She offers that soft snort again. “I also know you are Finn Drake, partner at ADK. Friend to Genevieve Cain.”
I’m not quite sure what to say to that.
“Oh?” I manage.
“You attend many of the ASI functions, you’re connection through Dominic Anscombe allowing you ingress into their inner sanctum.”
“OK,” I say, running a hand through my hair uncomfortably. “Now you’re scaring me.”
The joke’s not far off the truth.
“You haven’t met our Father, have you?” she says. It’s not a question, I think, so I don’t answer. “When Koki started working for Nick Anscombe, Papa looked into his business.”
“And I’m part of that business?”
She shrugs, wrapping the cloak tighter around her frame. The breeze hasn’t abated, and as the sun has long since set, the chill is becoming invasive.
“Look,” I say, not sure what it is I’m about to say, but going with it anyway. I’m far too unnerved by all of this, and yet I can’t seem to walk away. “I need a drink.” I stare back down High Street toward Sweet Seduction. “Something stronger than a hot chocolate.”
“They do serve coffee there as well,” Momoko quips. “I believe in many different flavours.”
I soften at her banter; she’s trying to make me feel more comfortable. Her perception of my current frame of mind should be alarming, but I’m warmed by the fact that she’s bothered to notice.
“Not unless you’re invited,” I say, then grimace. I could invite Momoko inside Sweet Seduction. No one would mind. Hell, most of them would be keen to meet someone from Koki’s family. I’m sure I’m not the only one who hasn’t seen Momoko around.
But I don’t want to share her.
“There’s a sake bar on Queen Street,” she suggests and my eyes meet hers. Is she asking me on a date? Or just to smooth things over? Maybe she wants to make sure I don’t say anything about what happened.
I get the feeling Momoko Tanaka never leaves anything unfinished.
“OK,” I say. I’m a chump. I don’t particularly care one way or the other why she’s invited me to have a drink. I just want to go. With her. Anywhere.
Idiot.
We start walking up High Street, which will take us past Sweet Seduction. Nothing is said as we look inside the brightly lit curved windows and see all the colours and shapes of the people - my friends - celebrating life. New life. I’m happy for Abi and Ben. Truly, I am. Two people who couldn’t deserve a dream coming true more. But standing out here, distanced from their joy seems natural.
I’ve been looking in from the outside for years.
“You work family law, correct?” Momoko asks, perhaps noticing I’m staring at Sweet Seduction a little more hungrily than I should.
“Family and some property. We cover both,” I say.
“Not criminal?”
“No. We’re not that kind of firm.”
“And what kind would be a firm that represents criminals?” she asks, and it sounds like she’s genuinely interested.
“A flashy one.”
“ADK isn’t flash?”
“Oh, we’re flash, just not flashy.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “Most of what we do is in the background. Important but quite mundane. A criminal attorney puts it all out there, like a performance or a show, for the benefit of the jury. There’s no jury, usually, when someone wants a divorce.”
“I think it’s sad,” she says, as we turn the corner onto Victoria Street West. “How can you be so cheerful, when people’s hearts are breaking?”
It’s a common enough question, but coming from this woman I feel suddenly disquieted by the course of my career.
“Sometimes injustice can appear in the one place we least expect it,” I say softly. Momoko turns her head to watch my face. The lights of Queens Street spill over onto our footpath, and before long, we’re walking up Auckland’s most iconic street. The heart of the city. Just down there, you’ll find ADK. I give it a quick look before trudging up the hill toward this sake bar.
It better be bloody good.
“Not all families are happy ones, Momoko,” I add. “Can I call you Momoko?”
“Of course.”
“You can call me Finn,” I offer with a wink.
She smiles, but I think her eyebrows rise a millimetre. Not impressed with my crusty old flirty skills, it seems.
“And so you help them,” she says. “These families who are not happy.”
