Amanda's Dominant Daddy

by Maggie Carpenter

“Your car,” Giorgio repeated, “the front end. It’s rather bad. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Stunned, she slipped off her barstool, but she was off balance, and as she took a step toward the frantic host, she stumbled. Braxton’s arm shot out, catching her before she fell, and moving it up and around her shoulders, he held her tightly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said firmly. “It’s just a car and I’ll get you home. Do you have your insurance information?”

  “Um, yes, yes, I do,” she nodded.

  “Call it in immediately so they have it on record. Giorgio, would you please call the police?”

  “The police? We need the police?”

  “Yes, there needs to be a police report. Miss Anderson wasn’t driving, and it has to be made clear from the outset. Your valet service will be insured, but it must be established whether or not the valet in question was under the influence of anything.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, I understand,” the upset host replied. “I’ll call them right now.”

  “Here,” Braxton said, picking up Amanda’s wineglass and handing it to her. “Take a drink.”

  “I’m fine, really,” she muttered.

  “Don’t argue,” he frowned. “Take a drink, then a long deep breath. I’m going to help you, and don’t worry, I have no agenda, clear?”

  She stared up at him. He was suddenly different. He was no longer a gorgeous young actor. He was a man, a strong man, and he was stepping in and taking control.

  And she loved it.

  Chapter Two

  Sitting next to Braxton in the intimate space of his BMW, Amanda felt as if she was seventeen years old and on a date with the quarterback of the high-school football team. She was falling in crush, just as she had known she would if she spent any time with him. She almost wished he’d been a jerk, but he’d been nothing short of incredible. The men around her always assumed she could take care of things herself, and when he’d stepped up and dealt with the police and the tow truck driver she’d been astounded. And genuinely grateful. Truly, utterly grateful. A man was actually helping her, but not in an obnoxious bossy way. On the contrary, he’d been affable and calm.

  “You don’t want a car like yours in a regular tow yard,” he’d said, taking her aside and discreetly murmuring his thoughts in her ear. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to have the driver take it to your house so it will be safe overnight, then have your dealer pick it up tomorrow. And one more thing—let everyone think we’re together.”

  “Why?”

  He’d winked and promised to explain later, so she had leaned into him when he’d put his arm around her shoulder, and held his hand when he’d walked her to the car to inspect the damage. Basking in his attention had been glorious, even though it was only a pretense, and she had felt a warm, wonderful, sensuous energy sparkle between them, but now she was leading the tow truck to her house and Braxton would soon be on his way. Wishing the deliciously intimate car ride would never end, she inwardly sighed and stared out at the dark night. Her lonely bed was waiting, and in the morning as she drank her coffee, she would force herself to think about Braxton logically, and in the cold light of day she’d resign herself to the fact that anything lasting between them was simply not going to happen, but she didn’t want think that way yet. Not while he was still sitting next to her. Not while his sexy cologne was tickling her nostrils.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, sensing a change in her mood. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yes, fine,” she nodded. “You’ve been extremely kind. Thank you. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done tonight.”

  “You’re welcome,” he smiled. “Helping damsels in distress is one of my specialties.”

  “You do this sort of thing often?” she asked, glancing across at him, wondering how it would feel to be kissed by him, to be held by him, to be caressed by him, to be tied up and—

  “When the opportunity arises,” he grinned, breaking into her salacious thoughts. “I’m not particularly PC. I like the old-fashioned roles. I enjoy being a man and spending time with a woman who enjoys being feminine.”

  “Really,” she said, then muttered under her breath, “I’m not sure I fit that bill.”

  “Why? Because you’re successful? Being feminine doesn’t exclude success,” he remarked. “I happen to think you’re extremely feminine.”

  Embarrassed that he’d heard her, she felt her face flush and had no idea what to say. Finding herself speechless was rare, and she felt extremely uncomfortable, but she was also totally baffled. Feminine? No man had ever told her she was feminine, but the sexy, gorgeous younger man next to her thought she was, and she realized she was smiling.

  “I’m being completely sincere,” he continued. “I meant that as a compliment.”

  “Uh, thank you. You were going to tell me why you wanted everyone back there to think we were a couple,” she said, purposely changing the subject.

  “Not everyone, just the tow truck driver. You’ll probably think I’m being sexist, but sometimes when a call for a truck goes out it’s intercepted by a crooked company, and the driver will try to have you authorize the car being towed to a yard somewhere miles away, then charge you an exorbitant fee to get it out. When the legit guy shows up, it’s too late.”

  “Really?”

  “If it had been one of those guys, he might have thought twice about messing with me. Fortunately he wasn’t, but regardless, since we’re having it towed to your house, I didn’t want him, or anyone else for that matter, thinking you live alone. Maybe I’m being overprotective, but—”

  “No, not at all,” she interjected, “and I don’t think you’re sexist at all. I appreciate it, I do, very much, oh, and you need to turn left here.”

  He rounded the corner, and she pointed to a large Mediterranean house a short distance up the block. Like all the other homes on the elite street, it was set back against a manicured, landscaped frontage, with a high wall and an electric gate.

