Dangerous Daddy

by Sarah J. Brooks

“Oh, Michael, I’m so happy.”

  “I give you fair warning, MacKenzie Duncan Daughtry. I’m not perfect.”

  “Oh, I already knew that. I think that’s one of the reasons I love you. I’m not perfect either, but I think perfection is a bit overrated.”

  I kiss her forehead in response. Yes, although we’re a bit flawed in the length to which we’ll go in pursuit of something we want, it’s better if we’re on the same team.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  Nodding, “I’m starved. We never had dinner last night.”

  “I did.”

  “Oh, you’re awful!” she says, slapping me playfully on the chest.

  “The shower’s in there. Pull yourself together, and I’ll meet you on the aft deck for breakfast.”

  “Deal,” she says, rolling from the bed without bothering to untangle the sheets. I get a view of her perfect rump as she’s holding up her ring in admiration on her way into the bath. I quickly sneak into the second stateroom and shower quickly, pulling a clean set of clothes from the sparse closet.

  “Michael, you know what I just forgot?” Mac asks as we’re finishing our breakfast.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re having Abby and Walter for dinner this evening. I’m supposed to cook and to play the piano, and we have neither groceries nor piano. I’m hoping you have at least gotten Walter to come?”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot to let you know. He’s looking forward to it. What about we take them to a nice restaurant this time and do dinner at home another?”

  She nods in agreement. “Perfect solution.”

  “It feels good, you know?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Call it ‘home’, and it’s only because you’ll be there. It never has truly been home before.”

  “Don’t forget that, you hear?”

  “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll let me.” I grin, and she kisses me hard; hard enough to make me want to go back into the stateroom.

  Epilogue

  MacKenzie

  I’m standing at one end of a wooded path, the boughs of ancient trees bowing to my processional about to take place. At my side is my best friend, Abby, for once utterly feminine in a soft pale green, form-clinging silk that blends perfectly in the twilight of the forest setting. Ahead of us are rows of chairs filled with well-wishers, including my parents. Everyone is curiously quiet and alert as I begin my solo approach beneath thousands of strings of tiny lights that form an open-sky arch overhead.

  At the end of the path awaits the Reverend Doheny, his Bible clutched in his anxious hands. Next to him is the Best Man, Mort, and I can see from my position that both are showing signs of panic as the groom’s spot remains empty. In the front row, Walter is plainly waiting for the ceremony to be over so he can dance with the woman of his dreams, Abby. To one side, a girl I knew from Wellesley, Susan, is playing the harp, watching for her signal to begin the wedding march.

  The guests are becoming anxious. Is history about to repeat itself?

  My eyes are glued to the altar where Michael is not waiting. I’m feeling ill in a déjà vu sense. Not again!

  Suddenly behind me, I hear footfalls scuffling through the mulched path and a woman’s strident voice. “Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

  “Shhh …” comes a man’s whisper, and suddenly Michael, and a semi-reluctant Olivia come around the curve of the path into open view.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Olivia exclaims in a loud voice, the purple-flowered pillbox hat pinned to her head sitting at an odd angle. “Look at this, will you? I’ve played joints that aren’t as pretty as this,” she adds. The guests begin to titter and I’m suddenly filled with a sense of joy, peace, and completion that could not come about any other way.

  Michael winks at me, and I’m thrilled that he was so thoughtful as to bring the colorful Olivia to our wedding. He practically drags her down the path—Olivia walking slowly with her head held high as she makes her own entrance. She nods to guests as she passes, accepting their gawking as affirmations of her talented and almost royal procession.

  Michael seats her in the front row and takes his place, Mort coming to stand behind and to the side of him. Susan plucks the opening notes, and I begin my own walk down the path. Dad wanted to walk with me, but I’m doing this alone. It’s a symbol; to me and to Michael that I’m independent and making this decision all on my own. I think he’s taking a certain amount of pride in me; I know I am.

