His Sword

by Holly Hart

  I’m so out of my depth it’s not even funny.

  “Ready?” She says, jogging toward me. She’s wearing her hair in neat pigtails, finished with red hair bands that perfectly match a Little Red Riding Hood-style thin spring coat.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I say in a voice that betrays my nerves.

  “Come on,” Tilly says, punching me lightly in the arm. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “Stick in the mud? When were you born, the fifties?”

  Tilly grins. “I’ve just been to England, remember? The whole country’s stuck in the 50s.” Her forehead knits together. “Not that I would know, I guess.”

  I grin, and it feels like the first rays of spring sunshine are thawing the ice between us. “Me neither. Your daddy on the other hand…”

  Tilly grins back. “Right!”

  “So what’s the plan, kiddo?” I say. “Anything you’ve been dying to do while you were away?”

  I see Charlie emerge from his – our? – bedroom. His tight-fitting white shirt is untucked, and he’s not wearing socks. He walks toward us slowly. I can tell he doesn’t want to disrupt the conversation. He’s letting us get to know each other.

  Tilly nods. She hasn’t caught sight of Charlie yet. “Ice-skating,” she says. She sounds innocent and childlike for the first time since I’ve known her: excited; excitable.

  “Skating?” Charlie grins, crouching down and pinching his daughter’s cheek; “without me?”

  “You can come if you want?” I say, breathless. Suddenly I’m nervous of taking Tilly out alone. For my whole life, I’ve only had to look after number one. The responsibility of taking care of someone else dawns upon me like a hammer smashing against an anvil.

  Charlie hops up and shakes his head. “Hell no: I know better than to interfere with a girl’s day out.”

  “Swear jar, daddy,” Tilly chides.

  “I know, I know,” my husband grimaces. “Sorry, kid.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again.” She looks at me. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Why don’t you meet Penny at the elevator, kiddo,” Charlie says.

  “You’re going to kiss her, aren’t you,” Tilly groans. “Gross!”

  We both watch as Tilly scampers off. I can’t help but think that she’s one of the most intelligent young girls I’ve ever met; precocious doesn’t even come close to describing Tilly Thorne. I’m going to have a hell of a job on my hands this afternoon…

  “Are you feeling up to this?” Charlie says quietly. He reaches out and grabs my hands.

  A lump the size of an apple seems to appear out of nowhere in my chest. “I guess I’ll have to be,” I say.

  “You’ll be fine,” Charlie says. He pulls my hand up and kisses the back of it. “She’ll try and get away with murder. Just remember – you’re in charge.”

  “I should go. She’s waiting.”

  Charlie releases me. He waits until I’m almost around the corner before he pipes up. “Crap – did I tell you about her allergies?”

  Panic threatens to overtake me. How did I ever think that I was going to be cut out for this? A week ago I was just an untried con girl. Today I’m looking after a billionaire’s kid. And not just that – I think I’m falling for her father.

  “Allergies!”

  Charlie winks at me. “Yeah, she doesn’t have any.”

  A wave of relief sweeps through me like a head rush. My mouth twists into a sour grimace, disguising the emotions under the surface. I turn and throw back, “Ass.”

  “Swear jar…”

  I don’t cast Charlie another look.

  The skating rink isn’t far: just on the opposite side of Central Park.

  “You think it’ll still be open?” Tilly asks. She’s already taken off her jacket, and it’s slung over her shoulder.

  “The ice rink” I ask as I glance around? Early blooms are beginning to decorate trees all around, and I’m uncomfortably warm under the collar as well. “That’s a good point.”

  “I’m full of them,” Tilly grins. “Hey – do you even skate?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. I never got the chance as a kid. My parents never had the money.”

  Tilly goes quiet for a few seconds. She looks so much like Matilda from the film, well, Matilda, that I think I’m seeing double: almost. Though, if I remember rightly, Matilda’s parents were broke crooks. Charlie Thorne couldn’t be more different if he tried.

