by Kira Blakely
Table of Contents
Secret Daddy
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Thank you
She's Mine
Throttle
Untamed
Copyright
More by Kira Blakely
About the Author
Don’t want to miss out on Kira’s latest release dates and sneak peeks of upcoming books? Sign up for her newsletter to become a Kiralite! Receive TWO FREE steamy short story from Kira for signing up today!
Click here:
http://www.kirablakely.com/giveaway
I'll protect her secret and keep her safe, no matter what...
A small-town cabin.
A billionaire.
A beautiful nanny.
Trying to run a billion-dollar empire while my kids struggle after the divorce is tough.
That is, until Sofia bursts through my front door, wet and wild-eyed.
Golden hair and beautiful curves that would make any man take a knee.
I try to keep it professional, at first.
But the attraction between us is too strong.
She tends to the kids during the day. And to me at night.
Everything is perfect.
But the gorgeous bombshell has a secret
One I’ve just found out.
She’s a wanted criminal.
I’ve got a decision to make.
It’s her, or prison.
But we’re family now.
I’ll use all my power to protect her.
And the baby growing inside her.
Chapter 1
Sofia
“Do you have another method of payment, dear? This card keeps coming back to us as unauthorized.”
I tear my gaze from the rain-splattered window, and a pit opens up in my stomach. Shit. They froze all my cards. I guess I knew that was coming, but I thought I might have another few days.
“Sure,” I lie, plastering a big, fake smile on my lips. I haul my brown leather purse up onto the table and peel back the zipper, rifling inside.
Shit, shit, shit. What am I going to do?
I don’t have another method of payment. The checking account is long dead, drained of cash so I could make it all the way to Wyoming. I’m not sure what this town is even called, but I’m far enough away from Ohio that I can breathe a little easier.
All my successes and failures are in the rearview mirror.
“You know, I’ve got some cash in my car,” I lie into my waitress’s sweet unassuming face. She’s got wiry auburn hair, some dead teeth in the front of her mouth, kind eyes, and puckered skin. And I’m about to stiff her. I can’t help it.
All I have to my name now is a quarter tank of gas.
“All right,” she tells me, not even blinking, not even hesitating. “I’ll be back in a second for it.” She saunters away to check on another table, unconcerned.
I loop my purse over my shoulder and slip out of the booth, shoving through the swinging glass door and out into the frigid, gray mountain morning.
No hint of sunlight penetrates the sky overhead, and even though it isn’t exactly raining, tiny particles of precipitation float in the air around me. My white Henley and skinny jeans are no match for this.
I glance over my shoulder one time when I reach my car. The sign mounted over the diner reads Fallaway Fryer, so I guess I’m somewhere called Fallaway.
And now that I have no money, this is where I’ll be for a while.
I’m sure the nice old waitress isn’t watching me, so I don’t bother hiding the fact that I’m leaving, not digging for change in the backseat. I settle behind the wheel and turn the key in the ignition. It doesn’t matter if someone comes out, yelling at me. I’m used to running by now. I’ve been running for days.
My old Honda Civic hobbles out of the parking lot and passes a rusted, baby blue Mustang.
Baby blue Mustang. Shit, that’s Finn.
He calls himself Agent Callahan. I met him when I was originally under investigation. I don’t know why I thought bailing on my court date would shake him. I don’t know why I thought this old car would be enough.
Maybe it isn’t him.
I coast down this haggard country road.
Headlights pop up in my rearview, and I apply more pressure to the gas.
The headlights draw closer.
The car behind me is speeding to catch up. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I shouldn’t have used my credit cards on the trip, but I didn’t have any other choice.
My speedometer inches up. I’m barreling down the highway—and so is the car behind me. It’s close enough to see the rusted, baby blue hood now. I can’t believe he followed me all the way to... wherever I am.
We blow past a faded green sign. FALLAWAY PEAK TOWN LIMIT.
There are no buildings anymore. Wet green trees rise up around us. I don’t know where the fuck I am, my heart pounds out of control, and I have to make a decision now or lose my chance to affect the outcome.
My sneaker jams down onto the brake and a wild screech fills the air.
The Mustang jerks to the side to avoid ploughing directly into my bumper. My Honda twists sideways and sends up a sluice of rainwater, hydroplaning. Shiiiit!
Everything turns bumpy and green.
It’s happening too quickly. I’m off the road. I’m sideways.
The deep grass I’m driving through slows me down, and my foot is totally off either pedal. There’s an impact on the passenger side door, and it brings me to a sudden, swaying halt.
I ran into a tree. Sideways.
I wrench open the driver’s side door, scramble out of my car, purse still over my shoulder, and bolt into the woods. This feels like a great decision. There’s lots of coverage. He won’t be able to get a visual. Tons of opportunities to hide. He might not even risk following me.
And once I’m confident that he’s gone, I’ll figure out how the hell to get back to the main road.
