Review & Excerpt: Dirty Charmer by Emma Chase

Me: Are you texting while you’re driving??

Apparently, Tommy and his bodyguard brethren are trained to text without actually having to look at their phones, so they can communicate covertly with the device in their pocket. 

But I’ve explained to him—at length—that that doesn’t matter worth a damn. 

I’ve informed him of the overwhelming statistics on the dangers of texting while operating a vehicle and I’ve disclosed my firsthand experiences of seeing the deadly carnage of such behavior during my emergency room rotations.   

And still, after a weighted pause, he replies:

Godly Orgasm Giver : Maybe.

Me: Well, STOP IT!!

For a moment, the screen remains quiet . . . and then those sneaky little dots appear again.

Godly Orgasm Giver: I like it when you get all shouty caps at me—have I ever told you that?

I’m going to revisit the idea of Tommy teaching me how to throw a punch. It would come in handy at moments just like this. 

“Is everything all right, Abby?” my mother asks. “You’re all flushed.”

She examines me above her glasses like I’m a bug under a microscope. 

“I . . .”

Grogg, the butler, bends down and dips his large, square head towards my grandmother.

“A gentleman is out front, Lady Agatha . . .”

Oh no.

“On a motorbike.”

OH NOOOO.

“Well, send him away.” The Dowager Countess shoos her hand in the air, as countesses do. “We don’t accept solicitations.”

I scramble to my feet. “Actually, he’s here for me.”

I throw my tablet and phone and books into my satchel, to hasten my not-so-great escape.  

“Pardon?” my father inquires.

“He?” my grandmother prods. 

I swallow hard, rushing out the words. “Yes. He’s a friend. I messaged him for a lift.”

My brother Sterling’s eggs-Benedict-laden fork pauses midair on its way to his mouth.  

“I didn’t know you had the sort of friends who road motorbikes.”

“I didn’t know you had friends,” my sister Athena comments, not in a cruel way, but with sincere surprise. 

I shrug, looping the strap of my satchel over my shoulder.

“Yes, well . . . you know . . .”

With that brilliant retort, I turn and walk out of the room. 

I head towards the foyer, the heels of my knee-high boots clicking rapidly on the marble floor like a ticking time bomb. I yank open the giant front door and . . . come to an immediate stop on the veranda outside of it. 

Because Tommy’s there, down the long gray steps on the front drive, sitting easily astride a shiny contraption of chrome and steel, wearing work boots, snug blue jeans and a black leather jacket—looking so sinfully good it might actually be illegal.  

I have to remind myself that I’m angry with him, and when I do, I march straight down the steps. His eyes alight on my boots, skirt and light gray sweater—the ensemble gives off an unintended “naughty schoolteacher” feel—and the corner of Tommy’s wicked mouth hooks up accordingly. 

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Are you mad?!”

He takes a moment to think it over.

“Not the last time I checked.”

“What are you doing here?” I hold out my hands. “And what is this?”

“It’s a motorbike.”

“It’s death on wheels.”

He chuckles. “James loaned it to me for the day. The hills are beautiful this time of year—I thought we’d take a ride together. You wanted stress relief, didn’t you?” Tommy taps the shiny handlebar. “A ride on this is as stress-relieving as it gets—better than normal-bloke sex.”

I peer at him. Do I want to know?

Apparently I do, because I hear myself asking, “Normal-bloke sex?”

“Yeah.” He winks. “I mean it’s not better than how I do it—obviously. But the way an average bloke has sex—this is definitely better.” 

I shake my head, folding my arms. “Do you have any idea how dangerous these things are? The statistics on motorbike fatalities are—”

Tommy covers my mouth with his hand.

His palm is warm, and so is his voice—a thick, sweet, honeyed tone.

“Do you trust me, Abby?”

After a moment, he takes his hand away and I gaze into those deep, dark eyes . . . falling into them so easily it should be frightening. 

My answer is simple. True ones always are. 

“I do.”

Tommy smiles fully, and my stomach flutters with that lovely swirling sensation. 

“Then climb on.”

He places a helmet on my head, buckling the strap under my chin.

“And you might want to do it fast—your granny’s coming.”

I glance over my shoulder to see the whole family gathered outside the front of the door, a spectrum of curious and gob-smacked expressions plastered on their typically reserved faces. And my grandmother is indeed headed this way, her jeweled necklace jingling as she quickly descends the long slope of stone steps. 

“Abigail!”

Her voice is high-pitched and harried—a tone I’ve never heard her use before, and one I’m not keen on exploring now.

“Have to be going!” I lift my hand and give them a thumbs-up. “Talk soon!”

Like a teenager running off with the town bad boy, I hike up my skirt and climb onto the motorbike behind Tommy. He clasps my hands together securely over his stomach. 

“Hold on tight, lass.”

I do just that—squeezing my arms around his solid frame and resting my cheek against the warm leather on his back as he revs the engine to life and we pull away with a roar that vibrates in my bones.

And as strange as it is—or maybe it’s not strange at all—I’ve never felt safer.