by Roxy Sloane
And fuck that ring on her finger, too. In my long, hard experience, that doesn’t make a blind bit of difference—especially when they’re looking at me like a prime cut of steak when they’ve been on a diet too long.
Except Chloe.
I was surprised, I haven’t had a woman shut me down like that since, well, never. No flirting, no hiding the ring, either. And sure, she looked, but everything about her screamed “hands off.”
So is she really in love with this Max guy?
Nah. More likely she’s got her eye on the prize, and those fifteen carats on her finger are just the beginning. The minute there’s a gold band joining it, she’s got her hooks into a slice of the Mainwaring fortune worth millions. No wonder she thinks a quick fuck isn’t worth the price.
She just doesn’t know yet: with me, it would be.
*
Back at my office, I’ve barely gotten the door unlocked before the girls from next door appear in the hallway. “Hi Jase,” they chorus, looking hot and sweaty in tiny Lycra booty shorts.
Yeah, setting up shop next door to a yoga studio has its perks.
“Molly, Jules, how’s it going, ladies?”
“Awesome. But you look kind of tense.” Molly comes closer. She reaches up on tiptoes to massage my shoulders. “When are we going to get you into a class?”
“Hot yoga,” Jules agrees. “Your body sweats all the toxins right out.”
“No thanks, love. The only time I break a sweat is in the boxing ring.”
Or in bed. I’m still imagining Chloe’s lithe body twisting up in a pretzel and could use the release. But I know better than to shit where I eat, and as sexy as these girls are, I’m not in the market for morning-after drama, not when there’s work to be done.
“You should stop by anyway.” Jules winks. “You can watch.”
I laugh. “Don’t tempt me, darlin’.”
They head back to their studio, and I get inside. My office used to be a tailor’s shop, a real old-world guy from Italy, so I pretty much left it be. Two rooms, private and dark, just the way I like it. Today, I’ve got emails waiting, and wouldn’t you know? They’re all about my new case.
Mrs. Mainwaring-to-be.
You came highly recommended, but I’m not seeing results.
I tried calling you twice today, what have you found?
Call me!
I hit delete. Someone’s getting antsy. I don’t know who’s behind the anonymous email account—or the fat retainer—but whoever they are, they want dirt on Chloe Archer, and fast. They said it was just a regular background check, but it’s clear from the daily demands there’s nothing regular about it.
I’d bet good money one of those posh Mainwarings isn’t so thrilled about Maxwell’s whirlwind romance, and want to check out the skeletons in Chloe’s closet before she says “I do.”
I don’t care. It’s not my job to worry about what my clients are going to do with all the dirty little secrets I uncover. I’m here to get in, get paid, and get out. No mess. No drama. And even though I’ve yet to hit pay-dirt on Chloe, I know it won’t be long.
Everyone’s got something to hide, no matter how innocent they seem. You’ve just got to know where to look.
For this one, I need to dig a little deeper than usual, so I go meet my mate Logan down at his local—a rowdy Irish bar just down the block. We met years ago at a boxing gym here in town, and it’s my version of a beautiful friendship: we beat the shit out of each other, then go get pissed on a few pints.
And the fact he’s a cop helps, too. He slips me information from the police networks, and I help him out sometimes through less . . . official channels.
“What have you got for me?” Logan demands the minute I make it through the doors. It’s packed and rowdy, even early, and there’s already a group of women making eyes at him down the bar.
“Is that any way to greet an old pal?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Logan rolls his eyes and gestures to the old bartender for a couple of pints. Not that designer bottled bullshit, no, I’m talking good old Irish bitter, thick enough to stand on its own. He slides me a glass and waits while I take a long drink.
“Well?”
“Easy, pretty boy.” I send a wink to the blonde girl leaning over the bar so far, it’s a wonder she hasn’t toppled right over. I’ve got a clean view down the front of her dress spilling a pair of lush, pillowy tits out of red lace. Hello.
