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

“And that child would be a marquess?” She chewed on a lock of her yellow hair, more amused than contemplative.

“Or a marchioness.”

“Would they be invited to royal functions in England? A baby christening? Would I have to wear silly hats and curtsy?”

“Perhaps, if you fancy punishing yourself by RSVPing.”

“I don’t own any funny hats.” She scrunched her nose.

“I’d gift you one if we reproduce,” I said roughly, growing more and more enamored with the idea each passing second. She was perfect. And by perfect, I meant a mess. No one would touch me with a ten-foot pole if I got her pregnant. Least of all Louisa Butchart. “Look, we’ve already had sex, so we know the conception part would be dynamite. I’m rich, local, and of good health and IQ. I would pay child support, put you in a nice place, and help raise the child. We could go the joint custody route, or you could let me have visitation over the weekends and holidays. Either way, I’d insist on spending regular time with the babe, since I’d leave it an astronomical inheritance and royal title.”

She slanted her head to the side, studying me as though I was the one being unreasonable between us two.

“Think about it. That way you get all the things you need—more than a sperm donor, a father to the child, and cash for your trouble—without all the things you don’t want, namely a husband, someone to tie you down, and a person to answer to.”

“Are you insane?” she rubbed her forehead. I gave it some genuine thought, in case we’d skipped into the DNA ancestry part without my notice.

“It’s a possibility, but mustn’t be hereditary.”

“I can’t do this with you!” She flung her arms skyward.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I’m not a gold digger.”

“You’re not,” I agreed as the bartender slid a plate with a cheeseburger and crisps Belle’s way. “Which is a shame. Gold diggers are underrated. They’re go-getters with a plan.”

“Our families would go nuts,” she said around a healthy bite full of relish, beef, and ketchup, licking her fingers. There was nothing sexier than Belle Penrose enjoying meat. Other than, perhaps, Belle Penrose enjoying my meat.

It was going to be a pleasure to put a baby inside this woman.

“Not sure about yours, but mine is already not exactly sane,” I said impassively, removing lint from my peacoat. “Jokes aside, I’m in my early forties. You’re in your thirties. We’re both the most independently accomplished individuals out of our group of friends. Everyone else around us has inherited or married into their positions. No one could look down on this arrangement.”

“I’d look down on it.” Belle popped a crisp into her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. “It’d complicate things for me. A sperm donor would have no claim over my child. I wouldn’t have to ask them permission to do anything. What school to send them to, how to raise them, how to dress them. The control would be all mine. I don’t like relinquishing power.”

“Sweets.” I pulled out a rollie from the tin box in my pocket and pushed it between my lips, lighting it up. “Very little in your life is in your power. Pretending otherwise sets yourself up for heartbreak. If you truly don’t want to play by mortals’ rules, tie your destiny to mine.”

“You’re not supposed to smoke in here, ass face.” She dropped the half-eaten burger on her plate, turning to watch the bartender intently to see what he’d do.

“Reality dictates otherwise.” I could take a shite right there on the bar and no one would bat an eyelash. I turned to look at the bartender, puffing a plume of smoke directly in his face.

“Isn’t that right, Brian?” I hissed.

“Ay, my lord, and it’s Ryland.” He bowed his head.

Belle cocked her head, regarding me skeptically. “What’s the trick here?”

“There’s no trick. Respect is given to those born into it.”

“Is this your selling point, Einstein? Because no part of me wants a spawn as condescending and spoiled as you.”

Smirking cordially—we both saw past this rubbish—I said, “Name your price.”

“Stop calling her ‘it’ for starters.”

“How do you know you’d be having a girl?” I was highly amused. I did not think of Emmabelle as an emotional, dream-filled female. You live, you learn.

“I just do.”

“Well?” I asked curtly. “Are we going to make the most genetically gifted person on planet Earth or what?”

Belle stood up, grabbed her secondhand designer bag, and flipped me the bird. “Or what. Find another woman to be your womb for hire. I’m going out to drink until this conversation erases itself from my conscience. No way it deserves any room in my gray matter.”

She departed, leaving me with the bill, an idea I was becoming enamored with, and a cell phone with a dozen missed calls from England and one frustrated Allison Kosinki who’d been waiting outside my apartment for the better half of the evening in high heels, a coat, and nothing else … waiting to get fucked.

Bugger.





Fourteen Years Old.



First crush.

That’s what they call it.