Read Online The Billionaire and the Con Artist: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Girls Series Book 1) by Leanne Brice - Free Book Online

of an accident like that with her doesn’t disgust me; in fact, I almost find it pleasant.
    I have to stop in my tracks for a moment, I’m so blown away by the revelation.
    I never wanted kids—or rather, I never thought about having them.
    I just never imagined my life with them.
    The way I’m living now is the life —nothing tying me down.
    The steady rotation of new lovers is ideal—I learned long ago not to trust the opposite sex.
    Sure, there are some dedicated true-blue types, like my mom, but once money enters the picture, being loved for who you are is out of the picture.
    You can’t trust anyone.
    I dated a girl once whom I accidentally collided with—a cute, wholesome-looking brunette with the deepest dimples.
    I couldn’t resist asking her out and finding out if she really was as sweet and innocent as she seemed.
    I wanted to corrupt her.
    We dated for a while, and I never let on how loaded I was, and she seemed to really like me for me.
    Turned out, she knew exactly who I was all along and arranged our ‘accidental’ collision, with the intent of grabbing my attention.
    I only found out after I finally let my guard down and gave her one of my cards to buy something nice.
    Yeah, I know—that was dumb. But I didn’t expect my girlfriend to actually max out a six-figure limit credit card then disappear.
    I had Nate use his skills to help me dig up more about her, and we found out that sweet-faced girl had quite a rap sheet—she’d been busted by the cops a few times for various crimes—shoplifting and fraud among them. She had a different name attached to each mug shot.
    That was quite a while ago, but since then, I just assume every girl is just looking to dig her claws into my funds, all of them a con artist of some sort, and ultimately, all of them gold-diggers.
    I can’t be bothered to do a background check every time I meet a girl I like, so it’s best to keep things simple. No long-term commitments. Bang ‘em and move on.
    Jewel is perfect—she’s got her own wealth, so I don’t have to worry about her being after me for my cash.

    * * *
    I open the door with a goofy grin, wondering if she’s still asleep or if she’s sitting up, waiting for my return.
    My heart sinks a bit once I notice she didn’t come out to greet me.
    Then I feel silly—the place is huge. She might not have heard me come in. She’s probably out on the balcony or locked up in a bathroom, soaking in a hot tub, unable to hear over bubbles and pop music or something.
    I call out for her while searching, all the while trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach my brain refuses to make sense of, even when I realize the place is practically empty save for what came with the room, all sign of Jewel beyond a wrinkled bed is gone.
    The sinking feeling has a bit of the horrific shades of the same sensation permeating me when seventeen-year-old me arrived home, minutes away from finding my dead mother.
    Loud absence.
    Maybe she slipped out for a stroll. Maybe she left to run some errand—to pick up some lingerie or something.
    I soon realize that there’s no sign of the stuff I left behind, so I search harder, trying to spot the valuables pile, still hoping she just put them aside somewhere while she’s out shopping or something.
    It feels like every organ in my interior drops when I realize there’s no sign of my stuff or hers—every sign that anyone was staying here gone, save for the rumpled bedsheets.
    No sign of her bag, and definitely not the watch my dad gave me.
    "No," I hear myself say softly, and then I shout, "Jewel?" again, even though I know there’s no way she’s going to answer.
    She is gone for good.
    This can’t actually be happening.
    She stole everything! I can’t believe it.
    After I spent all day bragging about this amazing woman in my hotel room, she has robbed me blind.
    I suddenly feel incredibly dumb.
    I’m a goddamned poker player—how could I have not seen the signs?
    I’m going