“C’mon, Jase. You know I’m in a bind.”
“Alright, mate.” I drag my attention back. The blonde will wait—until closing time, at least. Then me, my cock, and those breasts are going to have ourselves some fun.
Logan is still looking impatient so I pull a crumpled sheet of paper from my back pocket. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” Logan scans the page, then breaks out in a smile. “Where the fuck do you find this stuff? This’ll nail the asshole for sure.”
I give a shrug. Logan’s been trying to throw the book at some wife-beating piece of shit all year now, but the guy’s slippery as a well-oiled pussy. He’s kept his rep clean, got a whole list of character references swearing up and down he’s never so much as laid a hand on the missus, and meanwhile, she’s in and out of the ER every month, too scared to ever press charges.
My dad used to pull the same shit—beating my mum black and blue until I got old enough to stand my ground. I can’t tolerate it, so I did some digging, and found a couple of dodgy accounts and some off-shore holdings. He thought he’d hidden them deep enough.
He was wrong.
“Tax fraud.” Logan shakes his head. “It’s not the point, but I’ll take it.”
“Hey, it worked for Al Capone. I already sent it to my guy at the IRS.”
“You have a guy at the IRS?”
“Girl, actually. And she’s a real ball-breaker, too. I told her about our little friend, and she’s ready to tear his life apart and smile as he begs for mercy. Auditors.” I raise my glass in a toast. “You don’t want to fuck with them.”
That’s something I learned in the ring: sometimes the best hit is the one they don’t see coming. I could have paid this guy a visit and shown him what happens when you pick on someone weaker, but men like that cry “lawyer” at the smallest thing. Better to destroy him in a way that won’t blow back on her.
“I owe you, buddy,” Logan says, tucking the paper away. “Let me know if you need anything.”
There’s my cue. “There is this one case. I’ve done the usual diligence, but she’s coming up clean.”
“Cheating wife?” Logan knows my bread-and-butter business.
I shake my head. “Nah, she blew me off. And if she’s getting it elsewhere, she would never have passed up the chance.”
Logan snorts. “How you walk around with that ego dragging you down, I’ll never know.”
“That’s not my ego, it’s my balls.”
He groans. “C’mon, dude.”
“She will.” I make eye contact with the blonde again—or, more accurately, ten inches below her eyes. What I could do with those lush tits . . .
Logan snaps his fingers. “Focus. You wanted a favor?”
“Chloe Archer,” I tell him. “Background, record check, see what you can find. She moved here from Chicago, used to be a ballerina, far as I can tell.”
Logan types a note in his phone. “I’ll make some calls.”
“She seems pretty innocent, but I don’t know, I get a vibe from this girl.”
“Not enough, though.” Logan grins. “The great Jase Banner, striking out. How does it feel?”
“I’ll live.” I drain my pint. The blonde is on her way over now, and I’ve got some time before my next appointment. Long enough to leave an autograph on those breasts, at least. And I’m not talking about my name.
“Call me when you get a hit. She’s hiding something, I can tell.”
4.
CHLOE
I meet my best friend and roommate, Amanda, for drinks aft
er work. It’s still warm enough to sit outside, so we squeeze in at a table in the back patio of a pub downtown, trying to keep our drinks from spilling every time someone jostles past.
“Watch it, asshole!” Amanda exclaims, grabbing her beer to safety. There’s a game on, so the place is rowdy with sports fans.
“Bite me,” the reply comes, and she flips her middle finger.
I laugh. “You think he cares?”
“Nope.” She smiles. “But it sure makes me feel better.”
“Rough day?”
Amanda sighs. “The worst. Three tables stiffed me on their tips, and I just heard from Becca, she can’t help me out at the market for the rest of the month.”
I give her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry.”
Amanda waitresses by day, but by night, she’s busy building the next big skincare empire. She mixes all her recipes in our apartment, cooking up amazing natural ingredients in the kitchen to sell at farmers’ markets on the weekend.