  “Darn it,” she grumbled. “My rearview mirror has that button where you can program it to recognize the remote signal to open the garage, and I don’t have the handheld one with me. The only way in is to use the call-in box and Miriam will be long gone.”

  “Miriam?”

  “My housekeeper.”

  “Are you sure the remote in your car won’t work? I can run back behind the truck and give it a try.”

  “No, the car has to be running, which I don’t understand but that’s the way it is.”

  “I assume the call box is connected to your telephone line, right?”

  “Yes. Whoever answers the telephone presses number nine and that opens the gates.”

  “Maybe you should have a keypad so you can’t get locked out like this.”

  “I had a keypad, but my security company told me any amateur could get past it.”

  “That’s too bad. The only thing I can suggest is that you give me the keys to your house, and I’ll climb over the wall and let myself in.”

  “Climb that wall? You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want you getting hurt. I can call the security company and—”

  “That will take all night,” he interrupted. “It’ll be fine. That wall is nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing,” she said skeptically.

  “If you don’t want me in your house, then—”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” she said quickly. “I honestly don’t want to be responsible for you falling and twisting an ankle, or hurting your back, or anything else.”

  “Believe me, that wall is a piece of cake,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I used to be a stuntman.”

  “Of course you did,” she mumbled as she opened her handbag.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It was a compliment,” she winked.

  “Touché,” he grinned. “I’m going around the side so
the tow truck driver won’t see me vault over it. Probably overkill, but better safe than sorry.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Why?”

  “So if you break your neck I’ll know!’ she exclaimed.

  “If it will make you feel better,” he agreed. “I’ll go and tell the driver we’re going through another gate, while you find your keys in that suitcase you call a handbag,” he grinned.

  A short time later they moved around to the side of the house, and as she handed him the keys she looked at the wall and shook her head.

  “I’m really not sure about this.”

  “Just tell me what I need to do once I’m inside,” he said firmly.

  “Okay, I guess it’s your neck, but please be careful. With the door you turn the top bolt twice to your right, the bottom bolt twice to your left, and when you walk in you have to turn off the alarm. It’s on the wall to your left. Hit the pound key, then 1966. You’ll see the phone. It’s on the table under the large mirror on the opposite wall.”

  “This will only take a minute,” he promised, taking the keys and putting them in his pocket, then staring at her, he added, “And what you just said a minute ago about me not being sexist, that is an example of why I see you as feminine.”

  “It is?”

  “Think about it,” he smiled. Reaching out, he touched her arm, and locking her eyes, he looked at her soberly. “Once I’m over that wall, you get back to that car. I don’t want you standing out here in the dark like this. Got it?”

  A sudden burst of butterflies fluttered to life. She was shocked but toe-curlingly thrilled, and she momentarily closed her eyes, soaking in the unexpected glorious feeling.

  “Got it?” he repeated.

  “Uh-huh,” she nodded.

  She stepped back and watched him study the wall. She was sure clambering over it would be no easy task, and as he started walking backwards she realized he was going to make a run at it. Holding her breath, deeply worried he was going to get hurt, she watched with trepidation as he paused, then bolted forward. To her amazement he suddenly leapt in the air, somehow managing to throw his arms across the rounded top, then scrambling his feet against the concrete, he disappeared over the other side. Her heart was pounding and she stood staring, momentarily stupefied.

  “That was amazing,” she mumbled. “I’m so fucking attracted to him. Oh, shit, this is bad, this is wonderfully, horribly, fabulously bad.”

  Hurrying back to his car, she walked briskly around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel. Moments later she saw him jogging across her expansive lawn to the door. He waved to her, and stretching her arm out the window, she waved back. He unlocked her door and entered her house, then after waiting until he’d had enough time to turn off the alarm, she pressed the call button.

  “Amanda Anderson’s residence,” he said, answering the phone. “Jarvis speaking.”

  “Let me guess, you were a comedian as well,” she laughed.

  “Only in private,” he replied, and before she had time to respond she heard the tone that signaled the tall, wrought-iron gates were about to open.

  Just as they did, she suddenly remembered there was another pedestrian gate, virtually hidden, that led to the back of the house and it was unlocked. Totally embarrassed, she decided not to tell him, and driving his car slowly up to the front of her house, she gestured to the tow truck driver that he should pass her and roll forward to her garage. Braxton appeared on her front porch, then walked up and opened the car door.

  “I’ll wait with the truck.”

  “Okay,” she nodded. “Thanks again for all this.”

  “Glad I could help,” he smiled.

  Moving quickly inside, she deposited her bag on the foyer table, then hurried to the kitchen and into the garage, pushing the button that would roll up the door. It didn’t take long for the driver to unload her car, and as he climbed back into his truck, Braxton put his arm around her. For a brief moment she closed her eyes. She wanted to remember the feeling of his fingers around her shoulder.

