by Sam Crescent
“Not him maybe, but my father after I’ve pissed him off.”
“Do you have a copy of your grandfather’s will?” At that moment in time it was all she could think at.
“Nope sorry, it’s at the solicitors. But I know the gist of it.”
“All of it?”
Sutter frowned. “As of all of it I was told about, and there’s no reason for anything not to have been mentioned. How are we for a spot of breaking and entering? MacInnes and Thompson on City Road.”
“That’s two floors up, and I’m scared of heights. Hmm.” Enya thought rapidly. “They’re meticulous. I bet it’s on an electronic file somewhere. Never fear, I’ll locate it.”
Though if her activity were discovered, she’d be in jail or unemployed before the week was out. As a private investigator, she was supposed to work under the radar.
I’d better not be found out then.
Chapter Five
“It’s got to be here somewhere.” Enya ran her fingers through her hair until it stood up on end in untidy tufts. “Why can’t people be logical how they sort their files and so on? Wills A-Z. Simple, not by year or some obscure filing system known only to one person who probably left the firm a hundred years ago. Thanks.” She took the cup of coffee Sutter handed her.
At the rate the cup was drained, he thought she’d have severe caffeine withdrawal symptoms when it was all over. If it ever was.
“Now, how about…” Her voice trailed off. “Aha, there it is.” She shoved the empty cup in the region of his midriff. “Grab that and let me … oh yes … ohhh.” She cooed the word as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “You beauty, come to Enya. That’s it. Yee-bloody-haa. Oh my. Can I stroke you?”
He laughed. “Anytime. Er, any particular part of me you’d prefer?”
“What?”
He saw when her words and his registered. “Once this is over, we can negotiate.”
“Then let’s get it over pdq. I’m hard and wanting you.”
“Poor man. Hold on to your…” She slanted him a wicked grin. “Thought for now. I’m about to tell you something that will shove anything else out of your mind, except this. Look.”
He glanced at the screen. And blinked. “What? It’s just as I said. My esteemed father was wild, wicked, and hedonistic. My grandfather was pleased I hadn’t followed in his footsteps and … why are you laughing?”
Enya spluttered. “Not at all?’
“No. Oh, I sowed a few wild oats but not as many as people think. I saw how my father’s train crash of a life affected other people and vowed I wouldn’t be like that. I knuckled down, got a first at uni and made sure I would be a worthy successor to take over the firm. I just had to hope and pray there would be a firm to take over. Thanks to Grandpa there was. With I must add no thanks to my father. I’ve just sorted that out. Which could be a reason for all this.” Sutter scowled. “Why us as in you and me I wonder?”
Enya bit her lip and shrugged. “I’m fresh out of ideas, except somehow it’s a way to ensure I don’t marry. But to be honest, I still don’t get it all. I’ve never been in love,” She grinned. “Just lust. So it’s not likely I’d just up and marry. Over to you.”
He thought rapidly as he looked at the woman next to him.
Dare he tell her that a severe case of lust could easily turn into something more? That he had no idea what love was, but was happy to discover it? And that he didn’t want her to walk away when they had solved their dilemma—or not.
“So, let’s get this straight,” Sutter said. “You need to marry before you hit thirty in, what, two months?”
Enya nodded.
“And I can do what the hell I want.”
“Yes, So? I still can’t see why our parents thought a false announcement of an engagement would work in their favor.”
“I think you were on the right lines earlier.” Sutter stood up and lifted Enya into his arms. “Let’s discuss this somewhere comfier.”
She sniggered. “If we go where I think you want to go, there won’t be much discussion going on. Not about this anyway.”
Sutter sighed. “Cruel woman.”
“Nope, all things come,” she winked. “To those who hold on. Tell me what you want to do.”
He grinned, and she hit him on the shoulder. “Apart from that.”
Sutter put aside ideas of discussing it in bed, and sat on the settee instead. “Do you hate me?”
