Dangerous Daddy

by Sarah J. Brooks

  “I went over to my parents’ house and told them I’d moved in with you. Well, not exactly you, but with someone. I don’t want her launching into mother detective mode and showing up uninvited.”

  “She would do that, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah, you don’t know her. First of all, nothing of interest goes on around here without her knowing about it. Nothing. People even ask her permission in advance, and her word is final. It’s sort of scary, even if she is my mother.”

  “Okay, I’ll have to take your word for that.”

  She nods and continues. “Oh, and then I went over to tell Abby, who naturally has met you but is having reservations on my behalf.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s protective—that stuff with Antonio. No one trusts my judgment.”

  “Do you trust your judgment?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good, I’m glad.”

  “Anyway, Abby was being a little gray about the whole thing, and that’s when I remembered about you mentioning Walter. I thought it might divert her attention, and it did. It will also let her see that we’re fine, and that I’m happy here.”

  “Well, then, by all means, let’s do it. Abby’s seal of approval evidently holds some importance for you.”

  “It would for you, too if you had my mother. You don’t know how obstinate she can be once she’s made up her mind.”

  “No, I can only imagine …” I say letting the sentence trail off and wondering if she’ll catch my inference that she might have inherited a little of that from her mother. She misses it.

  “And Mort won’t have to cook if he doesn’t want to. I could handle it all.”

  “I’d like you to be the hostess and not the cook if that’s okay. That’s why Mort is here, and he’s a little territorial over his kitchen.”

  “Really?”

  “Ask him yourself, here he is,” I say as Mort enters the living room where we’re talking. “Tell her, Mort. You’re territorial over your kitchen, aren’t you?”

  “Not to be rude, Miss, but it’s more efficient if I keep a mental picture of food supplies and where everything is, so in that sense, yes, I suppose you could say I am.”

  I can tell Mort has been off center since Mac moved in. I’m guessing he’d rather have had Olivia stay on. As it is now, he can’t even refer to her because we’re supposed to be in mourning. I only hope it’s not my own demise that lies ahead. I hadn’t counted on Mac telling her parents quite this soon. It doesn’t really matter—they were bound to find out, eventually, but I’d hoped for a little more time to clear my conscience and let Mac know the truth about me, and about Olivia, before we entertained parental gatherings.

  I feel a lump of nerves in my stomach, making me queasy at the thought of it falling through and Mac leaving me. She’s springing to her feet and off to take a shower. When she leaves, it feels like the sunshine has left the room.

  “In a bit of a spot now, aren’t you, sir?” he says to me once she’s safely out of hearing.

  “You might say that,” I agree.

  “I just did, sir.”

  I look up at him. “It’s just an American expression, Mort. Yes, of course, I’ve dug myself in deep this time.”

  He nods. “Was saying that just last evening to Olivia.”

  “Oh, that’s right. How are the two of you getting along?”

  Mort flushes and says, “I believe you could say we’ve become what you Yanks call ‘an item,’ sir.”

  “Has she found somewhere to settle in?”

  “Oh, yes sir. You were quite generous to Olivia, and she’s snapped up a tidy little place near the beach and is quite comfortable. She sends her best.”

  “Well, I’m glad. I was hoping she’d do just that. It’s about time she retires.” I pause. “What if I lose her, Mort?”

  “Sir?” His mind is on Olivia, but mine is definitely on Mac.

  “I’m referring to Mac, of course. I couldn’t stand to lose her. Never felt this way before.”

  “It’s because you’re in love, sir.”

  “What? Love? No, fond, maybe, but love isn’t me.”

  “You’ll excuse the impertinence, sir, but you’re wrong. It’s written all over both your faces. You may as well acknowledge it now and get it over with. This pretending, sir, has simply got to stop.”

  I consider what he is saying, and as much as I want to believe Mac is in love with me, I’d been burned and didn’t want to encourage my brain to think or feel in that direction.

  “I don’t know about that, but I’m content with what is.”

