Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles

by Frost, E J

  Logan’s standing in front of the mirror, putting on a red tie that brings out the subtle red thread in the check of his tailored suit. He meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles. I approach him hesitantly, not wanting to disturb him while he’s dressing. When he nods, I press against his back and slide my arms around his firm waist. I lay my cheek against his back, feeling the satin of his waistcoat’s back against my skin. I breathe in his warm, spicy scent.

  “You look so nice, Daddy.”

  “Thanks, baby. I do my best. Good thing they believe in fake air, otherwise I’d be melting.”

  I giggle, imaging him sweating in his tweed. The ship is very cool, even the big spaces like the embarkation lounge. But I’m not worried about being cold. I know as soon as I shiver with anything but excitement, Logan will wrap me up and keep me warm.

  As if to show me he’s ready to do exactly that, Logan picks up his suit jacket and folds it over his arm, then holds out his hand for me.

  * * *

  Stairs going down with Morris in my butt aren’t as bad as going up, but I still feel like I’m walking like a duck and everyone must know I’m plugged.

  Logan brushes the backs of his fingers over my cheek when we reach the Garden deck, and I feel the heat of my own skin.

  “Okay, sweetie?”

  I nod firmly. He’s told me how long he wants me to wear the plug. I don’t want to disappoint him. With the stairs behind me, literally, the worst of it is over.

  At the pink-velvet-draped entrance to the Pinctada restaurant, we’re greeted by the maître d’, who is wearing black tie, except that his bowtie and cummerbund are pink. I wonder if he’s wearing a pink thong underneath. Maybe it’s part of the cruise line’s employment terms?

  Once the maître d’ shows us to a roped off area next to the captain’s table where they’re serving cocktails, I go up on my toes and whisper my thought in Logan’s ear.

  He chuckles. “Stop thinking about anyone’s underwear but mine, naughty girl.”

  He’s wearing a very nice pair of black silk shorts, which I got to feel as well as see when he rubbed himself all over me while I was draped over the back of the couch, recovering from my fifth orgasm of the day. “Will you wear a pink thong, Sir? I mean, to show your support for the cruise line?”

  “Under no circumstances. Only thing I’ll do with any thong is snap your ass with it.”

  I giggle, then swallow it, because a very stern-looking, Hispanic woman is approaching us. Her face softens a hair as she smiles, but not much more than granite “softens” when it gets wet. She’s eye-catching, with high cheekbones, a strong blade of a nose and waves of silver-gray hair. Her gleamingly white uniform accentuates broad shoulders and a nipped-in waist defined by her double-breasted jacket. She carries her gold-crested hat under her arm and takes it in her left hand so she can shake Logan’s hand.

  “Maria-Luisa Lopez,” she says.

  “James Logan. Pleasure to meet you, Captain.” Logan turns smoothly to me. “This is my guest, Emily Martin.”

  The captain gives me a firm handshake. Not crushing. Not a woman who needs to prove anything. “Nice to meet you, Emily. Are you enjoying the cruise so far?”

  I nod. “It’s fantastic.”

  And multi-orgasmic.

  “Good, I hope you continue to enjoy it. If there’s anything I can do to make your trip more enjoyable, please just let me know. I believe you’ve both already met Dr. Lehmann, and this is my second mate, Chief Carey License.”

  A man a few years older than the captain, his iron-gray hair buzzed even shorter than Logan’s, his face tanned and seamed comes forward and shakes Logan’s hand and then mine.

  “I’m told you were in the Navy, Mr. Logan?”

  “Just Logan, Chief. Petty, First Class. How long were you in?”

  “Twenty years. You?”

  “Eight, sir.”

  It sounds funny to hear Logan say “sir.” I know he’s just being respectful of someone who is clearly a senior sailor, but it still makes me twitch a little.

  “You advanced fast. Where were you stationed, son?”

  “Pacific Rim for the first four. Gulf of Aden for the last.”

  Chief License grunts. “You saw some action, then?”

