The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(33)

“We’re done here. Email me your ring measurements.” I pressed the button to roll down the partition.

She held up a palm. “Two more conditions before I accept.”

My knee-jerk reaction was to advise her to take these conditions and shove them inside her pert little ass. But even I acknowledged that she was about to sign off her entire life to one of America’s most hated men. If she wanted a nice Hermès bag and new pair of tits as a wedding gift, I could accommodate that.

“Shoot.”

“One—I want us to conceive our children the old-fashioned way. I know you think it’s pitiful and pathetic of me, but I don’t care. I don’t want to go through IVF treatments. I don’t want to take someone else’s place in my quest for a baby before I tried the natural way. I know I’m not your taste, but if I come this far for you, it is only fair that you will…”

“Come inside you,” I finished for her. “Got it.”

I loathed the idea of sleeping with Persephone. The very concept of touching her made my skin crawl. Not because I didn’t find her attractive. The opposite was true. Ultimately, though, between impregnating her and having her killed, I preferred the former. Marginally.

“Your funeral,” I drawled. “I’m a notoriously selfish man, in bed and out of it. What’s the other condition?”

“No escorts until I conceive. You can’t hop in and out of my bed and still visit your European girlfriends.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she mimicked my dry, indifferent tone. “When you need satisfaction, you will come to me. We’ll service each other until I fall pregnant.”

Her pink cheeks implied she was mortified by the situation, but she said those things anyway, which I couldn’t help but appreciate.

We were still driving around. I looked down at my Rolex and realized we’d been going back and forth for two and a half hours.

Where did the time go, and how on earth could I claim it back?

I turned to look at her again. Her face was twice its usual size, cut and bruised.

I knew the little idiot was going to walk away from this deal if I said no.

She did it before and would not hesitate to do it again.

A lamb marching straight into Colin Byrne’s arms for slaughter.

“You drive a hard bargain. Welcome to the dark side, Persephone. Leave your heart at the door.”





The next day, Devon Whitehall knocked on my apartment door, looking like sin in a stripy navy-blue suit and a dashing haircut. I, in contrast, was wearing Walmart’s finest dress from six winters ago paired with shoes that had seen better days and a discounted windbreaker from Salvation Army.

Carrie Bradshaw, right behind you!

“Mr. Whitehall?” I hugged my door, stifling a yawn.

He shouldered past me, soldiering into the studio apartment where Emmabelle was asleep in our shared bed, clad in nothing but a thin red negligee, one bronzed leg flung over the duvet.

She caught his attention, making him pause and admire the view.

“And who is this foam-born Aphrodite?”

“That would be my sister, Mr. Zeus. Now if you’d be as kind as to peel your creepy eyes off her legs…”

Devon turned toward me reluctantly, shoving a mass of paperwork in my chest. Like Cillian, Whitehall had the uncanny ability to make the air stir around him. But while Kill made me want to die in his arms, Devon sent off a different vibe. A mysterious one.

“I filled out most of it. Sign where indicated with arrow flags and your initials on the bottom of each page. Go through your spouse’s details one more time and ensure all the information is correct. There’s a list of outstanding documentation I’ll need you to hand over before the marriage can be resolved. It’s on the last page. Get it to me by tomorrow morning. It’ll take the court two business days to process the application, in which you agree not to claim any of your and Mr. Veitch’s mutual funds or possessions.”

“We have no mutual funds or possessions.”

“Precisely.”

Asking him how he planned to grant me a speedy divorce was futile.

Cillian Fitzpatrick was a resourceful man and only worked with the cream of the crop. With people like Devon Whitehall and Sam Brennan on retainer, he could do just about anything, short of plucking the moon from the sky just so he could enjoy a bit more darkness.

I clutched the papers to my rib cage, excitement and dread swirling in my gut.

“Thank you, Devon. That’s—”

“Bugger, don’t thank me, you silly little thing.” He lifted a hand, indicating for me to stop.

“I didn’t do this out of the goodness of my heart. I did it because your future husband needs a baby-maker, preferably the kind that would bring positive press to his doorstep. Which is why you will also find in this load of legal documents a nondisclosure agreement and a prenup, both of which I advise you to read carefully in the company of a proper solicitor.” He plucked a few notes from his wallet, tucking them between my fingers. “Here’s some cash in case you can’t afford one. Consider this my wedding gift to you. There’s a sheet of dos and don’ts attached, some stipulations you verbally agreed to yesterday. No house-sharing, a non-compete clause…”

“Non-compete?” I blinked. “I’m not planning to open a petroleum company anytime soon.”