Getting Dirty

by Rachael Stewart

  ‘My mother died when I was two,’ I say. ‘I only have her diary to go on, but let’s just say she was good with words. She loved my father and he never stopped loving her. The day he died he gave the diary to me—said I should learn what I could from her, that she was the role model I should aspire to.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I look at him, surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘For the loss of your parents...for not having them with you now.’

  I smile wistfully. ‘Life would be quite different.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have your brother, for a start.’

  There’s an edge to his voice that startles me, and he looks away, leaning forward to place his drink on the low-slung table before us as he clears his throat.

  ‘At least you have him,’ he adds, deadpan now.

  My laugh is sudden, harsh, wiping out my concern over his outburst seconds before. ‘We’re not that close. I think my stepmother fears I might lead him astray.’

  I shake my head and brush her away from my mind.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ he asks.

  Why? There are so many reasons why—starting with my mother and ending with me. ‘Because of my mother...who she was, what she did for a living.’

  ‘What does it matter what she did or who she was? You are you.’

  I don’t miss the fact that he doesn’t question what my mother did, that he already knows. He’s more aware of my family than I would ordinarily expect for a typical guy. Which explains why he knows of that magazine article too. But I won’t hold it against him. Why shouldn’t he know what the press are so quick to dish out?

  ‘If only it were that simple,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t imagine what life must have been like for you, growing up with a stepmother who sees you in that way. It must have been lonely.’

  He reaches over, his hand soft upon my shoulder, his thumb gently caressing, and I lean into the comfort he offers, grateful for it.

  ‘It would’ve been if not for Granny.’

  And it will be again when she’s gone.

  The pain hits me full force and I take a shuddery breath, trying to let it go.

  ‘You’re very close?’

  I nod, struggling to talk. ‘She’s been good to me. Life...life isn’t going to be the same when...when...’

  I can’t finish the sentence, let alone the thought.

  My fingers shake as I raise my glass to my lips and blink back the tears that threaten. ‘She has only weeks—maybe two months at most. The doctors don’t seem to know.’

  His hand reaches around me, drawing me in, and his other hand takes my glass from my unresisting fingers to place it on the side.

  I don’t realise I’m properly crying until I’m against his chest, the dampness of my tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt.

  My body shudders with the sobs I’ve kept trapped inside for so long, and the heaviness eases as I let go. I breathe in his scent, his warmth, his comfort, tuck my hands beneath my chin as I curl into his lap.

  Granny’s words—stiff upper lip, girl; never show people you’re weak or they’ll flock like vultures—run through me, mock me. But being with Ash isn’t part of a show, an act. It’s real, I’m real and it feels good.

  I snuggle down deeper against him and just let go...

  If he’s a vulture, I’ll happily build an aviary to keep him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I HOLD COCO to me, one hand smoothing over her hair, the other on her back. My heart pounds in my chest, so hard I fear she’ll hear every beat for what it is: my guilt, my deception...and something more.

  I care about her. There’s no use denying it. It’s as real as she is in my arms.

  I’m starting to get answers too. I’m willing to bet that the Duchess’s imminent death is the reason Philip Lauren is so desperate to discredit his sister. It’s clear the standard to which Coco believes she has to live her life, her grandmother demonstrated it by example and the slander Philip is after will pull her apart in the eyes of the Duchess. Heaven knows what would happen then. Whether the Duchess would, or indeed could, put family ties—love—over reputation and title.

  I want to dig deeper, ask Coco more questions, but I can’t just yet. The way she’s sobbing suggests she hasn’t cried in a long while, and this I can do: hold her while she lets go.

  ‘We’re not supposed to be talking about me.’ She sniffs eventually, and then gives an unladylike snort that makes my lips quirk.

  I bow my head and press a kiss to her hair, the scent of her shampoo teasing my senses and calming my pulse. ‘No? What are we supposed to be talking about?’

  She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and looks up at me, her big green eyes glistening and wide with so much emotion that it reaches inside me.

  ‘You,’ she says simply. ‘Why you became a private investigator.’

  I give her a small smile. She’s right, and I owe her this. I owe her a piece of me in return.

  I settle back into the sofa, pulling her with me, my eyes staring unseeing at the window ahead and the dark outdoors beyond.

  ‘When I was at university, a business deal my father was involved in came under scrutiny. It was serious. He was facing a long prison sentence. Our bank accounts were frozen, our assets seized. It was a living nightmare, the kind you so desperately want to wake up from—only you can’t.’

  She presses up off my chest. ‘Was he guilty?’

  ‘Everyone thought so, but it didn’t make any sense. My father was a good man...honest, kind; he brought my brother and me up in the same vein. Especially after Mum died. He’d always gone above and beyond. Then his best friend, Clive—he was my godfather too—started sowing seeds of doubt in our minds, telling us Dad hadn’t been right since Mum had passed, that he’d been gambling, drinking, the works...’

  I shake my head, remembering those conversations; the nausea that would come, the disbelief and the split loyalty.