“Eh? No, why should I? I can’t say I’m keen on your father—or mine for that matter, but so far, I lo—like what I’ve seen and found out about you. I did a bit of sleuthing before I set off. Just for safety’s sake you know.” She let out a yelp. “Need to send a text. To my mate who I promised I’d let know everything was okay. I’ve five minutes before she calls the police.” She scrambled off his lap dashed for her phone and tapped out a few words. “Okay, I’ve ignored the millions of other messages for now.”
“Sensible. Well, I’m with you on fathers and on us. I have a plan. Short term hopefully morphing into long term.” Sutter took a deep breath. “Like I said, I’ve never met love, would maybe not know it if it hit me in the face. But, I like you, enjoy being with you, and we are rather good together. Not just in solving problems. But…” He raised one eyebrow. “Making love.”
Enya inclined her head. “I concur.”
“Con … formal.”
“You sounded as if you were heading up a board meeting,” she said. “And I was about to be given a rocket … or fired.”
Shit. “Sorry. Okay then, how about we confound them? Ignore all the are you, aren’t you stuff except for ‘no comment’. Marry somewhere quiet. See how things go. Take it steady, work on finding out if those hot hits and stabs of arousal are more than lust. Give ourselves time to discover if we are the perfect pair or not.”
He didn’t mention the fact that all the speculation about what the fuck was going on could put several thousands of jobs in jeopardy. That wouldn’t be her fault, but his father’s. Although others might not believe anyone could be so vindictive, Sutter was under no illusions. His parent was definitely the sort to cut off his nose to spite his face. However, it had to be a sensible decision, not swayed by emotion.
Or not a lot anyway.
“What about work? As in mine. I can’t tell you what I do on nights, but I could transfer to days. My hobby I could scale down.”
“You never did say what it was apart from the fact it involved naked men.” And that irked him. “Or what else you do.”
“I do investigative work.”
“Jamesina Bond?”
She giggled. “More like Jessica Fletcher or Hart to Hart. When I was at uni, a friend found herself in a bit of bother, and some asshole tried to take advantage of it. I discovered I had a … knack of finding out facts, and not just from discovering people’s terrible passwords. I like research. Then when I left uni, I got a job as a TV researcher’s assistant. Where I got more and more involved with how to discover things people might prefer you didn’t know about them. When they wanted me to move south, I decided to try a year as an investigator. And here we are. Plus, when I have time, I teach life classes. Or I did. Specifically, how to draw a naked man. For a while as part of a … a job for a client you could say, I was employed at the local art college. I enjoyed it, so carried on, as a hobby. You could pose for me.”
Sutter struck a pose. “Only for you.”
Enya grinned, then bit her lip. “I’ll hold you to that, later.” He could imagine the cogs whirring.
“So, what do you think about my idea?”
“I think it could work,” she said slowly. “I don’t see why our lives should be manipulated by greed. Other people’s greed. What I’ll get is probably negligible compared to yours, but it is mine. My father has had more than his fair share.”
Sutter waited.
“How will it affect you though?” Enya asked as she wriggled on his lap and his cock groaned in impatient agony. “Down, boy.”
/> “It would help to show I am not my father I guess, and mean it would perhaps make extra investment in the company my parent has run into the ground be easier to get and be more forthcoming. However, that’s immaterial. Whatever, I’d have room to maneuver, and,” he hesitated. “Probably save a lot of jobs when I restructure. But that shouldn’t color your view.”
“Fair enough. I won’t let it. Next question, how long do we try this marriage for?”
“At least a year. Anything else?”
“If after a year we agree it’s not working and one of us wants out, that’s it, no strings no arguments?”
It sounded oh so businesslike. However, he reminded himself it was business … wasn’t it? “You’ve got a deal. Shall we cement it?”
Enya put her hand between them and stroked his cock. “Let’s.”
Epilogue
One year later
“Happy Anniversary, love.” Sutter entered their bedroom in the Scottish castle they both now called home, wearing a large grin, nothing else, and carrying a bottle of champagne.
Enya struggled up on her elbows and blew her hair out of her eyes. “And to you. Are we doing some more celebrating?”