  “As you say, sir. As you say.”

  Mort is about to leave the room to tend to dinner when I stop him. “Say, Mort, Mac and I will be having dinner on the yacht on Friday, or so I hope she agrees. I’m going to come clean to her. Pack us up a nice dinner, would you? Spare no expense, something much nicer than a little picnic.”

  “Will you want me aboard to serve, sir?”

  “No, I think I’d rather have it private.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll do that, indeed.”

  “You sound relieved, Mort.”

  “I’m not much of a bloke for boats, sir.”

  “No? I thought all Englishmen went to sea, Mort.”

  “Not those who cannot swim, sir.”

  I nodded. “I see. Well, we’ll have to get you some lessons and remedy that, what do you say?”

  “Perhaps someday, sir. I’m fine for the time being.”

  Mac is back, smiling and absolutely adorable in a navy and white polka-dot skirt with a short-sleeved sweater top that’s low cut and is displaying her kissable cleavage. “Sweetheart, I was just asking Mort to put together a dinner for us for Friday afternoon to evening. I’d like to take you out on the boat.”

  “You have a boat?”

  “Of course,” I say quickly and then realize she may be questioning why Aunt Olivia had a boat. I don’t want to dig my hole any deeper, so I leave off further explanations, and she doesn’t seem prone to pushing it.

  “That sounds like fun. I’m having lunch with Mom at the club on Wednesday so this will be a busy week!” She’s smiling, and that makes me happy. She comes and hugs me, and as I look over her head, I see Mort standing in the doorway, a look of forbidding doom on his face.

  Chapter 17

  Mac

  “I can’t make it, darling,” Mom says on the phone. I’m sitting at the table in the tea room of the country club by myself. “This staff is out of control, and now I’ve got someone coming to fix the pool and no one competent to show him what’s wrong. Can we take a rain check?”

  “Sure, Mom, it’s okay. I’ve got a book with me, anyway. It’s on modern art, and I only have a short time before I have to be back at work. It’s fine. Hope you get your pool fixed okay; I know how that sort of thing irritates you,” I tell her, and she disconnects.

  I order a club sandwich with a raspberry iced tea and then open my book—a beautiful coffee table production with glossy photos of modern art examples and a little history and insight into the artist’s motivation. It’s actually quite helpful since I’ve always hated modern art and avoided learning anything about it. My mind begins to wander as I remember back to my younger days when I spent hours and hours at the piano. I decide to ask Michael whether we might rent a grand piano for the beautiful living room so I can brush up and play from time to time.

  “Well, look who’s here,” comes a familiar, if unwelcomed voice. I look up to verify that yes, it’s Antonio. I nod curtly.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asks and turns on that million-dollar smile that contrasts so starkly from his darkly tanned skin.

  I shrug vaguely; this is no place to have a screaming rehash of just why he chose to stand me up at the altar. I continue to page through my book, forcing myself not to look at him. My sandwich arrives, and he motions to the waiter to bring him the same, except with a beer. I feel vulnerable and alone, wishing that Michael could be
here to fend for me.

  “So, I hear you’ve moved on,” Antonio says just as his sandwich arrives. I say nothing and don’t look up.

  “Oh, c’mon, you can’t still be angry. You know why I had to do that, don’t you, mi amor?”

  “I’m not your love, so don’t say that again, Antonio. Look, I don’t want any trouble from you. I’m not interested in any explanation because no matter what you might say, it’s not going to be good enough.”

  “Oh, it makes me sad to hear you say this,” he pretends a mournful voice and touches the tip of my chin with his finger. I shake it off.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He eats, and I can feel him studying me as he does so. I feel chills along my spine and want to be out of there. I motion to the waiter for my check, but Antonio has something to say, it seems.

  “I’ve missed you, mi amor,” he tries again. “I want to see you again.”

  “Not going to happen, Antonio. You had your chance, and you treated me like crap. You think I want to buy into that again? No way. I’ve got a real man, now. One who doesn’t have to trash women in order to feel macho.”

