I wouldn’t be caught dead driving this vehicle. But a Bentley would stand out at the curb.
I have a clear view of the woman in the form-fitting skirt and jacket, tailored to show off wide hips, tiny waist, and hourglass figure that makes me sweat.
She saunters toward pop-up dessert kiosk. Buys a cloud of candy floss as pink as her skirt-suit. Then leans over to prop an elbow on the counter.
The action makes her arse jut out just enough for the already peach-like curve to jiggle enticingly.
Holy hell. Yet again, I marvel that this blonde bombshell is Richard's daughter.
My enemy, when he was alive, was a tall, skinny man who wore badly fitted shirts and trousers held up by braces. He had very little hair and yellow-stained fingernails from a nicotine habit he could never kick. A habit that killed him, in the end.
And while it's impolite to speak or think ill of the dead, I have no compunctions doing so.
Not when the wanker stole clients from my law firm and left me so broke, I had to ask my mother for a loan.
‘Course Margot gave me early access to a portion of my inheritance. Doing so put me firmly in her debt.
And now, she's collecting.
She’s made it clear I must marry within six months else I’ll lose the rest of my inheritance. No way am I letting that happen.
The woman I've been surveilling for the past month laughs at something the man behind the counter says. Through my camera's zoom lens, I watch his body language—the way he leans in, grinning like an idiot. He's entranced by her. And despite my loathing of her and her father, I can understand why she has this effect on him.
Her face, which I’ve grown intimately familiar with during the last month of having her followed, is heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and big blue eyes fringed with dark eyelashes, which give her an almost innocent appearance. Her thick yellow hair flows down to the middle of her back. So lush, so curly, it makes my fingers itch with the need to wrap them around my palm and tug. The thrust of her tits indicates she’s at least a size D. Combined with her tiny waist, those spectacular hips and the legs with attractive ankles and shapely calves bared by her skirt, Ms. Executive Barbie could drive a man crazy.
Not me, though.
She may be physically attractive, but she's still the devil's spawn.
Also, she must be at least two decades younger than me, if not more.
And a cradle snatcher, I am not. Besides, I don't want anything to do with the daughter of my nemesis. His blood runs through her veins. Which means, I hate her.
Period.
So why is it that watching her flirt with that tosser, I feel like I’m burning up. Fuck. Must be the heating in the car.
I lean over and switch it off.
When I look back through the viewfinder, she's laughing again at something the candy floss vendor said. She holds out her hand, and the man takes it and brings it to his lips.
The tightness in my chest takes me by surprise. What do I care that she's flirting with some muscled jackass who's half my age and closer to hers?
I curl my fingers around the camera and take a few more shots. She offers her cheek. He kisses it.
Bloody hell.
The tightness turns into a stabbing sensation. Perhaps, what I ate for lunch doesn't agree with me?
I glare through the lens at the man watching her with adoration on his face. Damn, she's good. She has him wrapped around her fingers.
She blows him a kiss, then turns and saunters on.
I start the Toyota Prius’ engine and wait.
I let her get thirty meters ahead before I ease into traffic, keeping two cars between us. She's walking west on Stoney Street, headed back toward Southwark Bridge. Probably returning to her office. I crawl along in first gear, keeping pace with her pink-suited form as she weaves between pedestrians. My camera sits ready on the passenger seat, in case she stops again.
She finishes off her candy floss and tosses the paper cone into a recycling bin. She’s environmentally conscious; no doubt, in a bid to make up for the sins of her father. Though nothing she does can make up for the impact his wrongdoings had on my life.
