Читать книгу Getting Dirty - Rachael Stewart - Страница 13

THREE DAYS HAVE gone by since my momentary lapse in judgement.

Momentary lapse?

Monumental fuck-up, more like.

I swear I can still hear her moans ringing in my ear, taste her on my lips, my fingers… I’ve only to close my eyes and I see her dilated gaze looking up at me, her skin flushed pink, her body moving with sheer abandon in her quick-fire orgasm, my fingers buried deep—

Fuck. There my dick goes, tightening inside my jeans, painful and persistent, nagging for release.

What the hell’s got into you?

Stupid question.

She has.

Her taste, her scent, her flirtatious little mouth. She’s got under my skin, exposed my inner desires. Making her come while others watched on, her sucking me off, me losing control…

And not only that she’s fucked with my job, making me cross a line that I’m struggling to come back from. Making me question everything.

But here I finally am. After three long days of battling my conscience, her insane appeal and every crazy doubt she has instilled, I’m back with it and tailing her. Because I have to. I’m a fucking PI—it’s what I do. I don’t fall for princesses, and I don’t give a fuck. I really don’t. I learned that lesson well, and no amount of honesty from her lips is going to change that.

But I can almost hear my inner laughter, mocking me. As if it knows that I’m here because I can’t stay away.

It’s two thirty in the afternoon and I’m standing in the shadows at an outdoor charity gala for the local children’s hospice, my eyes hidden behind shades and once more on her.

I wear a baseball cap, a nondescript hoodie and jeans, my casual clothing blending right in with that around me. But she shines above everyone. Her hair is tied back, highlighting her radiant smile, her effortless grace. She wears a soft pink sweater, white skinny jeans and a pair of trainers. Nothing special, but on her…

To her right is a child in a wheelchair, with no hair and pale, tubes travelling from her nose and arm to a bag of liquid high above. Coco ducks down to talk to her, her smile natural and vibrant, and the girl nods and murmurs in return, her own lips lifting.

They talk a little more and I see Coco’s PA start to get edgy as she watches from the sidelines, her eyes flitting between the watch on her wrist, the tablet she has tight in her hand and the pair talking.

It seems Coco isn’t adhering to the schedule, and as I look back to her I can see why. She has the girl laughing now, and the joyous noise is lighting up all those around them. Hell, even my insides lift. She doesn’t care for her schedule—she only cares for the girl.

And then she stands and turns. For a second I think she spies me, and then I realise she’s wiping her eyes. She does it so discreetly, so smoothly, that any ordinary onlooker would probably miss it—but not me. I’ve come to know her gestures, her smiles, her laughs, those that are forced and those that ring true.

She’s crying.

My gut twists and sinks, and I double back.

Guilt. That’s what this is. Guilt and another emotion I haven’t felt in so long it’s almost alien to me now. I don’t want to acknowledge it. I just want to get as far away as possible and that means telling her brother I’m out.

You’re going soft, comes the mental gibe. The same one that has plagued me since we crossed the line at Blacks. And it’s backed up by the sensible argument that I’ve been blinded by what we did, what we shared. That ultimately she’s still the spoilt little rich girl I once had her pegged as—that her brother has her pegged as.

But it’s bollocks.

I’ve followed her enough to know she cares about these charity projects. Not the front—not the face of it. She cares about these people. And she works hard. She barely stops—moving from one event to another. Even those lunches seem to be more a function of her public role rather than for her pleasure.

No, the only time I’ve truly seen her do something for herself is at Blacks. That was for her. All for her. And I loved being able to give her that. Loved it too much.

And there was her total honesty, her love for her grandmother, her need to bury the pain.

My chest tightens as I fist my hands. I have no choice but to bring this to a close. Even if it could ruin my reputation. Philip Lauren isn’t the kind to take my withdrawal lying down, and the more anxious he becomes, the more his nasty side shines through.

How the fuck I didn’t see this side to him in the first place, I don’t know.

Liar. You didn’t see it because you didn’t want to; you were too interested in taking down another Jess. Another hoity-toity, good-for-nothing rich girl who only has love for herself.

And more fool me… I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I deserve the pain that plagues me now, the sickening guilt, but the least I can do is tell Philip where to stick it. He’ll likely do his damnedest to see Livingston Investigations closed down as a result, but I’m not afraid of him or the threat. My PI work exists for a reason: to bury my past and save others from similar fates. It isn’t my bread and butter. I have property up and down the country that gets that for me.

Not that I’ll roll over in the face of Philip’s anger—far from it. I might even have some fun with it. And if I can convince him there’s nothing to tell, maybe he’ll just walk away from whatever this vendetta is and leave both her and my business alone.

