Secret Daddy

by Lucy Wild

  THREE

  ISABEL

  We got to my father’s house an hour later. It was on the edge of the city, set in its own grounds, as immaculate as last time I was here, not a blade of grass out of place. “Do I have to go in there?” I asked when the car came to a halt.

  “Afraid so,” the driver replied, stepping out and pulling my door open a moment later.

  I climbed out, amazed to find I wasn’t even wobbling. “You’ve got to tell me what was in that,” I said, looking for a distraction, anything to delay the inevitable screamfest I was about to endure.

  “He’s waiting,” the driver replied and I knew I’d get no more out of him. He knew which side his bread was buttered on and it wasn’t mine.

  I walked up the steps to the front door, stepping inside to the dulcet tones of my father screaming at someone down the phone. “You do it because it’s your job to do it. If I have to come down there and show you the stuff, I will but you don’t want me to do that, do you? Because if I do…”

  He appeared in the hallway, phone in hand. He took one look at me. “I’ll call you back.”

  Shoving his phone in his pocket, he walked towards me. “Isabel, how lovely to see you. What’s this, you’re wearing, slut chic?”

  “Don’t start,” I replied. “How did you know I was at the club? Been spying on me?”

  “You forget I pay your bills. You spend a lot of money on my cards. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

  “You can afford it.”

  “Look at you. You stink of booze. You’re a disgrace.”

  “Shall I sit down while you insult me? Is it going to take a while?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Isabel. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Spending time with you doesn’t suit me. Can I go home yet?”

  “I’m paying for that crack den of yours.” He turned and walked away. I followed him. If I didn’t, he’d only come after me and he could move surprisingly quickly for a man in his fifties.

  I found him sat behind his desk so I sat in front of it, trying in vain to find any evidence of mess. One of his pencils was slightly askew but he rectified that as I looked.

  “It’s time for you to grow up,” he said, folding his arms and not smiling at me.

  “I’m nineteen.”

  “And you act like a fourteen year old whore.”

  “Aren’t those two things mutually exclusive?”

  “I told you not to get funny with me, Isabel. I’ve had enough of you behaving like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not getting into a debate with you about what’s appropriate for a woman of your age, I’ll get to the point. I’ve decided it’s time to get married.”

  “Who’s the unlucky woman?”

  “Not me, you.”

  A heavy weight suddenly thudded down into the pit of my stomach. The hangover that had faded away came roaring back. “You want me to get married?”

  “It’s all been arranged. You’ll like him.”

  “You mean you’ve picked my husband out for me? What century is this?”

  “I don’t care what century it is, I care about my daughter acting like a woman, not a slut. The venue’s booked, everything’s already arranged. All you have to do is turn up.”

  “Who is he?”

  “You’ll like him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Kingsley.”

  “He sounds like he’s out of a Merchant Ivory film.”

  “He’s the son of Tony Matteo.”

  “You want me to marry the son of a gangster?”

  “He’s not a gangster, he’s a businessman same as me.”

  “He’s a gangster. What’s going on, Dad?”

  He sighed, the neutral expression on his face vanishing for a moment. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Bullshit. This isn’t you talking, you’ve never mentioned marriage before. You’ve never cared what I’m up to as long as I don’t spend too much.”

  He sighed again, this time rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers before continuing. “You have to marry him, all right.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, not if you don’t tell me why.”

  “Christ, can’t you just do as you’re told?”

  “Can’t you just tell me the truth.”

  “Fine,” he snapped. “I owe him a favour.”

  “A favour? I’m a favour for a gangster?”

  “It’s not like that. Listen, back when you were little, things were a lot tougher than they are now.”

  “Oh, here we go, the old candle light and no food to eat story, I’ve heard it before, Dad.”

  “Shut up,” he said, pointing at me, his eyes narrowing. “For once in your life, just shut up and listen.”

  I did. He looked more serious than he ever had before. It was a look that terrified me because he looked scared. He never looked scared.

  “My first bit of legal work was for the Matteo family.”

  “Oh, Dad, you didn’t?”

  “I had to, sweetheart. We’d have been on the streets otherwise.”

  I thought about replying but then I saw the look on his face again.

  “Tony said I owed him a favour at the time.” His face twisted as he tried to keep it under control. “He laughed when he said it, I thought he was joking.”

  “But he wasn’t?”

  “He came to see me last week, told me he needed a wife for his son, told me he was calling in his favour.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t talk to me that way. We don’t have a choice, Isabel. You don’t know him, you don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “All right.”

  “What?” He looked surprised by my reaction.

  “I said, all right.”

  “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “Whatever you say, father.”

  “Wonderful!” A bell rang in the distance. “Come and have breakfast with me. We’ll talk.”

  “No thanks. Is that everything? Only I’ve a date with a duvet and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Of course, you go get some rest. I can let you know the details later.”

  The driver was waiting for me outside and I didn’t let my fixed smile fade until I was in the car. “Now will you take me home?” I asked, closing my eyes again.