“Well, mind-blowing sex was a good start, but I’ve something important to ask you.”
Her heart missed a beat. He appeared so serious. Surely, they were happy? No need for the big, ‘do I stay or do I go now,’ stuff? They’d grown closer over the months, discovered they both thought they were made for each other. Both proffered their love to the other. She couldn’t imagine not being there, and being his.
“Go on.” Her voice wobbled, and she bit her lip. He grinned and went down on one knee. His robe opened, and she forced herself not to take a peek. The moment was too important.
“Enya, my love. Will you marry me?”
“Sutter, we are married.”
“But this time it would be for real. No town hall, with baying reporters and parents trying to sabotage it all, but a proper just you, me, plight our troth in front of our witnesses, somewhere special.”
Her heart melted. “It would be an honor. When?”
He grinned. “Whenever you want. I’d say about three hours? On the beach. Here.”
She laughed and threw her arms round him. “Yes, please.”
“So let’s celebrate and then get ready. We’ve a wedding to go to.”
The End
Find more books from author Raven McAllan:
www.evernightpublishing.com/raven-mcallan
VIOLET’S VENGEANCE
Tesla Storm
Copyright © 2020
Chapter One
“The Devil’s Asshole” is about as pleasant as the unofficial nickname suggests; it’s an undersized vintage elevator walled with billowy red velvet and loud fleur-de-lis patterned carpet. What’s more is the temperature. No matter how many bustling paralegals get on or off the damn thing, it remains a sweaty eighty-something degrees, which convinces most people not to use it. It is for precisely this reason that I board the ancient, tacky beast on a cool October morning on my way to floor twelve in the Turner and Blake law firm.
Shifting my weight from one heel to the other, I adjust the hem of my black dress, trying to keep it from pasting to my sticky thighs. As it is, the white collar is nearly soaked, and it isn’t even nine AM. I’m not sure the solitude is worth the loss in fluids. Unexpectedly, the snapshot of the worst parts of the 70s grinds to an audible halt, and the double doors drag open slowly to admit another occupant.
On the other side of the door is one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen. He tosses a head of black curls and steps onto the black and white carpet, flashing an arrogant half smile full of perfect white teeth.
“Room for one more?” he asks without waiting for a response. I blink, feeling utterly at a loss. Now I’m drenched in sweat, and I have to make small talk with an uncomfortably good-looking man. What a morning.
“Of course,” I mumble, sneaking a look at the man in the other corner of the hotbox of an elevator. He emanates effortless confidence. Under dark lashes, blue eyes are trained on the screen of his cell, completely oblivious to me. He’s wearing street clothes, and while that isn’t completely unheard of at a corporate law firm, I can’t imagine any way some random client found the back elevator. That is one sexy paralegal, and I can’t believe I’ve never noticed him before.
“I always ride this one,” Sexy Paralegal says without looking up. “Usually I get it to myself.”
“Me too.” I exhale a soft laugh. “And it beats getting stuck on the new elevator with Paul Turner. It’s like being trapped in a shoebox with the crypt keeper.”
I shudder. Paul Turner—one half of the Turner and Blake law firm, and approximately 250 years old—is as incapable of pressing the button for his floor as he is of dying. A ride on the elevator with him turns into a maddening twenty-minute ordeal of having to watch him squint at the buttons, despite the fact that they’re in ascending numerical order, until he finds the right one and jabs it with a gnarled, wrinkly finger.
Sexy Paralegal tries to restrain a snort of laughter unsuccessfully, and rests his head back on the soft, red wall. “And Blake?” he asks casually.
“Blake.” I smirk. “I have never met him, but I don’t have to. Blake is an overgrown daddy’s boy who is as spoiled as Turner is old.”
He cocks an eyebrow as the elevator dings, announcing our arrival on floor nine. As the double doors grind open, they reveal a twenty-something intern, two coffees in hand, wearing a poorly disguised frantic expression.
“Mr. Blake!” The intern thrusts the coffee at Sexy Paralegal, and the gears in my mind start to turn as I stare at the paper cup in horror.