  When I approach the altar, I barely hear the words being said and don’t remember to say, “I do” until there is a wordless vacuum giving me my cue. Michael repeats his vows, and then he’s sliding the matching wedding band onto my left hand. He sets back my veil, kisses me deeply, and then picks me up and carries me back down the mulched path. “I love you,” he says loudly enough that those around us hear and nod in acceptance that this time, I’ve made the right decision.

  Twisting around in Michael’s arms, I toss my bouquet directly to Abby. “Here hang on to this for me, will you? I think you might need to borrow it,” I add, and she has the utterly feminine reaction of blushing. There might be hope for her yet, I realize.

  We dine that evening beneath the sky and the twinkling lights at long tables covered with white cloths and sparkling crystal. At one juncture, I leave Michael long enough to step over to a white grand piano and perform Chopin as I watch Michael’s face. It is such a romantic evening that almost everyone has forgotten to argue or complain—all except Aunt Olivia. She’s squawking that Mort has two left feet and could do with a session or two at Arthur Murray’s. He wants badly to act offended but is wise enough to know that he who argues will sleep alone that night.

  I won’t be sleeping alone tonight, and neither will Michael. Nor will we sleep apart for the thousands of nights to come.

  There is a poignant moment when Mort stands to give the best man’s speech.

  “I’m a very proud man to be given this honor this evening. Not many know, but Michael found me drunk and almost passed out on the bricks before one of my many pubs. He pulled me to my feet, got me a room and a hot meal that night and brought me to the U.S. with him. He restored my dignity and gave me a chance to find love again.” Here he looks at Olivia, who shakes her head and turns to draw upon her cigarette holder. “I have a home with Michael and Mac, at least I hope I do …” he stops and looks my way. I laugh and nod. “Very well, then. I would also like to say that I’m very proud to call Michael my friend, for a finer man I’ve never known. He does not boast, and there are few who know of the many, many generous acts he’s committed. There are many who will sleep in a bed tonight through his generosity; many whose children will eat and others who are at this very moment studying in a dorm rather than prowling the street in gang colors. I’ve only known Michael a short time, but were I able, I would be proud to call him my son.” This brought tears to my eyes, and I wasn’t the only one dabbing my eyes.

  My mother got up and gave a different and slightly self-serving speech about me—mostly about my musical accomplishments and that she’d supported me through it all.

  There is a socially tense moment when Olivia stands, already having imbibed a bottle of champagne on her own. We all believe she is about to launch into a speech of questionable nature, but it turns out she’s merely looking for the ladies’ room.

  ***

  A year after our wedding, Danielle is born, and she’s still demanding attention when her brother, Michael, Jr. joins her. Michael continues his work, but it has taken on a different light in my eyes now. Like my mother, I choose the role at the center of our social world. I go on to become a major fundraiser. Michael appropriates the funds to build libraries, schools, and more decent housing in areas that were formerly blighted. Years later when a hurricane wipes out almost an eighth of the state, he is at the forefront of rebuilding, sheltering victims, and feeding them in the interim. I’m proud of my husband, and I believe, he is equally proud of me.

&n
bsp; THE END

  THANK YOU so much for reading my book! Don’t stop now, the fun is not over yet! As a special gift, I’ve included a my billionaire rockstar novel “USED by him” – Happy reading!

  USED by Him

  A Billionaire Rockstar Romance

  Sarah J. Brooks

  Chapter 1

  “Crap!” Chelsea muttered as her bag strap broke.

  The impact of bumping into something hard resulted in the damaged handbag. If she weren’t in the hotel lobby, she would have sworn it was a brick wall. She knew better. Mumbling an apology she tried to grip the paper folder as it slipped through her fingers. The bag slid from her shoulder, falling with a soft thud, while the contents of the file folder scattered on the marble floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, stooping to retrieve her property.

  She had been hastening to her interview with her eyes cast down. As she reached to retrieve the files, a sneakered foot stepped on the documents, smearing them. The foot moved off as she snatched up the paper, brushed it off and gathered her belongings. The owner of the foot did not stop to apologize.