I take my mobile out of my back pocket and send him a text.

We need to meet. Friday. Usual place. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.

I smile as I pocket my phone. It’ll certainly give me some satisfaction, watching the guy stew on it as I tell him what I really think of his sister and all that I’ve learned.

Well, almost all—I’ll leave out the finer detail that starts with Blacks and ends with our brief spell of fun.

If only I could forget about it…

Okay, I’ve officially hit stalker level.

It’s been a week since I went all gaga over Tall, Dark and Handsome, and despite several visits to Blacks, he’s been a no-show. Which is as I expected, if I’m honest. So last night I swallowed my pride and confronted Jackson. He was his friend. He’d know where Ash lived, and with some gentle persuasion he’d tell me.

What I didn’t expect was a grin as wide as the Thames is long and the information that Ash’s home address is just around the goddamn corner. It was obvious Jackson was matchmaking, and that gave me hope that whatever this connection between Ash and me is, it’s powerful enough for his friend to believe in it too.

So here I am, at six thirty on a Friday evening, nervously toying with my bag as I stare at the exclusive warehouse development before me. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but I’m not fooled. This postcode doesn’t come cheap, and whatever’s hidden on the other side is going to be just as exclusive…rather like the man himself.

And here’s another dose of truth: I didn’t expect him to be this well-off either. His rough, honest edge hinted at something more normal, something more ordinary—something I wanted to reach out and hold on to so bad.

All I have to do is ring the damn bell and, fingers crossed, he’ll be at home and willing.

So why I’m still standing here, ten minutes after my driver opened the car door to let me out, I don’t know.

Derek’s probably watching me from the car and wondering exactly the same thing. I must look like I’m losing my mind.

I pull my handbag tighter over my shoulder and scan my clothing. Today I’m dressed in black skinny jeans and a free-swinging white shirt—perfectly innocent and a complete contrast to the debauched ideas taking centre stage in my brain. My underwear is bang on, though. It may be white, but the crotchless panties and the revealing lace bra communicate exactly what I’m after.

I take a breath and look to the frosted glass of the double front doors ahead that give nothing away, at the brick archway above that appears far more daunting than it should, and butterflies kick up inside my belly.

What are you doing?

Fuck it, I’m doing what I want—screw the judgement and the doubts. I head for the door. Reality can be pushed away for a night at least. I deserve this. A bit of fun…a bit of—

The door swings open as I reach for the buzzer beside the entrance—the single, solitary buzzer. Christ, does he own the whole lot? And then he’s there, filling the opening, and I’m gaping like a fucking fool.

‘Coco?’

His surprised expression all but does me in. He’s even more handsome than I remember, his jaw still unshaven, his eyes just as piercing beneath his dark angled brow, all rugged, rough and—

His brow quirks.

Fucking get with it, Coco.

I straighten, my hands tight over the strap of my bag as I cling to it for solidarity when my legs want to give way.

‘Hi,’ I say—like this is totally expected, like I haven’t just stalked the bejesus out of him. ‘I thought we could do dinner…if you’re free?’

I struggle to hold his eyes. He’s doing it again: reading me and all my fucked-up mental chaos. I lower my gaze but stand firm. He’s wearing a deep blue shirt and dark denim jeans. Very smart. And as I breathe in, I get the welcoming scent of freshly applied cologne. He looks and smells date-worthy.

Oh, Christ, was I asking him on a date?

My eyes flick back to his and I see my double take reflected back at me.

‘How did you find me?’

Not quite the response I was hoping for…

‘Jackson gave me your address.’

Fire sizzles beneath my cheeks. Please, God, let my make-up do its job and stop me from looking crimson. I’m blonde, I’m freckly, I go red at the drop of a hat.

‘It’s not like I tailed you or anything. I’m not some stalker.’

I swear his skin pales. Shit. He thinks I am some stalker.

‘Jackson thought you could do with me swinging by.’

‘Jackson should mind his own bloody business.’

He scans the street, clearly on edge, and I feel the situation rapidly running away from me.

‘Look, it’s okay if you’re busy.’

‘I am.’

‘Going somewhere nice?’ I try for a smile and gesture to his outfit. He has the same number of buttons undone at the collar, the same hint of hair…

‘You shouldn’t be here, Coco.’

I realise I’m staring. Right at his chest. My palms are tickling with reignited memories. I pull my gaze back to his face and swallow past the desire-shaped wedge taking up camp in my throat. I hear his words, register their negativity, but there’s also his tone, and the pulse working like crazy in his jaw…

Is he really freaked out by me turning up? Or is he fighting the same forceful attraction?

Please let it be the latter.