  The car set off as I waited for the nausea to pass. So he wanted me to marry Kingsley Matteo, son of scum? My father, the big man, the smart man, yet not smart enough to see I was only nodding for long enough to get away from him. There was no way I was marrying the kid of a man so oily he probably slept in a giant sardine tin. I’d go home, get some sleep, then start packing. When I got married, if I ever got married, it wouldn’t be for a ‘favour’ or to a man no one liked I would marry for one reason and one reason only. I would marry for love. Until that day, I was out of there.

  Read on in Daddy’s Here, out now.

  DON’T TOUCH – SNEAK PEEK

  One office temp…

  I was hired to sneak into his office, steal his secrets, then get out. The plan was perfect. Until he caught me.

  One CEO…

  I could have her arrested. Instead I’m taking her to my house? What the hell am I doing?

  One weekend…

  Day one, I became his little girl. Day two, he reminded me why I was hired.

  One decision…

  All I can do is show her my world. It’s up to her whether to embrace it or destroy it.

  ***This is a hot standalone contemporary romance starring a dominant alpha. No cliffhanger or cheating and a guaranteed happily-ever-after.***

  Enjoy a sneak peek of Don’t Touch…

  PROLOGUE

  I climbed onto the bed, lying down on my front and inhaling the scent of cotton on the pillow. “You should have stripped when I told you to,” he said, his hand spanking my bottom a moment later. The sensation stung and I felt utterly humiliated but as the intensit
y died away, it left a deep heat inside me, a heat that grew ever stronger as his hand fell on me again. “You’re a very bad girl,” he continued. “What are you?”

  “I’m a bad girl, Daddy” I muttered into the pillow below my face.

  “Louder!”

  “I’m a bad girl.”

  It was true. I was a bad girl. I was his bad little girl and I deserved to be spanked by him. And yet, two weeks earlier, I hadn’t even known Daddy existed.

  ONE

  Natalie

  “Where did you get to last night?” Alison asked, throwing herself onto the sofa with a groan. “I missed you.”

  I didn’t bother to look up from my book. Heathcliff was just starting another of his brooding looks and I didn’t want to get too distracted by reality. “You didn’t miss me,” I said.

  “I did. I turned round and you weren’t there.”

  I sighed, closing the book. She wasn’t going to let it drop. My housemate and I have a lot of things in common but when it comes to men, we’re worlds apart. I prefer a brooding antihero who spends most of a story scowling with his arms folded, only thawing when the right heroine comes along to melt his icy heart. That’s where I tend to picture myself, some windswept moor about two hundred years ago, dress billowing in the wind as he sweeps innocent little me into his arms and carries me into his bedroom, the door closing behind us. Alison prefers what she calls ‘real men’ and I call ‘pricks.’

  It’s always been this way. Back when we started college, she had a boyfriend called Chad. Who’s called Chad outside of an 80s surfer movie? He had a skateboard and a Mohican and called people ‘dude.’ I had Wuthering Heights and a reading nook in the corner of our shared room, a nook I had to vacate every time Chad ‘swung by to hang out,’ as he called it. If I didn’t, he’d try to rope me into a threesome in the least subtle ways imaginable, usually involving his wandering hands. After Chad, there was another Chad, and then another.

  Why did I put up with her hanging out with more Chads than a voting machine salesman? Well, other than her taste in men, she’s a lovely person. She just has a little sensor inside her that detects testosterone and when it does, her logical brain switches off, replaced by the slut-o-tronic 9000 she becomes.

  “I was there,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “With you. You left.”

  “I didn’t, I wouldn’t leave you on your own like that. Would I?”

  “You had enough vodka inside you to floor a Russian parliament meeting, you pulled a beard with a man attached and you were so busy sucking his face off you didn’t notice when he took you outside, leaving me alone once again.”

  “No, I remember his mate. His mate was chatting to you.”

  “He was chatting to me. He was chatting about the best way to gut a pig. Apparently, it’s with a swift twist of the wrist and ignore the screams. I told him I was a devout vegan and he went off to find someone else to invite back to his abattoir.”

  “But you’re not a vegan.”

  “I know that. Oh, look, forget it. How did you get on with Santa Claus or whatever his name was?”

  She sighed, closing her eyes and lying back as her phone beeped in her handbag. “He’s called Mark and he’s amazing. Said he can’t wait to see me again. Hang on, this’ll be him now.”

  She dug her phone out and looked at it, her smile fading, replaced by a scowl. “Fucking dickhead!” she snapped, throwing the phone onto the carpet at her feet.

  “What is it?” I asked, already knowing the answer. My eyes fixed on her phone for a moment, a moment too long. I forced myself not to think about that, looking back up at her whilst swallowing down the old emotions yet again.

  “Fucked and chucked once more. Why do men do that?”

  “At least he texted to tell you.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s a real saint. God, why does this keep happening to me?”

  I’d gotten so used to consoling her each time this happened, the words just fell out of my mouth without me really having to think about them. She was better off without him. He didn’t know what he was missing. She didn’t need a man to make her happy. My mind was already back in the book, Heathcliff picking me up to carry me home despite my half-hearted protests. Heathcliff would never - to use Alison’s wonderful vernacular - fuck and chuck.

