Getting Dirty. Rachael Stewart
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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.