I hurdle over fallen trees and slip on pine needles as I run into the bushy, misty wilderness.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and all around me, droplets of rain begin to fall.
I come to a stop in an open glade and pant. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I tell the universe, glaring up into the sky. “No breaks, huh? Nothing? I’m not a bad person, you know.” I don’t yell any of this, even though my chest is tight with panic and I want to yell. But I can’t. Agent Callahan could be anywhere. The man is obsessed.
I’m not a bad person, but I don’t have a choice, either.
No one cares. I’ve got to keep moving or I will end up in jail. My feet throb, but I can’t stop. I’m cold and wet,
but I can’t stop. My hot tears mix with the rainwater on my cheeks, but I can’t stop. I’ve got to keep moving. I cannot go to jail.
I run for several minutes and finally feel confident that Agent Callahan isn’t directly behind me, breathing down my neck, waiting to wrench my arms behind my back and read me my rights.
I slow to a walk and look for a high point where I might be able to locate a nearby road and start hitchhiking. A cliff almost clears the treetops, and I make for that.
By the time I reach its crest, my blisters are bleeding. It’s also possible, if Agent Callahan is nearby, that he might be able to see me right now. But I don’t care. Wandering a mountain range - especially in the rainy season, especially in November, is almost certain death. I slipped the noose, and now I’ve got to get out of here.
So tired of running.
A road cuts downwind of this cliff. Cars move on it. Yes! Rooftops also speckle this panoramic view. Double yes! There must be a residential area not far from here.
A warm, comforting homeowner might see a young woman like me and feel the urge to help. That’s what I’m banking on.
Almost an hour later, after climbing steadily down steep slopes and getting fairly drenched, I reach the first house in that small neighborhood: a large wood cabin, lit from within with buttery yellow light. It looks so good in there. I drag in a deep breath and savor the woodsy aroma of a kindled fireplace.
There’s a car in the driveway, a mint green Volkswagen. Cute. Whoever lives here must be nice. They have PETA bumper stickers, and another reading not all who wander are lost!
I climb the porch steps of this wood cabin, my feet aching, wondering who might live here, and how they’ll react to me. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood.
I inhale and tell myself everything will be all right. Then I ball my hand into a fist, raising it over the door.
Hello. I practice my introductory speech. My car broke down on the other side of those woods, and I was wondering if you might give me a ride into town. I’m looking for work if—
The door bangs open, and an infuriated hippie girl storms onto the porch.
She wears a fleece sweater, a long, swaying patchwork skirt, and sandals. Her brown dreadlocks are twisted up in a bun, and her gaze flashes as it lights on me. She pushes past me, hurrying down the cabin porch. “He’s going to try to drug test you,” she sneers over her shoulder at me. “He’s going to hand you a stupid plastic cup. Please! I have rights! He wants you cooking, cleaning, living there, everything. Someone should tell him that’s a wife, not a nanny. Good luck with that asshole, sister!”
As the PETA Volkswagen peels out of the driveway, an irritable growl calls to me from deeper within the house, “Either come back in or close the damn door!”
Chapter 2
Lucas
I’m still holding the little plastic cup in my hand, staring in awe as the irate pothead storms out of our interview. Oh, well. I wanted a full-service nanny anyway, and the look on Fig’s face—she was literally named Fig—told me everything I needed to know. Living here and taking care of my children would cut into her jazz festival time.
The distant sound of quiet sobbing draws my attention from Fig’s passionate exit. Something about her rights? I’m sorry, did she have rights?
My brow furrows. I recognize whose crying that is. It’s Charlie, my oldest, who cries more often than Madison, the five-year-old.
I stride down the hallway corridor and hesitate at the foot of the wooden staircase, gazing up to the second floor. Charlie is sensitive right now—I suspect early onset puberty, and even coming up to his doorframe unannounced could send him into a hormonal fit.
The irritating chill at my back causes me to pause and yell over my shoulder, “Either come back in or close the damn door!”
The door obediently shuts, and I assume that Fig departed. I place one fucking foot on the bottom stair and it creaks.
“Don’t come up here,” Charlie blubbers down to me, and I hesitate.
Fuck. Things have been hard on him this year. I want to reach him, but he doesn’t want to be reached.
With a grimace, I twist on my heel and freeze.
There’s a woman in my foyer.
She’s dripping wet, the white shirt plastered to her hourglass figure now almost totally see-through. Her hair hangs in blond ropes on her shoulders, and a puddle has formed beneath her sneakers.
I exhale for what seems like forever.
Damn.
I want to send her away, because I won’t be able to work with her. Her lips are too pouty. Her eyes smolder as she scans the premises. And she has freckles. Even though she’s soaking wet, there’s something classically feminine about her. Maybe it’s that figure, or maybe it’s something else. It’s like she should be winding a scarf off her head, even while she’s muddy and probably frozen to the bone.
