by Emma Roberts
Call Me Daddy
Emma Roberts
Contents
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Description
Prologue
1. Whitney
2. Jace
3. Whitney
4. Jace
5. Whitney
6. Jace
7. Jace
8. Whitney
9. Jace
10. Whitney
11. Jace
12. Whitney
13. Jace
14. Whitney
15. Jace
Epilogue
Her Baby Daddy (Sneak Peak)
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Description
A mysterious envelope, hand-delivered in secret.
“This is your exclusive dinner invitation...”
One month with a billionaire recluse.
My only chance to get back the trust fund I gambled away.
I just had no idea it was only a party for two.
He says he doesn’t need my body.
It’s my obedience he craves.
I haven’t given anyone that since I was a little girl…
He tells me to sit down. I sit.
Over his knee, like the spoiled brat I’ve been.
Coming to his every command.
I’m warming up to him.
There’s something kind behind his cold blue-green eyes…
But I can’t reveal my feelings. I’ll scare him away.
And now that our holiday is ending, something’s different.
“Unwrap me, daddy...”
Spank me with the naughty truth.
Prologue
Jace
Shrill laughter tore at my eardrums like a cheese grater.
My grip tightened dangerously on the stem of my champagne flute. If I wasn't careful, I'd end up breaking the damn thing, and then I'd have to explain to Mrs. Farbridge why I was breaking the inordinately expensive glassware at a party as prestigious as this one.
I threw back the rest of the glass. The vintage wasn't exactly to my taste. I'd never been a wine man, and this glass tasted particularly sour. Or maybe that was the bite of irritation sullying my good mood. I handed the glass back to one of the servers milling around the yacht, ensuring its safety from my twitching fingers.
The laughter clawed at my ears again, and I finally whipped my head up from my careful contemplation of the night's entertainment to find its source. Mr. and Mrs. Farbridge had booked a renown opera singer from the Met. I was surrounded on all sides by good company. It would have been a pleasant evening if not for that damned laughter.
My wheeling gaze finally landed on the responsible parties. A gaggle of women was gathered at the stern. Most of them were only a little better dressed than your average streetwalker. The loudest of them particularly stood out to me.
Waves of dirty blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and brushed her full, pert breasts. She'd neglected to wear a bra, and even from across the crowd, I could see that her nipples were straining at the barely-there red wrap dress she wore. Her long, shapely legs had been splashed by the sea spray that crashed up against the sides of the yacht and were glistening faintly. The lights of the distant marina glittered off the diamonds that encrusted the straps of her heels. The Christmas hat that was perched on top of her head seemed almost an afterthought and clashed glaringly with the rest of her ensemble.
She, too, was drinking champagne. Her pink lips had been thoroughly glossed and were wrapped around the rim of her glass with sensual promise. I wasn't the only man looking, and I knew for sure I wasn't the only one thinking about what those full, pouty lips would look like wrapped around my cock. I got one good glimpse of her baby blues as she glanced my way. Then I tore my gaze from her, returning it to the plump opera singer on stage.
It took me a few seconds to realize why the blonde looked so tantalizingly familiar. When I figured it out, I was even angrier. Fucking hell. It was Whitney Farbridge.
I hadn't actually mingled with polite society for years now, and the Farbridge Christmas Charity event had seemed a safe enough option to ease myself back into socializing. Of course, I hadn't anticipated having a horribly strident young woman ruin the evening for me.
The interruption was inexcusably rude. Irene and Daniel Farbridge really should have given that girl a spanking growing up. Someone really ought to give her one now.
For an instant, I thought about striding over to the young woman and pulling her into one of the cabins below deck. I'd hike the ridiculously short dress up around her thighs, pull down the skimpy black underthings she was no doubt wearing, and bend her over my knee. I could practically feel her thighs squirming against me, hear the soft whimper she'd make when I slid my hand up her perfectly rounded ass, and smell the perfume of her arousal as I brought my hand down and gave her the spanking she justly deserved. My arousal pressed urgently and very inappropriately against the zipper of my slacks. I hissed.
"Fuck." It was a low but fervent oath. Where the hell had that little daydream come from?
I hadn't been with anyone in three years. Not since my wife April had died. Thinking of April helped cool my libido enough to hide the throbbing erection I now sported. Good God! What was wrong with me?
Whitney Farbridge was not my type. Should never, ever be my type. Men in my position kept their sexual predilections a secret, no matter how benign they might be. You didn't get to be the head of a billion-dollar manufacturing company by having sex scandals splashed across the front page.
It was only too easy to see that those full, fuck-me lips would blab to the papers the moment I made even a move toward her.
My taste in women was singular, and I had to be careful whom I brought into my bed.
Still, just the sight of her had awakened something primal inside of me. I'd not indulged the gnawing desire for so long that suppressing it now was almost a reflex. Maybe it was time I broke my long abstinent streak.
But to do it with Whitney would take delicate planning and no small amount of leverage.
