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

“Is that all these letters are?” I pressed. “Hate mail?”

“Every single one of them.” She picked up another batch, sliding one of the papers from an envelope. She cleared her throat theatrically and began reading:

“Dear Ms. Penrose,

My name is Howard Garrett, and I’m a sixty-two-year-old mechanic from Telegraph Hill. I am writing to you today in hopes you would change your ways and see the light, as I find you solely responsible for the corruption and veenality—he spelled venality wrong—of our youth.

My granddaughter visited your establishment the other day after seeing an ad with naked women about it in a local magazine. Three days later, she arrived at my house to inform me that she was now gay. A coincidence? I don’t think so. Queerness is, in case you are unaware, an act of war against God … should I continue…” she perched her chin on her knuckles, a faux-angelic look on her face “…or did your brain short-circuit?”

“He sounds like he’s from the Stone Age.”

“Maybe you’re neighbors,” she smirked.

“There are dozens of letters here. Are all of them from religious old sods complaining about sex?” I pressed.

Belle was a basket full of complications. Her job, her personality, her attitude. And yet I couldn’t find it in me to back out of our arrangement.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Belle scowled, plucking the cigarette from between my fingers and giving it a puff and returning it back to me. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“Being taken care of is not a sin.”

“I know.” She grinned devilishly at me with a wink. “If it was, I would be all over it.”

“Did you know there’s a bird called a shoebill that looks uncannily like Severus Snape?”

“Did you know Chinese water deer look like Bambi after he got himself a brand-new moustache?” She grinned back at me, and just like that, the tension between us was over.

Belle’s phone began dancing on the desk, flashing green with an incoming call. She craned her neck to see the name on the screen, let out a sigh, and picked it up. “Hey.”

She hopped down from the desk and scampered as far away from me as possible in the tiny office. I could tell she didn’t want me to stay during this conversation, which naturally made me find an even more comfortable spot so I could listen carefully.

“Yes. I’m doing good, thank you. And yourself?” she asked curtly.

I was surprised with how pliant and polite she sounded. How completely not herself. There was no hint of the fireball who teased me a second ago.

She stopped in front of a batch of pictures pinned to a corkboard by her window, fingering the colorful pins absently. It looked to be her family members, though I couldn’t see from afar.

“Now’s a good time. Why? Did something happen?” she asked.

There was a pause while she listened to the person on the other line then answered with an uncomfortable laugh. “Yes, well, tell her I accept her invitation. What wine should I bring?”

Pause.

“Yes, I’m sure everything is fine. I’m just at work.”

Pause.

“Busy.”

Pause.

“I bought you all the fishing supplies. No, you don’t have to pay me back. We’re family. I’ll bring them when I come.”

Something about her exchange with the mysterious person made my blood turn into ice. She sounded foreign, far away. She shed her personality like a snake before picking up the call.

She finally hung up, rearranging her hair distractedly.

“Who was that?”

“My dad.” She made her way to the door, flinging it open. She tilted her head in its direction. “Out.”

“Are your parents still together?” I asked, in no hurry to vacate my spot behind her desk. I’d met them at a few family functions, such as Cillian and Persy’s wedding and the christenings of their sons, but I never paid close attention to either one of them. They were, indeed, as dull as their daughter was extraordinary.

“Happily.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “But that’s another story, to be told to someone I’m actually, you know, friends with. We’re done now, Devon. Get out.”

I took my sweet time standing up just to spite her, asking myself for the millionth time why I was doing this. Yes, she was stunning, intelligent, and strong-willed. But she was also utterly horrible to me and any other man I’d ever come across. There was no thawing her. Even when we were physically together, she was so far away she might as well have been on the moon.

“His marriage might be happy, but his daughter isn’t whenever he calls her,” I said, strolling toward the door.

Belle pounced over to the threshold, blocking my way out. A venomous, pained smile touched her lips.

“Aw, Devvie. I forgot to say no family talk.”

Grinning—she really shouldn’t have pushed me—I turned around and walked over to the pinboard, squinting to take a better look at it. Digging into people’s Achilles heels until they screamed the truth was my specialty. I didn’t want to do that to her—she was not a client—but Belle was also a woman who knew how to push all my buttons. And there weren’t many.

My suspicion proved to be right.

Emmabelle had pictures of all of her family members: her mother, her sister, her nephews, and even some photos of that redheaded banshee she called a friend—Sailor.