  Logan’s dark eyes cut towards me. “Some. And you, sir?”

  “Action? Not for the last decade. I got desk jockeyed after 9/11. The curse of being an efficient paper-pusher. Don’t ever learn how to write a good report, Logan, it’ll be the end of you,” the chief warns sternly.

  Logan laughs. “Never, Chief.”

  “Do you live in L.A. now?”

  “New York. Emily’s from Syracuse.”

  The chief seems to realize he’s been ignoring me. “Upstate New York? Gorgeous place in the fall.”

  I nod, wanting to participate in the conversation since Logan’s specifically made an opening for me. “Have you seen the fall colors, sir?”

  “I have, missy. Quite the display. But I’ll make the case for the Mexican sunsets being even more spectacular. You be sure to give me your opinion at the end of the trip. We’ll see if we can’t lure you out to the West Coast.”

  “It’s beautiful here, but I’d miss the snow.”

  “We have snow. On the mountains.” The chief grins at his own joke.

  “Best of both worlds,” Captain Lopez offers, rejoining the conversation after greeting some other passengers. “Are you close to Onondaga Lake, Emily?”

  I nod. “Yes, ma’am, but I haven’t been boating on it. This is my first time on a boat that’s not the Staten Island Ferry.”

  There are chuckles all around me, and I realize what a minority I am: a landlubber among these people who have spent big chunks of their lives living on the water.

  “Have you done any research on ships for your novels, Emily?” Logan asks me.

  I smile up at him. He’s doing it again. “Yes, Sir. There was a ghost ship in The Laird’s Winter Lady. I loved doing the research for that.”

  “Like the Mary Celeste?” Captain Lopez asks. “That’s a strange one, isn’t it? Abandoned under sail with her cargo intact. What did you make of that, Emily?”

  “Aliens,” I say, recounting the most absurd of the theories I read, which gets me a laugh all around, including from Dr. Lehmann and his wife, who have joined us.

  “Ah, but then there’s the SS Baychimo,” the chief says. “She really was a ghost ship. Did you read about her?”

  I nod, remembering the story of the ship that sailed for nearly forty years around the Beaufort Sea without a crew. “I never understood how she didn’t sink, sir. I mean, I read that, in ice, vessels get holed and need repairs all the time.”

  The chief nods. “They do, but they built those old steamers to last. I don’t remember if she was double-hulled or not, but if she was, as long as the inner hull wasn’t breached, she’d stay afloat. Just like this good old girl.” He pats a wooden rail that circles the captain’s table affectionately. “You don’t have to worry about any Titanic-style drama on the Pink Pearl’s Pride.”

  “New girl,” Captain Lopez says, smiling. “The Pride’s only eight years old.”

  “Really? She looks like she was commissioned yesterday,” Logan says.

  “She was just refitted in March. Doesn’t she shine?” Captain Lopez asks, her love for her ship clear in her warm tone, even though her stern expression doesn’t alter.

  I nod. The ship’s gorgeous.

  The warm, firm weight of Logan’s hand settles in the small of my back and he murmurs to me, “Now that the hand-shaking’s over, Emily, hands behind your back.”

  I immediately tuck my hands behind my back and he circles my wrists with his thumb and first and second fingers. I relax my shoulders and settle into his hold. I’m not sure if this is for the demerits, or if he’s always going to pin my wrists when we’re in public together.

  Either way, I really like it.

  Logan endears himself to Captain Lopez by asking
her questions about the ship’s specifications, which I can’t follow. Tonnage and displacement are a language I don’t speak. During a lull in the tech-talk, Dr. Lehmann introduces his wife to us. Logan releases my wrists so I can shake hands with a woman who looks like an Italian doll my mother had: dark hair coiled in braids on top of her head, olive skin, dark eyes and rosy-pink cheeks. I put my hands back in place as soon as we’re done, and Logan pins my wrists again. A dreamy tranquillity settles over me at his restraining touch. A calm I can never achieve day-to-day, even on those rare occasions when I meditate.

