Secret Daddy

by Kira Blakely

  I wish I was still in that state now. Then I wouldn’t be imagining the walls and ceiling closing in on me, sucking the air out of me, threatening to crush me.

  Shit.

  Breathe, Samantha. It will be over soon.

  19…20…21…

  It’s taking too long.

  I close my eyes and start playing the first song that comes to my head.

  If you love somebody, better tell them while they’re here, ‘cause they might just…

  “Are you all right?” Nathan asks me.

  I look at him and nod. That’s the best I can do, my throat still too dry for me to speak.

  He doesn’t look like he believes me but says nothing more.

  31…32…

  I’ve had the highest mountains. I’ve had the deepest rivers. I take it in but don’t look down.

  Finally, I hear a beep and the doors open. I rush out, forcing air into my lungs like a whale that’s been underwater for too long.

  Afterward, I square my shoulders and follow Nathan — or should I call him Mr. Landers? — down the hall. I stick out my chin, too, trying to look dignified — as dignified as I can with the gaping hole at the side of my gown — to make up for that moment of weakness in the elevator.

  I break my silence. “Do you have a penthouse suite in every hotel or just this one?”

  “Not every hotel.”

  Okay.

  “And no.”

  “No?” No to what?

  “No, I don’t bring every woman I meet to my hotel suite.”

  I’m not sure what to think of that.

  “Just to be clear, you didn’t bring me. I came. And only for the gown, which you owe me.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I owe you?”

  “It’s the least you can do after tearing this one.”

  He chuckles as he gets his key.

  “What?”

  “If I tore your gown, you wouldn’t still be wearing it.”

  I blush but push the image away.

  “But by all means, let’s get you into a new gown.”

  He opens the door and steps into the room, the lights turning on as he slips the key into the holder. I follow, eyes growing wide at the sheer size and elegance of the suite.

  The reception area alone is larger than my entire apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side and a large, sheepskin rug surrounded by oversized black and white leather couches in front of an electric fireplace. There’s a long marble bar counter on the left, a shiny, black, baby grand piano in one corner and a statue that probably costs more than what I earn a year in another.

  I put down my things and run my hands over the piano as Nathan disappears, returning after a few minutes with gowns draped over one arm.

  “You can have whichever one you like.”

  I touch them. Beautiful gowns. Luxurious fabrics. Expensive.

  “Are they your sister’s?” I ask out of curiosity.

  He grins. “I don’t have a sister.”

  Where, then, did he get all these gowns? Did he just have them lying around?

  Then it hits me. Of course. They probably belonged to the women he brought up here.

  “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  I wonder how they could have left such expensive gowns behind. What did they wear going home? New, even more expensive gowns? Hotel robes?

  Honestly, I don’t feel like wearing any of the gowns. The idea of wearing a gown previously worn by a woman Nathan once slept with unsettles me. I’m still in need of new clothes, though, and a beggar doesn’t have much to choose from, so I scoop the gowns from his arms.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, heading to the bathroom.

  There, I place the gowns on the chair — yes, there’s a chair in the bathroom — and I sit on the toilet so I can remove my shoes. Slipping out of the gown I’m currently in, I start trying the gowns.

  The first two are too small. I end up dumping them on the sink. The third is too big. Okay. Now, I’m starting to feel like Goldilocks. Finally, the last one, a pink lace gown, fits perfectly.

  Except for one thing — the neckline is a tad too low for my liking.

  Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I can see the top of my breasts peeking out. Oh, well. At least I’m wearing bra petals. And at least my breasts look bigger.

  The more I stare, the more I find myself wondering what the woman who owned the gown looked like. Was she blonde? Was she a brunette?

  As I run my fingers over the gown, another question comes to mind: How did he fuck her?

  Without warning, I see an image of Nathan running his hands over the lace and over bare skin as he slowly peels it off.

  Inch by inch…

  I suppress a shudder, placing my hands at my sides.

  Shit, Samantha. Do you want him to fuck you, too? Have you forgotten how he kissed you?

  No, I haven’t. I run my fingers over my bottom lip, which tingles at the memory of his kiss. In fact, that’s probably why I’m feeling like this, my heart pounding and heat buzzing through my veins.

  Now that I’m no longer suffering from either claustrophobia or a wardrobe malfunction, I’m suffering from something else — the full realization that I’m in the apartment of the man I’ve been fantasizing about.

  Alone.

  I shake the thought off, though, as I quickly scoop up the other gowns, including my old one. Then, after putting my shoes back on, I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom.

  “Great choice,” Nathan says when he sees me.

  And yet his words make me think the opposite, his gaze making my skin tingle as it sweeps over me from head to toe.

  “I’m sure its original owner wore it better,” I say to diffuse the tension as I hand him back the other gowns.

  He takes them and dumps them on top of the nearest table. “Honestly, I can’t remember.”

  He’s honest. I’ll give him that. And yet, I can feel that it makes him even more dangerous.

  I have to get out of here.

  I glance at my watch. “Mr. Landers, I—”

  “Nathan,” he corrects me. “You’re not one of my employees, so call me Nathan. And now that I have you in my suite and am providing you with clothing it might be nice to know your name as well.”

