Dirty Charmer Read online

  The Haddocks are distantly related by marriage to the Pembrooks. I’ve met Queen Lenora and her grandsons; Prince Nicholas and Henry are only a few years older than me. I like them all very much. They seem . . . warm, fun . . . at least when there aren’t too many people around to see it.

  It doesn’t feel right to imagine an affliction befalling the Queen just so I could make a name for myself.

  So I smile tightly and say, “Perhaps.”

  Tic-toc

  Grandmother nods and closes her organizer, then she rings the silver bell beside her bread plate, summoning the butler.

  “You may clear the table now, Grogg.”

  I stand and slip my textbook and laptop into my satchel.

  “My new trial begins this Friday,” Father says. “I’ll be away for the next few weeks.” Slowly, he gazes at each of us. “Be well, everyone.”

  “Be well, Father,” I return softly, and we all wish him success.

  Sterling, Athena and I don’t live on the estate grounds with my grandmother and parents. My flat is in the city near the hospital. But there is one additional reason I enjoy coming to brunch at Bumblebridge. I look out the window, towards the rear of the house, and glimpse creamy Italian marble and sparkling aquamarine water.

  As my grandmother walks past me towards the door to her private office, I tell her, “I’m going to swim a few laps to clear my head before heading to the hospital.”

  She pats my arm.

  “Whatever may help, darling.”

  Tic-toc

  * * *

  The swimming pool is my happy place—my meditation altar and my yoga mat. I love the rhythm of the breaststroke, the coordination of the front crawl, the weightless, worriless repetition of each smooth, gliding movement.

  Fifty good laps in the rectangular oasis later, I take off my goggles and float on my back into the middle, breathing slow and steady. My arms are out, eyes closed, muscles relaxed and my face tilted like a flower towards the warm summer sun.

  After a few moments, I swim over to the ladder and climb out, pulling off my swim cap and shaking out my wavy auburn hair. Just as I’m about to slip on a robe and head into the house to dress, a familiar sound comes from behind.

  Kersploosh

  I turn and gaze down into the pool—where a fat little frog floats on his belly on top of the water. I kneel down to grab him, but the little bugger kicks away.

  And I just can’t leave him, not when I know he’ll be bloated and drowned by morning. The small ones love to jump in, but they can never manage to find their way back out.

  I move down the steps into the waist-deep water—and I’m able to scoop him into my hands. “Gotcha!”

  Until he jumps right back out again.

  Kersploosh

  “Hey!” I trot after him. “Come back here, I’m trying to help you!”

  After a few minutes of thrashing and splashing, I capture the little ingrate and tell him in no uncertain terms, “You can’t swim in here. It’s not good for you. Can you please not be stubborn about this?”

  “I hope you’re not expecting him to answer,” a smooth, deep voice says from behind me.

  I whirl around and come face-to-face with the man I’ve tried very hard not to think about for the past two years. For a moment, all the breath rushes from my lungs, because kissing Tommy Sullivan was the most reckless, thrilling thing I’ve ever done. A spontaneous, insane lapse in judgement.

  And now he’s here, looking even more handsome than he did then.

  Broad-shouldered and tall, with careless hair, and full lips that I already know are strong yet soft—and very, very skilled.

  And I’m standing in a pool . . . holding a frog.

  Life is odd sometimes.

  “Of course not. The frog larynx isn’t sophisticated enough for speech. But I believe any living being can understand your intentions if you lay it out for them.”

  The corner of his mouth pulls up, like he’s amused. Then he crouches down and gestures for me to hand the creature over. He holds him in his large hands and looks him sternly in the eyes.

  “Stay out of the pool or I’ll stick a firecracker up your arse and blow you into pieces, mate.”

  Then he tosses him on the grass.

  “A bit violent, don’t you think?” I ask.

  “But effective.”

  As quick as I can, I get out of the pool and slip on my robe. The terry-cloth barrier makes me feel more confident, a shield against the grazing brown eyes watching my every move.

  “I remember you,” I inform him.

  “Happy to hear it, I like to make an impression.” He grins. “And I remember you—a woman who’s good with her hands and her tongue is not one I’d soon forget.”

  Tommy Sullivan is over six feet tall, and every inch of him is wicked. It emanates from him—in the slouch of his stance, the curl of his lip, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. He’s the kind of man who could make a girl forget herself, without even trying.

  “What in the world are you doing here?”

  He jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards the main house.

  “I just met with the Dowager Countess about the security position.”

  On occasion, when Father goes to trial against a particularly nasty adversary, temporary personal security is hired for the family as a precaution.

  “Aren’t you still on the Prince’s team?”

  He shakes his head. “After the fire at The Goat my partner, Logan, and I hung out our own shingle.” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, like he’s tasting something there. “What about you, Apple Blossom? Are you still at Highgrove working to become a physician?”

  “A surgeon,” I correct. “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s adorable.”

  “Adorable?” I don’t like his tone—it’s condescending. Cocky. I cross my arms and step towards him. “You think studying to become one of the best cardiovascular surgeons in the country is ‘adorable’?”

