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

His accent seemed to have a direct line to that place between my legs. He sounded like Benedict Cumberbatch reading an erotic audiobook.

“No.”

He studied me coolly, waiting. It annoyed me. How confident he was. How little he spoke, and how much he conveyed with the few words he used.

“What do you want? We’re complete strangers.” My tone was matter-of-fact.

“I reject that framing.” He slid a leaf of mint decorating his glass along his tongue. It disappeared in his mouth. “I know every inch and curve of your body.”

“You only know me biblically.”

“I’m fond of the Bible. It was quite a good read, don’t you reckon? The passages about Sodom and Gomorrah were rather action-packed.”

“I prefer fiction.”

“Most people do. In fiction, people get what they deserve.” He bit down on a smile. “Also, many would argue that the Bible is fiction.”

“Do you think people get what they deserve in real life?” I asked dejectedly, thinking about Doctor Bjorn’s diagnosis.

Devon rubbed a finger over his chin, frowning. “Not always.”

He seemed so seasoned, so much older than me at forty-one. I usually went for men who were the complete opposite of Devon. Young, reckless, and unsettled. Guys I knew who wouldn’t stick around and would not expect me to either.

Disposable.

Devon had the innate authority of a man who always had the upper hand, that royal male ethos.

“Why’d I even hook up with you?” I blurted out, knowing I was being bratty and taking my anger out on him and allowing myself to do so anyway.

Devon slid the pad of his finger over the rim of his glass. “Because I’m handsome, rich, divine in bed, and would never put a ring on your finger. Exactly what you’re after.”

It didn’t surprise me that Devon had figured I had commitment issues, considering how we had parted ways.

“Also: arrogant, much older, and the designated creepy family friend.” I made a cross with my fingers to keep him away, like he was a vampire.

Devon Whitehall was my brother-in-law Cillian’s best friend and lawyer. I’d seen him at family functions at least three times a year. Sometimes more.

“I’m no psychologist, but if it smells like daddy issues and walks like daddy issues …” An ice cube slipped between his full lips when he took a sip of his cognac, and he crushed it between his straight white teeth, a smile lingering on his face.

“I don’t have daddy issues,” I snapped.

“Sure. Neither do I. Now tell me why you were crying.”

“Why do you care?” I groaned.

“You’re Cillian’s sister-in-law. He’s like a brother to me.”

“If this is the part where you make us sound loosely related, I’m going to throw up in my mouth.”

“You’ll be doing that tonight, anyway, at the rate you’re drinking. Well?”

He wasn’t letting it go, was he?

“I’m not giving you an inch, Whitehall.”

“Why not? I gave you nine.”

Nine inches? Really? No wonder I still had vivid dreams about our hookups.

“For the last time, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Very well.” He leaned over the bar and plucked a cognac bottle and two clean glasses, slamming them between us. “I’ll find out myself.”





An hour earlier.



I was sitting in Whitehall & Baker LLP’s conference room, discussing my favorite subject in the entire world, provisions (other P’s, like pussy and poker, came at a close second), when my world exploded into miniscule particles.

“Mr. Whitehall? Sir?”

Joanne, my PA, burst through the door, her usually tamed gray curls wild, her reading glasses askew. I looked up from Cillian, Hunter, and the rest of the board of Royal Pipelines.

“As you can see, Jo, I’m in a meeting.” Americans were a notoriously uncouth and unnecessarily dramatic bunch, but this was unbecoming.

“It’s an emergency, sir.”

That, of course, was impossible. Emergencies belonged to other people, with things to lose. I had very little family and a handful of friends. Most of them were currently in the room with me, and if I were honest, I wouldn’t lose a limb to save one. Or even a night of full sleep, for that matter.

I lazed in my recliner, tossing my pen on the desk. “What’s the matter?”

Panting, Joanne put a hand to her chest, shaking her head.

“It’s a phone call,” she wheezed. “Personal.”

“Who from?”

“Your family.”

“Don’t have one. Try again.”

“Your mother begs to differ.”

Mum?

I spoke to my mother twice a week. Once on Saturday morning and then again on Tuesday. Our phone calls were planned by our respective PA’s, and we hardly steered away from that arrangement. Naturally, my interest was piqued.

Cillian and Hunter, who sat on either side of me, flashed me curious looks. I’d never whispered a peep to them about my family life. Partly because said family life was a massive shite show. Not that the Fitzpatricks were at risk of winning any Brady Bunch awards, but privacy was crucial to me.

“Tell her I’ll call her back.” I impaled Cillian with a glare that said, continue.