“It may not seem glamorous, such as defending a high profile client who got caught on camera throwing a punch in an upscale wine bar. And more often than not, discretion is the name of the game. No one wants their dirty laundry hung out to dry down Queen Street. But it’s necessary. And it’s not evil. Not every marriage is made of love. And staying where you thought you were safe and suddenly find yourself unsafe is madness.”
“You deal with a lot of battered women?”
“My specialty, if you want to call it that.”
“You helped Genevieve,” Momoko says.
I glance across at her. I don’t normally discuss clients. It’s part of the whole confidentiality thing.
Momoko meets my eyes; I’m sure she sees the tension that has invaded my frame. Is she fishing for something on Gen?
I shake my head. Why would she be? She’s Koki’s sister. Koki loves Gen like the rest of us.
“You know Genevieve?” I ask instead.
“We’ve met.”
“She talked to you about her… situation?” I press.
“No. But I have read my father’s dossiers.”
“Who is your father?” I demand on an exasperated breath of air.
Momo chuckles. “I’m not sure you’d want to know. He wouldn’t seek your legal counsel, anyway.”
“Happily married?”
“Does not believe in divorce.”
“Ah.” Not an uncommon argument.
“There is no honour in failure,” she explains. There’s nothing on her serene face to indicate disgust at that notion. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that she’s been raised to believe the same.
“Then I guess you’d better get it right from the beginning,” I say.
“Did you?”
I smile down at the pavement; it is in no way humorous.
“How much of my life is in those dossiers of your father’s?” I ask.
“Pretty much everything.”
“I’m a satellite,” I point out. “On the fringes of ASI. Why would he bother?” Who the hell is he, more like?
“He has nothing else to occupy his days. And Papa is not one to sit by idly.”
Charming. A crazy ex-Japanese spy keeping tabs on nobodies in Auckland, New Zealand.
And then I have a thought.
“Has he upset the 14K?”
Momoko spins toward me so fast, I barely have enough time to brace for impact. She has me pressed up against a shop window, arm to my throat, something sticking into my waist. Is that a fucking knife?
“What do you know about the 14K Triads?” she hisses.
Well, now. How do I answer that and not get impaled?
“Nothing.” Yeah, brilliant, Finn. And you’re one of the top family lawyers in all of New Zealand?
The blade presses in harder. Momoko remains silent. Who needs to talk when the knife does the talking for you?
“I saw those guys’ tattoos,” I find myself adding. “The ones who tried to abduct you.”
The knife withdraws slightly.
“Anything else?” she asks.
“You’re one crazy lady.”
She tries not to smile, but she does slip the knife away.
“My apologies,” she murmurs.
“Sure,” I say, checking my body for holes.
“It’s been a bad night,” she offers as explanation.
“Sure,” I repeat. “For us all, I’d say,” I add, trying to take the
edge off the repetition.
“The sake bar’s just here,” she mumbles, indicating a small hole-in-the-wall type restaurant with obvious Japanese leaning. The windows are covered in slats, Japanese kanji decorates the walls, some of it flashing in neon, and potted ferns line the entrance. It looks like nothing remarkable from the outside, but the place is bustling.
“That’s if you’d still like a drink,” Momoko adds, sounding a little unsure all of a sudden.
She’s a bit of a dichotomy, this woman. Strength and vulnerability rolled up into one.
I turn and look down at her. I’m taller than Koki, so she’s much shorter than me. I find the height difference endearing; as if I need to stand between her and any approaching threat.
And then I remind myself that she’s the biggest threat out there, currently.
“Yeah,” I say, before I can think better of it. “I’m thirsty.”
Chapter 3
Three Times In As Many Hours
Finn
I’m not drinking the sake, but then neither is Momoko. I get the feeling that not many customers are drinking the sake. But there’s several plates full of sushi that I can see, and we’ve just ordered the tiger prawns, sweet miso spinach and beef tataki salad. Momoko insisted that we share.
I’m not going to complain. If she wants to nibble morsels of food off the same platter as me, then I’m all for it. The closer I get to her, the more I want to stay.
