Table Of ContentDIRTY
THE COMPLETE BAD BOY BILLIONAIRE SERIES
AMELIA WILDE
CONTENTS
Welcome to The Dirty Series!
Dirty Rich
Dirty Royal
Dirty Rogue
Dirty Ransom
Dirty Rumor
Claim Your Free Book
Always His
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Like What You Just Read?
More from Amelia Wilde
About Amelia Wilde
WELCOME TO THE DIRTY SERIES!
Welcome, and buckle up…because this is the first time The Dirty Series has
ever been published in one volume. Prepare to go on a scandalously sexy
ride through the lives of five billionaire bad boys as they fall in love with
fierce, independent, irresistible women. From Jax in Dirty Rich to Ace in
Dirty Rumor, you’ll want to take them all home.
Read on and enjoy. I’m so glad you’re here!
~Amelia
DIRTY RICH
A BAD BOY BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE
CHAPTER ONE
Cate
CARL SWINGS AT ME, a vicious right hook, and my body moves before
my brain has time to think hook, twisting, ducking, legs bending in a half-
squat so I can pop up on the other side of the motion. Head cocked, I keep my
eyes nailed to his hands even as I rise up on the balls of my feet, ready to
make the next move.
He’s no amateur.
Neither am I.
Sweat drips from my hairline, and a lock of dark hair has fallen across
my vision. I dismiss it.
Light on his feet, Carl steps out of my range but I’m right there with him,
pressing in close. Closer. I go for his gut but barely connect, the force of the
blow mostly meeting the air where his muscles used to be.
Guard up, I spring back a few feet, opening the distance between us. My
heart hammers in my chest but I keep my breathing measured. Don’t give
anything away. Don’t give anything away.
“Had enough yet?” Carl calls, his voice echoing against the bare walls.
There’s nothing plush to cushion his voice.
I let out a barking laugh. “Fuck off.”
He grins. His cut muscles flex under a sheen of moisture and his tank top
is dark in patches. “I’ll give you one last chance.”
“You’re too kind.” Even as I say it I’m rushing back in, adrenaline
spiking through my system all the way to the tips of my fingers.
With a tiny shift of my weight I lead Carl on for a fraction of a second, a
head fake that gives me just enough time for an uppercut followed closely by
a left hook that barrels toward the side of his face. He takes the full brunt of
the uppercut but at the last moment gets a hand around to block the hook, the
crack of his dismissal ringing back at me.
I’m not done. I assess the risk and drop my guard to go at him with my
other hand, everything I have, last-ditch effort. Laser focus on every move he
makes, every shift, every shuffle, lungs screaming. He’s batting away some of
it but he can’t catch all of it. I’m on another level, relentless, unstoppable.
His exhales get harder, harder, and I press what little advantage I have, the
fierceness in the pit of my stomach, the drive that keeps me up at night
channeled into every swing of my fists, every tiny step that advances me
closer to Carl, closer in, closer still. I’m going to back him into a corner, no
matter that he has six inches and fifty pounds on me, I’m going to—
The alarm on my phone rings loud, blaring, the sound ricocheting off the
walls and bouncing back into my ears, jolting me out of the moment. I take
two steps back, dropping my guard, all the tension and fire going out of me.
As I head for my phone, perched on the top of my gym bag, Carl lets out a
little sigh, almost too soft for me to hear it.
In the ten steps to my bag I slip off my sparring gloves and headgear,
dropping them to the floor as I scoop up the phone, swiping once across the
screen to silence the alarm. Quick scan for emails or texts from Sandra. It
would be rare for five in the morning on a Monday but not out of the
question.
There are none.
My heart rate slows.
Carl drops his own equipment into a chair next to my bag and reaches for
the bottle of water he put there earlier, drinking from it deeply. After he
swallows, he gives me a brotherly pat on the shoulder.
“You’re something else, Cate. That was pretty kickass.”