‘No, you’re probably right…’ I take a breath and give him another smile, wanting to test the water. ‘But I can’t get our last meeting out of my head.’

His mouth tightens, his throat bobs. He says nothing, but his eyes tell me he’s reliving it too and I push on, my confidence returning. ‘I thought maybe we could…you know…see each other again?’

‘See each other?’

It rasps out, but his tough-guy exterior is at odds with the widening of his eyes. The rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights look makes him seem boyish and I give a soft laugh.

‘Don’t worry, Ash. I’m not asking you for a relationship…or even a real date…’ Although the truth was I’d take the date. ‘Only sex.’

I straighten on the last word, my chin jutting just a little, like I’m trying to convince him as well as myself.

‘You mean more distraction?’

‘Yes, if that’s what you want to call it.’

‘It’s what you called it.’

‘I did.’ I step closer and he tenses, backing away. ‘I’m not about to go all clingy on you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not like that.’

‘That’s not what I’m worried about.’ He shakes his head. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he says again.

‘No? Where should I be, then?’

His eyes move over me, hesitant, probing. ‘Seeing a counsellor, a professional—someone who can help you deal with what you’re going through.’

I laugh. I can’t help it. Is he for real? ‘I don’t need a therapist.’

‘I didn’t say you did. I’m just telling you I understand.’

He says it like he knows it. Like he’s lived it with me. And confusion, a sudden surge of sadness, has my temper sparking. ‘How can you possibly understand? I came to hook up with you again, not to be lectured. But of course you won’t get that, will you? Since I’m just a spoilt little rich girl?’

‘No, Coco, that’s not… You’re not…’ He rakes his fingers over the back of his head, turning away in frustration, tension thrumming off him in waves. ‘You just shouldn’t be here.’

‘Why?’

He stares back at me, the nerve in his jaw pulsing. He looks like he wants to say so much and yet nothing is coming.

‘Ash, what—’

‘You need to go.’ He raises his palm to me and avoids my eye.

‘Are you going to tell me the other night wasn’t fun?’ I’m going to make him acknowledge this, if nothing else. ‘Because I thought it was.’

His eyes flicker in my direction, that nerve in his jaw ever more pronounced.

‘I particularly loved the feel of you in my mouth.’

He sucks in a breath and damn if his cheeks don’t heat. The sight has my belly tripping out and the telltale warmth is quick to spread, killing off the sadness, the confusion, the anger. He’s like my on-and-off switch and I’m not ready to give up on him.

‘Coco, don’t do this.’

‘What?’ I say in mock innocence. I let my eyes drift over him, wetting my lips. ‘Or did you prefer sinking your fingers into me?’

‘Coco.’

He’s so tense, and I’m getting off on it now. Goading him, pushing him where I want him.

‘I’m not the man you think I am; you can’t play those games with me.’

‘Games?’ My smile is seductive, calm, the perfect front. ‘Who’s playing games? I’m being a straight shooter and telling you exactly what I want.’

His breath shudders out. ‘Go home, Coco. Before we do something we both regret.’

‘Regret?’ I frown. ‘How can we possibly have regrets? We’re just two strangers hooking up. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Everything’s wrong with it.’

‘Am I missing something? Do you have a girlfriend—or a wife?’

He’s shaking his head at me but I feel like I’m missing something huge and I can’t begin to imagine what.

‘Is that your car?’

His sudden change in tack has my frown deepening and I follow his gaze to where Derek waits for me.

‘Yes.’

‘Come on. I’ll walk you.’

Hell, no.

My laugh is harsh, almost manic. I glare back at him, confusion morphing into anger at his condescension.

‘Forget it. I’m not a child. I don’t need you to hold my hand. You don’t want me—that’s fair enough. But don’t patronise me while you reject me.’

I spin on my heel and force my stride to be steady as I head for the car. I won’t give him the satisfaction of racing off and letting him see how his words, his contradictory behaviour have hurt me. And I certainly won’t let him see the tears that come from nowhere.

Because they aren’t about him. They’re about everything else. His rejection has only served to trigger the whole damn lot.

‘Coco…’ he calls after me. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you.’

And now he’s offering out pity? I shake my head. No fucking way.

I’ve heard enough. I don’t turn. I don’t break stride. I head to my car and get in. I don’t dare look back at him until I’m safely locked away behind the privacy glass and the car is moving. Then I look and I see him standing there, confusion in his eyes.

‘Where to, my lady?’ Derek asks.

The last thing I want is to go home like this. I spent the morning with Granny, chatting with her doctors, the nurses, trying to mask the pain, to be strong. This foolish seduction was to have been my solace, my hope. Now that has failed, and I’m even more messed-up than before. The tears were living proof.

‘Blacks…please.’