She smiles at the waitress, who accepts the menu in two hands and bows at the waist in farewell. Everything is ritual and tradition for the Japanese.
Momoko swirls her Chardonnay around in the chilled glass and then takes a sip. I can’t stop looking at her slender neck as she swallows. I see her lips twitch in amusement and know I’m being too damn obvious. But it has been a while since I shared a meal - from the same platter or not - with a beautiful woman.
And she is beautiful. Her hair has come down from the loose bun she’d been wearing it in. The jewellery that she’d had adorning it removed and tucked away in that mesmerising silk dress. Her cloak is with the maître d’, or whatever they call them in Japanese restaurants. I get the full benefit of her barely there attire.
No one else is wearing red silk in here, she stands out like a beacon to the desperately lonely. I’m not the only one who can’t tear their eyes away.
“What do you do, Momoko?” I ask, thinking perhaps she’s a karate instructor or part time bodyguard for one of ASI’s oppositions.
“I own a florist,” she says. I stare at her, stunned silent. “You weren’t expecting that?”
“You don’t look like a florist,” I blurt.
She laughs, and I feel things tighten in places that haven’t had that much action of late. I shift in my seat, but I’m damned if I’ll look away.
“What does a florist look like, Finn?”
I’m going straight to hell, or wherever Koki Tanaka sends me, because I’m going to do my very best to sleep with this woman. The way she says my name. Such a short name; one syllable. But it seems so momentous when spoken from those delectable lips. My name seems fit for a king when Momoko says it.
“Older,” I manage to say.
“I’m thirty-two,” she points out. “And I’ve been a florist for over a decade. Straight out of high school.”
I smile and take a sip from my beer. “Older and more dowdy,” I clarify. “I’m having trouble picturing you making up a posy whilst wearing that dress. But I’m giving it damn good try.”
She laughs again, shaking her long dark hair out in one curtain of silky black.
I want to run my fingers through it. I want to bury my face in amongst the strands. I want to wrap them around my hand while I tilt her head back and kiss the fuck out of her.
“I don’t usually dress like this for work,” she says, running a hand down the material of her gown and drawing my eyes to the contours of her body. Does she know she’s turning me on? Does she know what’s happening beneath the table, just out of sight? I suddenly have an image of her foot sliding up between my spread thighs and her toes massaging a certain part of my anatomy. A certain part which is currently straining to get out. All while wearing a naughty little smirk on those kissable lips.
I take another sip of beer and resist the urge to shift again in my seat.
Our food arriving breaks the moment, but it’s not the waitress of before. An older gentleman carries the dish over and puts it on the table with a flourish. He wears a bandana over his head, pulling his hair back off his forehead, which is shining slightly. I’d hazard a guess that he’s the chief. Or restaurant owner. And spends the majority of his night in the kitchen.
“Momoko-san,” he says, bowing after placing the platter between us. “It has been too long since you visited.”
“Sensei,” she replies, bowing her own head in respect. I stare at the old man, but he can’t be her karate teacher. He looks a little paunchy around the stomach.
“You have brought a friend,” Sensei says, but there is something I don’t like in his eyes when he looks briefly at me.
I think it’s fear. Fear for me? Fear for him? Or fear for Momo?
“Fujiwara-sensei,” Momoko says. “This is Finn Drake, a friend of my brother’s.”
I’d hardly call myself a friend to Koki, but I guess it’s easier than explaining my peripheral inclusion in ASI dynamics.
“Ah,” the old man says, and his whole demeanour changes. Relaxes. I get the feeling Momoko is sheltered. Or at least, her family and friends attempt to keep her that way.
I watch on as they chat amicably, searching for the naivety I would expect in such a situation. But if Momoko is sheltered in anyway, I can’t see it. She’s full of life as she exchanges small talk with the restauranteur, owning the conversation and directing it exactly where she wants it.
Which seems to be about banal matters.
