Vera

Tuesday, April 12

Great. Fucking great. I felt another migraine coming, like a wave of pain slowly washing my brain, starting from the left near my temple.

I needed sleep after pulling an all-nighter on another sexual harassment and unfair dismissal case. My client came to me in tears, alleging that her former boss sexually harassed her and made her uncomfortable with racist remarks. He fired her shortly after she objected. It was a good thing she had evidence. We had voicemails and text messages, including a dick pic… unimpressive but highly offensive.

I took a sip of my lemon-infused water and sighed loudly. On came the headphones, and I swam into my world of music. Last weekend was a blast, but kicking Mister X out of my bed was no joy. Not being one to cuddle after a one-night stand, I sent the boy home, reminding him to take his mask. Alistair Scott intrigued me. I couldn’t get him out of my head.

At nearly noon, my empty stomach grumbled, warning me I needed lunch. I switched the music off, removed my headphones, and opened my eyes to the view of… a crotch. Expensive dark-blue pants covered said crotch. The pants’ owner swayed his hips back and forth, arms bowed out, and hands shoved in his pockets.

Fuck me blind. Why was I staring at this crotch? Mind you, it was wrapped in fine Italian wool. I mean, the guy had excellent taste in fashion, but it was still a crotch. I scooted my chair away from my desk, pushing the wheels back.

“Do you mind?” I huffed, leaning back and folding my arms.

My gaze traveled from the crotch up to a slim torso, clothed in a crisp, white shirt and a dark-blue jacket, then upward to broad shoulders and a tanned neck above the thick, light-blue silk tie.

Now we’re talking. Nice body.

His low laugh rolled through the room, impossible to ignore. For a second, I forgot to breathe. Those curls, light brown streaked with gold, fell against his neck, catching the light like he was lit from the inside. There was something angelic about him, the kind of man you’d expect to be trouble only after you’d already fallen. I stared, wide-eyed. Definitely not your average guy.

His skin was smooth and tanned, no doubt from a recent sunny vacation on some exotic island. I wanted to touch his skin and explore every muscle. When our eyes locked, I knew he was no angel. His green eyes gleamed with lust, and his lips curved upward seductively.

“So, you’re the recruit,” he said, swinging his right foot back and forth. His hands were still in his pockets.

“And you must be Santa Claus,” I retorted, hoping he would bite. I loved a challenging fight, especially with good-looking strangers who invaded my space. “Has Christmas arrived? Have I been a good girl? Do I get my bonus?” I teased with a naughty smile.

“Oh, you’ll get your bonus, Mona Lisa.” The sexy stranger’s mouth twitched into a lopsided grin.

“Mona Lisa? And you’re Leo?”

“It depends on which one you’re referring to. DiCaprio or da Vinci?” Angel Eyes replied, taking one step forward. I caught a whiff of his fresh scent, which screamed out edgy masculinity and sweet temptation.

I tilted my head and glared at the handsome stranger, arms still folded. No pretty-boy face could fool me. “I’m busy. If you’re skirt-chasing, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Angel Eyes cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and shifted his stance to proclaim dominance. He pointed at my nameplate. “Vera Richland. Hmm. Do you know who I am?”

“Sure, you’re Alistair Scott. This building is named after your grandfather, and your family is connected to every business in Lester Harbor, including this firm.”

“Wow, I’m impressed. How did you know?”

I rolled my eyes. I Googled “Alistair Scott” because I was curious about the masked man who bought me champagne. “Sweetie, I know everything because I’m a goddess.”

“Ah. A goddess of what, may I dare to ask?” Alistair tilted his head as he swayed on his feet. His dewy-green eyes twinkled when he smiled, exposing his pristine teeth again.

I stared at him for a long minute before my laughter erupted, ripping apart the silent air. “I’m the goddess of badass fuckery. Now, if you don’t mind, Mister Scott, I have real work to do. Unlike some people, I don’t have delusions of grandeur.”

Alistair’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he laughed. “Delusions of grandeur? Wow.”

“Mister Scott, I have to work to earn money like other everyday people in this city.”

“Scotty, is Vera distracting you?”

Shit. My boss, Brenton McCormick, strolled in, tailored suit, slicked-back hair, and eyes cold enough to ice over Lake Michigan. The kind of man who could smile for the cameras and cut you down in the same breath. He leveled a stare at me that meant business.

“Not at all, Brent. Nice upgrade, you finally made this place look respectable,” Alistair said, giving him an approving nod.

