Dirty Thief Read online

  Dirty Thief

  Tia Louise

  Contents

  Dirty Thief

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Extra! Extra!

  The Prince & The Player

  One to Hold

  More Tia Louise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dirty Thief

  DIRTY * SEXY * SCANDALOUS

  What do you get when you mix a brooding king with a sexy pickpocket? Not your usual fairytale.

  Ava Wilder is beautiful, she lives in a pink castle, and she’s a thief. Rowan Westringham Tate loves power, speed, and Ava.

  Their romance is straight out of a dirty Cinderella story, until the one man Ava is running from shows up to claim what she stole—or to claim her.

  Now Ava might be forced to take another thing to protect her happily ever after… A life.

  * * *

  DIRTY THIEF is the all-new thrilling romantic suspense novel in the Dirty Players series, coming April 25, 2017. It features secrets, lies, a touch of darkness, and scorching-hot sexy times.

  * * *

  Never miss a new release!

  * * *

  Sign up for my New Release newsletter and get a FREE Tia Louise Story Bundle!

  * * *

  Sign up now! (link)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Dirty Thief

  Copyright © TLM Productions LLC, 2017

  www.AuthorTiaLouise.com

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.

  Created with Vellum

  For lovers and thieves.

  Prologue

  Ava

  I clutch the stolen book like a lifeline. Crouched on my knees under a thin, scratchy blanket, I’m a tiny ball of greed, devouring the beautiful words. In my hand is a keychain-sized LED flashlight I stole from foster person Dwayne (I’ll never call him Daddy), and with the other, I slide my finger down the page as I read.

  “I think I know enough of hate…

  that for destruction, ice is also great…”

  I speak the words aloud in a voice just above a whisper.

  I know enough of hate.

  Robert Frost.

  Closing my eyes, I imagine Dwayne encased in ice. I imagine huge blocks of ice falling on him, crushing his bones. I imagine him trapped under ice, his skin freezing and turning black. I see the skin peeling away on those fat fingers he uses to touch me. I see his mouth open and ice breaking out all his teeth. I see him ground to powder under clear blocks of rock-hard water.

  Then I see me dousing the entire heap with lighter fluid and setting it all ablaze.

  Fire and Ice.

  The bedroom door creaks, and I click off the light. My breath stills as fear shoots through my stomach on a cramp.

  School pictures had come today. At dinner he had one of mine—a wallet-sized one—and he’d made a big show of putting it in that plastic accordion thing.

  “Beautiful Ava,” he’d said, watery brown eyes moving from the small photograph to my face. “The most beautiful one.”

  I’d been reaching for a roll at the time, and his eyes slid down my arm like a raw egg.

  “This goes in my special wallet,” he continued. “The one I keep here.”

  My throat closed up, and I pulled my hand back, tucking it under my leg. I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  Now he’s in my room. I’m under the blanket, crouched in the darkness, but I can hear his labored breathing. He’s standing in the doorway. The floor creaks as he enters, and tears are in my eyes. I hiccup a breath as the pressure of his body indents the side of my bed. The blanket slowly slides down, uncovering my head to my shoulders, and I place my hand over my mouth.

  “Beautiful Ava,” he whispers, and the nauseating scent of stale whiskey on hot breath surrounds me.

  I’m a stone clutching the book so hard my knuckles ache. My sister Zelda is across the room, and I can hear the soft noise of her snoring. Most nights, it’s a comforting sound. She’s always near me. Tonight it’s terrifying. How deeply is she sleeping?

  “Beautiful Ava,” he repeats like a chant, and his fleshy palm touches my lower back.

  I whimper as it moves lower. I’m not protected. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I don’t know whether I should throw my arms and legs out, struggle and scream, or clench tighter. I don’t know what turns him on, and I begin to pray. Dear God, let him pass out. Please let him pass out…

  “So soft…” His hand circles my back, dipping lower with each pass.

  Fresh tears heat my eyes, and a sob jerks through my throat.

  “No…” I whimper, not even trying to pretend anymore.

  “Beautiful…”

  The word is a knife in my stomach.

  Beautiful.

  Beautiful means target. It means exposure. It means abuse. I want to be ugly. I want to have scales covering my skin, bad hair, and crooked teeth.

  “The most beautiful one.” His hand moves down to cup my ass, and he’s on the bed, getting behind me.

  My thin gown rises, the edges whispering along my skin. Another cry of fear scrapes through my aching throat. Please help me… please, please!

  I squeeze my eyes closed and focus. I’m going away from here. I’m traveling far away, to a place where my mother smiles at me with soft blue eyes. Her eyes are like the ocean, soothing and gently surrounding me.

  Rough hands touch my skin as he drags my gown higher.

  No… Go back… Go away… I’m in a field of daisies with my dad. Zelda is with us, and she’s running ahead and laughing. Her golden hair bounces in curls behind her like happy sunshine. She’s skipping.

