by Lola Darling
I put the cookie sheet down with a clatter. “Chloe,” I manage to answer, and pull off the oven mitt.
Jase whistles. “I take it back. Who’s the lucky man?”
I look down. Fifteen carats wink back at me, a massive pear-shaped diamond surrounded by a dozen smaller stones. I told my fiancé I wasn’t comfortable wearing anything so flashy—or valuable—but he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
“His name’s Max,” I say, relieved. “Maxwell Mainwaring.”
Jase smirks. “Well, that explains it.”
I blush. The Mainwaring’s are one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Boston. They have museum rooms and hospital wings named after them, and as the heir to the fortune, Max gets written up in the society pages all the time. Of course, I didn’t know any of that when we first met. It wasn’t until the third date, when he picked me up in a vintage Aston Martin and took me out for a picnic on his private yacht that I realized I was in way over my head. It’s been a whirlwind from day one; he proposed on our three-month anniversary, and even looking at his ring on my finger, it doesn’t really feel real.
“When’s the big day?” Jase asks. He grabs a cookie and blows on it to cool.
“Not until next year,” I reply. “We just got engaged, and there’s a lot to plan.”
“Big society to-do, huh?”
I nod, my heart sinking just at the thought. “I wish we could just elope,” I find myself confiding. “But it’s important to his family. They have traditions.”
“Like the rock,” Jase says. I look up, surprised.
“How did you know?”
He chuckles. “Simple, sweetheart, it’s not your style.” Jase strolls closer, “You’re not flashy or hungry for attention. You’re simple. Elegant. Beautiful.”
He fixes those blue eyes on me, and suddenly, I feel my heart beating faster.
I quickly back away. “Can I show you the apartment?” I blurt, my voice sounding weirdly high-pitched.
Jase smiles, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Why not?”
“It’s a converted warehouse space, lots of light, great open space …” I babble my way through the listing, showing him around. And even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I can’t help feeling guilty every time I register how his vintage T-shirt pulls across the thick curve of his biceps … or how the muscles in his back ripple under the thin fabric when he reaches up to test the window frame.
His body is incredible, coiled with raw animal power. I wonder how it would feel, pressing me into the mattress …
Hold it right there. What are you doing, drooling over a complete stranger? You’re engaged to the man of your dreams!
I push the thought away and try to focus on the job right in front of me. We finish the circuit of the main floor and wind up by the front door again. “Have you been apartment-hunting for long?” I do my best to sound professional—and not like I’ve been scoping out his ass.
Jase shrugs. “Off and on. I get bored, stuck in one place for too long. I like to keep things interesting.”
“And what are you really looking for?” I ask.
“Well,” Jase smirks. “You already know I like sexy brunettes who bake.”
I flush. “I meant the apartment.”
He chuckles. “I know you did, sweetheart.”
For once in my life, I wish Marcie would interrupt, but she’s latched onto a wealthy-looking trust-fund kid with his parents in tow, and I know she’s already counting her commission.
“Are you going to take me to bed?”
My head snaps back around. Jase is waiting. “The bedroom,” he says, looking amused. “Is it up those stairs?”
“Oh. Yes.” I look over. The master suite is set back on a mezzanine level, away from the main space. Totally private. “You should go ahead and look around yourself,” I tell him briskly. “I need to stay here to greet clients.”
He looks surprised. “You’re not going to come sell me on the place?”
“Nope.” I shrug. “Either you like it or you don’t.”
He laughs. “Blunt. I like it. And I agree,” he adds. “No point messing around when I already know what I want. It’s just a shame she’s off the market.”
He looks at me again, the kind of smirking, sexy stare that makes it clear what he’s talking about—and exactly what he’d do to me if he had the chance.
I flush. “Thanks for coming out,” I say. “Marcie’s details are on the brochure, you should call her if you have any questions.”
“What about your number?” he asks, teasing.
I cross my arms. “You won’t be needing it.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Jase leans in, close enough for me to feel his breath, hot on my cheek. “Maybe I like getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar.”