Brenton smirked, falling right into step. “Lunch? I hope you’re buying, Scotty.”

“I always do,” Alistair said, strolling lazily toward his friend. “There’s a great place by the riverside… a Michelin star restaurant. It’s run by an Italian chef, a fellow by the name of Pietro, who’s known for his signature sauces.”

He placed his hand on Brenton’s shoulder as they walked out of my office. As soon as my boss was out of sight, Alistair stuck his head back in the doorway, winked with a mischievous grin, then disappeared.

I looked down at my desk and noticed his business card. When had he done that? I flipped the card over and saw his scrawl on the back: coffee date? I glanced at my messed-up business card holder. He had taken one of my cards in exchange.

Card hostage? Okay, two can play that game.

Alistair

Later that evening

Vera Kathryn Richland.

Twenty-seven years old.

She was born on April 1, which made her an Aries, a passionate and independent trailblazer. Aries women were magnetic, fiery, and temperamental, reflected in their sexual prowess. Lord have mercy. Vera was a little fireball ready to explode, and I wanted her.

Her mother’s heritage was English-Portuguese. Her father, an American, died from cancer when she was five. The bloody disease didn’t differentiate rich from poor, or good from bad. Ah, here was a copy of her high school report card from her senior year. Nearly straight A’s, except for Christian education: a C. “Vera is a warm, enthusiastic, and delightful young lady,” her teacher wrote. “However, she has a slight tendency to be dramatic. Nonetheless, she excelled in public speaking and debating.”

Remind me never to get into an argument with Mona Lisa.

I took a sip of my whiskey and continued reading her file. It came to me this evening in a single envelope. Money talks, that’s all I’ll say. Her brother… interesting. Julian Carpenter Richland, a professor at Montville State University’s archaeology department.

Wait a minute…shit.

I closed the file and rubbed my forehead. Of all the bad luck in the world, this one just hit me. Julian was my ex-wife Saira’s lover. A hired lover. A gigolo. I wondered if Vera knew her brother’s secret. I sighed, leaned into my lounge chair, and downed the rest of my whiskey. I felt the rich blend of the single malt wash away my worries, then continued reading.

Her mother did a terrific job raising both kids alone and got them into excellent Catholic private schools through a scholarship program for low-income families. Kudos to single parents. Vera excelled in contracts in law school. Hmm, I needed a good in-house lawyer. I could offer her a job, or I could just ask her out on a date. There wasn’t a problem I couldn’t fix, so I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” Vera’s voice, a blend of biting sweetness, responded at the other end.

Shit. I lost my vocal cords for a second, and it wasn’t from the whiskey.

“Hello? If this is a sick joke, you can hang up now.”

I cleared my throat and adjusted my collar. “Hello,” I managed to say.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s Alistair.”

Silence infiltrated the air.

“You took one of my business cards. They’re for clients,” Vera snapped.

“Hmm, well, I could be a client. I’m gunning for full custody of my son,” I replied.

“Are you not happy with your lawyer?”

“I am happy. Brenton’s representing me as of today.”

“Is that why you had lunch together?”

“Among other things. Listen, look. Can we meet up for coffee or dinner?”

“When?”

“How about Friday after work?” I suggested, hoping it wasn’t too soon.

“Where?”

“Arrivederci by the riverside? It’s where I took your boss for lunch today, and…”

“No.” That was a quick response from Vera.

“No?”

“I slept with the guy who runs the place, so no.”

“Oh,” was all I managed to say, feeling jealous.

“How about we try a place called Whistler’s Cove?” Vera suggested. “They have prime steak and craft beer.”

“Sure. Shall I pick you up from work at around six p.m.?”

“Make it seven. I won’t finish until seven tomorrow.”

“Seven it is. Don’t be late.”

“Sure thing, Alistair. I’ll see you then.”

The second I hung up, Erin’s name flashed on my screen with a new text.

I deleted the message. There was no time for regrets. I killed two birds with one stone during my visit to Brenton’s office today. He’d help me win full custody of my eleven-year-old son, Damian, and I met a wonderful woman with a bright future.

I wanted to get to know Vera Kathryn Richland and get her brother clear of whatever mess he’d landed with my ex-wife. If Saira had her hooks in Julian, she’d be watching everyone around him, including Vera.

If Vera wasn’t careful, Saira would make sure she paid the price.

Vera

Whistler’s Cove, Friday, April 15

“Do you normally stare at people while they look at the menu?” I glanced at Alistair, who wore an idiot’s grin at the dining table.

