Milfs Like It Big - Veronica Avluv - Mistress P.i. Review

As I walked out of The Velvet Key , the rain had stopped. The city was still filthy. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn't just cleaning up other people's messes.

The rain in Los Angeles washed nothing clean. It just made the grime gleam.

Her other hand slid a thick envelope across the table. "I need evidence of my husband's infidelity. He's been seeing a woman in Santa Monica. Get me that, and I get my settlement. Mark and I can live well. And you?" She leaned closer, her breath warm on my ear. "You get to watch."

His name was Mark. Young, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of nervous energy that screamed he was in over his head. But he wasn't the target. His stepmother was. Milfs Like it Big - Veronica Avluv - Mistress P.I.

The case was a standard cheating husband. Follow the man in the gray suit to the motel, snap the photos, collect the check. Boring. Until it wasn't.

I picked up the envelope.

"No. I want you to find out who is using my face to ruin my life." She leaned forward, and the scent of jasmine and bourbon filled the small space. "Someone has been spreading photos of a woman who looks remarkably like me, engaging in... very enthusiastic acts with my stepson. I am being blackmailed." As I walked out of The Velvet Key , the rain had stopped

"Was me, of course." She signaled the waiter for two glasses of champagne. "Mark is my lover. Has been for six months. But my husband, his father, is a vindictive man. If he finds out, he'll cut Mark off completely. And me? I'll lose everything in the divorce."

I took the case. Not for the money—though it was good. I took it because I recognized the lie. Diana Whitmore wasn't a victim. She was a chess player, and I was a pawn.

"No, Miss Avluv." Her voice was a low contralto. "He's stealing something far more valuable. My reputation." The rain in Los Angeles washed nothing clean

She saw me first. A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. She excused Mark, who slunk away like a chastened dog, and beckoned me to her booth.

I looked at her—the confidence, the hunger, the absolute refusal to be diminished. Then I thought of my empty apartment, the lonely stakeouts, the men who only wanted a dirty photo and a quick exit.

"You want the Santa Monica woman's name and address?" I asked.

She slid a photo across the desk. It was grainy, blown up from a security feed. Mark, entering a discreetly lit club in the valley. The sign above the door read The Velvet Key .