Page 12 of Filthy Mouth

Or whatever your name is.

??????

I wasn’t in the mood for Sir Blythe and his games. This was our fourth meeting, and I’d wined and dined him with no results. At this point, I think he was just fucking with me. Anger built inside me when I saw he’d brought his wife out for a free meal today. I took a deep breath, reminding myself of what was at stake.

When I reached the table, they were arguing, but as soon as Sir Blythe’s eyes met mine, he nudged his wife.

As I sat down, the waiter brought me a menu.

“Benedict, this is my daughter, Poppy, but she was just leaving.”

I glanced up from the unopened menu and saw the cock-sucking, filthy-mouthed prostitute sitting across from me. Those lips were pinker. Fuller. And smiling.

“Hello, Daddy,” she said.

I began to choke, but she turned to her father.

“I meanbyefor now, Daddy.”

She stood up.

In a black pantsuit.

I was so disoriented I couldn’t tell if it was Ted Baker or Boss.

“No. Why don’t you stay and have lunch with us?” I said, standing up, ready to chase her.

“I’m sorry. I have a client to meet,” she said, glancing at her Fendi watch, toying with the thin gold band.

“Client!” I practically squeaked the word.

“Let her go. She needs to get back to work.”

“Work,” I echoed like a damn parrot.

She slowly licked her lips.

“Yes, a woman has to work in this economy. It was nice meeting you, Mr—”

“Lancaster,” I said, realising she’d played me like a fucking fiddle.

She smirked. A devil in designer heels. Then turned and walked away. The click of her heels rang in my ears. I absently rubbed my chest while staring at her arse until Sir Blythe cleared his throat.

Right, the father was still here.

I could pump the fat bastard for information.

When I glanced around, a waiter appeared immediately.

“A bottle of your best Glenfiddich,” I said, because Blythe wasn’t worth the Macallan.

Poppy fucking Blythe.

You’re on my radar now.

Chapter 6

Poppy