Trouble walked into his office on six-inch heels…
Harry Stone is a hard-bitten private detective, and when Vanessa Bouvier sashays into his office, a broad in trouble, the money she's offering him to take her case is only part of a hot package. Her two-timing rat of a husband has scammed her out of a valuable diamond necklace, and she'll do whatever it takes to make Harry take the case.
But soon he realises Vanessa isn't in trouble—she is trouble. The necklace was never hers to begin with, and she's sweet-talked Harry right into the middle of a hustle.
There are three things Harry can't resist—whisky, women and trouble. And while he usually works with the good guys, this time his gut tells him to go with the girl. Can Harry get his hands on the million-dollar ice and thaw the heart of the stone-cold dame who's stolen his?
Reader Advisory: This story contains a brief scene of mild, consensual breathplay that could leave you gasping.
General Release Date: 6th February 2012
Harry Stone put his feet on his ancient, battle-scarred desk and tilted back his chair. He tossed down the glass of cheap whisky and stared at the words ‘Harry Stone, Private Detective’ written backwards on the frosted glass of his office door.
It was a small, ugly office in a cheap, nasty part of town, and though Harry’s services didn’t come cheap, they sure were nasty sometimes. Poking cameras through open bedroom windows to get shots of some married man doing his secretary. Collecting on debts in a city where scumbags prospered and hard-working everyday Joes were given the shaft. Sometimes he got big cases—some broad who’d been slipping rat poison into her sugar-daddy’s nightcap while he was slipping his dick to her, or a crooked politician who’d been running shady deals on the taxpayer’s dime. But most of what he got was proof that this city—his city—was full of crooks and dupes, and if you weren’t the first, you’d end up being the second.
He didn’t like the work anymore, didn’t like the ugly truths it shoved into his face day after day. But he was a few bucks away from the bailiffs coming knocking, and even the cheap bootleg whisky he drank didn’t come for free.
So when someone rapped at his door, he sat up straight, slammed the empty whisky glass away in a drawer, and studied the paper on his desk with a frown he hoped made him look all business. The note was an inside tip he’d got on a horse race from a tout who owed him a favour, but the client didn’t need to know that. And the tip hadn’t panned out anyway—he’d blown his last fifty bucks on a nag that should have been boiled down for glue.
When the door opened and Marco Fenelli walked in, Harry balled the paper up in his fist and tossed it towards the trash can. He missed.
“Marco,” he said. “What’s the word on the street?”
Marco took the chair on the other side of the desk, puffing for breath, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead from the three-storey climb to Harry’s office. The swarthy, running-to-fat Italian was a buddy from the days when Harry had been firmly on the side of the angels. They’d been rookie cops together before Harry had taken a bullet for Marco—a bullet that had put him on the breadline before he’d decided to use his knowledge of the city’s criminal underclass to become a private eye. It was a different world he lived in now, a world where things weren’t as black and white. Harry’s stock-in-trade was shades of grey.
“Nothing much,” said his former partner. “Nothing much.”
Harry was disappointed. Marco was a man who knew about loyalty, and although he was still on the force and Harry was a gumshoe working for money, not for justice, Marco still consulted him about cases he thought Harry could help with. It didn’t pay, but it kept Harry’s stock up with the people who dealt in black and white, and it made him feel like he was still one of the good guys.
Fleur T Reid is a romantic at heart, who thinks what the world needs is more whimsy. She lives partly in England but mostly in Cyberspace. She enjoys dreadful puns and naughty MF and m?nage stories, and believes the best way to have a good time is by being bad.
Reviewed by Customer
toss your fedoras on the nearest hat rack, pour a bourbon in a shot glass and prop your feet up on the nearest divan to enjoy a fun romp of nostalgia with enough eroticism and sex to curl your toes...I...
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Reviewed by Miz Love Loves Books
Super-talented author, a very well-written book, and I seriously cannot wait for her next tale. She's in my notebook of auto-buy authors. Yes, she's that damn good!...Out of this world. A...
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