“You think?” I pull the elastic from my hair and smooth my hair away
from my face, tying it up again in a neat bun on the top of my head. I’ve been
training with Carl for almost a year, paying him well for opening his studio
before dawn so I can fit in private sessions.
“Yeah. I wasn’t going easy on you.”
“Good.”
“I mean it.”
“Me too. I’m not interested in being coddled.”
He laughs, his voice warm in the white room with a floor covered
entirely in black mats. “I got you, Cate. I do.”
While I pack my gear into my bag, he disappears behind the counter at the
front of the studio and comes out with his own bag. I straighten up, giving him
a look. He usually doesn’t leave with gear. As far as I know, he comes
straight from home to work out with me and goes home after.
“Where are you headed, Carl?”
He gives me a sly smile. “What’s it to you?”
I shrug, a tiny blush spreading across my cheeks. “You never bring a
bag.”
“Correction: I never brought a bag.” He flips the light switch, plunging
the studio into darkness, and we walk to the door of the studio together. Carl
holds it open so I can step out first into the hallway. It’s a second-floor
walkup. One half of the building is Carl’s boxing studio, and the other half is
a yoga studio. The word “studio” is about all they have in common. About a
year and a half ago, I spent three months taking classes there before all the
chanting and peaceful energy started to grate on my nerves. Something drew
me to the other side, literally and figuratively, so one day after an endless
forty-five minute vinyasa class I slung my mat in its matching bag over my
shoulder and went across the hall, slipping in as silently as I could.
Carl had been with another client then. It took two minutes of watching
them go at it before I wanted in.
“Turns out,” Carl says, turning the key in the lock, then dropping his key
ring into his bag, “you’re not the only one who likes to be up early.”
“But you hate getting up early.” Carl told me that during one of my first
few sessions with him. He normally doesn’t open the studio until 2:00.
Getting him here at 4:30 isn’t cheap.
“You know what I love?” he elbows me lightly in the ribs, and I shove
his hand away with a laugh. “Money.”
“So you’re cheating on me, is that it?”
He throws up his hands. “Hey, hey, I showed up. I didn’t even make some
bullshit excuse about working late.” Our feet are thunderous in the empty
stairwell. “No, I told Money Bags the earliest I could be there was 6:30, so
he settled.” Carl flashes me a winning smile. “I’d never do anything to lose
what we have going on.”
“You’re the worst, Carl,” I say, shaking my head but smiling too. “So,
who’s the lucky guy?”
He purses his lips, pretends to lock them and throw away the key, a
dainty gesture for a muscled boxer with more tattoos than a t-shirt could hope
to hide. “Not supposed to tell. Let’s just say…he’s rich as sin and can pay my
outrageous early morning rates.”
We stop outside the black town car idling by the curb. After my first year
working for Sandra, she called me into her main office and gave me a
laundry list of criticisms, followed by a clipped, “You’ll have a car now.
Twenty-four hours. Be available.”
“Need a lift?”
Carl shakes his head, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I’m good.
You really woke me up in there, Cate!” He cups his hands around his mouth
and lets out a whoop.
I laugh, but standing near the car has hit the kill switch on my workout
buzz. I trace the outline of my phone in the outer pocket of my gear bag. The
list tumbles into my mind, beginning with the four meetings before lunch that
need to be confirmed.
I can hardly let the thought all the way to the surface of my mind, but now
that I’m changing to work mode, the fatigue is starting to set in. It’s hard to
keep up this breakneck pace.
But I have to.
I can’t fail.
Can’t end up like Dad.
Mark, my driver, hustles around to my side of the car and opens the door,
and I slide in.
“See you on Wednesday?”
Carl puts a hand on the door, freeing Mark up to come back around to his
side. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Neither would I.”
“I’ll tell you all about it then.”
My hand is already on my phone. I have no idea what he’s talking about,
and it must show in my face.
“The new client who wants your slot,” says Carl, giving me an
incredulous look. “Don’t you want to know who the other woman is?”