“One minute, Sean.” With a crooked grin and narrowed eyes, Sawyer Blake plants his palm above my right shoulder on the velvet wall and cranes his neck to bring himself closer to eye level with me. I can smell him—a combination of clary sage and mahogany. It’s intoxicating. “Tell me again how I’m a daddy’s boy,” he whispers, blue eyes shining. “I think I kind of liked it.”
Then he is gone, stepping off the elevator and chuckling under his breath, and I am left, mouth open and cheeks aflame.
****
“Yes,” I hiss into the receiver, “I’m sure it was him.”
Hannah gasps on the other end of the line, and I massage my temple with one index finger. While I’m not one for talking on the phone at work, I figure someone deserves to bear witness to my shame other than Sean the Coffeeboy from floor nine, and it might as well be Hannah the secretary.
“You thought he was a paralegal?”
“He was dressed like—look, it doesn’t matter. You don’t think he’ll fire me, right? I mean, this isn’t exactly my dream job, but if I want to actually get a job at a real firm, I need—”
“Did you tell him your name?” she interrupts.
“No.”
“Then he can’t fire you,” she reasons. “He doesn’t even know who you are.”
Unexpectedly, I feel a stab of resentment. Of course he doesn’t know who I am. Anyone with as much money as Sawyer Blake can’t have much of a memory when it comes to people like Sean the Coffeeboy and me. Even if he did, I never said my name. He’s probably already forgotten everything else I did say. Right?
“So,” Hannah says, and I hear her switch ears. I can practically see her twisting the phone cord around her finger. “How are things with Jason?”
Jesus Christ.
I bite down on my lip, trying not to sigh into the phone. A little backstory: Hannah and I met when she transferred a phone call from my boyfriend to my office and “accidentally” didn’t disconnect her end of the line before he leapt into a rant about how he couldn’t believe I left for work without giving him his “morning kiss”. As ridiculous as it sounds, it was actually a nasty fight, and Hannah overheard the whole thing, including my embarrassing bawling at the end of the call. The next morning, she brought me flowers and confessed to
hearing the whole thing. Apparently, she hasn’t forgotten.
“They’re better,” I manage. And things are better. If he’s difficult sometimes, that’s only because his job is so stressful. We just handle stress differently.
“He showed up here the other day, Violet,” she says, unconvinced. “I don’t know…”
“He was just checking up on me.” I hear my voice pitch up, and clench my jaw in embarrassment.
“Checking up on what? He knows where you work. It was stalker-y.”
I’m silent for a second. Even I have to admit the impromptu visit was weird. He showed up on my lunch hour, insisted we eat together, and glared down every male person we came across. After the fact, he told me he thought I should look for a new job.
“I applied for a new job,” I tell Hannah, desperate to change the subject. “It’s a domestic abuse firm, which means a lot of pro bono work, but that’s still better than corporate law. And I’m going to work on studying for the LSATs.”
Hannah laughs. “Then I guess you don’t have to worry about getting fired by sexy-ass Sawyer Blake.”
“Guess not.” I sigh. “Hannah, I have to actually get some work done. I’ll see you at lunch.”
Just as I click the phone into its cradle, a bright tone indicating a new email draws my attention to the screen of my computer monitor.
Violet,
I’d like that honesty and cutting wit on the Leighton case.
Meeting at 11 AM, conference room B, floor 12.
-S.B.
My mouth goes dry. There is only one person by those initials who has the power to assign me to a case.
My big mouth didn’t get me fired—it got me promoted.
Chapter Two
Stephen James Leighton III looks exactly the way you’d expect someone who can afford Turner and Blake representation to look: rich as hell. He sits across the table, reclined in the plush, black rolling chair for clients. He wears a constant shadow of a smirk, and his blond hair is so thick and well-styled that it looks fake, like the plastic topping on a Ken-doll head. Only when I sit down beside him do I see the faint crows’ feet in the corners of his eyes, little cracks in a perfect facade.
