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
