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

The man smiled an awful, rotten smile. It wasn’t that his teeth were bad. On the contrary, they were big, white, and shiny, like he’d recently had dental work. It was what was behind him that made me uneasy.

“I have a message to deliver to you.”

“If it’s from Satan, tell him to come to me personally if he’s got the balls,” I spat out, yanking my arm away with force. His hand dropped, and I used every ounce of my self-control not to stick the lemon knife in it.

“I suggest you listen carefully, Emmabelle, unless you want very bad things to happen to you.”

“Says who?” I chuckled.

“If you don’t—”

Just as he began to speak, a tall, elegant form materialized from the shadows of the club, tossing the man away like he weighed no more than a straw. My scarred offender collapsed on the floor. Devon appeared in my line of vision, clad in a full-blown designer tux, his hair gelled back, his cheekbones as sharp as blades. He stepped onto the man—deliberately—scowling down at his loafers like he needed to clean dirt off of them.

“I was in the middle of something.” I flashed him my teeth.

“Allow me not to sympathize.”

“Are you capable of sympathy?”

“Generally? Yes. With women who leave me waiting? Not so much.”

Devon leaned over the bar in one swift movement and hurled me across his shoulder, turning away and marching toward the entrance doors. I looked up, catching Ross’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, frozen with a bottle of beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other.

“Should I call security? The police? Sam Brennan?” Ross crowed from the depths of the bar, over the music. Devon didn’t slow down.

“No, it’s okay, I’ll kill him myself. But get this creeper’s details.” I was about to point at Scarface where I last saw him on the floor, only to find him gone.

I didn’t fight Devon. Being carried after working on one’s feet for six hours straight wasn’t the worst punishment in the world. Instead, I launched a verbal attack on him. “Why are you dressed up like a fancy waiter?”

“It’s called a suit. It’s an appropriate form of dress. Though, I gather the men you enjoy often sport orange jumpsuits.”

“Who told you? Persy?” I shrieked. “I only slept with one ex-con. And it was for a Ponzi scheme. It’s pretty much like screwing a politician.”

“I waited for you,” he said flatly, his voice turning icy.

“Why?” I huffed, resisting the urge to pinch his butt. “I already told you I’m not going to the opera.”

“No, you did not,” he said dryly, his fingers curling deeper to the curve of my ass. “My champagne and tickets arrived safe and sound, and since I hadn’t heard back from you, I assumed the plan was to meet tonight.”

That was impossible. I sent him a message.

Oh. Oh. The message must’ve not gone through. My cellular company had very poor reception. Especially when I was in the underground bunker called my office.

“I sent you a message. It didn’t go through. You think this whole alpha-male charade turns me on or something?” I let out a snort. Because, let me tell you, it absolutely did. Not that I would ever admit it out loud. But holy hell. It had been a hot minute since I’d been handled with such brash confidence.

“Not all of us engage in theatrics to survive, my dear Emmabelle. What you think of me is absolutely none of my business.” Devon burst out of my club into the cool, crisp night, striding toward his car. “You say you want a child, but you also go prancing around, drinking and working yourself to the bone. One of us knows how to get you pregnant, and I’m afraid that person is not you.”

The nerve of this asshole. He was mansplaining sex to me. I could stab him if I wasn’t, indeed, a little drunk and a lot exhausted from the day’s work.

Devon threw open the passenger door to his dark green Bentley, tucking me inside and buckling me up. “Now tell me who that man was. The one who held your arm.”

He shut the door and rounded the car before I could answer then slipped beside me. A waft of his irresistible, rich scent drifted into me.

“I have no idea. I was about to find out when you thundered in, giving me your best Straight Outta’ Savior Complex impression.”

“Is it an ordinary occurrence? Men grabbing you at work?” He started the car, zipping through the ice-crusted streets toward my apartment. My heart had no business skipping a beat because he remembered my address. What was happening in my chest better be a goddamn heart murmur.

“What do you think?” I sassed.

“I think certain men feel they can touch you because of your line of work,” he answered honestly.

It happened often, actually. Especially when I danced on the bar or got onstage with my dancers. But I knew how to set boundaries and put people in their place.

“It’s true.” I grinned. “I constantly need to fight men off. How do you think I developed these babies?” I kissed my biceps.

When he said nothing, I opened his glove compartment and began sifting through his shit. I often did things like that. Goaded people into a reaction. You could learn a lot about humans by the way they carried themselves when angry. I found a small engraved fossil and pulled it out.