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  The timbre of his soft voice touched her like the kiss of a warm breeze on a cool day, and sighing, she blinked her eyes open and looked up at him. His green eyes caught hers and she felt like a deer in headlights. His question echoed in her head. Is there anything else you need? There was. So much. His lips crushing her mouth, his hands roaming over her breasts, his—

  “Amanda?”

  “Sorry, I was just, uh, thinking. I have a breakfast meeting and I’ll need to order a car for the morning.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it,” he smiled, dropping his hand away. “I’m sorry your beautiful Mercedes got crunched.”

  “Me too,” she sighed. “Um, we never did have dinner. Why don’t you come in? I have to make something for myself anyway.”

  She hadn’t meant to say it. She’d thought it, but the invitation had tumbled out of her mouth before she’d had time to catch herself.

  “I don’t want to put you out,” he said, tilting his head to the side.

  “You almost killed yourself leaping over my wall,” she exclaimed, her stomach in knots, wondering why she hadn’t just let it drop. She could have yawned, said maybe it was too late, that she was too tired, that—

  “Killed myself?” he grinned. “Hardly. Please don’t feel like you have to do anything. Like I said, I was happy to help.”

  He was doing it again. Giving her an out.

  “Feeding you is the least I can do,” she insisted, wondering why the hell she wasn’t backing away. She might as well be holding a gun to her heart, but she didn’t have to pursue anything with him past dinner. It was just a bite to eat, wasn’t it? Nothing more. “Come inside. It’s getting nippy out here.”

  “It is?”

  “Probably not for you, Superman, but it is for me.”

  He suddenly laughed out loud. It helped. It didn’t stop the crazy churning in her stomach, but it helped.

  “I don’t want you catching cold,” he replied, “so yes, let’s go inside, and thanks. I’m starving.”

  As she led him back through the garage and past her damaged car, she was sure she could feel his eyes on her backside, or was it just wishful thinking?

  “What would you like to drink?” she asked as they entered the kitchen.

  “Do you have any wine?” he inquired, taking off his sports coat and placing it around the back of a chair.

  “You could say that,” she replied, trying not to stare at the muscles attempting to escape his jersey knit polo top. “Are you a wine person?”

  “I dabble,” he smiled.

  “I have a Shirvington Cab, 2002, if that interests you.”

  Braxton let out a low whistle.

  “I would say that would be extremely interesting.”

  “You know it?”

  “I know of it, but I have yet to taste it.”

  “Then tonight you’re going to get lucky,” she smiled.

  There was a glint in his eye that suggested he hoped so, and she cursed herself for having used the term that was a common innuendo, and with her heels making a profound click-click-click on the hard tiled floor, she walked across her large cook’s kitchen and disappeared behind a swinging door. The light came on automatically and she scanned the many bottles. She had an extensive collection and the fifty or so wines in the small closet were just a sampling. Pulling the cabernet from its special spot, she moved back into the kitchen and discovered him sitting on one of the high barstools at the breakfast counter.

  “How did you get into wine?” he asked as she pulled a sophisticated corkscrew from a drawer.

  “My dad. He was a big wine nut,” she replied, removing the foil from around the top of the bottle.

  “May I do that?” he asked, slipping off the stool and walking toward her.

  “Sure, please do, thanks,” she smiled, handing him the bottle and the corkscrew. “How you feel about p
asta? I made some spicy sauce a few days ago.”

  “That sounds great,” he said enthusiastically. “I’d love some pasta.”

  “And I’d love the excuse to eat it,” she remarked, moving back into the cooking area of the kitchen. “I’m careful about my carb intake. I was going to have fish tonight, but after all that drama I need some comfort food. Rotini or spaghetti?”

  “Spaghetti,” he replied, pulling the cork. “Would you like me to decant this?”

  “Yes, definitely. There are several decanters in that cupboard above your head. Pick whichever one you like.”

  He found one that was donut-shaped, and as he carefully tilted the bottle and let the rich, ruby red wine flow into its new container, Amanda started the water to boil and retrieved the jar of sauce from the refrigerator. As she prepared their dinner, they fell into a comfortable banter, but an erotically charged energy was sparking between them. The kitchen offered a large nook with a built-in table, and they settled down to enjoy their meal, both feeling a light buzz from the rich cabernet, but before they started to eat, he leaned across the table and fixed her with a challenging gaze.

  “So, Miss Anderson.”

  “Yes?”

  “You think I’m Superman?”

  “If the black loafers fit,” she smiled. “Don’t you think so?”

  “You have a habit of answering a question with a question.”

  “Do I?” she asked, then realizing what she’d just said, she started giggling. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

  “Let’s try that again,” he grinned. “Superman?”

  “You are a total gentleman, you have the physique of every cartoon of Superman I’ve ever seen, you came to my rescue, and you might not leap over buildings, but you certainly leapt over that wall.”

  “Not really,” he said modestly, “but I think you might very well be Wonder Woman.”

  “Because?” she asked, raising her eyebrows, thoroughly enjoying the game.

  “I can see you sitting in a conference room surrounded by egotistical, powerful men, and slaying them with a single word, sometimes even just a look. Am I right?”

  “I plead the fifth,” she laughed.