  Antonio flinches, and I see the movement from the corner of my eye. I feel a small victory, but it’s short-lived.

  “He’s not good enough for you,” Antonio spits back at me. “I’ve seen him around, I know who he is, and believe me, he’s not good enough for you … unless, of course, you like liars.”

  “Stop it, Antonio! Just be quiet for one minute while I wait for my check, and then I’ll be gone. I don’t need to sit here and ruin your lunch.” I hate my words because I hear myself choosing to be the less important person—just as he’d trained me to do when we’d been together. I want to shake it off. Michael, why aren’t you here?

  Antonio is not done. “You do not know this Michael, this man you are with. He is not who you think he is.”

  “Be quiet, Antonio. I don’t want to hear any more from you!”

  “Mi amor, I understand why you are angry with me, but do not let that blind you to this man. He has hunted you.”

  I look up in alarm.

  He sees that he has my attention and continues. “Oh, yes … he has had his sights set on you for a very long time now. He has been planning this trap.

  “Antonio, stop it now. Why are you trying to ruin things for me? You’re being cruel and petty as usual.”

  He persists. “I’ve checked him out. He is a member here at this club. He is not the pauper he would have you believe. In fact, he has been seen golfing with your very own father. He is known to be a manipulator, someone who will not stop until he gets what he wants. Ask him, mi amor, ask him about the people he put out onto the street so that he could take their houses and make more money. He comes from nowhere, tells people his parents are dead, and yet others believe he’s lying. He lies to you. Check it out.”

  The last words are clinging to my present thoughts as I almost run to get away from Antonio and the tea room. Why is he saying these things?

  Chapter 18

  Michael

  “What have you planned to be on the menu?”

  Mort has ceased all conversation except for what is necessary. I know this is his way of disapproving, and it angers me. I literally rescued him from being a drunken vagrant to having a decent life with all sorts of options, and the first chance he gets, he turns on me. I’m not happy with him.

  “Lobster, new potatoes in their jacket, fresh asparagus in my own secret sauce, strawberry shortcake and chocolate mints for dessert. I thought to make the dessert sweet and fresh, sir, believing you’ll need it.”

  “Nice menu, but lose the attitude, Mort. I mean, really. What is it you’re so pissed about anyway?”

  “To be truthful, sir, it’s because you haven’t been truthful. I’ve come to admire you since we came here, sir, and I’m not sure I like being a part of this charade.”

  “That’s what this dinner is to be all about, Mort. I’m coming clean, letting her know the truth before it goes on any further. I don’t like you trying to make me feel guilty.”

  “One doesn’t make one feel guilty, sir. One either is, or one is not.”

  My phone is buzzing. “You don’t have the full story so please stop judging me,” I say as I go to pick it up. I tap the answer button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  It’s Clyde Johnson, foreman of my crew working on a development on the far west side of the state. He’s giving me a laundry list of problems. “I’ve gone as far as I can on the authority you’ve given me, Michael. We’re at a standstill, and you need to get over here. My guys are threatening to leave the site.”

  I curse beneath my breath. With all the commotion surrounding Mac’s moving in, and Olivia’s supposed death, I’ve not been at the top of my game. I’ve let some things slip, and I can see disaster written all over the future’s blackboard.

  “How long can it wait? It’s hard for me to get away right now.”

  “Oh, it can wait forever if you don’t mind losing your ass. I’m telling you, the guys are ready to walk, and there are plenty of other jobs they can find, but not a better crew you can hire. It’s up to you.”

  “Okay, damn! I’m heading that way this afternoon. Line up the problems before I get there so we can knock them out, one by one, will you?”