  Daddy’s strong arms hold me so tight against his chest. My small fingers are in his soft, dark hair, and I’m high off the ground, safe. My sister is picking daisies…

  I can’t be sure if it’s a real memory or a dream. I was only five when they died, killed in a car crash, leaving us at the mercy of the State of Florida Foster Care System.

  Meaty hands are on my hips, touching the elastic of my panties. No! I squeeze my arms tighter against my sides, doing everything I can to return to that field, to my Daddy’s strong arms. I have to get away from here before…

  “Get off her!” Zelda’s voice cuts through the darkness, followed closely by a loud CRASH!

  Dwayne’s body slumps and falls on me along with pieces of what feels like a plate. I struggle out from under the heavy, sweaty man now out cold in my bed.

  “Get up!” Zelda hisses at me. “Ge
t dressed! We’re leaving.”

  My hands shake so hard, I can barely grasp the sides of my gown. I quickly throw it on the bed and grab my jeans off the floor. The broken lamp is beside Dwayne’s head, and a dark line of blood runs down his temple.

  “Don’t waste time staring!” my sister says, and I see she’s got her shoes on.

  I’m ready to go, but one last thing… Zelda’s back is to me. She doesn’t see me reach in his pocket and take the wallet. I want all my pictures, but I especially want this one. I do not belong to this man.

  My throat hurts, and Zee grabs my hand. “Let’s go!”

  She never releases my hand all the way out into the rainy Florida night. I follow her, running as fast as we can, block after block until we’re out of the neighborhood. We’re entering what used to be farmland. Now it’s slowly turning into a subdivision, with huge wooden house-skeletons rising high into the dim-lit night.

  Enormous concrete culverts lie in ditches waiting to be covered with dirt. They’re a network of tunnels, and Zee runs us down into one, pushing me inside first and crawling in after me.

  In that ditch, on that rainy night, she promises me we’re never going back. We’ll keep running. This time we’re going farther south, down the Florida coastline, and we’ll figure out a way to survive.

  We’ll never see Dwayne Vega again…

  Chapter 1

  Almost ten years later…

  Rowan

  Days like this I want to be on the track, pedal to the floor, flying at top-speed as the tension burns from my brain like the carbon from the engine of my Formula One race car.

  Instead, I’m secure in a sleek, black limo. My trusted driver Hajib is behind the wheel, taking me across the extension bridge connecting Monagasco proper with the outer banks where our beachside estate at Occitan is located. Street lights flicker past, and I watch the breakers on the ocean below.

  My uncle’s voice is in my head. “The people are nervous. They hear reports of terrorist attacks in Nice, less than thirty kilometers from their homes, and they panic. We’re too close to the front lines. They need a symbolic gesture of protection.”

  His words twist anger in my chest. “I’m not alienating all of north Africa.” My voice is a growl, my back to him as I consider my allies in Tunis, my father’s allies in Morocco…

  Greece and Italy stand between us and the frontlines of unrest, but I’ve experienced first-hand how easily criminals cross borders and make their way to our sparkling shores to wreak havoc.

  “Turkey is the obvious choice,” Reggie continues, citing the numerous times that country has sheltered our enemies in the past.

  “They also sheltered you in the past,” I note, gazing out the enormous window of the war room at the sun making its way toward the horizon.

  As if intuitively knowing I’d had a difficult day, two hours ago my wife texted me, I want to make love in the ocean.

  Her words made me smile for the first time all day—since leaving her before dawn asleep in our bed at the palace. I texted back, I’ll be at Occitan by twilight.

  With every minute, Hajib brings me closer to that luxurious beach estate where my wife waits for me. The sun dips lower, and all I can think about is her body, her wavy dark hair, her long legs wrapped around my waist…

  When my father the king died almost a decade ago, I became the youngest monarch in our tiny, independent nation’s history. I’d been twenty-two at the time, and I didn’t just lose my father, I lost my freedom, my youth. I lost any semblance of a private life I would ever have.

  The first five years, I focused on proving my ability to lead. My mother wanted to retire from the monarchy, and she was ready to pass the crown to me. Only our parliament was left to convince, and they’d held my Formula One racing days and history as a bachelor against me. It had taken an assassination attempt and my marriage to the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen to change their minds.

  All thanks to my uncle.

  Now terrorists from the south threaten our security, and I have to decide the best way to demonstrate our stability without jeopardizing the longstanding relationships I’ve inherited.

  “Our forces will work with France,” I say, ready to shelve this matter for the day.

  “Our tradition is cooperative independence,” Reggie argues.

  “Did I suggest otherwise? Monagasco is safe. I will not succumb to the far-right agenda sweeping the continent.”