  ‘I trusted Clive. He’d always been there for us and I figured he was trying to protect us, prepare us for what the future might hold.’

  ‘But he was lying?’

  I look at her. ‘Yes—every last word. I overheard him on the phone, talking about the deal to a man I later discovered was his lawyer. I heard enough to start digging. I couldn’t go back to university with it hanging over us; I couldn’t even afford to go back. I worked in bars to keep some money coming in and I looked into Clive and his dealings. He had no reason to suspect me; made it easy for me, really.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I gave every last scrap of evidence I could find to my father’s lawyer and it was enough to get the case thrown out and Clive convicted.’

  ‘Your poor father—it must have destroyed him, being betrayed like that.’

  ‘You could say that; he was certainly never the same. He’d lost his wife and his best friend in the space of a few years. Jake and I were all he had left.’

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘My brother.’ I clear my throat, clear the strain from my voice. ‘My father retired not long after—got a fishing retreat up in Scotland. He just couldn’t face the rat race any longer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I hold her tight against me, press her head into my chest and breathe...just breathe. I haven’t talked about it in so long, haven’t let the pain back in. Seeing the man you’ve admired for so long broken by the people he loved most...it’s another reason not to let anyone get close.

  I should be remembering that, not getting all cosy and exposed with her. But it’s too late for warnings.

  ‘Your father’s lucky to have such a clever son.’

  I laugh softly. ‘And your granny is lucky to have someone who loves her as you do.’

  She scoffs gently. ‘I’m not sure lucky is the word she would use.’

&
nbsp; I tilt her chin up to me, her green eyes lock with mine and I almost forget what I want to say as the need to kiss her beats into my consciousness.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You know that Austen quote—“a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife”?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Try it in reverse.’

  ‘Ah...she expects you to be married off.’

  She rolls her eyes with a sigh and slumps back against me. ‘Has done for years. She can’t understand why I haven’t brought someone home to meet her yet.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘No. Anything like that demands public attention, and it’s hard enough working out whether a relationship is going places without having press scrutiny on top. Besides, every guy I’ve ever met has shown his true colours eventually.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘They want what I can give them—money, title, the works. They’re not interested in me.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair.’

  She laughs against me. ‘Don’t judge people by your standards—you’re an exception.’

  ‘I am?’ It’s so quiet, my own surprise at her knee-jerk remark takes my breath away.

  And then she looks up at me again, her eyes narrowed as she considers me.

  ‘I think so. The second you met me, you told me I wasn’t your type.’

  My lips lift. ‘And you’re taking that to be a good thing?’

  She reaches up to cup my jaw, her thumb brushing over my lower lip, her eyes tracing the move. ‘Yes. You meant it when you said it. I get the feeling you don’t go in for people like me; you like life a little less complicated.’

  ‘And what about you? What do you—’

  She cuts me off with her lips, my question answered before I even ask it. She wants me. And, Christ, I want her.

  I know I have to come clean and tell her the truth—it’s too big a lie...a secret. But not yet—not until I’m sure of the facts. Not until I’m sure she can’t get hurt, sure that her reputation is safe and her brother is dealt with for good. Then I can confess. Then she can face off Philip and deal with him.

  And then she can face off you too...

  My blood runs cold—fear, guilt, what ifs plaguing my mind—and I kiss her all the more, pushing them away. Her fingers slip beneath my shirt, her exploration rough, hungry, desperate. I return it all twice as hard, twice as needy.

  She moans against my lips and I stand, taking her with me.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asks as I pull her along.

  ‘Bed.’

  I want her to know how special she is. Not because of her money, her family name—none of it. Only because of her.

  I turn the lights on low when we reach the bedroom and stop before the bed. I turn her to face me, my eyes locking with hers, and silently I undress her. My fingers are soft and unhurried as I take my time over her and I love it that she lets me.

  Her shirt floats to the floor, her bra too. I unfasten her jeans and slip my hands beneath her knickers, smoothing them down her legs, her soft calves, her dainty feet with those delicate red-tipped toes. She steps out, her fingers soft on my shoulder for support, and then I toss them aside and rise back up. She stares up at me...so trusting, so beautiful.

  ‘Let me show you how special you are,’ I say into her eyes, and I pull my own shirt over my head, letting it fall to join hers. ‘Let me show you it’s about you.’

  I dip to taste her lips, a sweep of my tongue against hers parting her lips further and taking the whimper that she utters.

  ‘It’s not about your name...’

  I stroke my hands up her sides, my palms gentle as they cup her breasts, my thumbs rolling over the peaks already tightening against my touch.

  ‘It’s not about your status...’

  I whisper a path along her jawline to her ear.

  ‘Your money...’ I scrape my teeth over her earlobe and she shudders into me. ‘Your title...’

  I lift her up and she wraps her legs around me.

  ‘This is about you.’

  I take her to the bed and lay her down softly.

  ‘You, Coco.’

  Her eyes glisten and blaze all at once and my chest is fit to burst with the crazy swell of emotion spilling over. I kiss her until it eases, until I can breathe fully, but instead it grows, and she’s kissing me back now, pleading for release.