  I sink into it gratefully. Blissfully.

  I float through the rest of the cocktail hour. Logan notices. After he puts a question to me that I’m too glazed to answer, he looks into my eyes, grins and tucks me into his side, still pinning my wrists. He stops trying to draw me into the conversation and just holds me that way, occasionally giving me sips of his iced water, until a soft gong rings for the seven o’clock dinner seating.

  Dr. Lehmann gestures to the captain’s table.

  Logan says, “We’ll be just a moment.”

  Dr. Lehmann nods and escorts his wife to the table. Still pinning my wrists, Logan takes my shoulder and turns me to face him.

  “Look at me, Emily,” he says, his voice deep and gentle.

  I look up at him through my haze and meet his eyes.

  He looks all the way into me. No one ever has or should look so deeply into me. I cringe. What will he see in there? It can’t be anything good. But he catches my chin in his hand and holds me firmly.

  “Come back to me, baby.”

  “Daddy,” I whisper.

  “That’s right. Daddy’s here. I’m going to count backwards from ten. At one, I’m going to release your wrists so we can eat. You’re going to come up nice and slow, sweetheart. When you do, you’ll blink twice at me, and you’ll feel relaxed and ready for the rest of the evening. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “Good girl.” He kisses my forehead. “Count with me. Ten.”

  I count with him, each number buoying me back up to my normal headspace. The rise is juddering, a little painful, like being awoken too soon from a wonderful dream.

  “One.”

  He releases my wrists. I blink twice at him, automatically, take a deep breath and smile up at him. “Hi, Sir.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Ready for dinner?”

  “Yes, Sir.” I’m suddenly really hungry. “Would you order for me?” I take a deep breath and give him something I’ve never given another of my Doms. Never dreamed of giving another of my Doms. “I have eight hundred calories left. I can have a salad and the chicken a l’Orange or any of the fish dishes, except the lobster because it’s cruel to boil them while they’re still alive.”

  I take another deep breath and wait, watching for his reaction.

  He cups my head in his big hand and draws me close. His breath warms my forehead. “Yes, sweet baby. I’ll order for you.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  I expect him to release me and lead me to the table. Instead he holds me for a long minute, stroking my hair, while everyone else moves around us to their tables. Finally, he releases me and takes my hand. When I look up at him, his eyes are bloodshot. A muscle’s working in his jaw. What happened? Did I do something wrong? I glance around the table as he seats me next to Teresa Lehmann, checking to see if there’s censure on anyone’s face, but everyone sitting at the captain’s table is involved in their conversations or the menu. No one’s looking at us.

  Logan sits next to me, with the chief on his far side and the captain beyond the chief at the round table. Logan takes the fancily folded napkin off my plate and places it in my lap. Then he picks up my hand and holds it tightly while he reads over the menu.

  Without the burden of having to order, I can join the conversation. Surprisingly, that thought doesn’t make my palms sweat. When Teresa Lehmann gives me a sloe-eyed glance, I smile brightly at her. She smiles back.

  “Michael tells me you’re a writer,” she says.

  I nod. “Historical romance.”

  “Oh, I read some historical romance. What books have you written?”

  I reel off my bestsellers and her smile widens.

  “I absolutely adored The Kingmaker’s Architect,” she says. “What gave you the idea for a woman to disguise herself as a man to become an architect?”

  As the waiters circulate taking orders, I explain the mores of the time, which prevented women from engaging in “male” professions, and what I discovered during my research.

  “There were women doctors like Margaret Ann Bulkley and women soldiers like Hannah Snell and Mary Anne Talbot, but they almost always dressed and acted as men. They weren’t transgender. They were just barred from the professions they wanted to pursue more than anything else, enough to risk their lives if they were discovered. That’s what lead me to write about Johanna ‘John’ Howell.”

  Teresa nods. “Of course, even in more modern times, women have been barred from intellectual professions. One of my favorite authors is George Eliot, a woman who wrote under a man’s name because women weren’t considered capable of scholarly writing.”