  When she stood, she looked in the direction in which the sneaker had gone and made out the back of a man with long, medium brown hair, which fell off his shoulder. His arms pushed from the sleeveless T-shirt he wore, and she could make out his well-defined triceps. His back was to her so she could not see his face. Nevertheless, she noted how rude he had been, walking away without as much as an apology.

  She watched him for a second and was tempted to run after him, demanding an apology, but she knew she could never do that. She would die first before confronting anyone, let alone a man. Inhaling deeply, she watched him go through the hotel front door with his three companions, similarly dressed in jeans and T-shirt. She noted that one had a cap on backward.

  Gripping her handbag to her chest, she straightened her back, continuing forward. This was Chelsea Downing’s first job interview. If things went well, she would be the assistant to the manager for Colt Montgomery, the rock star. She was nervous as it was, and now her letter of referral was ruined. She’d traveled several thousand miles to attend one last interview for the position, and some ill-mannered turd had ruined her letter.

  She paused to smooth her mid-calf, blue and red plaid skirt, which flared at the hem. Adjusting her glasses, she examined herself. A frown formed on her forehead as she made out a small spot on her baby blue button down cotton blouse, right above the left breast. Briefly, she closed her eyes and hoped it was only visible to her.

  She looked around the Violet Diamond Hotel lobby before heading towards the elevator. There were only three minutes left of her time. With hurried steps, she hoped that she could find the suite in time and not end up being late. That would be one more strike against her. When she reached the elevator, it was closing, and she slipped in just in time. Two men were in there, dressed in similar garb as her sneaker foot paper smearer. The description made her smile. One of the men eyed her, and she cast her eyes down with hunched shoulders.

  “Where to?” someone asked, and she glanced quickly in the direction of the voice.

  “23,” her voice came out in almost a whisper.

  She continued her downward gaze and hoped no one would talk to her. When the doors parted, she let out a quiet, shaky breath and scurried through the door. The two fellows also exited. She continued down the hall, stopping at each door, checking the numbers.

  “273,” she whispered as she passed by room 269. “273,” she repeated.

  She moved along until she was standing in front of Suite 273. She double checked the address on a piece of paper and smiled. Her knees were wobbly, and her stomach churned, but she inhaled deeply, reaching a hand out to press the small white button.

  Before she touched it, a hand reached out and swiped a card. There was a click, and the door opened a crack. Her emerald eyes darted up and made contact with soft brown ones. She gasped softly and stepped back.

  The young man, about six feet with sandy blond hair that reached a few inches above his shoulder, smiled and opened the door. “Are you Chelsea? Reid is expecting you,” he said.

  “Tha—thank you,” she stuttered, nodding before cautiously stepping inside.

  “I’m Tony, a member of the band,” he said, moving past her into the expansive suite.

  A man was sitting at a desk in a corner, chatting on the phone. She assumed him to be Reid Richards, the one she was there to see. He beckoned to her, pointing to the sofa a few feet away. She observed him. His hair was a few shades darker than Tony’s and was receding from the hairline. His was dressed in a dark blue suit, sporting a gold and diamond watch.

  Chelsea’s eyes darted around the room. It was larger than most apartments. Certainly larger than the studio her friend Molly lived in. There were two doors to the right and another two to the left. She assumed they were bedrooms. Straight ahead, she could make out another area, similar to the one she was sitting in. Off to the left was a kitchenette and on the right was a mini bar.

  She perched her derriere on the edge of the beige sofa as she waited for Reid to complete his telephone conversation. Tony had disappeared through one of the doors. She felt strange and out of place.

  New York was not a place she liked. It was different from the small town of Norbury, Virginia, where she was born. This was her first time being away from home, which was a little bit daunting for her. She’d always dreamed of leaving after her friend Molly ran away. However, the reality was far different from her fantasies. New York was not what she envisioned. The smells were different, the noise deafening, and the people quite rude. A twinge of annoyance settled in her chest at the memory of her sneaker attacker.

