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

I made a gagging sound and scooped my clutch. “Not in this lifetime. As I said, don’t wait up for me to change my mind about us.”

He escorted me to a cab to take me to Madame Mayhem then waited with me when the driver went in circles for ten minutes trying to find us and apologized profusely, saying he’d just moved to Boston from New York.

The driver parked in front of us, and Devon did the duck-head-into-window shtick and told him to drive extra slow because his wife was pregnant and nauseous, which made me want to vomit from excitement and dread at the same time.

Devon erected back to his full height, rubbing my jaw tenderly. The gesture was so gentle, so soft, a shiver rolled along my spine, making my skin tingle. He leaned forward, and I caught a waft of his scent. Spicy and dusky. A scent I’d grown to chase each time he left my office or my bed.

I found myself admiring the planes of his face. My fingertips itched to touch him. Knowing I was carrying his DNA inside me gave me a thrill I’d never had in my thirty years of clubbing.

He tilted his face to one side, and for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame, I rose on my tiptoes, my mouth falling open. His body moved forward, engulfing me. My heart began to hammer.

It was happening.

We were breaking the rules.

When Devon was a few inches behind me, he reached his arm past my shoulder and opened the car’s door, stepping aside to give me some room to enter.

Holy embarrassing shitballs.

I almost devoured his face when all he wanted to do was help me into a taxi.

“Have a good day, Emmabelle.” He took another step back, looking casual and dry as fuck.

“Yeah!” My voice broke. Hello, thirteen-year-old-boy Belle. “You too.”

The entire taxi ride to work, I reminded myself that this was all my doing. I wanted to keep him away. Hanky Panky with an older man had its price tag, and I’d once paid for it dearly.

This is how it starts, I chided the seeds of hope that had taken root inside me. Sweet and unassuming. It’s all fun and games until he destroys your life.

But no one was going to destroy me anymore.

Then I remembered one of the quotes hanging on the wall in my apartment.

It’s okay.

You just forgot who you are.

Welcome back.





I arrived on English soil approximately twenty minutes after my father’s solicitor, Harry Tindall, returned from his exotic vacation.

I left Sweven with a heavy heart. Not because I was going to miss her (although, pathetically, I suspected that was going to be the case), but also because she seemed an expert at landing herself in hot water.

I took comfort in the fact I’d made some arrangements to ensure her safety. As well as one could, anyway.

Besides, I did not expect to be in England for more than a few hours.

The reading of the will took place in Tindall’s office in Knightsbridge. An official matter that should’ve been done the week my father had passed away. Better late than never, I suppose.

It surprised me that my mother and Cecilia, who were assumingly strapped for cash, did not seem hostile to the idea of waiting for Harry to return from his vacation. Then again, I did send them money and called Mum every other day to ensure she was doing all right.

I arrived at Harry’s office still wearing my work clothes. Ursula, Cece, and Drew were already there, seated in front of Tindall’s desk.

“He should only be a few minutes,” his secretary said. The Joanne-like woman in a full tweed suit brought refreshments inside. Drew attacked the pastry platter and fresh coffee before it was even set on the massive boardroom stand.

My mother hugged me tightly. “Good to see you, Devvie.”

“Same, Mummy.”

“How is that woman doing?”

That woman was Emmabelle Penrose, and as much as I resented her for not wanting to ride me like an unbroken horse, I couldn’t deny the delight I’d felt whenever we spent time together.

“Belle is doing quite well, thank you.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to be a father.” Cecilia flung her arms at me, going for a bear hug.

“I can. It is time I produce an heir. If Edwin’s death reminded us of something, it was that having someone to leave your legacy to is important.”

But that wasn’t the reason I was excited to become a father. I wanted all the things I saw my friends do with their kids. The T-ball games and ice-skating outings and sun-drenched summers on the Cape and stealing a quickie in the shower when the kids were watching Bluey in the other room.

I wanted domestic bliss. To pass down not only my fortune and title, but also my life experience, my morals, and my affections.

Mr. Tindall walked in looking tan and well-rested.

After a round of handshakes, half-arsed condolences, and a terribly boring monologue about Mr. Tindall’s island vacation, he finally opened the file containing my father’s will.

I took Mum’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. I found it clammy and cold.

Prefacing the reading of the will, Tindall cleared his throat, his chin flapping about. He was a very large man, with the tendency to turn fuchsia pink whenever he was rattled. Not what you’d call a grade-A looker.

“I would like to preface this by saying that this will is certainly unconventional, but it was written in accordance with Edwin’s desire to preserve the values and principles of the Whitehall family. That being said, I do hope that everyone will remain respectful and sensible, since, as you all know, it is irrevocable.”