The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(88)

“You’re so British.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Why are you here if you still love and miss home so much?”

I turned my head to look at him. His eyes crinkled as he looked down at me, playing with locks of my hair.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, and my heart sank. “Now that my father is no longer alive, I suppose I could go back, if it wasn’t for the fact I now have a child to raise in America.”

“So you were going to move back?”

“No.” But I knew that no, I’d said it a hundred times when I actually meant yes.

“Dev…”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else. Now let’s watch something that might cause you to think a little. How does that sound?”

“Horrible,” I admitted.

He laughed some more. “Good. Show me I’m worth it. Suffer a little with me.”

We settled for something in between BBC News and my shows.

A panel game show called Have I Got News For You.

Presumably it was supposed to be funny. The crowd—and Devon—definitely laughed.

But to me it was just a reminder that he didn’t really belong here with me. That I would be doing him a huge favor if I set him free and let him live his life with Louisa.

Plus, I couldn’t stress that enough—there was no way I was not messing this shit up.

“I’m still being followed.”

My admission came out of nowhere.

Devon’s chest hardened beneath me. I could feel his pulse quickening between our bodies.

I closed my eyes and continued. “A motorcycle cut me off in traffic today and slammed a note on my windshield. It said I should leave Boston. It was my last warning. The weird thing is…” I took a breath, “…I get two different sets of threats. One claims they want to kill me and the other tells me to run away. It’s almost like there are two forces who want me gone, but not for the same reason. People that have nothing to do with each other.”

“Two?” he repeated, his voice cold and contemplative.

“Two.”

“Fuck.”

It was a knowing fuck. Or at least it sounded like it. But how could that be? How could he have any idea who was after me?

Devon stood up, shoving his legs into his briefs with violent force. “We’re calling the police right now.”

A bitter laugh clogged my throat. I wanted to tell him I’d been there, done that, and nothing came of it.

But the tone he took with me—so haughty, so patronizing—reminded me why men, like children, should be seen and not heard.

“You can’t tell me what to do.” I jumped to my feet, pacing to the kitchen.

Baby Whitehall kicked up a storm inside me, letting me know that she was just as scared and angry as I was.

Devon chuckled sardonically. “I can and I fucking am. You’re going to file a complaint at the police station, I’ll come there with you, and also, you’re officially on maternity leave from Madame Mayhem.”

His words did not bode well with my no-controlling-men rule.

I let out a shrill laugh, diverting back to old habits, old lines, old, old, old dialogue of a woman who just couldn’t let go of the past. “Oh, Devon. You are so cute when you think you have power over me.”

“This is not about me and my power. It’s about your safety. You’re going to the police.” The look in his eyes broke me to pieces. I could swear he was about to cry. Cry from frustration because he couldn’t get through to me.

Now’s a good time to just stop.

Take a deep breath.

Tell him you already went to the police, that it hadn’t worked.

Maybe you can find a solution together.

But then I thought about Mr. Locken, promising me he was going to get me a scholarship to UCLA. Telling me how much he cared.

And Dad. I thought about him too.

Somehow that reminder hurt most of all.

“Am I?” I plucked a cereal box from the counter and poured half of its contents into a bowl. “Guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

He turned around and stalked toward his home office. Soon after, I heard the door slam shut.

“I can’t deal with her anymore!” he roared from behind it.

The cereal box slipped from between my fingers, its contents pouring on the floor.

I plastered my forehead to the cool counter and closed my eyes.

Almost.

You almost managed to prevail.

But you didn’t.





Fourteen Years Old.



Dad buys a baseball bat to shoo the boys away.

“It’s a good strategy.” He elbows me over casserole and soda at dinnertime, winking. “You two are getting so tall. You’re not kids anymore. I need an efficient weapon to chase all the boys away. What do you think, Persy? Can I take them all down?”

She giggles, pressing her finger to a crumb and nibbling on it. “You can do anything, Dad.”

“What about you, Belly-Belle? Think your old man’s still got it?”

I poke the green bean casserole with my fork, trying to muster a smile.

My fifteenth birthday is coming up, and I don’t know how to tell Dad the only so-called boy I have anything with is a thirty-year-old father who is married and doesn’t seem to get the hint that we’re over.