  He chuckles. “No, not actually, I just wanted to see you get riled up again. I figured that would do the trick.”

  “You like making women angry with you?”

  “Not typically. But there’s something about your ire that really does it for me.” He leans in closer—all smooth, suave and seductive. “You have a beautiful frown, sweets. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  His comment makes me frown harder. Which amuses him even further. Or maybe Tommy Sullivan just spends his whole life amused.

  “Masochist,” I counter.

  “Never gave that one a go.” His voice drops low. “But I’m game if you are—I’ll try anything once—and then, again and again if it appeals.”

  With that, his tone shifts, reverts to casual, making me feel unbalanced. Off-kilter.

  “Is your friend still there too? Henrietta? She seemed like a lively one.”

  I tilt my head towards him. “You remember that?”

  He nods. “Sure.”

  “Most concussed patients can’t recall details from the moments they first regain consciousness. That’s fascinating.”

  He takes it as a compliment, and taps his temple.

  “Big brain. You know what they say about men with big brains, don’t you? We’re big everywhere.”

  “Are you implying there’s a correlation between the size of your brain and the size of your genitals?”

  His brow furrows. “Well, I wouldn’t have used those words—ever. But yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Absurd. There’s no scientific evidence to support that claim.”

  “I could be an anomaly. I think you should investigate it firsthand—just to be certain.” He winks. “For science.”

  With the grace of an old screen movie star, he reaches into his suit pocket, takes out a pack of cigarettes and slips one into his mouth.

  It’s infuriating on so many levels.

  Before he can light it, I pluck it from his lips. “For God’s sake, man, it’s the twenty-first cen
tury. Do you know what smoking does to a human body?”

  I tick off the ailments on my fingers.

  “Lung cancer, stroke, heart disease . . . Have you ever seen someone with emphysema, struggling for just one tiny gasp of breath?”

  “Aren’t you delightful?” He snaps the silver lighter closed and slides it back into his pocket. “I bet you’re a real hit at parties.”

  Any calm and tranquility I found during my swim is gone now. I’m frazzled—like a live wire that’s been cut and spliced and is sparking at its ends.

  “I have to go. I’m not going to spend time chatting with someone who’s hell-bent and determined to end up speaking through an electrolarynx. I have a surgery this afternoon.”

  “Are you free afterwards?” he asks. “Would you fancy grabbing some dinner with me?”

  I pride myself on being a decisive person. An anticipator and a planner, clear and confident in my words and thoughts. I’m not a stammerer or stutterer. But Tommy Sullivan has a knack for turning me into both.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t have time for dinner.”

  He nods and moves in closer, so near I smell the warm, pleasant spice of his aftershave.

  “I understand, I’m quite busy these days too. We can skip dinner and just go straight to fucking.”

  My mouth drops, but before I can craft a reply, his rough fingertips tenderly touch my cheek.

  “It would be good between us. Can’t you feel it, Abby?”

  What I feel is a wobble in my joints and a knot of heat pulling tight and low in my stomach. It’s my name I think—the way he says it—like a secret promise of dirty delights.

  “I . . . don’t have time for that either.”

  “Now that’s a damn sin.” He dips his chin mournfully and places his hand on his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, lass.”

  I shake off whatever tempting spell he’s weaving, and straighten up.

  “Sounds like a medical condition. You should probably see someone about that.”

  I brush past him, walking up the path.

  “Is that an offer to examine me?” he calls. “I accept, anytime.”

  And the echo of that deep chuckle chases me all the way back to the house.

  Well, that was . . . interesting.

  But now I can put Tommy Sullivan right out of my mind—it’s not as if I’ll have to see him again. The Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge would never employ someone so . . . improper. Incorrigible. Incredibly good-looking, a cheeky voice sighs inside my head.

  But I ignore it.

  Because it doesn’t matter. Grandmother won’t hire him.

  I’m sure of it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tommy

  THE DOWAGER COUNTESS HIRES US the next day.

  It’s her man who makes the call—that’s usually how it works with the titled ones—assistants and secretaries do the legwork. Her insisting on personally interviewing me and Logan was unusual, but once we were in the library of the Bumblebridge estate, it made sense. She had control-freak micromanager written all over her. And her granddaughter is a chip off the old tiara.

  Abby Haddock.

  Technically, Lady Abigail. Technically-technically, Dr. Haddock—which is hot and inspires a plethora of naughty fantasies. But I like Abby best. It suits her.

  Christ, just thinking her name has me grinning like an idiot. One of those fools that go on about butterflies flapping in their stomach and walking around on cloud sixty-nine.

  There’s just something so enticing about her. Fierce and fascinating and fuck-all arousing. On the outside, she’s straitlaced, buttoned up and proper, but beneath the surface there’s more. A sharp wit, a willfulness, a fire.

  I remember the taste of it on my tongue—the taste of her.

  And I could feel it yesterday reeling me in like a randy moth towards a slick, simmering flame. I can’t wait to see her again, tease her again—make those pretty, pouty lips tighten in that kitten-fierce scowl again.

  And if I play my cards right—I’ll get to feel the scrape of her claws down my back, while I’m sliding deep inside, making her moan.