  “I love George Eliot’s novels.” Another kindred spirit. Who knew I’d find so many avid readers on a kinky cruise? “Middlemarch or Mill on the Floss?”

  Teresa claps her hand to her heart. “Middlemarch. You?”

  “Absolutely. ‘If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence—’”

  “ ‘As it is, the quickest of us walk around well wadded with stupidity,’ ” she says, finishing my favorite quote.

  I grin at her. “No one who can quote Middlemarch walks around well wadded with stupidity.”

  She laughs, and on the other side of her, her husband, who has evidently been eavesdropping, joins her.

  “No one has ever accused Teresa of stupidity. Tell Emily what you do, darling,” he says.

  “I’m a physicist,” she says, rolling her eyes at her husband. “Which is not a profession that was friendly to women when I entered it twenty years ago, either. But it’s getting better. More than a third of my grad students are female. I know that still sounds low, but even ten years ago it was half that.”

  “That does sound low,” Captain Lopez, who has evidently been listening in as well, interjects. “Why is the percentage of women in physics so low?”

  Teresa and her husband launch into a spirited discussion with the captain about what keeps women out of the rocket-science field and I take the opportunity to glance at Logan, who, other than ordering our meals, has been silent at my side.

  He’s watching me, a small smile tipping the corners of his mouth.

  “Sir?”

  “Just enjoying your enthusiasm, baby doll. Tell me that quote again.”

  I repeat the line from Middlemarch.

  “ ‘The roar that lies on the other side of silence.’ I like that. I think I’ve heard that roar once or twice myself.”

  “All sailors have,” Chief License says. “It’s the roar that follows the dying of the engines. The last breath before the command to fire . . .”

  He trails off, his squinty blue eyes focusing over our heads, at something only he can see.

  Logan clears his throat and the chief snaps back from wherever he’s gone. He gives Logan a strained smile and Logan nods in response.

  The weird moment is broken by the waiters setting down our appetizers. Logan’s ordered me the fennel salad. I glance up at him in gratitude and he smiles at me. He has the pan-seared scallops I had for lunch in front of him.

  I wait to see if he’s going to say grace the way he did during our previous dinners. He grips my hand a little tighter and bows his head. I follow suit.

  Either spurred by Logan’s actions, or because it’s her custom, too, Captain Lopez reaches out f
or the hands of the people on either side of her, bows her head, and says grace. Hers is more involved than the prayer Logan used during our first date, but I like it, too.

  When she finishes, Logan squeezes my hand twice before he picks up his silverware and cuts up my salad.

  When I glance up, I see several people, including Captain Lopez and Teresa, look away quickly. I take a bite of salad—fennel, arugula and goat’s cheese, yum-yum—while I try to gauge their reactions. Although there are some obvious couples at the table, none of them are overtly Dom/sub. Teresa’s wearing heavy silver and turquoise jewelry, but no collar. Glancing around, I don’t see collars on anyone. None of them seem to be observing any rituals, although the gay couple across the table from us swap plates halfway through their appetizers so they each eat half of the other’s dish. Maybe it’s just because we’re eating at the captain’s table. I glance around the room, but it’s too hard to read interactions at a distance.

  I do, however, spot Vashi, sitting between her Viking and a heavy-set, smiling, Indian man. She smiles when she notices me and I give her a wave before going back to my meal.

  As I turn back, Logan says, “Emily’s tried to convince me of the merits of Bruce Willis movies. Not sure I’m sold yet.”

  I lift an eyebrow at his slander of Daddy Bruce.

  “You have to admit The Sixth Sense is an exceptional film,” a man across the table, who must have started the conversation while I was surveying the room, says. “As is Unbreakable.”

  Logan shrugs. “Once you know the twist, are they? Would you watch them over and over?”

  “M. Night Shyamalan’s movies are so rich, there’s something new to enjoy on every viewing,” the man insists.