  I force myself to slow down. ‘Patience...’

  ‘I don’t do—’

  I silence her rebuke with another tongue-sinking kiss and she moans.

  ‘We’ve covered that one,’ I say, breaking away to sweep along the collarbone that had teased the hell out of me earlier to the curve of her shoulder.

  She wriggles and rakes her nails down my back, demanding more. I nip at her skin in return. She tries to unfasten my jeans and I grab her hands, forking my fingers through hers as I press them back on either side of her head.

  ‘Stay.’

  She looks like she’s going to argue, so I instruct her before she can.

  ‘Every time you move your hands, I’ll stop.’

  She bites into her bottom lip.

  ‘Understand?’

  She nods.

  ‘Let me...’

  Let me love you was the shocking phrase that rode my tongue, ready to leap out, and I flick my gaze away in order to regain control.

  This isn’t love. I hardly know her.

  Not true. You’ve lived in her shadow for weeks...

  But I am done with that emotion. I only care because of the part I’ve played to date, working for her brother’s money. It’s just my guilt, intensifying everything else.

  * * *

  I can’t breathe. The world halted with his words... Let me...

  Let me...what?

  I’m still trapped in the heat of his look. It doesn’t matter that his eyes have fallen away. He’s still got me. Immersed in the passion I can read. The passion and something more—something visceral that calls to a part of me I’ve never dared expose before. A part that makes me vulnerable.

  He lifts his head and my lashes flutter as I search his depths, reaching for that same look, that same connection, waiting for his words to come.

  ‘Let me...have this.’

  Have this?

  It’s not the mammoth confession I’ve surprised myself into wanting. It’s simple. It’s all I should expect. And it’s enough. For all he’s done for me in the short space of time I’ve known him, helping me to feel real, to be me, I’d let him have anything.

  I nod and raise my head to his, dutifully keeping my hands pinned, forked in his. He meets me halfway, his kiss soft, tender, and he doesn’t stop until I slacken beneath him, my fingers relaxing. He releases one hand to cup my thigh, his palm hot and searing against my skin as he bends my leg. He releases the other hand and does the same with my other leg, spreading me open beneath him, and then he rises.

  ‘Stay,’ he commands again, his eyes on fire as they trail down my body.

  Anticipation has fire licking through my loins and I nod, my mouth slack as I wait...and wait.

  His finger trails a path down my front, around each mound. ‘You are so perfect...’

  My subconscious wants to scream, I’m not! I’m so far from it. But I can’t speak. I am so caught in his spell as I lie there, open to his gaze, his touch. He traces my navel and my belly tightens. Beneath, my clit is waiting for that first touch.

  But it doesn’t come. Instead he backs away and lowers his head. ‘I bet you taste perfect too.’

  I let out a moan and then he’s there, his fingers parting me for the arrival of his mouth, and my belly launches into my throat, the surge of sensation making my body arch as my head presses back, my hands
twist to claw at the quilt.

  ‘Fuck...’ I curse, my eyes squeezed tight.

  He is a master, a true, bona fide expert, with the kind of skill that’s born of experience. And, Christ, I’d know. I’ve given and received enough times. Jealousy claws its way back in but he sucks over me, banishing the unwelcome thought.

  He’s all flicks and sips, his tongue rough, his stubble rougher. Oh, hell. I pull at the bedding, my thighs straining to close, but his hands are there, pressing them wider, and his growl of contentment is working over me.

  ‘Ash... Ash...’

  I’m practically pulling myself up the bed, the intense streaks of pleasure impossible to control, his mouth unrelenting—and then I am shattering, the explosion inside so intense, so fierce, I can’t breathe for it. And even then he doesn’t stop. But I’m too sensitive—it’s too many waves, too much.

  I start to pant, one hand flying to his head, clawing at him, as my lower half bucks with every sweep of his tongue. And then I feel that heated tension rebuild and I can’t believe it—it’s not possible... Just...not...possible! And then I’m not only at the peak, I’m riding above it, and the resurgence of pleasure is so startling, so acute, I can do nothing but grip the back of his head and stare as the sensation builds to an almighty crescendo and then I am convulsing, wild, lost, euphoric.

  I rock forward, both hands hugging him to my pussy as I ride it out. Wave after wave. And then he rises up and I pull him to me. I feel raw, exposed, wanted, and I throw it all into a kiss. I taste myself on him and tongue him deeper, unable to get enough. His arms surround me and I’m trembling, struck dumb by what just happened. By all of it. By him.

  He lies down and takes me with him, our mouths still joined. And I realise I’m not sure I can ever get enough of this—not ever. I want a future. I want it all.

  I slow the kiss and break away, waiting for his eyes to meet mine.

  Ask him. Just ask him.

  The words hang in my throat. I’m scared of rejection. Scared of acceptance.

  ‘I know we said this was just about sex...’

  I feel his chest still, spy the sudden tension around his eyes and curse my big mouth.