Before I can react, his hand slides over my hip—and reaches to grab another cookie from the plate. He steps back, gives me a wink, and then he’s gone, leaving me flushed and my pulse racing there beside the door.
Bad Chloe. Bad, bad girl.
3
Jase
Some people guard their secrets, but Chloe Archer is an open book. Twenty minutes with that girl tells me everything I need to know:
She’s gorgeous, sexy, and damn, does she need a good fuck.
It was a surprise to walk through the door and find such an irresistible package. Teasing brown eyes, a sweet mouth made to suck cock, and legs that go to heaven and back. I could tell by the way she was watching me she was just picturing what I could do with those slim thighs spread wide open—or better yet, wrapped around my shoulders as I show her just how a real man likes to eat pussy.
All. Day. Long.
So why am I heading back to my office alone, without so much as her phone number? Any other girl would have fallen over herself to press her digits into my palm—her body, too. Hell, most women would have found us an empty storage closet and gone at it right there, not caring if anyone walked in and saw them coming their sweet brains out.
And fuck that ring on her finger, too. In my long, hard experience, that doesn’t make a blind bit of difference—especially when they’re looking at me like a prime cut of steak when they’ve been on a diet too long.
Except Chloe.
I was surprised, I haven’t had a woman shut me down like that since, well, never. No flirting, no hiding the ring, either. And sure, she looked, but everything about her screamed “hands off.”
So is she really in love with this Max guy?
Nah. More likely she’s got her eye on the prize, and those fifteen carats on her finger are just the beginning. The minute there’s a gold band joining it, she’s got her hooks into a slice of the Mainwaring fortune worth millions. No wonder she thinks a quick fuck isn’t worth the price.
She just doesn’t know yet: with me, it would be.
Back at my office, I’ve barely gotten the door unlocked before the girls from next door appear in the hallway. “Hi Jase,” they chorus, looking hot and sweaty in tiny Lycra booty shorts.
Yeah, setting up shop next door to a yoga studio has its perks.
“Molly, Jules, how’s it going, ladies?”
“Awesome. But you look kind of tense.” Molly comes closer. She reaches up on tiptoes to massage my shoulders. “When are we going to get you into a class?”
“Hot yoga,” Jules agrees. “Your body sweats all the toxins right out.”
“No thanks, love. The only time I break a sweat is in the boxing ring.”
Or in bed. I’m still imagining Chloe’s lithe body twisting up in a pretzel and could use the release. But I know better than to shit where I eat, and as sexy as these girls are, I’m not in the market for morning-after drama, not when there’s work to be done.
“You should stop by anyway.” Jules winks. “You can watch.”
I laugh. “Don’t tempt me, darlin’.”
They head back to their studio, and I get inside. My office used to be a tailor’s shop, a real
old-world guy from Italy, so I pretty much left it be. Two rooms, private and dark, just the way I like it. Today, I’ve got emails waiting, and wouldn’t you know? They’re all about my new case.
Mrs. Mainwaring-to-be.
You came highly recommended, but I’m not seeing results.
I tried calling you twice today, what have you found?
Call me!
I hit delete. Someone’s getting antsy. I don’t know who’s behind the anonymous email account—or the fat retainer—but whoever they are, they want dirt on Chloe Archer, and fast. They said it was just a regular background check, but it’s clear from the daily demands there’s nothing regular about it.
I’d bet good money one of those posh Mainwarings isn’t so thrilled about Maxwell’s whirlwind romance, and want to check out the skeletons in Chloe’s closet before she says “I do.”
I don’t care. It’s not my job to worry about what my clients are going to do with all the dirty little secrets I uncover. I’m here to get in, get paid, and get out. No mess. No drama. And even though I’ve yet to hit pay-dirt on Chloe, I know it won’t be long.
Everyone’s got something to hide, no matter how innocent they seem. You’ve just got to know where to look.