  Mort is looking at me with total apathy although he knows very well how important this upcoming boat outing with Mac is and what rests on it. He also knows how involved I remain with my ongoing businesses. I believe he may even be enjoying my discomfort. I look at him hard. “Have that dinner ready to go tomorrow, you hear? I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  I don’t want to leave Mort in charge of letting Mac know I’m heading out of town, so I tap her number, but it goes straight to voicemail. This is odd. Why would she refuse the call? I reason that she’s in the ladies’ room or perhaps with someone she doesn’t want to overhear our conversation. Of course, that’s right. She’s working. How could I forget? Relieved, I call again, and it takes me straight to voicemail where I leave her a message explaining that I have some critical business, and I have to get to out of town and will see her the next day. “Don’t forget your bathing suit,” I add at the end of the message.

  I had no idea of the volcano that was about to explode.

  Chapter 19

  MacKenzie

  I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff and about to tumble forward. There seems to be only one way down, and behind me lay all the fears I’ve had up until this point. They are pushing at me to jump. I want to jump, and that’s what’s scary.

  As much as I don’t want to believe Antonio, there is just too much that rings true in what he said. They say that’s what liars do best, but perhaps this time, he’s right. I know that Michael is kind and good to me, but there is that odd feeling I have about Aunt Olivia. She was wealthy, kind, and even kind of bawdy—a woman like that should have been missed by friends, if not other family members. Why was that handled so quietly, and I was immediately invited to move in?

  Oh, the demons are snapping at my heels. How much of what Antonio said is true and how much is flavored with his bad spirit and intention of making Michael out to be a bad guy?

  Part of me wants to walk away, leave behind whatever possessions I have at his house and go back to my own. In fact, that’s where I’m going tonight—and that makes me wonder why Michael insisted I keep my house. What did he know that I didn’t? Was he already planning to get rid of me?

  What does he want with me, anyway? Is it money? He said he knew in advance he was Aunt Olivia’s heir, so that couldn’t be it. Unless he was in trouble or wanting money for his business before she died and thought I might be the shortcut? He said he didn’t want to get married but then jumped at the idea of taking the next step to a committed relationship.

  Am I happy that Antonio showed up and told me, or was it the worst thing that could happen? He is known to be a liar, and maybe he’s planting these dou
bts in my head to keep me off balance. He’s a bully. Who can I trust? I wish Aunt Olivia were still here. She would give me a no-bullshit perspective. I can’t trust Abby’s judgment because she’s already on the defensive on my behalf. My parents? Apparently, they already know him and don’t realize we’re talking about the same man.

  No, I’m on my own now. I have to trust myself. But first, I will give Michael a chance to explain. I want him to answer the tough questions, and if I think he’s lying, I will walk.

  * * *

  I’m having difficulty sleeping. My thoughts, Antonio’s accusations, Michael’s unexplained behavior are capsizing the smooth sailing I was anticipating for my future. I remember Michael’s kisses, his hands, his breath blending with mine, and I’m filled with desire and a need to feel him next to me. Then come the darker thoughts, and suddenly I feel violated, and the sanctuary of my own bed is treasured. With my fitful sleeping, the morning comes early, and for once I wish I don’t have to go to work. It will just be a prolonged misery, waiting for the late afternoon and my confrontation with the man I’m beginning to love. It could all end tonight.

  Margaret is cheerful, and this makes me jealous, if not almost angry. I know I haven’t had enough sleep to go into my evening. I will be short-tempered and unhappy before we even talk. She senses my off mood and tells me to take an extra fifteen minutes at lunch. I thank her for it, even though it will only make the time drag more. I’m sitting at a café table outside a small deli. People around me seem so happy, and I almost hate them for it. Can’t they see my life is about to be ruined? Can’t they pick up on the energy of my misery? What’s wrong with me? Why do I want others to be as sad and lonely as I’m feeling as of this moment?

  I pray that Mr. North doesn’t come in today—I really don’t think I can be civil. Lucky for him, or perhaps for me, he has chosen to spend his day somewhere else, and that leaves me with a handful of customers I’ve never met. They have no way of knowing I’m not normally this sour-faced, so they don’t comment.