Pulp Friction: Atlanta

PF Atlanta Round 1 Triple Threat Chapter 1

Description:

Master Archer found his forever with fellow Dom Zachary, but when their discreet recovery business interferes with their private time, Archer buys exactly what his lover needs—the perfect personal assistant, submissive Jeremiah. Because anything two can do, three can do better. Now the trio must work together to recover a grieving widow's stolen insurance money, and the thief is...her not-so-dead husband.

Chapter 1

"Margaret Blackwell," I murmured as I led the impeccably clad young woman into the bright morning light of the glass ceilinged solarium. A small gasp escaped her lips as the tall, powerfully built man stood from the table where we'd been sharing a leisurely breakfast minutes before. He unfolded himself into his full height, and she sighed. I understood her sentiment completely.

Unlike my own average mug, Archer was classically handsome in a way that would interest professional photographers. He always had been. Chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, dimpled chin hinting at a Celt background. The faint lines that now bracketed his mouth and fanned away from his eyes only served to make his face more interesting. From a distance, the monochromatic gray suit and shirt might have hinted at professionally boring, but up close, Archer's tie was a vibrant swirl of blues and greens that matched the changeable color of his eyes. An enigmatic smile curved his sculpted lips, a visible reminder that this man was much more than he might seem.

"Miss Blackwell, may I present Archer Wilde."

They met in the middle of the solarium, and Archer politely shook the limply proffered hand.

"Please, have a seat. Can Zachary bring you anything? Coffee? Hot tea?"

"No, thank you." Margaret sat at the edge of the chair, her back ramrod straight and ankles demurely crossed. My, my. Someone attended cotillion as a teen.

"Zachary? Won't you sit and join us?" Archer's eyes sparkled with mischief and I couldn't resist smiling back.

"No, thank you Archer, I think I'll stand this morning." We shared a look, then he turned his attention to his guest.

"How may I help you, Miss Blackwell?"

"I want you to find my husband, Mr. Wilde."

"I see. I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding. I...we..."—he inclined his head to include me—"don't take on missing persons cases. Those are best handled by the proper authorities."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. Nona Wilkerson says you are exactly what I need."

"Ahh...the delightful Miss Wilkerson. You intrigue me. Is your husband in some sort of trouble?"

"My husband is dead, Mr. Wilde."

Huh. That was a new one.

"I'm sorry for your loss, however, I still don't see..." Archer trailed off and waited. The bastard was damn good at waiting.

"This is rather embarrassing." She stopped, her gaze flicked to me, then back to Archer again. Apparently, she had a conversational dance card that didn't include me. When Archer refused to follow her lead and take the next step, she sighed for a second time and finally began her story.

"My husband is...was...Franklin Hartfield. I returned to my maiden name shortly after Franklin's death."

"Ahh...yes." Archer's tone was soft, encouraging, and I knew she'd just become our next case...even if she hadn't realized it yet.

"I believe you knew him? I mean, I know you— He once— Not that we were—"

"Yes, we were acquainted." Acquainted. That was one way to put it.