Judging by his Rolex watch, this guy owned a pretty pricey wardrobe. Money didn’t impress me. He had removed his tie and jacket and unbuttoned his collar. That, combined with his rolled-up sleeves, gave him an aura of casual sexiness and sensuality.

Hot damn.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to intimidate you,” he replied, then shrugged. “I was checking you out.”

“You weren’t intimidating me,” I said. “I’ve been stared at before. But I’m not used to being stared at with such ferocity.”

Alistair continued playing with his watch, then tapped his foot rapidly on the ground.

“You fidget a lot,” I observed.

“I have ADHD,” he admitted. “Contrary to popular belief, not everyone with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder is rowdy and loud. I was one of the quieter ones when I was diagnosed as a kid. I take my medication, and while it’s not a cure, it helps.”

“I didn’t mean to pry⁠—”

“Sweetheart, what you see is what you get.” Alistair’s eyes met mine with seriousness.

There was something I admired about a man who was humble enough to reveal his true self. I put my menu down. “I love your honesty. Thank you for the champagne the other night. It really wasn’t necessary.”

“I needed something to catch your attention,” he said, holding my gaze.

“It worked. You caught my attention for five seconds, but I was rather occupied that night.” Twirling my hair, I gave a teasing smile. “So were you.”

“You’re one of a kind.” Alistair chuckled and relaxed his shoulders, his fixed gaze still holding me captive

“What do you mean?” I stared coyly at him.

“I’ll be upfront with you. I like you. I’d fuck your sweet pussy now if we weren’t in a restaurant. I’m not a man who uses fancy words like a deck of cards. I speak what I think, and I don’t beat around the bush.”

I gazed at Alistair’s dark brows, his moving lips, and his square, shaven jaw. Not bad at all. Do you know the feeling of attraction growing as familiarity rises? I felt it.

“What’s your fetish?” Alistair asked. He leaned over the table and placed one hand over mine. He was close enough for me to catch his masculine scent, a spicy cologne blended with a cinnamon note.

“There’s bondage, spanking, body rubbing, and dirty talk. Plus, there’s nothing sexier than an intelligent man.” I winked at my date. “What’s your fetish?”

“Sugar, I’d like you to deep throat my cock. Then I want to taste your pussy and fuck you all night.” Alistair’s eyes targeted mine, and his lips quivered into a sly smile. “Do you dress up?”

“What? Do you mean, role-play?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I prefer being naked and natural. However, I do dress in a schoolgirl’s uniform on special occasions. You’ll need to bring a whip or a belt, though.”

“I knew it,” Alistair exclaimed. He leaned back and tapped the table three times. Grinning, he shifted his seating position and placed one finger on my arm, teasing it with his sensual touch.

“Shall I call you ‘Daddy’?” I placed my hand on his and drew light circles on his wrist, enticing him with my soft touch.

“You can call me ‘Daddy’ any time.” He grinned, pupils blown wide with the kind of craving that took what it wanted. Heat surged up my chest, hot and invasive. My desire morphed into something raw, aching. I wanted to take him. Right here. Right now.

I covered his hand with mine, locking in the heat between us as he leaned in, closing the space. The moment nearly combusted, until the door behind us swung open, slicing through it all with a cold draft.

“Can I take your order?” Barnaby, the badged waiter, interrupted our dirty exchange, glancing at Alistair’s Rolex.

“I’ll have a Guinness pie and a pint of Guinness,” I said.

“I’ll have a steak, fries, and a cola,” Alistair ordered, playing with his watch again.

“Whoa, don’t you want something fancier?” I asked, surprised by Alistair’s order. Here I was, sitting across the table from a real-life billionaire who chose the plainest dish on the menu.

“If I wanted fancy, Vera,” he murmured, moving in closer to whisper, “I would have taken you to Arrivederci. But no, feisty Mona Lisa insisted we avoid the place.”

“Oh, I do like fancy, Mister Scott. I have whipped cream, sweet chocolate, and fresh strawberries at home,” I teased, batting my eyelashes to add drama. I wore a little more mascara to emphasize my eyes.

“I might take your offer. Or I might not.” He winked, licking the left corner of his upper lip. “Call me Alistair. Or Scotty. Or Daddy.”

Oh, that dirty, dirty smile.

“Mister Scott,” I purred, drawing out the ‘o’ as I dragged my tongue over cherry-red lips. “That’s how I like it. You’re trouble.”

He matched my energy, eyes glinting. “Miss Richland. Guilty as charged—I play dirty.”

