The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

That was impossible. I sent him a message.

Oh. Oh. The message must’ve not gone through. My cellular company had very poor reception. Especially when I was in the underground bunker called my office.

“I sent you a message. It didn’t go through. You think this whole alpha-male charade turns me on or something?” I let out a snort. Because, let me tell you, it absolutely did. Not that I would ever admit it out loud. But holy hell. It had been a hot minute since I’d been handled with such brash confidence.

“Not all of us engage in theatrics to survive, my dear Emmabelle. What you think of me is absolutely none of my business.” Devon burst out of my club into the cool, crisp night, striding toward his car. “You say you want a child, but you also go prancing around, drinking and working yourself to the bone. One of us knows how to get you pregnant, and I’m afraid that person is not you.”

The nerve of this asshole. He was mansplaining sex to me. I could stab him if I wasn’t, indeed, a little drunk and a lot exhausted from the day’s work.

Devon threw open the passenger door to his dark green Bentley, tucking me inside and buckling me up. “Now tell me who that man was. The one who held your arm.”

He shut the door and rounded the car before I could answer then slipped beside me. A waft of his irresistible, rich scent drifted into me.

“I have no idea. I was about to find out when you thundered in, giving me your best Straight Outta’ Savior Complex impression.”

“Is it an ordinary occurrence? Men grabbing you at work?” He started the car, zipping through the ice-crusted streets toward my apartment. My heart had no business skipping a beat because he remembered my address. What was happening in my chest better be a goddamn heart murmur.

“What do you think?” I sassed.

“I think certain men feel they can touch you because of your line of work,” he answered honestly.

It happened often, actually. Especially when I danced on the bar or got onstage with my dancers. But I knew how to set boundaries and put people in their place.

“It’s true.” I grinned. “I constantly need to fight men off. How do you think I developed these babies?” I kissed my biceps.

When he said nothing, I opened his glove compartment and began sifting through his shit. I often did things like that. Goaded people into a reaction. You could learn a lot about humans by the way they carried themselves when angry. I found a small engraved fossil and pulled it out.

“I’m not impressed with what I’ve seen tonight.” Devon, as calm as the Dalai Lama jerked the fossil from my hands and dumped it between us.

“My goodness, you’re not!” I slapped a hand over my cleavage, exhibiting my best fake British accent. “Heavens above. I must quit right this minute and become a governess or a nun. Whatever suits your taste, milord.”

“You’re infuriating.” He scrubbed at his perfect cheekbone, exasperated.

“And you were in my way,” I concluded, taking the small fossil again and messing with it. “I can fight my own battles, Devon.”

“You’re barely capable of keeping yourself alive.” His glacial expression told me he wasn’t being funny. He truly thought that.

At my building, Devon took the flight of stairs to my apartment, rather than use the elevator, still carrying me in his arms. More weirdness. How come none of his super-fans in this city ever picked on how odd he was?

“There’s an elevator right here. Put me down, Mr. Caveman.”

“I don’t do those.” His voice was clipped.

“You don’t do elevators?” I asked, relishing the feeling of his abs and pecs against my body.

“Correct. Or any sort of confined space I can’t get out of with ease.”

“What about cars? Planes?” There went my mile-high dream with a royal. It was good while it lasted. Also: very specific.

“Logic dictates I use both, but I try to stay away from them whenever possible.”

“Why?” I was baffled. It seemed like such an irrational fear for a man who was pure rationalism.

His chest quaked with a chuckle. He looked down at me, amused. “That’s none of your business, darling.”

When we arrived at my apartment, I was surprised to find Devon was in no hurry to peel my clothes off and have wild, unbridled sex with me. Instead, he produced a batch of documents from a stylish leather briefcase and set it on the coffee table, taking a seat. I sprawled on a colorful recliner, glaring at him.

“What are you doing?” I asked, even though it was pretty obvious he was removing enough paper documents to papier-mâché the Statue of Liberty, setting them on the table.

Devon didn’t bother to lift his eyes from the files. “Attending to our legally-binding contract. In the meantime, feel free to catch up on the opera you’ve missed tonight. La bohème.”