I turned on my heel and strode over to the bar, sliding smoothly onto one of the cushioned bar stools. The woman next to me was pretty as only a model could be; her curves were accentuated with botox and silicone. She wasn't much of a temptation when I had Whitney on my mind, but she sat a little straighter and pushed her breasts out for my inspection anyway. I ignored her blatant attempts at catching my attention in favor of engaging the man to my right.
Slater Wentworth and I were not friends. I was pretty sure no one on this yacht was friends with Slater. But everyone here had owed him a favor at some point, so he managed to coast through high society, enjoying the good life. He dealt in all things illicit. Drugs, alcohol, and, most importantly, secrets.
And I wanted Whitney's.
I signaled the bartender and ordered us both a scotch whiskey. Slater took one long, satisfied pull from his glass before facing me with a grin.
"What can I do for you, McCarthy?"
Irritation crackled through me for the third time that evening. I was used to a lot more deference in my personal and professional life. Having a rat like Slater address me like we were old friends rankled.
I jerked my thumb at the stern, where the group of women continued to shriek like over-excited children. Someone should probably be looking after them. They were clearly drunk. A flash of concern stole through me before I could stop it. It would be just my luck that the first person to excite me in years would take a drunken tumble over the side of the boat and drown in the harbor.
"What can you tell me ab
out Whitney Farbridge?"
Slater's smile could more accurately have been termed a leer. "Want inside those thousand-dollar panties, do you?"
I resisted the urge to knock the glass from his hands. "Answer my question, Slater."
"What are you willing to pay for 'em?"
I reached inside my coat pocket and deftly peeled off a few hundreds. I shoved them into his waiting palm. He tucked them inside of his Armani suit jacket before speaking.
"She's a fucking mess," he said, taking another drink of scotch. "She's been in and out of rehab a few times over the past few years. Alcohol, not drugs. Mostly a social drinker, but she's very social if you catch my drift. If she's into that scene, then she doesn't come see me for it. Or any of my boys."
Well, thank Heaven for small mercies. I liked to correct bad behavior, but a serious cocaine addiction might be beyond even my ability to train out of a potential partner.
"What else? So far all I see is a badly behaved party girl."
"She blew through half her trust fund in college. No impulse control at all. Apparently, Daddy Farbridge only gives her a monthly allowance to spend. She still manages to go through that within a week. And the rumor I heard through the grapevine is that he's cutting her off soon if she can't straighten up and fly straight."
A small, satisfied smile curled the edges of my lips, and I took a swig of the scotch. It was fucking delicious and burned like fire on the way down. She was no doubt a creature of habit by now, and I didn't expect the tiger to change its stripes in time to save itself from total bankruptcy. Not without help, anyway. The sort of help that only a man like me could provide.
Hold on tight, sweetheart, I thought wryly. Daddy's about to rock your world.
1
Whitney
The tall, well-built server was a lot less handsome when he wore a look of pity on his pasty face. He handed me the vinyl holder with the tip of my credit card poking out the top.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but your card has been declined. Would you like to choose another or write a check?”
Heat suffused my face as I glared down at the pristine white tablecloth and my empty plate. Had Daddy slashed the amount on the card again? Couldn't a girl go out for shopping and lunch a few days a week? This had been a therapy trip for Vanessa, who’d been filling me in on the details of the latest asshole to spurn her affections. We’d only visited three shops on our way here.
My tablemate was wearing a similar look of pity, though it was mingled with a fair amount of contempt as well. Bitch. Vanessa Marfont could rot in hell if she was going to condescend to me. Or at least, that was what I would have said if there hadn't been an eight-hundred-dollar bill sitting on the table between us.
"I'll write a check," I said feebly. It would bounce, but hopefully, by the time that happened, I'd be able to talk Daddy into paying for the balance.
My stomach sank clear down to my manicured toes when I realized that wasn't going to fly either. I'd been told in no uncertain terms after I'd failed to turn up with a gift at the Christmas gala that any more fuck ups wouldn't go unpunished.
My brother's birthday was coming up in a few weeks, and I was going to be turned out on my fabulously well-groomed ass if I didn't get him something. I knew Brandon wouldn't care if I just gave him a card and a kiss on the cheek, but my parents would not stand for that. Our birthdays had always been public affairs, and the gift-giving was as much about flaunting our wealth as it was trying to please each other.
"I'm sure it's just a mistake," Vanessa simpered in a patently false tone that set my teeth on edge. She and I both knew better. But when you had the sort of money we did, you didn't come right out and call your fairweather friend a broke-ass bitch in front of the waitstaff.
I rummaged in the Gucci bag and produced my checkbook. It was buried clear at the bottom. I so rarely had to use it that it was probably collecting dust by now. Everyone I knew just charged everything on their Centurion card. I probably would have too, if mine hadn't been purloined by Mother.
"Yeah," I muttered, scrawling the amount on the appropriate line. "Probably just a mistake."