  “Shit,” I groan.

  Tilly looks up, only to see what I’m seeing: an ice rink broken by puddles of melting water. “Swear jar,” she says automatically. Then, “oh…”

  “Oh,” I agree. “What now?”

  But Tilly doesn’t answer. When she finally speaks, her tone is so different from that of the energetic young girl I’ve come to know that I glance at her, frowning.

  “Penny,” she says quietly. “Do you think I’m spoiled?”

  “I don’t even know you, kiddo,” I say, parrying the question. There’s a park bench next to us, and I jerk my head at it. I’ve got a feeling this conversation’s not done. “Come on, let’s it down.”

  “But you’ve seen where I live, right?” Tilly mutters, chewing her bottom lip as we sit. “I mean, take the swear jar for example.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” I say. My brow furrows as I try and picture a glass jar full of dirty pennies somewhere in Charlie’s stylish penthouse.

  “That’s kind of the point,” Tilly mutters. “It’s a Swiss bank account.”

  “A Swiss –”

  “Yeah,” Tilly agrees. She’s wearing an almost apologetic look on her face. “Every time daddy messes up, he puts a few grand into –”

  “– a few grand?” I choke.

  “– A fund for building a school, or something,” Tilly finishes. Her serious Matilda-face is all wrapped up in knots. I get the feeling that she’s been asking herself this question for a long time – and now that she’s got the chance, it’s finally spilling out.

  “Why are you asking me, Tilly?” I ask, even though I think I know.

  Tilly’s face pinches. Her tongue – just the tip – darts out of the corner of her mouth. She’s considering my question to a degree I didn’t intend.

  “Because you’re different,” she says.

  “Different?”

  Tilly’s gray eyes – the same gleaming, intelligent eyes as her father – glitter as she studies me. Suddenly I feel like I’m on trial, like I’m sitting a test for this girl. I try and remember what I was like at eleven: about to hit puberty; confused about my place in the world.

  I probably dreamed of being a billionaire’s daughter. Figured it would be a life without care, without strife, without worry.

  Maybe it is; or maybe there’s a different kind of struggle. A struggle to know who exactly you are, and what defines you, when you’ve known nothing but privilege. It’s not exactly starving in Africa, but for an eleven-year-old girl, already experiencing huge changes in her life, I get it.

  “Different,” Tilly nods. “All my friends, their parents, they’re all the same. They all look the same, own planes and yachts. They all have the same opinions, you know?”

  “I guess.”

  “But you, you’re different. You’re –.”

  “Poor?”

  Tilly’s hands jump to her mouth, and her face goes deathly pale. “I didn’t mean it like –!”

  “– that,” I grin. “I know. No, Tilly. I don’t think you’re spoiled. You’re a smart kid, you know that. You get to make your own choices. There are plenty of rich assholes –” I catch myself, grinning. “– Swear jar, I know.”

  “I’ll let you off this time,” Tilly mutters shyly.

  “Plenty of rich people out there who act like –. Act unpleasantly, you know? But you don’t have to be one of them. You get to make your own choices in life. Don’t let anyone define you but you.”

  Tilly reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing
it. We both fall silent, and I consider my own words, replaying them back in my mind. Hell, I sounded kinda wise! Don’t let anyone define you but you.

  I need to put that into practice.

  “Can I ask you something, Tilly?” I say.

  Tilly looks up at me, and smiles a small, friendly smile. I breathe a hidden sigh of relief.

  “Shoot.” She says calmly.

  “Why aren’t you more freaked out?”

  “By what?”

  “By all this,” I say, “by me. I’m suddenly in your life and you don’t even know who I am.”

  Tilly considers my question for a long time before answering. “I do.”

  “How?”

  She shakes her head. “I mean, I know who you are; not where you came from, or anything like that. But you’re nice. You’ve got a good heart. Like I said, daddy chose good.”

  I bite my lip.

  My eyes are tearing up. I didn’t expect this afternoon to turn into a comfort cry, but it’s quickly going that way. I reach over and loop my arm around Tilly’s shoulders.

