The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

I felt like a helicopter mother trying to convince an AP teacher why her Mary-Sue should get the scholar award this year. My complete transformation, from a man of leisure and pragmatist to this hysterical, illogical, blubbering mess, was not lost on me.

The young driver settled in the driver’s seat of the Rolls Royce Phantom. Mum loved to parade it around whenever she thought the paparazzi were nearby. I wagered she thought the paparazzi were definitely looking for me. She had no idea I’d come here to verbally bash her back and forth on the floor a-la Hulk and deliver some very bad news to her.

She thought I’d arrive bearing an engagement announcement.

“He was exactly where he was supposed to be,” Sam countered efficiently. “In Madame Mayhem, the only jurisdiction he was allowed to cover under your contract. Did you want him to stalk her?”

Yes.

“No,” I scoffed, flicking invisible dirt from under my fingernail. The driver crawled from Heathrow Airport into the unbearable London traffic. I loved my capital city, but it had to be said—everything west of Hammersmith should’ve been trimmed away from London limits and duly given to Slough as a gift.

“But he was conveniently absent each time she got into trouble.”

“He was doing the fucking filing to find excuses to be near her! This is a highly trained former CIA agent.” Sam’s fist crashed into an object on the other end of the line, shattering it to pieces.

I pulled my phone away from my ear and scowled at it. I had recently (and by recently, I mean in the past ten minutes) decided I was no longer a smoker. There was simply no justification to engage in such a harmful habit. My unborn child deserved more than an increased chance at developing asthma and a house that smelled like a strip club.

“At any rate,” I said coolly, “I want to know where she is right now. What do your men have for me? Make it good.”

“She’s at her parents’.”

“And …?”

“And she’s safe.”

“She hates her dad,” I mumbled, a fact that wasn’t intended for his ears. I was worried. Not about Belle being unhappy with the situation—the little wench deserved a bit of trouble after what she’d put me through—but for her father’s safety.

“Daddy issues, huh?” Sam chuckled darkly. “Couldn’t have seen that from miles away.”

“Bugger off.”

“Not sure what it means, but right back at you, mate,” he volleyed with an unfortunate, yet bizarrely accurate Australian accent.

“Wrong nationality, wanker. Make sure she doesn’t leave their sight this time,” I warned. “Heads will roll if they lose her again.”

“Whose heads?”

“Yours, for starters.”

“Is that a threat?” he asked.

“No,” I said calmly. “It’s a promise. Boston may fear you, Brennan, but I don’t. Keep my missus safe or bear my wrath.”

There was a beat of silence, in which I supposed Sam considered whether he wanted to go to war or simply bow out of the argument.

“Look, she doesn’t seem to be venturing outside their house very often,” he said finally. “I think having people on the house at this point is excessive. Almost counterproductive. Because as it stands only a handful of people know where she is. If there’s surveillance on her ass, it may draw more attention.”

This surprised me. Belle was the kind of thrill-seeking woman to arrange a public orgy in the Vatican. And I couldn’t imagine her parents’ house offered many attractions. Nonetheless, it was good news.

I was going to deal with her as soon as I got back to Boston, which should be within the next twenty-four hours.

“Fine. No surveillance.”

“Hallelujah.”

“It was terrible doing business with you.”

He hung up on my arse. Wanker.

I sat back in the leather seat and drummed my knee, taking London in as it zipped past my window. The congenital grayness, the oldness of a city which had braved wars, plagues, fires, terrorism, and even Boris Johnson as mayor (this is not a political statement; I simply found the man entirely too eccentric to be anything other than a party clown).

I thought about how I’d left Louisa in Boston. Her tear-clogged throat, red eyes, and wilted posture. How I was never going to see her again, apologize to her again, explain myself again—and how I was completely fine with no longer hating myself for a decision I’d made when I was eighteen.

I wasn’t fair to her.

But then my father wasn’t fair to me.

I’d spent my entire adult life trying to repent for what I did to her by depriving myself of things. It was time to let go.

Show me a person with no wrongdoing in their past and I’ll show you a liar.

“Sir …” The young man behind the wheel caught my eye through the rearview mirror.

I turned my face to him, arching a brow.

“May I ask you something?”

He had an old-school, cockney accent. The kind I’d only heard in movies.

“Go ahead.”

“How’s Boston in comparison to home?”

I thought about the weather—better.

The underground system—the T wasn’t even half as reliable as the tube.

The people—both were brash and held high, no-bullshit standards.