  I chuckle from a little nervousness. That’s right, I know him, everyone knows his name, but he doesn’t have any clue who I am. “I’m Sam, Samatha Willis. Nathan,” I repeat. It feels weird calling him by his first name but at the same time, I can’t help but feel fuzzy inside. “Thank you for the gown.”

  “I thought I owed it to you.”

  Right.

  “Besides, it’s not like I can wear it.”

  No. He can’t.

  “I better go,” I tell him. “I—”

  “Drink?” He offers me a glass of red wine. “Or would you rather have champagne?”

  I’d rather have you.

  I shake my head. “I should go.”

  Before I make more of a fool of myself.

  “Should or want to?”

  “Should,” I answer, gathering my things. “And want to.”

  He seems puzzled. “Are you going back downstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  So what if I’m wearing a different gown? I doubt people have noticed. I’m just the photographer, after all. Besides, I’ve got work to do and while I’ve told Mattie I’ve gone home, I’m sure she’ll be happier if she sees me back in that ballroom with my camera.

  He sets down the glass of red wine, pouring himself some Scotch. “You’re a photographer?”

  I place the strap of the camera around my neck as I nod.

  “For a magazine?”

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Prima Vida magazine.”

  “Ah. I’ve heard of it.” He takes a sip of his Scotch. “Is it good?”

  “It pays the bills.”

  “You sound like you’d rather be doing something else.�
��

  I shrug. “Well, we can’t all invent apps and become billionaires, can we?” I glance at my watch again. “If you’ll excuse me, I really need to—”

  “Do you resent all rich people or just me?” He sets down his glass.

  “Resent? No.” I shake my head. “I just find them…” Boring, I want to say. “Not interesting enough.”

  “And do you think of me that way?”

  No. Nathan Landers is hot, confident, fascinating. Anything but boring.

  “You’re… interesting enough.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  I look away.

  Shit. I can’t believe he just forced a compliment out of me. He’s sly, this one.

  “Plus, rich people can be selfish sometimes,” I add quickly. “Not that I wish they’d give me money. I just wish they’d spend their money more wisely, like use more of it to help make the world a better place.”

  “How would you spend your money if you were rich?” he asks.

  I don’t think twice. “I’d build animal shelters and reserves.”

  His eyebrows crease. “You’d rather help animals than people?”

  I frown, not liking his tone. “Animals are just as important, you know.”

  “How?”

  How? “The wild ones maintain our environment, keep the natural balance. And the domestic ones give us companionship.”

  “We can make robot pets as companions.”

  “Robots?” I can’t imagine a kid playing in the mud with a machine.

  “And we can find ways to reproduce plants so they can survive even without animals to pollinate them or disperse seeds.”

  I blink, my temper rising. “Are you saying animals are unnecessary?”

  “I’m saying they’re more valuable dead. They give food, clothing…”

  He stops mid-sentence as I splash the glass of wine on his face, the crimson drops staining his white shirt. I don’t care. I can’t just stand there when some rich jerk is talking about killing off every animal.

  Nathan wipes a drop off his cheek. “Well, that was unexpected… and a waste of good wine.”

  I set down the empty glass. “So, it’s a crime to waste wine but not to get rid of all the animals on Earth?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I look at his stained shirt and click my tongue. “Well, well, well. It seems like our roles are reversed, and now you’re the one in need of new clothes. Funny, isn’t it? Let’s hope you keep suits as well as gowns.”

  I turn on my heel and reach the door, placing my hand on the handle. “Oh, and I take back what I said earlier, Mr. Landers. You’re not interesting enough.”

  Chapter 3

  A Weasel Out of Hiding

  “You threw wine at Nathan Landers?”

  Pamela, my best friend, otherwise known as Pam — some people call us SamPam or Spam or Sam-I-Am and Pam-I-Am — looks at me across the cafeteria table with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Thankfully, she hasn’t taken a bite of her pasta or it would have fallen out.

  “Shh,” I scold her with a finger to my lips.

  Quickly, I look around the crowded cafeteria. No one’s looking at me weird. Or looking at me, period. That’s good.

  I don’t want anyone else knowing about the ‘slip’ I made.

  As soon as I got home and the anger had subsided, I realized what a fool I’d been. I shouldn’t have let him get to me. I shouldn’t have risen to the occasion.

  And I definitely shouldn’t have thrown that wine on his face.

  “I know, I know,” I tell Pam. “I wasn’t on my best behavior. I should have just put on a fake smile and then walked away.”

  “You should not have been with him in the first place.” She eats a forkful of pasta. “Haven’t you heard that he’s a womanizer?”

  “How do you know this again?” I ask.

  She looks at me like I’m an alien. “I’m a news reporter, Sam. I hear things. I know things.”

  Pam writes for the company’s news magazine. Mostly in-depth stuff. Investigative journalism, she calls it.

  “He didn’t try to seduce me, though.” Or did he? “He pissed me off, that’s what.”

  “Then you’re lucky. Oh, but wait. You called him despicable.”

  I frown at the reminder. “He called animals unnecessary. Like they are just weeds or something.”