She fixes me with a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose you could fill in? It’s just for a couple of weeks.”
“I don’t know . . . we have all these open houses.”
“Pretty please?” Amanda begs. “With a cherry on top? I’ll give you free moisturizer for life!”
I laugh. “You already do that for letting you treat our apartment like a science lab!”
“OK, eye cream then,” Amanda agrees. “I just figured out a new recipe, and you’re starting to get some wrinkles there . . .”
My hands fly up to my face. “Am not!”
“OK, fine, you’re not.” Amanda rolls her eyes. “You could still pass for eighteen, your skin is so perfect. I hate you, you know.”
I laugh. “You’d look like this too if you didn’t see sunlight for like, ten years. Trust me, it’s hard to get a tan when you’re turning pirouettes ten hours a day.”
“I wish I’d been a dancer,” Amanda sighs. “I spent high school sitting in the library shoving Doritos in my face while you were off being skinny and graceful in those cute tutus.”
“It wasn’t glamorous,” I tell her, remembering it with a dark pang. “Trust me.”
“What about you? How did the open house go?”
I get a flash of Jase Banner’s face, that dangerous sexy smile. “Fine.”
Amanda studies me. “Wait, what just happened?”
“Nothing.” I take a sip of beer, then pause. “Just . . . there was this guy there.”
Her eyes widen. “Was he hot?”
I sigh. “So freaking hot. But nothing happened!” I protest quickly, flushing. “I mean, he flirted a little, but he saw the ring. We talked about Max, I was totally professional. I just . . . feel bad. For looking, you know?”
“What were you supposed to do, close your eyes?” Amanda counters. “Come on, it’s not like you’d ever cheat.”
“No,” I say immediately. “But it’s still wrong, to think about a guy like that when I’m getting married. Isn’t it?”
She laughs. “Looking isn’t a crime. You think Prince Charming doesn’t check out every hot girl that passes him by?”
“Max does what?” I pause, thrown. “You’ve seen him staring at other women?”
Amanda coughs and looks away. “Just sometimes, like you did with this guy. It’s natural. I mean, just because you look doesn’t mean you’re going to touch, right?”
“Of course not.” I say it automatically.
“Then there you go.” Amanda fixes me with a look. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless this isn’t about Mr. Sexy Pants at the open house. Maybe you’re getting cold feet.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not it.”
“Really?” Amanda looks at me carefully. “Things have been moving so fast with Prince Charming. I mean, the minute you met, he started showering you with gifts and flowers, and then suddenly you’re engaged? It’s OK if you want to pause and take a breath.”
“I don’t want to pause,” I say, even though I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. “Max is perfect,” I insist. “He’s sweet, and kind, and wants to take care of me.”
“Still . . .” Amanda bites her lip. “I don’t want you rushing into this. You should take the time to get to know him. Find out if he’s really as perfect as he seems.”
I give her a reassuring smile. “Nobody’s rushing. The wedding isn’t until a year from now, remember? That’s plenty of time. And Max is perfect,” I add. “I’m lucky he even looked at me at all.”
My phone buzzes with a text. “See, it’s him now,” I say, checking the screen. “Can’t wait to see you, baby.” I read aloud, smiling. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“That’s right, I forgot about the party,” Amanda says. “What is it this time—Rich People Supporting Fancy Art?”
I smile. Busted. “The Boston Philharmonic Season Gala.”
“So I guess that means you won’t stay for another drink?”
I shake my head, and reach for my purse. “Sorry, I should go get ready. But I’ll come work the market with you this weekend.”
Amanda lights up. “Thank you, thank you! And remember,” she adds, calling before I leave, “if anyone asks how you’re looking so radiant, tell them Amanda Bryant skincare!”
*
I take the subway home, thinking about what Amanda said. Maybe I am overthinking this—it’s OK to notice another guy’s attractive, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever accept Jase’s dirty invitations, however hot he made me feel. Max is the man I’m marrying, and he’s the perfect gentleman. Kind, and sweet, and attentive . . .