  The ferocity in my tone curtails further discussion. I’m tired, and my body aches for Ava. Passing a hand over my brow, I exhale deeply.

  Reggie is right.

  I’ll announce some form of symbolic referendum and smooth the ruffled feathers behind the scenes. Perhaps I’ll call my younger brother Cal up from the Caribbean. He’s always been the velvet glove over my iron fist.

  The car slows, and I’m pulled from my turbulent thoughts to the present.

  “Would you like to be let out at the front?” Hajib asks.

  Good old Odd Job. He’s been driving Cal and me around since we were boys poking fun and nicknaming him after our favorite James Bond villain.

  “Yes,” I say, and the car slows to a stop.

  The air is heavy with humidity when I step out onto the pea gravel. The sky is a brilliant mixture of reds, pinks, blues, and purple. It only holds me a moment before I head inside, taking the steps two at a time and pushing through the wide front door.

  We’re safe from everything at Occitan—paparazzi, reporters, prying eyes. It’s the one place we can breathe. I cross the wide-plank wood floors not even noticing the quiet staff doing whatever they do in the small rooms. A large staircase spills out to the first floor, and again, I take the stairs two at a time. Our master suite is in the back corner of the second level.

  Pushing the door open, heavy salt breezes slide past my cheek. The room is dimly lit. The French doors are open, allowing the sea breezes to fill the sitting area, and across, standing at the fireplace and facing the mantle, her back to me, is my gorgeous wife.

  Her body visibly reacts to the sound of me entering the room. Her chin lifts, and she looks over her shoulder. The stress of the day still weighs heavy on my mind, but the sight of her relocates my tension from above to below my waist.

  Ava pivots to the side, and I see she’s wearing a sheer black cami with thin spaghetti straps. Her small breasts rise and fall, tight nipples lifting with every inhale, and my scalp tightens. I want to devour them.

  My coat is off, followed by my tie. In one swift move, I unfasten the buttons of my dress shirt as my eyes travel down the length of her body. They tangle at the profile of her ass, the soft swell peeking from under her cropped top. Her thong panties follow a line over her hipbone, and she’s standing barefoot in sheer black hose. They’re held up by a wide band of black lace connected with narrow straps to a black garter belt.

  “Ava…” My desire escapes on a hot exhale. “You’re amazing.”

  Her body relaxes, catlike, and she lowers her chin, meeting my eyes this time. Dark lashes are thick over an ocean of emerald green and blue. It tightens my stomach.

  “Welcome home, your majesty.” Her voice is a purr.

  Is it intuition that she knows I need this? From the start of our life together, it seems she has known so much of what I need. To think I almost lost her…

  Possession flares in my blood. “Come to me.” My jaw is tight. I want her now. I want her body in my arms, my cock buried in her clenching core.

  She walks toward me, allowing her hips to sway as if to the music of a silent duet. I watch the space between her thighs open and close. I want to taste her there.

  When she stops in front of me, her head is bowed, but her eyes blink up to mine. My pelvis tightens as my erection grows.

  “Turn around.” My voice is thick, rough.

  She follows my orders. Her submission feeds my craving, eases my frustration at this shit of a day. I step forward and slide my palm under the black silk over her fla
t stomach. My other hand goes to her thigh, moving up her soft skin to the center, higher, until I reach the thin strap of her thong. A swift jerk and it rips away.

  “Oh,” she gasps, a slight tremble in her voice.

  “Are you wet for me?” My lips are in the back of her hair at her neck, and my hand returns to her thigh. Tiny chill bumps cover her skin, and I slide my fingers into the space between her legs until I find the bare lips of her pussy.

  “Yes…” Her whisper wavers between an answer and a plea, and my stomach warms with the heat of desire.

  Dipping my fingers inside, I feel her cream. Her knees tremble as I circle my fingers and drag them out, drag them higher to the pucker of her ass. Another little circle, another gasp. Fever is in my brain, and my cock is iron heat, straining in my pants for her body.

  Stopping, I take my hand away. I take a step back, slowing us down, watching her shoulders rising and falling quickly with her gasps.

  My jaw tightens. Control. I walk to the other side of the sitting room where a black leather wingback chair is located. She remains in the center of the room, facing the empty fireplace.

  “Take off the cami,” I say as I unfasten my pants and push them down and away, along with my black boxer briefs.

  Her long, slim hands clutch the silk top, and it’s over her head in a sweep, leaving her dark wavy hair swishing at the curve of her back. I sit, my cock pointing straight up, and I grasp it, moving my hand over the tip as I watch her. I’m slick with precum, but I’ll draw this out for both of us.

  “Face me.”

  She obeys, allowing me a better view of her gorgeous body. With the cami gone, she’s only in her bra, garter belt, and thigh-high stockings. My mouth waters. Ava Wilder-Tate is the most beautiful woman in the world, and she is mine.