  She didn’t seem too upset. Within ten minutes of receiving the text, her fury over her latest paramour had faded and she was already planning another night out. “Come with me,” she begged, tugging at my arm while I tried to read. “Please, I promise I won’t leave you again.”

  “No,” I replied, scowling at her. “You will leave me, you always do. I’m not interested in being your sex P.A.”

  “You’re cross with me, aren’t you?”

  “Wherever did you get that idea from?”

  “Let me make it up to you, come out for lunch with me. My treat.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got that meeting at eleven, remember?”

  “Ditch it and eat cake with me instead?”

  “I can’t ditch a meeting at the agency, they’ll stop finding me work.”

  “They haven’t found you work for over a month, I doubt you’d notice the difference.”

  “Thanks Alison. Thanks a lot.” I got to my feet, putting the book under my arm as I headed for my room.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she called after me. “Don’t be cross with me, please.” I heard the sound of her getting up, quickly followed by a thud and then a groan. Her hangover was kicking in then.

  I couldn’t really criticise Alison for her exploits. Not really. At least she’d had a relationship or two. As for me, I was a ship adrift at sea with nowhere to drop my anchor. Other than the time I’m not going to talk about, I’d only kissed a few guys, not once had I met someone who I thought, yes, you’ll be worth taking to bed for my first time. I wanted it to be special when it finally happened and it turns out that outside the books on my bookcase, men who are special don’t seem to exist. Or so I thought.

  It didn’t take me long to get ready for my meeting at Temps Ahoy. I wore the same business suit I always did, not that it seemed to make any difference in finding me decent employment. I couldn’t work full time as I still had college classes and that meant getting the dregs of the jobs that were available.

  That was why this meeting had come as something of a surprise. They’d emailed me out of the blue to say they’d not only found me something, but if I was up to it, I could potentially earn what the delightfully erudite email called ‘shitloads.’

  I’m not sure what language I expected from an employment agency called Temps Ahoy. But when you need work, you can’t really afford to get too picky. I wasn’t in huge debt, don’t get me wrong. It might have been touch and go at times paying for our houseshare but that wasn’t the real reason why I wanted the money. I was saving for something much bigger.

  Checking my hair and face in the mirror for a final time before heading out, I allowed myself a little smile. I was like a superhero in an ill thought out comic strip. In pyjamas I looked school age, my short frame and youthful looks accentuated by my bedtime attire. Change into business suit and I was suddenly Corporate Woman, ready to break glass ceilings with my super-powered heels.

  “And another thing,” Alison texted me as I walked through town towards the office. I always walked since the time I’d taken the bus and the driver had let me on for half fare, which was nice, then spent the journey trying to chat me up whilst telling me I looked like his daughter, which was not.

  “If I was too frigid for him to see again, why’d I let him do anal on our first date?”

  I blushed as I read the message, not sure how to reply. Would it make me look like a Victorian governess to tell her I could see no point to something that was surely going to hurt like, well, like buggery, I suppose.

  “You’re better off without him,” I typed as I walked. It was evading the question but she didn’t seem to notice, flashing back quickly at me.

  “Is
it me? Do I attract the wrong guys?”

  Yes, I thought silently. She went to the dodgiest bars, hung out on the strangest internet sites, posted semi-naked photos of herself online, then wondered why the men she dated were more interested in sex than long debates about Sartre. Limited as my sympathy was, I thought hitting her with a truth bomb while she was so deeply mired in her hangover might be a bit harsh.

  “Maybe,” I wrote. “Maybe you’ve just not met the right man yet.”

  “There can’t be many left,” she wrote. “I’m sure I’ve gone through most of them.”

  “There might be a few left in the Orkneys to try.”

  “Where’s that?” she asked. “Is that a new club?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What did you want to be when you grew up?” she asked out of the blue. It threw me, it wasn’t like her to ask a question like that.

  “A princess in a castle,” I replied. “What about you?”

  “Happily married. Fat chance. I’ll never meet anyone with a cock that big again.”

  That was more like her. Normal service had been resumed. I didn’t know what to reply to that. I didn’t need to, she sent a second moments later.

  “Sorry, forgot you’re still in the V club.

  “It’s all right,” I wrote before suddenly typing, “Can I ask you a question?”

  My heart had begun racing from the moment I pressed send. I was going to ask her. So many times I’d almost asked her but then backed out. This time, I was going to do it.

  “Anything.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?”

  “Having a thingy inside you.”

  “Oh for crying out loud, Natalie, if you’re going to talk about sex, at least try to be an adult. Don’t call it a thingy.”

  I wasn’t going to use that word. It was too crude. “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not telling you until you say it.”

  “Fine, don’t tell me. G2G, I’m here.”

  I switched my phone to silent and slid it into my handbag, ignoring the indignant vibrating as another message came through. It could wait, as could she, as could I.

  I’d been trying to build up the courage to ask her about it for ages and when I finally did, she mocked me for not being grown up. Well, I’d show her how grown up I was. I was about to get a job. I’d be able to stick out my tongue and blow raspberries at her when I got back, which I realised might prove her point as much as mine.