  “Thanks, kid,” I mutter. “You’re not so bad yourself…”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Charlie

  Penny’s out shopping. I told her she couldn’t keep wearing clothes that Ella picked out for her forever… Today is just me and Tilly.

  “How long’s it been since you got back from London,” I ask, even though I know the answer down to the hour, “a week?”

  My stomach lurches as the elevator from the penthouse carries us down forty floors in a matter of seconds.

  Tilly squints at me. Her gray eyes look too big on that serious-looking face. It doesn’t seem right that she can have a button nose and dimples on her cheeks, yet also have a woman’s eyes.

  Which she rolls at me…

  “Get to the point, daddy,” she says.

  “I can’t slip anything by you, can I?” I groan.

  It’s six days, actually. Not a week. It’s only been six days since Tilly got back from her hockey tour; six days that the three of us have been living together like a family; six days of… happiness.

  No matter what’s going on with the business, and all these rumors of Landon Winchester’s imminent takeover attempt, I can’t remember being this happy. It’s like Penny completes me – us. It’s like she’s the missing leg our stool needs to stay upright.

  Okay, that’s a crappy metaphor, but you know what I mean.

  “Not anymore,” Tilly confirms. “So what are you really asking, daddy?”

  I let out a sigh. “When did you get so smart? And don’t roll your eyes! What I’m asking is – are you okay with all of this?”

  “All of what?” Tilly asks with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  I groan. “You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

  Tilly nods, but doesn’t say a word. A wide grin splits her face.

  I punch her lightly on the arm – far from hard enough to hurt. “You’re an –.”

  Tilly’s eyes widen. I know she’s just waiting for me to say it: ass. But not so fast, I’m not going to the swear jar, not this time.

  I recover quickly. “– Irritant,” I say, narrowing my eyes at my daughter. “Yeah, that fits.”

  “Get to the point, daddy…” Tilly pouts. We step out of the elevator into the lobby, and walk straight forward toward the waiting black limousine.

  “I want to know if you’re okay with all of this. I know I’ve kind of changed everything on you, and I need to make sure you’re okay with it; with Penny. You don’t need to humor me, you know. You always come first.”

  “Do you like her, daddy?” Tilly asks as the limousine’s doors slam close around us, sealing us into a calm, polished quiet. As usual, she cuts right to the chase.

  My eyebrows kink with surprise. “You know, I’m not sure that’s any of your –.”

  Tilly cuts me off. “This is family business, daddy,” she nods seriously. “I’m not asking for myself, of course.”

  “Of course.” I say.

  Tilly makes a kind of upside down smile with her lips, and leans forward inquiringly. “So?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I like her. I like her a lot.”

  The realization comes to me slowly, but hits me with the force of a heavy weight punch. I really do like Penny: quite a lot.

  In fact, I think I’m beginning to fall for her – and fall hard. This might all have started as a ruse, but it’s turning into something much, much bigger than that.

  “Then that’s enough for me,” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Weeell,” Tilly says, stretching out the word. “You know what could make me more sure?”

  “What?” I recognize the tone Tilly’s using. It’s the one she always uses when she wants something… Of course, I’m a sucker. I can’t help but give my daughter whatever she asks for.

  “Ice cream.” Her eyes glitter with mischief.

  The limousine’s engine growls and we merge into traffic. I lean over and ruffle my daughter’s hair. “Come on. Let’s go get your ice cream.”

  With the ice cream in question acquired, we hop back into the limousine – and quickly get stuck in Manhattan traffic. A couple of slow, lazy turns later, the glitzy shop fronts of 5th Avenue glitter in the late afternoon sun.

  I’m lost in my cell phone dealing with urgent work requests. They are all urgent when you own a company the size of Thorne Enterprises. Even so, I know I shouldn’t be acting like this. This is daddy/daughter time.

  It should be sacred, not wasted.