He slid another fry onto my plate. I didn’t thank him. Just leaned in, took it straight from his fingers, let my lips drag across his skin. A slow bite with wide eye contact.

I eased off my stilettos. My toes found his ankle, then climbed, slow, deliberate, up his calf and thigh until I felt him straining beneath the fabric. His fork paused mid-air.

I took another bite of pie like nothing was happening.

He passed me the last piece of his steak. I paused. His gaze held mine steadier now, like he saw more than just the games.

I opened my mouth. Took it. Let the bite melt on my tongue.

“So, are you single?” Alistair asked. He leaned in, his lips ghosting my cheek, but it was his hand that held the conversation. His fingers slid along the inside of my thigh, measured and unapologetic. The lace I wore offered nothing but a suggestion. One pearl nestled against my clit, slick with anticipation.

“I am available, Daddy.” I continued my fancy footwork on his jewels.

“You say you’re available. However, does that mean you’re single or in an open relationship?” Alistair asked.

“I’m single. Now, it’s my turn for questions. Do you believe in love?”

“I do.”

“You’ve been married before, and you’ve fathered a child with your ex-wife. Were you in love?”

“You really are a lawyer with those questions.” He let out a slow breath, eyes steady on mine. “The truth? I was never in love with my ex. But there was someone else. Someone I actually loved.”

I noticed his eyes crinkled when he gave a tight smile, indicating he was older than his youthful energy alluded. He could have passed as thirty. “Are you still in love with her?” I asked, sipping the rest of my beer.

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-six.”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Age is just a number.” Alistair sensually rubbed his thumb on my hand. “It’s what’s in our hearts that matters.”

“I know.” I threw him a sophic grin.

“Ah, there’s the Mona Lisa smile,” Alistair said, eyes lighting up like fireworks. “God, you are so fucking sexy, do you know that?”

“I know.” My foot continued to massage his groin in circular motions.

“Let’s talk about our experiences,” he suggested. “You’re an incredibly sexy woman, and I want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?” my voice hitched. “I keep my bedroom secrets locked.”

“I’ll start,” he said. “I enjoy BDSM. Whips, handcuffs, and spanking. How about you?”

Chuckling, I answered, “BDSM is part of my sex life. I also like to have some fun with two or more partners. What’s been your experience?”

“The more, the merrier,” he replied with a smirk.

“How many?”

“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know, sweetheart?”

“How about anal sex?” I asked. “Do you give, receive, or both?”

“I do both. Now, Vera, which gender do you prefer?”

“Mmm, both. And you?”

“I prefer women, but I’ve had sex with men,” Alistair confessed. “Age difference… younger or older?”

“I’ve been with both,” I admitted. “The youngest was a construction worker six years younger, and the oldest was a partner of a law firm in his mid-fifties.”

Alistair raised one eyebrow. “Interesting choices. My ex is an older woman, and the youngest I’ve been with is twenty-one. Tell me about your construction worker.”

“Oh, he was working near my apartment, and I happened to walk by. We started talking, and the rest is history.”

“What’s his name? Maybe I should hire him to fix a few things in my apartment building.”

“Do you expect me to remember names?” I scoffed, causing Alistair to laugh. “Moving along, what haven’t you done yet?” I asked.

“You,” Alistair said, staring at me. “I want you,” he repeated.

“Can I get you something else? Some coffee or dessert?” Barnaby bounced from behind me.

Way to go, Barnaby. Just fuck off, please.

Alistair scratched his upper wrist and tilted his head toward our waiter. “No, nothing for me. How about you?” His finger tickled my inner thigh.

“No, I’m good,” I answered.

“I’ll settle the bill,” Alistair said, then dipped his head low when Barnaby disappeared.

I couldn’t help but notice a tuft of short, curly chest hair below Alistair’s throat. He ran his fingers through a crown of light-brown curls on his head, which accentuated his handsome face’s sharp angles. I felt a voracious appetite for Alistair Scott, who looked like a tempting snack. My stomach was sated, but my pussy screamed for his cock.

I took his hand, which teased between my legs, and slipped it inside my thong so he felt my wet sex. I’m not ready to let you go, I wanted to say.

Alistair’s jungle-green eyes shone with a readiness to ravage me. He cleared his throat and asked the inevitable question. “My place or yours?”

“There’s a place I know where we can go. Do you trust me, Daddy?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I trust you.”

I was a huntress on a big-game hunt for megafauna, and my hunger was insatiable. I was ready to taste Alistair Scott.