I blink and head toward this new girl. I didn’t realize Rachel had scheduled an interview for this hour, but maybe she did. It’s hard to keep all the balls in the air when your secretary works on-site in California. Because who the fuck tries to run a business from a mountain town with less than two thousand people living on it? This guy right here, that’s who.
“Hey,” I call to her, and those gray eyes focus on me. They remind me of the sky outside, impenetrable and frosty. My dick twitches. Shake it off. You can’t get an erection in these jeans, Lucas. You cannot. “Can I grab you a shirt or something?”
“I’m fine,” she says and shivers. “My car broke down on the way, and I-I had to walk in the rain.”
“Get those shoes off,” I command, pivoting and heading toward the stairs again. Charlie isn’t crying anymore. “I’m going to grab you a shirt.”
I pause and glance into Charlie’s bedroom as I pass his door. He’s peering down at his phone, scrolling through social media. “Everything okay, bud?”
“Yup,” Charlie grumbles.
It was my fault for hoping to get a genuine response from him. I back off and head into my bedroom. I root through my closet for my warmest, driest, and largest shirt.
I don’t just want her to be warm and dry. I want her body hidden from me. I’ve already interviewed almost a dozen potential nannies, and I honestly thought Fig was the last one in the lineup. If I get a hard-on and send this girl rushing for her broken-down car, I’ll be out of options for the rest of the week, and Graytech needs me yesterday.
But my kids need a fucking caregiver, too. I want the best for them, but I’ve got to stop being so picky or they won’t have anyone at all.
I glance at Madison, fast asleep for her afternoon nap in her own room, and then come back downstairs. The new girl took off her shoes, as she was told. Good girl. Maybe we can work together after all, because I need someone who can follow my orders.
I thrust the blue-and-red plaid flannel into her clammy hands, and I don’t let myself look into her eyes or down at that bountiful rack. I usher her toward a bathroom to strip off that soaked shirt.
While waiting for her to return to the den, I pace and organize my questions. What is your experience with childcare? Do you have your degree? Are you seeing anyone right now? Scratch that. She’s definitely seeing someone, with a face like that, and anyway, it’s none of my business. I need to know her hourly rate and that she can piss clean. I need references. That’s it. That’s all.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the long, horizontal mirror mounted over the mantle. Damn, I look wild. What kind of madwoman would want me as her boss? My dark hair, stricken through with tendrils of early gray, is a mess.
I’ve been shoveling my fingers through it all day. My eyes are haggard, in spite of all the coffee I’ve had. Then there’s the five o’clock shadow and all the tattoos. I don’t look like a hardworking single dad. I look like I’ve been in the mountains too damn long without another adult to help blow off some steam.
Bare feet pad over the hardwood floor, and I turn to look at the source, relieved that the flannel shirt h
ides her curves like a tent would.
Warning: Dangerous when wet.
I stomp out that train of thought like it’s an errant fireplace ember on my bedroom carpet and force a light, casual smile onto my face.
“Much better,” I say, sticking out my hand for her to shake it. Her chill fingers slip against my rough palm and my cock throbs again. Damn it! What the hell? I give her hand a quick squeeze and let it go, alarmed at this feeling. I’m playing with fire in a house already made of matches. “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “Didn’t catch your name.”
“So… Maggie,” she answers.
“So Maggie?”
“That’s me,” she agrees cheerfully. “I mean, I’m just so myself, Maggie. Maggie Marshall. I’m nervous. Sorry.”
My heart softens, and I offer her a cup of coffee from the fresh pot in the kitchen. She agrees and surprises me by following. I pour her a cup and we settle at the table, surrounded by panes of glass that show off the surrounding woods. I have neighbors, but I couldn’t prove it.
“So, Maggie,” I say, “what’s your experience with children?”
“I love kids.” She does look nervous.
“A lot of the applicants have been intimidated by how demanding of a schedule this is,” I warn her. “I want to be honest here. Realistically, you’re not going to have much time for a normal life until after about eight at night.”
“Oh, I don’t have a life anyway,” Maggie informs me. “I just got out of school—where I got my degree in child psychology, by the way—and I’m going to be honest, I’ve never been a full-time nanny like you need. But it’s a perfect fit for me. I saw your ad, and I knew I had to apply.”
“I told Rachel not to place a public ad,” I mutter. I didn’t want a wide net. I want a few quality applicants, but then again, I drove four fairly qualified women out of my house today. Maybe a wide net isn’t the worst thing in the world. “Do you have references? I’m going to be honest with you, Maggie. I’m getting desperate. I’ve been too picky. At this point, I can either hire you or take another week off work, and I can’t afford to do that. So, look. How would you feel about a cash payment to start immediately? You don’t have to sleep here tonight, but I would want you here by six o’clock Tomorrow morning. I’ll check your references this week, and we can get you set-up with a direct deposit and a real contract if everything looks good.”