The check tore away from the little booklet with a sound of crushing finality. Shame bubbled in my gut as I tucked it back into the vinyl folder and handed it to the waiter. I thought I had saved at least a few thousand on this account for fun money. Now I had nothing to use to buy Brandon's gift.
"You should probably take off," I said, giving Vanessa a smile as false as the one she was flashing me. "I'll get this sorted out."
I wouldn't be able to take it if the waiter came back with her still here to say the check hadn't cleared. Vanessa would spread the word that I'd done it yet again, and I'd be out on my behind that much sooner. Apparently, she didn't want to be witness to my humiliation either because she stood.
"See you next week then?"
"Probably." If I hadn't been disowned by then.
"Alright. Toodles."
She waggled her fingers at me in an over-exaggerated wave and flounced off through the throng of tables. Several men watched her go. The boob job she'd gotten had been worth it, apparently, because every step had her jiggling in a very distracting way.
I did a few quick calculations on my phone. I could probably make enough to cover my shopping and restaurant bill by selling the Gucci bag on my arm. And if I sold off the pair of Louis Vuitton heels that Vanessa had bought me, I'd probably have enough to buy Brandon something small. Of course, that was if I could get full price for them, which wasn't likely when they were used. That I had to sell them at all was humiliating.
My teeth ground audibly. Fucking hell! How did I always get myself into this situation?
The waiter was heading back now with a man in a bespoke suit and too many glittering studs in one ear walking alongside him. The tag on his lapel identified him as Danvers, the restaurant manager. Shit. I didn't think the check would bounce that soon.
To my surprise, the manager was smiling when he pulled even with my table, and the waiter was carrying a glass of champagne.
"Sorry about all the trouble, Miss Farbridge," he said, voice oily enough to slick back his hair. "The bill has been taken care of, and we thought you'd enjoy a complimentary glass of Dom Pérignon."
He offered me the flute, and I took it, my head spinning.
What?! Really? Had Vanessa decided to take pity on me after all and pay the balance? There was a small, prideful part of me that wanted to call her up and curse her out for it. I was Whitney Farbridge. I didn't need anyone's help. Except that, of course, I did. It was going to take a small miracle to keep me out of trouble.
"Uh, right," was all I could think to say. The confusion must have shown on my face, because he felt the need to explain.
"Another patron has covered your bill. They also suggested the vintage of the champagne."
I took a sip, and the bubbles nearly made me sneeze. I only ever drank bubbly when I was at a family function. Most of the time, I preferred Manhattans or a good old-fashioned martini. I tried to appear completely casual, as though people bailed me out like this all of the time.
"Might I ask by whom?"
Danvers nodded and gestured toward a table in the far corner. It had one lone occupant -- a woman who was about ten years older than me and had a cap of lustrous mahogany hair cut pixie-style. She wore a no-nonsense pantsuit and a tasteful amount of pearls.
I bit back a sigh. Well, that was a little disappointing. I'd been half-hoping a man was waiting for me across the room. I was going to have to go over there and set the woman straight. There were obviously strings attached to the gesture, but I'd make sure they were monetary, not sexual.
I stood, smoothing my skirt unnecessarily. The tight fabric of the miniskirt didn't wrinkle easily. I slung my bag up onto my shoulder in a practiced move and sauntered over to the corner table. It had a stunning view of Rochester and, beyond that, Lake Ontario. The woman was looking out of the window as I approached, admiring entirely
the wrong view.
I cleared my throat to get her attention and was a bit annoyed when she didn't immediately look up at me. Since hitting puberty, I'd gotten used to everyone's eyes being on me. I had the sort of shape people killed themselves to achieve, and I’d never had to augment my assets, as so many of my friends did.
The woman finally looked up at me, and I examined her face critically for the first time. I shaved a few years off her age mentally. From across the room, her conservative pantsuit and short haircut had made her appear older than she actually was. She gave me a smile that was as plastic and fake as Vanessa's boob job.
"Can I help you?" she inquired in a pleasant contralto.
I jerked my thumb at the manager. "He says you paid for my meal. I wanted to come over and thank you."
Her smile shrank by a few degrees as she nodded. "Yes, about that. Sit down."
Without much of a choice, I slid into the chair across from her, setting the glass of champagne she'd ordered me on the table lightly.
"Thank you for your generosity, Miss..."
"Clarke," she supplied. "Alexa Clarke."
I frowned. I couldn't recall any Clarkes in my family's circle of friends. It was such a common, middle-American name. I hoped she wasn't offended by my unfamiliarity with it.
"Thank you, Miss Clarke. But I'm not really into women. I got over that phase in college. If you're looking for a dinner date, I'm going to have to decline."
To my surprise, Alexa snorted, and the false civility dropped away from her face completely. She gave me a critical once over. "I'm not here to proposition you, Miss Farbridge. And believe me, if I were so inclined, I believe I could do better than you."