  Pam took a bite off her piece of garlic bread. “So, you threw wine at him.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Question. Does Nathan Landers know who you work for?”

  “I might have mentioned it.”

  Pam shakes her head. “Not good. You never know how powerful men will retaliate. I hate to break it to you, but he could ask Henry to fire you.”

  He could?

  “Or worse, he could talk to the investors — I hear one of the major ones is a friend of his — and have them pull out their money and our company would… well, take a big blow.”

  “No way.” I hadn’t thought of that.

  Pam shrugs. “Rich men usually have big egos, egos they don’t want deflated. Who knows what they do when their feathers get ruffled?”

  I sigh. Pam’s right. I should know, having been around a lot of rich people for the past several months.

  I let my head fall on the table. What have I done?

  Can my day get any worse? Nancy already gave me an earful for not taking enough pictures at last night’s gala because I ended up not returning to the ballroom after that heated argument with Nathan. Never mind that I told her I was suddenly not feeling well. Mattie seemed disappointed, too, reminding me that I’m a professional and I shouldn’t let personal things like wardrobe malfunctions get in the way. Oh, and she gave me a heap of safety pins.

  Now, I find out my career’s in jeopardy.

  What next? A broken arm? God forbid.

  “Sam?” I hear the concern in Pam’s voice.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  It’s not Pam’s fault. She’s a news reporter, so she has a thing for bearing bad news. Even so, she’s just the messenger. I brought this upon myself.

  “No, you’re not. Eat something.”

  “I’m still full.”

  “Suit yourself.” She pats my hair. “I have to go back to my desk. I’ve got a deadline to beat. Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s not the end of the world.”

  Easy for her to say.

  “Who knows? He might just let it go.”

  I lift my head and look at her. I can tell she thinks it’s unlikely, and yet she said so anyway just to make me feel better. That’s why she’s my best friend.

  She crosses her fingers as she walks away then turns and blows me a kiss.

  “Good luck with that deadline,” I call out to her.

  She gives me a thumbs up. Then she’s gone.

  I look around the cafeteria, the crowd seeming smaller now.

  I glance at my watch. 12:42.

  Should I go back to my desk? But I don’t really have anything to do there. And frankly, I don’t want to see Nancy or Mattie again. Should I go home then? My next event isn’t until noon tomorrow, so I can.

  I’m still toying with the idea when my phone beeps.

  A new message from Barry Baker.

  I frown. Didn’t I tell that scumbag not to contact me anymore? Why does he still have my email?

  There are pictures. I don’t understand what…

  Oh, shit.

  They’re all pictures of me. And Nathan. Half of them are of us kissing, the other half of us getting into the elevator.

  How on earth did he get these pictures?

  Why am I even asking? He’s paparazzi. Taking pictures without anyone knowing is his specialty. But why send them to me?

  I scroll down.

  I know what you did last night, but hey, I can be persuaded to keep it a secret from your boss. Just have dinner with me tonight at seven at the Marriott. See you.

  If my phone wasn’t so expensive, I’d probably ha
ve thrown it at the nearest wall.

  How dare Barry blackmail me? Then again, I should have known blackmail wasn’t beneath him. He’d do anything to achieve his filthy goals.

  Anything.

  I knew it. He’s a weasel.

  Well, there’s nothing I can do. If those pictures reach Henry or Nancy or any of the executives at the company, my credibility is going to be questioned. They’ll say I’m using my job to get laid. They’ll call it a breach of trust, a conflict of interest. At any rate, I could easily get fired and my dreams will go down the drain.

  I can’t let that happen. I won’t. Luckily, Barry is giving me a chance to get rid of them.

  Lucky? Just the thought of sitting across from him at a table, enduring his mischievous grin and knowing what he’s thinking of, is enough to make me cringe.

  Yup, my day just got worse.

  Much worse.

  ***

  I’ve been through worse, I tell myself as a confidence booster as I walk across the lobby of the Marriott toward the lounge.

  It’s 6:46. The sooner we start, the sooner we can finish. And I intend to finish this as soon as possible.

  Barry is already here. He’s eager. Of course, he is.

  He’s sporting a new suit and a fresh shave, too. Not that it makes him any less of a dick.

  He sees me immediately, his smile growing wide. Then his eyebrows crease. Probably, he doesn’t approve of what I’m wearing — a cardigan over a turtleneck and a skirt over leggings. Nope, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of gawking at me or trying to steal a glimpse down my shirt.

  His smile returns, though, as I sit across from him.

  “I knew you’d come.”

  I pick up the menu. “I didn’t have anything else to do.”

  We order. Steak and wine for him. Just salad and a glass of juice for me. I don’t intend to stay long, after all.

  “Watching your figure?” Barry asks, eyes on my breasts.

  What figure? “I’m not that hungry.”

  Who would have an appetite dining with scum?

  “Too bad. I’m paying. A man always pays on a date, after all.”

  I want to tell him it isn’t a date, but I have a feeling he’ll insist it is so I drop the subject. Besides, there’s something more important we need to discuss.

  “Where are the pictures?” I ask.