☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
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Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Rose. The interloper.
What the fuck was she doing here? Princess Rose was supposed to be out. She was supposed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Not waltzing into Liam's study like she owned the fucking place, interrupting the single most coveted interlude of Kitty's week.
“Can't you fuckin' knock?!” Kitty demanded. Eyes narrowed in disdain, she glared at the privileged little blonde, willing her perfect golden hair to catch fire.
“I— Um— That is to say…” Rose stammered. “Apologies?”
Liam jerked away from Kitty as though her skin had scalded him. Clearing his throat, he did up the first couple buttons of his trousers — which Kitty had only just managed to get open — then turned toward Rose.
“Your timing's brilliant. Well done,” he remarked. He made a brusque motion between the two women. “Rose, this is my secretary, Kitty Ross. Kitty, my houseguest, Rose Sinclair.”
Kitty's lip curled in a sneer. “We've met,” she spat.
“We have, indeed,” Rose said with a weak smile. “Um, hello. Again.”
With a toss of her hair, Kitty shot Liam an expectant look. Awkward introductions had been made and dismissed. He was now welcome to berate and kick the intruder out.
But he didn't. Instead, he asked Rose a question: “You've gathered some useful information, I take it?”
Useful information?! Kitty was beside herself. What could possibly be more ‘useful’ at this particular moment in time than a good, hard, rampant fuck?
Liam's voice was calm, steady, and unfazed. As if Rose's disruption of their evening plans was perfectly acceptable. It was beyond the fucking pale. Kitty's aghast glare traveled from Liam to Rose, then back again. What in the high holy hell was going on? Why wasn't he telling the intrusive little chit to leave?
【♖】
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“Useful information? I... That is…” Rose trailed off.
It seemed her mind was incapable of sending her mouth a complete coherent thought. Although usually so articulate, Rose found that her words would not come. The secretary, dress askew, was glaring daggers into her, as though Rose had single-handedly derailed her wedding night. And William... Well, William had lost his shirt. And not in the figurative down-and-out-at-poker kind of way. For the second time that day, Rose found herself staring at his bare chest. At the unique tattoo that outlined the perfect curve of his left pectoral muscle. Her face flushed and she forced herself to look at the floor.
