Dirty Beautiful Rich Part One (3 page)

How out of it was she that she hadn’t noticed right away? In this neighborhood, up-end cars were cars like her Honda. Actually, it was a miracle her Honda hadn’t been stolen yet. Two Civics had been jumped and taken out of the lot in the last six months. A Bentley in Rocky Hills Apartments looked like a supermodel at Walmart.

She stopped and the car stopped.

The driver door opened and for one brief second she thought maybe it would be
him
.

It wasn’t. It was the nice driver who’d help her not face plant in the hallway last night.

She cleared her throat and smiled at him. “Hi.”

He touched his perfect gray cap.

Really, did people actually wear chauffeur uniforms these days? Apparently so. She wanted to ask him about the extreme formality, but thought it was probably rude to ask about his outfit. So instead, she said, “Thanks for driving me home and helping me in last night.”

“My pleasure, madam.”

“So. . .” She fiddled with her handbag. “Um. . . What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Damian Fitzgerald would like to see you for Luncheon.”

Luncheon
? And why the oh so formal use of his name? His idea of a distance introduction?

She pulled her phone out of her purse to check the time.
Luncheon
wasn’t for another two hours. “You know, that’s really nice but I have to go pick up my car and. . .”

“Mr. Fitzgerald has already arranged for your car to be picked up and returned to your apartment this morning.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “He doesn’t have a key.”

The chauffeur just stared at her as if she’d said something that was completely irrelevant.

“Who exactly is Mr. Fitzgerald?” she asked.

“A gentleman.”

A gentleman who could arrange to have her car slim jimmed and transported back to her apartment. 

The part of her that had sworn off men screamed at her to just keep walking to the bus stop, but the other part, the part that had had amazing dreams about a golden eyed man with jet black hair and a confidence so thick you could cut it with a knife was pushing her toward the Bentley.

If Mr. Fitzgerald was going to hurt her he would have done it last night when she’d drunk a bottle of champagne and was teetering in her platforms.

“Okay.” She gave a nod, half to herself. “Just let me text a friend.”

“Of course, madam, but if you must know, Mr. Fitzgerald has arranged for your two friends to meet us this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Her excitement fell flat. So, she wasn’t particularly special but at least she’d be safe. “What, does he have a fleet of Bentleys?”

Once again the chauffeur stared at her as if her comment didn’t really register. She shrugged. “Right then. Let’s go.”

She started to grab the handle and a genuine look of panic crossed the chauffeur’s face as he raced around and opened the door before she could over tax herself.

Fighting a laugh, she slid back into the familiar inside and drank in the scent of fresh leather. A little sigh of pleasure escaped her. The sigh was immediately replaced with a hard slap of reality. Who lived like Mr. Fitzgerald? Maybe a few thousand people the world over? Bentleys didn’t come easy.

“What’s your name?” she leaned forward and asked. She needed to call the driver something after all.

“O’Neil, madam.”

“Are you from here?” She allowed herself to scoot back now, drinking in the comfort of the heated seats and general air of wealth.

“No. Madam.”

Aha. A real fountain of information was this guy.

He pulled the car out onto 225 and started around the outskirts of Denver, headed in the direction of Boulder. Which was great. A day in Boulder would be just the thing. There were lots of great restaurants she couldn’t afford to eat in usually, though for this she’d break out her credit card. Mr. Fitzgerald had already spent enough on her.

“Have you worked for Mr. Fitzgerald for long?” she tried, smoothing her hands along the door paneling. She wanted to touch every inch, even if that made her a bit nuts. She wasn’t likely to have a repeat performance. The next time she’d see a Bentley would be when she walked by a valet lot.

“Over ten years madam,” the driver replied with a faint lilt.

Jeez. The guy was the king of the minimalist answer. Where were the details? “Are you guys visiting the city then?”

The chauffeur tensed ever so briefly at her use of the word
guys
.

“Yes. Madam.”

What was she doing, pulling teeth? “From where?”

“Mr. Fitzgerald lives in many places, but his home is Ireland.”

“No, way!” Her excitement was genuine. She had a Pinterest wall devoted to Ireland, and she watched bad Irish movies just for the scenery.

