The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

“Wanna bet? Mr. Whitehall asked me to refer you to clause 12.5 of your contract—by the way, so hot that you have one—in which, if you endanger your unborn child, he may have grounds to sue you.”

Holy crappers. Why couldn’t I get knocked up by the Friendly Front Runner? He wouldn’t give two shits if I drank myself to death under a bridge.

There was no point arguing with Ross or Devon. Not because I was one to pass up a chance to quarrel, but because I could actually use a few hours of sleep. I was exhausted. As much as I hated to admit it, Devon was right—I needed rest.

Begrudgingly, I retreated to my office. Powering up my MacBook, I noticed a pile of envelopes sitting on the edge of my desk. I remembered what Devon had said about opening them to ensure they weren’t only just hate mail.

Maybe I won the lottery?

Maybe there’s some fan mail in there, telling me how awesome I was for celebrating the extravagant, fun, and sexually liberal wonders of burlesque?

I jerked the stack my way and began sieving through them.

A bunch of bills I’d already paid, two angry letters about my substantial role in corrupting the youth of Boston, and one thank you letter from a woman who came to see a show a few months ago and was inspired to quit her job as a marine biologist and join the burlesque cast of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I picked up another letter, this one printed.

To: Emmabelle Penrose.

I tore it open.

The letter was short and contained a return address for a PO Box in Maryland.

Emmabelle,

Are you worried for your life yet?

You should be.

If you only paid more attention to what was going on around you, you’d have noticed that I’ve been watching you for a long time now.

Planning my revenge.

I know where you live, where you work, and who you hang out with.

That’s the part where you get scared. You’d be right to. I’m not going to rest until you’re dead.

No one can help you.

Not your best friend’s husband, Sam Brennan.

Not your idiotic sister, Persephone, or her billionaire husband.

Not even that fancy man you’ve been hanging out with recently.

Once I made up my mind, your destiny was sealed.

You can take this letter to the police. In fact, I encourage you to. It’ll just give you more shit to worry about and disrupt your already messed up life.

I’m going to kill you for what you did to me.

And I’m not even going to be sorry about it.

Never yours,

The person you took everything from.

My stomach twisted, clenching around the stupid clean juice I drank for breakfast.

So that man in the Boston Common was there for me.

Was he the same person who thought I’d wronged him, or was he there just to spy?

Either way, someone was after me.

After my life.

An invisible enemy.

A noose formed around my neck.

Who could it be?

Taking inventory, I had to admit, I was far from being the nicest person on planet Earth, but I by no means had arch-enemies. I’d hurt no one, no one that I could think of. Certainly not to a point of such rage.

There was one incident long ago. But the only person affected was no longer alive.

Good thing I had a gun, which I was going to take with me everywhere from now on just in case, Krav Maga skills, and the badass bitch attitude with which to strangle this person with my own hands if they came anywhere near me.

Plus, I couldn’t exactly advertise what was happening to me. Telling Devon and my closest friends about this letter would only create more chaos.

As it was, my baby daddy was trying to take control of my life, and I didn’t want to give him more leeway than he already had to make decisions on my behalf.

No, this was another challenge I would have to meet head-on.

There was someone else I needed to take care of, and I was going to kill for her if need be.

My baby.

The OB-GYN checkup came just in time. I was eager to hear about Baby Whitehall’s life inside my hostile womb and also to get approximately five thousand prescription drugs for my morning sickness, which now had me dropping six pounds—involuntarily, of course.

Joanne, Devon’s secretary, called me in the morning to let me know she’d sent a cab for me. She sounded like the sweetest person on planet Earth, Jennifer Aniston included.

“Now, I’m not saying I know what it’s about, but I sure hope our friend Lord Whitehall is treating you well,” she clucked on the other line.

“Ma’am, he is treating me too well.”

“There’s no such thing!” she bellowed. I could practically hear her contemplating her next words before she said, “Again, I have no idea what I’m booking this for, but … I do hope this is going to stick. He’s a fantastic man. Strong, confident, sturdy, razor sharp. He deserves a good woman.”