  “You should do something nice for her, you know daddy,” Tilly says in between long licks of her chocolate and vanilla double-scoop cone.

  “Who, kiddo,” I ask, distracted.

  “Eyes front, daddy,” Tilly says. She uses another voice this time – the one when I know I’m in trouble. “You spend too much time on that thing.”

  A pang of sadness flows through me when I hear her say that. I instantly kill the screen and toss my phone onto the opposite row of seats. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “So?” She says, raising her eyebrow.

  “So what? Oh, Penny.”

  I pause for a few seconds, studying my daughter intently. She looks so damn young and innocent, yet beneath that front she hides a fiery intelligence. I know that she’s a whole lot more than she seems. It impresses me, but it doesn’t surprise me. I always knew that Tilly would turn out this way.

  Then again, maybe all dads think like that. Still, I don’t know about their kids, but I know that my Tilly’s special.

  “What do you know about relationships, kiddo?” I ask, grinning.

  I cuff her gently around the ear, sending her face flying forward into the ice cream. Tilly rears back with outrage on her face – and white and brown ice cream smeared all over her little button nose. I can’t help but laugh.

  “I’m a girl, daddy,” Tilly grumps. “I know more than you do, that’s for sure. You should do something nice.”

  “Like what?”

  Tilly frowns. “She’s your wife.”

  I grin. “Well you’re the expert… supposedly.”

  “I can’t do everything for you, daddy. But Penny’s been amazing all week. I’m not an idiot, daddy. I see how hard she’s trying. She deserves it.”

  “Swear jar,” I mutter absently. But my heart’s not really in it. My mind’s somewhere else. Tilly’s right, I haven’t been neglecting Penny, necessarily – but she’s been so much more than I could ever have expected, slipping seamlessly into the family life as though she’s always been.

  The limo chugs forward another couple of slow, quicksand inches, and a familiar turquoise store comes into view.

  Tiffany’s.

  Perfect. I’ll buy the whole damn store if I need to.

  I lean forward and knock on the privacy partition that separates the passenger cabin from the driver. Not a second later, it hisses down.

&n
bsp; “Everything okay back there, boss?”

  “Everything’s fine, Tim. Just – I’m going to get out here. Can you get Tilly back home safely?”

  “Don’t blame you, boss; traffic’s murder today.” Tim jerks his head forward at a line of stationary cars, all pumping out thick, steaming exhaust. “You can leave Tilly with me. We know how to have fun, don’t we kid?”

  Tilly giggles in response.

  I ruffle Tilly’s hair one last time, and wipe a stray smudge of ice cream off of her cheek. “Stay safe, kiddo.”

  As I’m closing the door behind me, I hear Tim ask, “what’s it gonna be, kid: rock or hip-hop?”

  My daughter’s in safe hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Penny

  A courier hand delivered the mysterious package. It was addressed to Penny Thorne, but handed to the doorman.

  “Mrs. Thorne?” He said over the intercom. I see his gray-haired face on the little screen – at least, his cheek, as he stares into an unseen camera. When he backs up, he’s wearing a quizzical look, as though he’s not quite sure he’s following protocol. “There’s a package for you. There’s no return address.”

  He comes up in the elevator and delivers it to me himself. I’m alone today. Tilly’s at school, and a ballet class later; Charlie’s at the office.

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

  Frederick Johnson grins. “Just call me Fred,” he says. “I’m just glad that you acknowledge I exist at all. Most in this building don’t…”

  My forehead wrinkles.

  “Not your husband, of course,” Fred hastens to add. “He’s always been kind to me, he has.”

  Then I’m left alone, with just a ribbon-wrapped black box for company. It’s about ten inches deep, and fifteen inches wide. I shake it, and get the familiar crackle-hiss of giftwrapped clothing.

  I sit down on a chaise lounge that’s pressed up against one of the plate glass windows, rest my back on the cool glass, and open it. My nimble fingers dance around the ribbon and pull it open. I lift the lid, and place it to one side.