There was a pause. “
Way,
madam. I’m sure you must be tired. There’s water in the small compartment to your left and a sleep mask. If you’d like you may also use the iPad. There are a variety of media tools for your entertainment.”

She laughed. The poor driver clearly didn’t wish to keep sharing details about his life or his employer but he also didn’t want to offend her. Frankly, she would have loved to ask a million questions about Ireland. Her last name Doyle was Irish and her great grandparents had immigrated from there to Portland, Oregon. But it didn’t seem like O’Neil wanted to give her a play by play of life in the Emerald Isle. Even so, there was something about the keep it simple driver that she liked. “O’Neil, you’re a nice guy.”

“Thank you, Madam.” 

She looked to her left and there was a mahogany compartment neatly placed into the side of the interior. She opened it, pulled out the iPad and turned it on. If Mr. O’Neil didn’t want to reveal much about Mr. Fitzgerald she knew a source that would. Mr. Google.

***

J
ulie had no idea how many hours it had been but she’d read article after article after article about Damian Fitzgerald. . .
The Earl of Clare
. An earl. The man was a genuine earl. And not just any earl. His family had held the earldom since 1375. The title had passed down continuously since. Not only that, there was a castle. Apparently, Mr. Fitzgerald had had it entirely restored in perfect detail ten years ago.

From what she’d read, the place had been close to being given to the Irish National Trust. That was quite a turnaround in such quick time and it all seemed to hinge on the death of his father. The Earl of Clare had gone from old money to no money to new money in one generation but. . . Always the title. That they’d kept come hell or high water. His sister, Margaret, was an attendant of a junior royal. Mr. Fitzgerald and his family knew the Windsors well. Intimately. When Wills and Kate had gotten married, he’d been in the third pew in Westminster Cathedral.

She’d been on her couch in flannel pajamas ogling her tv.

Her ears popped and she blinked. Where were they? Boulder wasn’t that high.

Stretching her neck, she placed the iPad beside her then glanced out the tinted window.

“O’Neil?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“Yes, Madam. Did you have a nice rest?”

“Sure.” The towering rock faces pressed up against the road had her craning her head back. “Um. Where are we going?”

They’d climbed past the Front Range. Instead of rolling grass land and jagged mountains poking up from the plains, they were on a well maintained highway, racing up into the heart of the Colorado Rockies. Snow capped mountains were in the near distance.

“Vail, madam.”

Vail?
Land of the uber rich. She never bothered to go. While it was beautiful, it was all just a reminder of the things she couldn’t have and if there was one thing she wasn’t, she wasn’t a masochist. It just seemed too cruel, pressing her nose against store front windows, attendants giving her tight smiles while she desperately wanted things she could never afford to buy.

There were t-shirts in shops in Vail that out priced the bottles of Krug from the night before.

So. . . The one time she’d been to Vail, she’d walked the streets and bought a coffee and a sandwich to eat on an outdoor bench where she could watch the beautiful people walk by.

She shifted uncomfortably on the buttery leather seats as it hit her that she wasn’t exactly dressed for
luncheon
with a billionaire. She wasn’t even dressed for a job interview as a maid with a billionaire.

Folding her arms over her chest, she tried to ignore the anxiety building up inside her. She knew she shouldn’t give a damn about rich people peering down their snooty nose at her Target leggings and Forever 21 top. But the truth was rich people on some subliminal level did think they were better. And sometimes. . . Just sometimes, being around the uber rich made her feel as if she’d failed at life.

Mr. Fitzgerald almost certainly was the same.

Instead of heading into town, O’Neil headed up a winding road. The pavement followed a rushing stream and ever growing amounts of pine trees. After passing a herd of elk, blissfully hanging out in a small meadow, they turned up another road. A gated road.

With each turn, she felt herself growing less receptive and more awed. She didn’t like it. Every part of her now wanted to tell O’Neil to turn around. Screw her curiosity. What did a guy like Fitzgerald want with her?

As if he could sense her growing discomfort, O’Neil pulled the car to the side of the road.  “Madam, not to be intrusive, but do you remember what Mr. Fitzgerald said to you last night?”