For this one, I need to dig a little deeper than usual, so I go meet my mate Logan down at his local—a rowdy Irish bar just down the block. We met years ago at a boxing gym here in town, and it’s my version of a beautiful friendship: we beat the shit out of each other, then go get pissed on a few pints.
And the fact he’s a cop helps, too. He slips me information from the police networks, and I help him out sometimes through less … official channels.
“What have you got for me?” Logan demands the minute I make it through the doors. It’s packed and rowdy, even early, and there’s already a group of women making eyes at him down the bar.
“Is that any way to greet an old pal?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Logan rolls his eyes and gestures to the old bartender for a couple of pints. Not that designer bottled bullshit, no, I’m talking good old Irish bitter, thick enough to stand on its own. He slides me a glass and waits while I take a long drink.
“Well?”
“Easy, pretty boy.” I send a wink to the blonde girl leaning over the bar so far, it’s a wonder she hasn’t toppled right over. I’ve got a clean view down the front of her dress spilling a pair of lush, pillowy tits out of red lace. Hello.
“C’mon, Jase. You know I’m in a bind.”
“Alright, mate.” I drag my attention back. The blonde will wait—until closing time, at least. Then me, my cock, and those breasts are going to have ourselves some fun.
Logan is still looking impatient so I pull a crumpled sheet of paper from my back pocket. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” Logan scans the page, then breaks out in a smile. “Where the fuck do you find this stuff? This’ll nail the asshole for sure.”
I give a shrug. Logan’s been trying to throw the book at some wife-beating piece of shit all year now, but the guy’s slippery as a well-oiled pussy. He’s kept his rep clean, got a whole list of character references swearing up and down he’s never so much as laid a hand on the missus, and meanwhile, she’s in and out of the ER every month, too scared to ever press charges.
My dad used to pull the same shit—beating my mum black and blue until I got old enough to stand my ground. I can’t tolerate it, so I did some digging, and found a couple of dodgy accounts and some off-shore holdings. He thought he’d hidden them deep enough.
He was wrong.
“Tax fraud.” Logan shakes his head. “It’s not the point, but I’ll take it.”
“Hey, it worked for Al Capone. I already sent it to my guy at the IRS.”
“You have a guy at the IRS?”
“Girl, actually. And she’s a real ball-breaker, too. I told her about our little friend, and she’s ready to tear his life apart and smile as he begs for mercy. Auditors.” I raise my glass in a toast. “You don’t want to fuck with them.”
That’s something I learned in the ring: sometimes the best hit is the one they don’t see coming. I could have paid this guy a visit and shown him what happens when you pick on someone weaker, but men like that cry “lawyer” at the smallest thing. Better to destroy him in a way that won’t blow back on her.
“I owe you, buddy,” Logan says, tucking the paper away. “Let me know if you need anything.”
There’s my cue. “There is this one case. I’ve done the usual diligence, but she’s coming up clean.”
“Cheating wife?” Logan knows my bread-and-butter business.
I shake my head. “Nah, she blew me off. And if she’s getting it elsewhere, she would never have passed up the chance.”
Logan snorts. “How you walk around with that ego dragging you down, I’ll never know.”
“That’s not my ego, it’s my balls.”
He groans. “C’mon, dude.”
“She will.” I make eye contact with the blonde again—or, more accurately, ten inches below her eyes. What I could do with those lush tits …
Logan snaps his fingers. “Focus. You wanted a favor?”
“Chloe Archer,” I tell him. “Background, record check, see what you can find. She moved here from Chicago, used to be a ballerina, far as I can tell.”
Logan types a note in his phone. “I’ll make some calls.”
“She seems pretty innocent, but I don’t know, I get a vibe from this girl.”
“Not enough, though.” Logan grins. “The great Jase Banner, striking out. How does it feel?”
“I’ll live.” I drain my pint. The blonde is on her way over now, and I’ve got some time before my next appointment. Long enough to leave an autograph on those breasts, at least. And I’m not talking about my name.
“Call me when you get a hit. She’s hiding something, I can tell.”
To be continued…
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