Mr Fujiwara bows one last time, then slips his hand into Momo’s, holding her eyes for an extended moment. I’m not up on Japanese culture, but I don’t think touching is as readily agreeable as in the west.
Maybe Fujiwara has been in New Zealand for long enough to let a few things slide. But then he says in parting, “You should go home, Momoko-san. Honour your father’s wishes.”
Momo doesn’t get to reply, but I see the anger in the small downturn of her lips. She narrows her eyes after the man and then looks down into her lap briefly. She thinks I didn’t catch it, the surreptitious passing of a note from his hand to hers. But it’s a move I perfected with my brothers, when we’d been subjected to long boring sermons in church. Reverend Blundell had a hawk’s keen eye. So I saw the moment her hand curled around the missive.
Her frown deepens, and then she remembers I’m here and immediately it becomes a smile. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe her. This woman, whom everyone thinks needs to be coddled, could never be kowtowed.
“Are you eating?” I ask, indicating the platter.
“Of course. This is the best panko bread in Auckland. Try some,” she says, dipping it in the tartare sauce and holding it up to my lips to sample.
I know I should press her. The lawyer in me wants to help. But Momoko has made it plain she doesn’t want to share whatever is in that note. And, of course, I am a chump. I want to lick tartare sauce off her fingers.
So, I lean forward, watching her eyes closely, and let her slip the morsel of food into my mouth. Her lips are parted, her eyes are wide, and I can see her breasts rising and falling beneath that silky décolletage. She’s beautiful.
And to hell with mysteries, I know she wants me now.
I break off a bit of bread and dip it in the sauce, lifting it to her mouth for a nibble. Her eyes turn sultry, she licks her lips, and then snaps her teeth down hard, almost taking the tip of my finger off.
I jerk back, shaking my hand out and frown. But I can’t hold it for long, Momo is laughing, rocking back and forth in her chair, nearly in hysterics.
“Like tha
t, is it?” I ask.
She only laughs harder.
I pick up a prawn, and dip it in the sauce, making sure the thing is well and truly covered, and then hold it up, an arch to my brow.
It’s a challenge and she knows it. But I have the feeling Momoko Tanaka never shies away from a challenge. She doesn’t disappoint. Leaning forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the table, emphasising the impressive cleavage above her dress with the move, she opens her mouth and closes her eyes; trusting me.
I stare at her for a moment, my blood hot, my pulse thundering. Then I let the prawn rest against her bottom lip and watch. She licks it first. A small tongue feathering out around the tip, exactly how I imagine her licking my dick. With slow movements, she licks off all the sauce; hungrily.
I think I might come in my pants.
Then she opens her mouth, and takes the entire thing inside in one slow glide of plump lips. It’s a king prawn. It’s not small. It’s not as big as my dick, but I’m picturing it that big. And she sucks it down like a professional.
And then bites, making a crunching sound as her teeth breach the crispy batter and the meat slides off the shell.
I can’t help but laugh at the cheeky look she gives me from under her eyelashes. Then I reach forward and use my thumb to wipe the excess sauce off from the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darts out and licks the tip before I get the chance to pull back and do the same myself. And then my thumb is pressing into her mouth, she’s sucking on it, and my head is spinning, my heart thumping, and my dick begging to be in on the action itself.
I know I’m treading on very dangerous grounds. This is Koki Tanaka’s sister. Someone I’ve only met tonight. I don’t know her. I don’t really know him. And from what I’ve seen, both of them could lay me flat on my arse if I make a false move.
But I can’t stop this. I don’t want to. I can’t think clearly. I can’t think of anything but getting this woman naked and beneath me. Her lips on mine, my hands on her, my cock buried deep inside.
I’ve never had this type of instant attraction before. Never lost all sense of propriety and control. But although I know we’re sitting in a restaurant, other patrons watching this blatantly sexual display over the top of their sashimi and egg rolls, all I want to do is knock the platter off the table, reach across it and haul this gorgeous woman on top, and devour her.
Sweet Seduction Sayonara Page 3