My friends are right, it’s like something out of a fairytale. One minute I’m rushing down the street, running late with Marcie’s morning coffee, and the next, a handsome stranger is picking me up off the ground. He even presented my broken heel to me like it was the crown jewels. My very own Prince Charming—and the nickname stuck. After that, it was a whirlwind of romantic dates, gorgeous flower bouquets, and candlelit dinners. I couldn’t believe it. My dating life before him was pretty ordinary—guys would ask me out to dinner and a movie, or a concert sometimes if a rock band was in town, but now I’m being whisked off to New York for the night to the theatre, and dining at the best restaurants in the city. I’ve felt like I’ve been floating six feet off the ground, but still, I never expected him to propose, not when we’d known each other barely three months. But he dropped to one knee during his parents’ anniversary dinner and asked me to marry him, in front of everyone.
One little question, and my life would be like this forever. What else could I say but “yes”?
Except maybe it’s all moving too fast . . .
My phone buzzes again when I’m just a block from home, and this time, it’s Max calling me.
“Hey beautiful,” he says when I answer, and I can’t help but smile.
“Hey, I’m just on my way home.”
“Good. I had a little surprise sent over.”
“Max!” I laugh, touched. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know, I wanted to. It’s for the gala tonight. I’m coming straight from the office, so I’ll send a car for you. It’ll pick you up at eight.”
Max hangs up, and I climb the stairs to the apartment I share with Amanda. It’s just a small space, with pipes that freeze every winter and a view of the trashcans out back, but it’s tucked on a cute street in the North End, with a bakery on the corner that serves the best coffee around. As I reach our door, I see the surprise Max talked about: a huge box emblazoned with the Bergdorf’s label, with two more boxes piled on top.
I can’t help but feel a skip of excitement as I open up and carry them inside. Every day with Max is like my birthday. Even though I’ve tried to make him stop, he still showers me with gifts all the time, and I never know what I’m going to find inside. This time, I lift the lid and peel back layers of tissue paper to find a formal gown, floor-length layers in beaded green
satin. There are silver Jimmy Choo sandals in another box, and a tiny beaded clutch purse too.
Everything is designer, gorgeously made. It’s not really my style, but even I can see how beautiful every detail is. I don’t even want to think about how much this all cost.
I take a quick shower and change into the outfit, one eye on the clock. The dress fits perfectly, but I knew it would. Max had me give my dress and shoe sizes to his secretary when we first started dating—“just in case,” he told me with a wink. Now he sends me a new outfit every other week: fancy gowns and prim sundresses to wear at all the big Mainwaring functions. To tell the truth, it’s a relief: my wardrobe is more H&M than Hermes, and there’s no way I can keep up on my junior agent salary.
I fix my hair back in a simple twist, put on some lipstick and mascara, and give myself a final look in the mirror. I look great: sophisticated and luxurious. But for some reason, Jase Banner’s words echo in my mind.
“You’re simple. Elegant. Beautiful.”
This dress is anything but simple. I’m weighed down with all the beading, glittering like a Christmas ornament whenever I catch the light. I know that Max is trying to help, giving me gifts like this so I don’t feel out of place in his society crowd, but suddenly, I don’t feel like dressing up like everyone else tonight.
My phone sounds. The car is waiting downstairs. I pick up the purse and head for the door, then stop.
Max said everyone wants to get to know me, but how can they do that if I’m still nervously playing pretend?
It doesn’t take me a moment to wriggle out of the beaded gown and grab another dress from my closet. It’s my favorite: floor-length in blushed ballerina pink. I found it in a vintage store, years ago, and fell in love at first sight with the simple column of silk and delicate spaghetti straps. The fabric slithers over my head, and when I look in the mirror again, I finally recognize the girl staring back at me.
That’s me.