be my usual cynical self as I surveyed him. But it was difficult to be my usual cynical self. Because, despite my own good judgement—not to mention my common sense—and no matter that it was a really bad move professionally, I’d somehow developed a bit of a...crush on him.

Embarrassing, yes, and I didn’t like to acknowledge it to myself. And maybe it wasn’t any wonder, given what a very fine specimen of manhood he was—certainly there was a reason why all those women couldn’t take their eyes off him. But still. I should know better than to get all starry-eyed over a good-looking man. Or indeed any man.

Mr Chen had been clear that involvement with anyone in our line of work was out of the question and that had never bothered me. Being an unwanted kid, I was used to being alone, and I’d never met anyone worth wanting to get to know better anyway. And as for sex, well... There was a reason humanity had invented vibrators.

Still, knowing all of that didn’t stop me from being transfixed by the reality of Damian Blackwood himself.

I’d done my usual research, immersing myself in the history of Black and White Enterprises, and Blackwood’s background in particular, studying news articles, looking at photos, watching interviews, the works.

He and his two co-owners, Ulysses White and Everett Calhoun, a Brit and an American respectively, had made huge amounts of money in crypto-currency speculation, initially starting Black and White as an online vault that boasted better security than the banks in Switzerland. They’d enjoyed phenomenal success with it and from there had gone on to build a billion-dollar empire that encompassed finance, import-export, luxury hotels, construction, security and God knew what else. They had their fingers in so many pies even they probably didn’t know which was which.

The three of them were famous—or infamous, depending on how you looked at it—for being totally uncompromising both in business and in their private lives, for living however they wanted and not giving a damn.

Certainly Blackwood didn’t.

He was a womaniser who spent millions on massive parties, his luxury lifestyle the stuff of legend. He was renowned not only for his love of beautiful women but for his love of fine jewels. He was a highly regarded collector and connoisseur of gems, and was constantly being talked about on every news platform and every social media channel there was. The man seemed to thrive on attention, a master of the perfect sound bite and the off-the-cuff witty comment, making much of his humble origins as the son of a Sydney burlesque dancer.

He had the kind of confidence and cocky charm that only a lot of money and extreme good looks could buy, and was pretty much my opposite in every possible way. Which I suppose made it strange that I was so fascinated by him. Then again, maybe that was kind of the point; opposites were supposed to attract, weren’t they?

Not that he’d ever be attracted to me. With any luck he wouldn’t notice me at all.

I stared at him from beneath my lashes, watching his mesmerising smile along with all the other women around him. It was a thing of beauty, caught on the cusp between charming and wicked, promising all kinds of naughty, dirty things, and I found my heart beating a little faster than it had before.

He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored dark blue suit that showed off his long, tall, muscular frame to perfection, and he sat on the couch like a king holding court, the women his adoring courtiers.

His black hair was shaved on the sides of his head to leave a soft, spiky kind of Mohawk on top, highlighting the intensely masculine perfection of his face. He had a jawline so sharp you could cut yourself on it, high cheekbones that would do a Hollywood superstar proud and a long mouth that curled at the ends, pure sin and wickedness. His eyes were silver, the light colour emphasised by the thick black of his lashes, and were just as wicked as his mouth.

A pretty man. Maybe too pretty. At least he would have been if not for the piercing in his left eyebrow and the bright colours of the tattoos that peeked through the open neck of his black shirt.

But those things I already knew about. Those things only added an edge.

What I hadn’t understood until now, what all the articles and the interviews hadn’t told me, was that the real source of his power lay in his charisma. It radiated from him, an unholy mix of charm, confidence and focus, bathing people in its light. Rendering both men and women speechless with adoration.

I wasn’t overstating. It was simply a fact.

Watching him was like watching the sun rise after a dark, cold night.

He was in the middle of telling some ridiculous story, his handsome face full of expression, his silver gaze making eye contact with his rapt audience as he made fluid gestures with his large, long-fingered hands.

I tried to resist him, tried to take refuge in my usual distrust, yet still I found myself edging closer, trying to listen, his charm like a tractor beam reeling me in.

His voice rolled over me, rich and deep. He didn’t have that strange transatlantic accent that some ex-pats had, his Australian accent slight but there. He smiled as he told his story—some nonsense about a woman he’d once known back in Sydney, and her dog and her husband, Damian hiding in the closet.

His audience was enthralled, their eyes shining, laughing as he punctuated the story with jokes, some blatant, some dry.

He was a natural storyteller, weaving magic with his hands, and I nearly laughed myself at some ridiculous aside. Though I stopped the instant I realised what I was doing, appalled at myself.

Stupid.

I was letting myself be dazzled and I shouldn’t. I had a job to do and that wasn’t standing around watching him.

I was here to find the necklace he’d bought at a private auction three days earlier and take it back to its rightful owners, not get distracted by staring at his undeniably pretty face.

Making a few more adjustments to my tray, I kept an eye on Blackwood to make sure he stayed on that cripplingly expensive couch of his, only to freeze in place as he turned his head, the full force of his attention suddenly slamming into me.

The air seemed to thicken, the music fading, the rest of the party falling away, leaving only him, me and the incredible silver of his gaze. There was heat in those eyes, the promise of long, hot, decadent nights in silk sheets, the mysteries of sex revealed...

I couldn’t breathe, abruptly aware of the movement of the air across my skin in the humid night and the scratchy feel of my uniform; of the fabric pulling tight across my breasts and the fast beat of my heart.

Of an ache right down low inside me that felt strangely like...longing.

A dim part of my mind told me that I was being stupid, that he was just a man, nothing special. A good-looking man, sure, but not one I should be losing my head over. And yet... I couldn’t look away from him.

No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking right now. No one had ever even noticed me at all. I was ordinary. Unremarkable. Unmemorable.

I wasn’t a woman a man like him would ever look at twice.

Then he gestured at me, making shock pulse hard in my veins. Oh, my God. What the hell did he want?

You’re standing there dressed as a waitress, holding a tray of drinks. What do you think he wants?

Oh. Right. Yes. The uniform. He didn’t want me, he only wanted a waitress.

Forcing away the effects of his gaze, not to mention the odd dip in my stomach that definitely wasn’t disappointment, I concentrated on making sure my hands didn’t shake as I made my way towards him and his entourage.

The women were all pleading with him to finish his story—he’d stopped at a very important part, apparently—and thank God he looked away from me as I approached, his mouth curling. ‘Patience, ladies. Good things come to those who wait. Now, who else needs a drink?’

I came to a stop in front of him and held out the tray. He rose to his feet in one fluid, athletic movement, towering above me as he picked up the bottle, pouring liberal amounts into the glasses on the tray next to it. He didn’t look at me, too busy talking and laughing with a couple of the women next to him.

The tension that had gathered across my shoulders relaxed a fraction, even as the dip in my stomach intensified. He’d definitely looked at me because I was a waitress and he wanted a drink. No other reason. And just as well, since anonymity was my number one weapon and the reason Mr Chen’s business was so successful.