The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

I let out a scream, my right leg hovering over the accelerator, wanting to run the human shit stain over before he pointed a gun at me.

But the guy took something out of the front pocket of his jeans—a note—and slammed it over my windshield.

The text was printed in Times New Roman.

LEAVE BOSTON BEFORE I KILL YOU.

THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.

That was it.

I was going to fucking murder somebody.

I threw my car into park in the middle of traffic, grabbed the gun from my purse, and pushed my door open.

Helmet Guy shook his head, roared his engine, and drove off before my hand touched the sleeve of his leather jacket.

Tearing the piece of paper from my windshield and pocketing it, I promised myself, whoever it was—I was going to make them suffer.

When I got back home, Devon was there.

He looked like he’d been there for a while, freshly showered and wearing designer sweatpants and a white V-neck.

I didn’t immediately tell him about what happened.

He seemed happy and eager to spend time with me.

Besides, I was going to handle it. The police were out of the question—they were useless, and after the reluctant response I’d gotten from them when I filed a complaint, I wasn’t planning to go there again. But I was going to visit Sam Brennan tomorrow at his apartment and tell him he was going to offer me his services, whether he wanted to or not, or I would tell on him to his wife.

Even the shaky experience I went through this evening wasn’t enough to throw me off balance. Usually, an encounter like that meant I had a couple of weeks at least of radio silence from whoever wanted to scare me.

“Hello to my favorite person in the entire world,” Devon greeted me warmly. I melted into a puddle of hormones and leaned into him before he crouched down to kiss my belly through my hot-pink blouse.

“Oh. You meant her,” I murmured.

He stood up to his full, impressive height, giving me a wink. “And hello to the woman who carries her.”

“So we are now in agreement that it’s a girl.” I kicked off my heels. Pregnancy was great, but that didn’t mean I was going to start becoming best buddies with Lululemon and—God help us all—Crocs.

“I’m normally in agreement with you,” he said easily.

I made my way to the kitchen, filled myself a tall glass of tap water, and drank it in big gulps, shoving the biker to a corner of my mind, determined not to let the encounter ruin the evening for me.

“I’m glad you’re not with your girlfriend tonight,” I commented.

Oops. Never mind. I ruined the evening all by myself.

Why couldn’t I just say “I’m glad you’re not with Louisa” like a normal human being? Poor Devon. Even if we were going to end up together, he was going to grow to hate me.

“I think I’m looking at her.”

Hmm … what?

He sauntered toward me, undeterred. My heart kicked up again, now for an entirely different reason. To be someone’s girlfriend—Devon’s girlfriend—was a reality I’d never considered for myself.

I had to admit, I didn’t hate the sound of it.

He took the glass from my hand and put it behind me on the marble counter before gathering my hands in his. A zap went through me. It felt so good, so right, I wanted to crawl out of my own body and run away somewhere where I’d be safe from him.

“Tell me yesterday was a mistake,” he ordered, not asked. “Tell me a million times it shouldn’t have happened, and I still wouldn’t believe you.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the floor. Being vulnerable killed me, but I had to do it. “It wasn’t.”

“Was that so hard?” he enquired softly.

“Yes,” I admitted flatly.

He laughed. A low, sexy rumble that came from his chest.

“A weird animal anecdote to soothe your mind?” he suggested, still holding my hands in his.

“Please.”

“Platypuses look like they have hot water bottles glued to their faces. You know, the ones our grandmothers like to shove under the blankets in the winter to keep warm?”

I cackled, unable to stop myself. Quaking shoulders and all.

“Speaking of unfortunate faces, the saiga antelope looks like it has a half-mast uncircumcised penis attached to its face.”

“Now, what do you have against uncircumcised penises, Miss Penrose? I happen to be the proud owner of one.” He jerked me into his hard body, and I giggled some more.

“Nothing, Mr. Whitehall. Nothing at all.”

His lips met mine, and the space between us was reduced to nothing.

I clung onto him. His mouth smelled of spearmint and ice. Mine tasted of lemon merengue, and custard, and french fries.

He stripped me fast, and I did the same, and for the first time in years, he was completely naked in front of me, in the kitchen.

“I dreamed about seeing you like this again for a long time.” Another admission fell from my lips.