  Abby’d be a scratcher—definitely.

  That part will have to wait until after our job is finished, of course. I don’t mess around with clients. It’s a rule. While I’ve never put much stake in rules, in our line of work, messing around on the job is dangerous. If you’re getting off with the woman you’re supposed to be guarding, you’re sure as shit not paying attention to possible threats.

  At least not if you’re doing it right—and I always do it right.

  So, clients are off-limits. But former clients? They’re fair game.

  * * *

  “Keep your left up, Harry!”

  The private protection racket is not a huge industry. The clientele pool is small and there are only a few companies who can meet their needs.

  “Oh! Nice shot, Owen!”

  Reputation, word of mouth, is everything.

  Because those who require our services need to trust that we can keep them safe—and more importantly, that we’ll do so discreetly. Old Winston, who first hired me to be on Prince Nicholas’s team, used to say personal security is like a wireless fence that keeps the pups in the yard—impenetrable and invisible.

  “Somebody call the priest—Harry’s gonna need last rites!”

  You’ve got your celebrities, entertainers—they can be particular about ridiculous things and get prickly if a bodyguard steps into their shot or bars the wrong person from sitting at their VIP table. But it’s the politicians and dignitaries—bigwigs with pristine reputations—when things get really interesting.

  “Sweep the leg, Johnny!”

  I’m talking clandestine meetings, shady deals, bizarre compulsions, illnesses, secret lives and entire second fucking families. Once in a while, we’ll get a disgruntled citizen gone mad or a run-of-the-mill assassin . . . but on an average day, the biggest threat to our clients is the press. They’re usually chomping at the bit to sniff out any speck of dirt and splatter it across the front pages. Journalists are relentless, unmerciful and smart.

  We need to be smarter. And that doesn’t happen by accident.

  “He’s making a comeback! I told you he was a scrapper. Go, Harry, go!”

  I left school after Year 10 and Lo didn’t even get that far—but neither of us are stupid. Each round of new hires goes through seven weeks of training in defense, weapons and evasive driving. S&S Securities is housed in an abandoned warehouse that we refurbished into a reception area, offices and a full-sized gym with a shooting range and driving course out back.

  “Aaand time!” I call from outside the ropes of the ring, where our newest crop of recruits is rotating through sparring sessions. I reset the stopwatch around my neck, while Logan claps Harry and Owen on their backs.

  “Good match, boys.”

  Harry’s a lanky fellow with shoulder-length dark hair and a careless, cocky attitude—nothing gets under his skin. Owen is stocky with fists like two bricks, but young. His ID says he’s eighteen, but the baby fat of his cheeks and smooth, hairless chin make me think he’s more likely two years shy of that age. They’re East Amboy boys—a rough, poor neighborhood—but with the right guidance, they’ll grow into outstanding guards.

  Because when you come from nothing and belong to no one, you’ll do anything to protect something worth having.

  We only hire people with a raw skillset—they come to us like soggy, sad lumps of clay—and we mold them into polished, sleek, unbreakable shields. Also—we don’t hire dicks. It’s the Golden Rule. If a rotten apple will spoil the bunch, a full-blown wanker will make us all miserable.

  I scan the clipboard in my hands. “Beatrice, Walter—you’re up next.”

  Now this is going to be fun.

  Bea is a tiny blond thing, but she’s got mad skills. Her dad’s American, former CIA—real covert operations shit that the general public will never hear about. Her brothers are Special For
ces and from the time little Bea could walk, they taught her everything they knew.

  “Are you joking?” Walter asks, gazing down at Beatrice like she’s an insect we’re asking him to swat with a sledgehammer.

  “Threats don’t just come in large and ugly,” Logan explains. “You need to know how to take down the cute ones too.”

  Walter could be the twin brother of Lurch from The Addams Family. He’s six foot five, in his fifties, and solid as a tank. He’s a retired cop—too old to still be walking the beat but too young to waste away on his wife’s couch drinking beer and watching television all day.

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover, Walter,” I add, because I’m wise like that. “If you do, you’re just asking to get your throat sliced by a paper cut.”

  He shrugs, giving me a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you kind of look, and moves to the center of the ring.

  Bea hops side to side, fists up, chin down, threatening. “If you go easy on me, old man, I’ll rip your balls off and make them into earrings.”

  Creative shit-talking is always appreciated.

  Logan swings his arm down, starting the match, and I click the stopwatch. Bea immediately scurries up Walter’s back, wrapping her arm around his throat in a headlock, like a squirrel trying to take down a giant oak tree.

  As Walter tries to shake her off, the door to the windowless back room of the shop—it’s basically a broom closet—opens, and Stella walks towards me. She’s thin and pale with straight black hair. The black lipstick on her lips matches her black clothes and she has several shiny piercings scattered across her body.

  “The Haddock file,” she says in that reliably flat tone, handing me a thick binder.

  Stella and her twin brother, Amos, are our super-sleuth research team. They compile files on each client—quirks, kinks, debts, phobias, friends, enemies and routines—all the information we need to know, and some we wish we didn’t.