She frowned. He’d said a few things. Some which were not meant for O’Neil’s ears. Her own cheeks flushed red, stupid Irish cheeks, as she realized what the driver must have heard.

O’Neil’s face softened. “Your unpleasant thoughts are so loud madam, I can hear almost every one of them upfront.”

Now
he chose to make commentary? She fought a sigh. “Okay, O’Neil. But this. . .” She gestured toward the Bentley and then the private road. “This isn’t me.”

“Why not?” he asked, his brown brows lifting to his cap with surprise.

“Because I’m not. . . I’m not. . .” Not good enough sounded terrible. Did she really think that about herself? “I’m not one of
them
.”

“You are
whom
ever and whatever you want to be, madam. And if that is having luncheon with an Earl in a private house in Vail, that’s you. If not, well, Mr. Fitzgerald will have a solution.”

Of course he would. “You mean the Earl of Clare.”

O’Neil suddenly grinned a surprisingly cheeky grin. “So, madam has done her research.”

“I’m sure milord has done his.”

O’Neil gave an enthusiastic nod. “He has. He always does and just to inform you, only servants say milord. You should say Lord Clare.”

“So, I’m not some sort of potential servant then?”

O’Neil was silent, clearly weighing his words. “Mr. Fitzgerald has a plan for you. Anyone who comes into his life suddenly is immediately put onto one of his plans. He had a plan when he found me. I doubt he means you to be a servant, scrubbing his floors.”

But maybe she’d be on her hands and knees? She looked away quickly. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask O’Neil why Mr. Fitzgerald had a plan for him and how they’d found each other but she realized such a question was way too personal. Even for an American. “Gotcha, O’Neil,” she said. “Drive on.”

“Yes, Madam. You’re catching on already.”

Was she? She focused on the jaw dropping mountains outside the window. This was the kind of scenery one only saw in National Parks or if one was filthy rich, apparently. Or someone like Damian Fitzgerald who made plans for people in his life. If he thought he could plan her existence, he had another think coming. Life had tried to boss her about for years. She wasn’t about to let some rich guy who thought he knew everything try to do the same.

Then again. . . Maybe Damian Fitzgerald was the answer to her prayers. Life had become close to unbearable, lonely, and unmanageable. She closed her eyes and thought of her mom, her painfully thin body pressing against the hospital bed as she smiled with half closed eyes. All Grace Doyle had wanted was her daughter’s happiness. What would her mom say?
Don’t be so fast to judge. Wait and see.
That’s what her mom would have said. She smiled to herself.
Okay mom
, she whispered. She’d wait and see what Fitzgerald’s plan was. If it was a bad one, well she could always tell him to go to hell now couldn’t she?

Chapter 5

At one time, Julie had been relatively comfortable in expensive surroundings. She could still remember her grandmother’s house in Portland. Beautiful, old, filled with antiques that her penny pinching, hardworking Irish gran had bought over the years. . . But her grandmother had never been one of the wealthy class. Not really. She’d worked her way from a maid in the early twentieth century for one of the most exclusive Portland families to one of the highest paid and most sought after chefs by the time she was forty. As a result, Julie’s dad, son of said exacting chef, had known how to make a perfect tea sandwich and could set a table with the best of them.

She supposed she should thank the grandmother who had been her first baby sitter for ensuring that she wouldn’t be utterly flummoxed by the situation unfolding before her. But she couldn’t quite shake the feeling she didn’t belong.

Sure, she could eat at a table like the one she was suddenly standing in front of in Mr. Fitzgerald’s Vail house, but only because her servant roots had left her that skill. There were four forks, several knives, and a handful of spoons. There were also four Waterford crystal glasses of varying sizes for the varying courses. All set on crisp, extremely expensive linen.

Great, she was going to be on her tiptoes through the meal. She was a terrible spiller. And the table linen was white. It didn’t help that she knew the general rule to start from the outside and go in. There was silver above the place setting as well as beside it. Knowing what it was for didn’t make her feel any less like Julia Robert’s character in Pretty Woman.

Of course, she wasn’t a prostitute, but to the Earl of Clare, her family were peasants. Did he still think of the little people as peasants? A smile curved her lips. Maybe she’d ask him.