  The great thing about this job was that the band was always on tour, traveling around the country and sometimes abroad. They would be in New York another two weeks before moving on to another city. That meant she would not be stuck in one place for too long.

  Reid hung up the phone and stood, a smile spreading across his face. She could tell it was practiced, but she had prepared a bright one of her own. He sauntered over, straightened his jacket before fixing his sleeves.

  “Chelsea, I presume?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  He reached a hand out, and she took it. It was neither warm nor cold, just neutral temperature. He clasped her smaller one tightly, gave it a firm shake and then let it go.

  “Yes,” she said in her soft voice.

  “I’m Reid Richards, we spoke on the phone,” he said, taking a seat opposite her.

  His eyes traveled over her attire and came back to rest on her face. His smile hadn’t faded, but she could see that his lips were where the smile ended. His eyes were icy titanium, and they perused her sharply.

  “I’ve prepared a room for you next door,” he said. “I can move you to a lower floor if you prefer. Where is your luggage?” he raised a brow.

  “I—it’s—well, I thought this was an interview,” she replied, trying not to meet his eyes.

  “We passed that phase on the phone. You checked out, so we’re good to go.”

  He looked her up and down again, and her stomach did that little lurch which annoyed her so much. She felt a single stream of cold sweat leave her neck and trickle down her back. She squirmed at the tingle on her skin.

  “Look, Chelsea, can I call you that, or would you prefer Miss Downing?” he paused and stared at her.

  “Ch—Chelsea is fi—fine,” she stuttered and blinked nervously.

  “Chelsea, I get that you’re a country girl, new to the city, but you have got to lose those clothes.”

  Her heart took a leap up to her mouth, and she sprang to her feet, clutching her bag and file to her chest. What is this? she inwardly screamed. I never signed up for this. She wanted to bolt, but Reid was speaking again, and her mind went back to his voice.

  “Easy now,” Reid’s voice softened, and he extended a hand. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I mean, you
need to dress differently for the job. You know, more suited to the position.”

  A snicker sounded behind her, and Reid’s eyes peered past her. “It’s not like it makes a difference. It wouldn’t do any good anyway,” the voice was base chord, slightly gruff with a scornful tone.

  She turned slowly to see who it was. She knew it wasn’t Tony’s, so it must be someone else. Tony had spoken to her, and his voice was softer, clearer. She hadn’t heard anyone enter and was curious who it was that was mocking her.

  It was the guy with the long brown hair. So now, she got a good look at his face. Angular features, she noted, with a day-old stubble and fleshy pink lips. Her eyes traveled downward. She recalled the black muscle shirt and jeans. Her eyes dropped to his feet, and it was the same pair of sneakers. She would recognize them anywhere. She might be country, but she knew those sneakers were special edition from a famous sports legend. She had followed the latest trends in fashion and had briefly entertained the thought of working with a design company.

  With a Bachelor of Science in Communication, she had to keep her options open. Though she didn’t dress the part, she was versed on the latest in music, fashion, and movies.

  A small spark of anger within her chest quickly replaced her nervousness. She could feel the heat flush her skin, and she gritted her teeth. The guy smirked and sauntered away, disappearing in one of the rooms.

  “Don’t listen to him, Colt has a huge chip on his shoulder,” Reid’s voice snapped her back.

  She turned back to the band manager, with her breath coming in shallow gasps. So that’s Colt, she seethed. She was so angry that she wanted to do something, but she retreated into her shell and dropped her bottom back on the sofa. Hunching her shoulders, she allowed the anger to evaporate.

  “We’ll take care of your wardrobe in time, okay, so relax and don’t worry about a thing,” Reid reassured.

  He was staring at her. His eyes softened somewhat. She did not hold his gaze; she could never hold anyone’s stare, though she had wanted to stare Colt down. Take him down a notch.