The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(90)

I didn’t feel remotely bad about betraying her confidence when I called Sam as soon as she fell asleep, lighting up a much-needed rollie on the balcony of my bedroom overlooking the skyline of Boston. I pressed my elbows against the bannisters, letting my head drop between my shoulders on a sigh.

“It’s eleven o’clock at night,” Sam greeted in his signature lackluster mannerism.

“You’re still up,” I said dryly.

“You didn’t know that.”

“I know everything.”

“Good point,” Sam said solemnly. “What do you want?”

“I need to hire you for something.”

That gave him pause. I was the only man in my social circle who did not hire Sam Brennan and his staff on retainer.

I kept my hands—like my professional reputation—squeaky clean.

But Emmabelle was about to change that.

She was about to change a lot of things.

I heard Sam sucking on his electronic cigarette. “Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

“We all fall in the same way.” The fresh air swirled my blond hair, whipping at my face. The cold tinge on my cheeks reminded me what I wished I could forget. That I actually cried a few minutes ago. Or, rather, shed three, full tears.

“And the fall always involves a woman,” Sam concluded.

“Although, it should be said, for a while there, I thought all I’d been dealing with was a stumble.”

He chuckled softly, and I could envision him shaking his head as he took another drag of his fake ciggy.

“How can I help?” he asked finally.

“Emmabelle is being followed.”

“Ash told me something along those lines,” Sam offered nonchalantly. “Do you have any suspects?”

“A bitter ex-employee. A woman who is hell-bent on marrying me…” I took a deep breath, my jaw ticking in annoyance, “…and my mother.”

Luckily, Sam wasn’t one for snarky comments.

“She’s been trying to reach me,” Sam said. “Emmabelle. I didn’t take her calls.”

“Why not?” I felt my blood boiling with rage.

“Exercise in humility.” I heard him toss the cigarette onto his desk, growing tired and frustrated of the unconvincing replacement. “I wanted to see if she’d turn to Ash or you for help. It would do her good to be a little less prideful.”

“She didn’t ask me to call you. I’m going rogue on her arse. In fact, I specifically don’t want you to contact her.”

“All right. I’ll email you a questionnaire. You’ll have to fill it out completely.”

“I need this employee Frank’s address as soon as possible,” I said.

“You’ll get it,” Sam said confidently. “But, Devon?”

“Yeah?”

“I ain’t cheap.”

“I ain’t poor.” It positively killed me to use the word ain’t.

“You might be, after putting me on retainer for a month or two.”

“You don’t need two months to solve this riddle. Plus, you are helping me keep the mother of my child safe. There’s no price tag for that.”

I hung up, letting out a quick, angry breath.

I looked around the universe, which, in turn, closed in on me.

That was the thing about fearing confined places; sometimes, when it got bad, your mere existence was enough to send you hyperventilating.

Just like sometimes, in order to save an angel, you had to make a deal with the devil.




I was on the threshold of Frank’s house the next day, a few minutes shy of noon.

Frank lived in Dorchester. His house had a rickety front porch, dilapidated roof, and a door with bullet holes in it.

Nothing quite said welcome home like full metal jacket-shaped holes in a door.

I knocked, brushing my knuckles clean over my tweed jacket.

Sweven didn’t know it yet, but the minute she left the house today—whenever that would be—she was going to have two of Sam’s men following her.

Since Sam found out Frank’s address overnight, I had to admit begrudgingly (but only to myself) that he wasn’t terrible at his job. Although I still reserved the right to dislike him on the simple basis that he was, in fact, a cunt.

Although I wasn’t well versed in liaising with men who’d tried to get their ex-employers killed, I felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

I was taking care of the situation now. I never fancied myself anyone’s knight in Prada armor, but here we were.

The door whined open, and a screen door flapped right behind it.

A spotty teenaged girl with ratty-looking hair and a huge pregnant belly stood in front of me, barefoot, wearing a military camouflage tunic and holed black leggings. She flinched when she saw me, taking a step back.

“Frank ain’t here.” She began closing the door in my face.

I sent an arm out, pushing it back open with a smile.

“How do you know it is Frank I’m looking for?”

She hugged the edge of the door, peering back at me with wild eyes.

“Figured you’re some type of big shot police officer or whatnot. Only two kinda’ people come to visit Frank—criminals and policemen. And you don’t look like a criminal to me.”