The Irish Prince (The Billionaire Dynasties)

By: Virginia Nelson

Chapter One


Chelsea

She’d quit for real this time. It seemed she thought about it a hundred times a day lately, so finding a lacy bra hanging over the back of her chair was yet another sign from the universe that she should just do it. But he paid well, dammit, and she was under contract, something he reminded her of every time she tried to tender her resignation, which was something she’d tried to do at least four times in the last month. The man drove her crazy, had been driving her crazy for years. And every time she quit, he somehow managed to take back her resignation and convince her to stay.

But not this time. She was done. With all of it.

No matter how charming or beguiling Aiden Kelley was, Chelsea was serious about quitting this time. She wasn’t going to let him convince her otherwise.

“So you’re really leaving?” Her friend Kimmie’s voice through her headset pulled her out of her thoughts and back to their conversation. “What did he do this time?”

“I’m definitely leaving, and I told him so this morning,” she insisted. “I found a bra in my office this morning. And it sure isn’t one of mine.”

Kimmie’s laughter came through clear. “He’s crossdressing now?”

Chelsea grabbed her bowl of rocks and sat at the desk, shuffling through the stones to soothe herself. “I wouldn’t put it past him, and the bastard has good enough legs that he’d probably pull it off. No, I think he ‘entertained’ someone in my office last night, or at least he used my office as a pit stop on the way through to his.”

A pink piece of quartz captured her attention, so she pulled it out to rub while she talked.

The sound of chewing preceded Kimmie’s answer. “So the Irish Prince was getting down and dirty on your desk? Please tell me he left behind an ass print on the mahogany. Send me a pic of that, and I will become instantly social media famous. Pretty please, Chelsea-girl? Do a girl a solid.”

She jerked back from the desk in question and peered at it suspiciously. No…

“He wouldn’t have done her on my desk,” Chelsea said aloud, not sure if she was trying to convince herself or Kimmie. “And quit calling him that. He hates that stupid name. It is all Camden James’s fault. If he had fought harder against that asinine name the press gave him, they wouldn’t be naming all the rich guys after princes. Not to mention, Aiden isn’t Irish. At least, I don’t think he is.”

“The newspapers disagree,” Kimmie pointed out. “Is there an ass print? I know you looked.”

The door to Chelsea’s office opened slowly, and Lucy peered in. Chelsea sat up straighter and put the pink rock back in the bowl. “Can I help you, Lucy?”

“Aawww, she got busted talking about her boss getting laid on her desk,” Kimmie chirped in her ear. Chelsea covered the device with her hand, not that Lucy could hear her friend. But just in case.

“There is someone here to see Mr. Kelley…” Lucy began.

“You know as well as I do that he is booked solid for weeks, Lucy. Tell them to give us a call and schedule an appointment.” Really, she shouldn’t have to tell Lucy that, since Lucy had worked for the firm long enough to know how Mr. Kelley liked things. He didn’t do spontaneous pop-in visits and didn’t like anything he hadn’t planned for in advance. It was all part of his control-freak nature. Chelsea suspected it might go deeper than just him wanting to be in charge of everything—like anxiety disorder or something—but she’d long ago decided looking too closely into Aiden Kelley’s personality would only end badly.

“I tried that, Chelsea. She insists.” Lucy gnawed her adorable bottom lip, looking like a model off an ad for makeup.

“She?” Ah, so it was one of Aiden’s many paramours. Usually, a stern no had them returning home, tails tucked between their legs. Their apparently panty-less legs, a snide part of her brain snuck in. “Lucy, explain to whomever it is that—”

Someone pushed the door the rest of the way open, and a red-haired woman glared at Chelsea. “He can fit me in.”

Chelsea recognized her immediately, but then again, who wouldn’t recognize America’s Sweetheart? “Uh, Ms. Welles,” Chelsea began. “I apologize, but if you’ll give me a moment, I’m sure we can find a place in his schedule—”

“Look, maybe he won’t make time for me.” Margo Welles stepped aside, revealing a young girl. “But if not me, I’m sure he’ll make time for her.”

The girl had curly hair and sculpted cheekbones that assured she would grow into a great beauty. Aiden must have had the same cheekbones when he was a kid. God knew he was impossibly attractive now—

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