The Hottest Daddy

by Michelle Love

  “There’s still time,” Carmen said, shrugging. “You’re what, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Gah, plenty of time. So, we’ll see you again on Monday?”

  Sunday smiled. “You will. Bright and early.”

  She hugged Carmen, feeling as if they had known each other for ever. Luke, too, was easy to talk to, and he walked her back to her car. “I’m sorry about River. He’s an ornery pain in the ass, but he’ll come around.”

  Sunday shrugged good-naturedly. “Hey, as long as I do my work and I get paid, it’s no bother to me.”

  Luke shook her hand, and she was strangely touched by his old-fashioned manners. “Good luck with the job,” he said to her, “I can already tell you’re going to fit in with us. Some of us, anyway,” he added with a grin. “You can find your way back into town okay?”

  “I can, thanks. And thanks again for inviting me in. You’re right, it will make it easier to start work.”

  “Good. See you around.”

  By the time she drove back into town, just after lunchtime, the light was already fading, snow clouds making the sky a riot of purple, pink, and black. As Sunday carried her bags of groceries and the plastic boxes of curry into her apartment, she reflected that in just a few hours, she had made—if not yet friends—certainly people with the potential to be friends. Daisy. Carmen. Luke.

  She read for most of the rest of the day, falling asleep on the couch—a couch, she noted, that was vastly more comfortable than her bed—and waking to see thick, fluffy snow falling. She sat at the window for hours just watching it fall, listening to the silence, the peace. The streetlamps struggled to illuminate the main road through the snow. Sunday shook her head, chuckling softly to herself. It was like a dreamland, a Christmas fairy tale, not real life.

  And yet, this was her real life now and for the first time since that terrible night where she’d lost everything, lost Cory, lost the life she had planned for, had worked for, the former Marley Locke felt hope.

  When his man reported back that Marley hadn’t been home at all for the entire weekend, Brian Scanlan was irked but not surprised. “She thinks she can hide from me,” he shrugged, as his employees listened to him. There was an air of nervousness in the room, as if the other men were waiting for Brian’s temper to explode. But tonight, he felt magnanimous.

  Let Marley think she’d escape him, that she wasn’t still alive merely because he’d allowed her to be. That night, a year ago, when his hitman had taken out the boyfriend—as he’d been ordered to—and shot Marley—which he had been explicitly told not to—Brian had known that next time, he would do the deed himself. He couldn’t risk her getting away again and she’d made his planning easier by not skipping town after she’d been released from hospital.

  But then again—where the hell would she run to? He knew better than anyone that she had no one. Her family was scattered; her boyfriend’s family would blame her for his murder. She had friends, yes. But he’d been right—Marley had stayed put, albeit with increased security.

  As if that would stop him. No one even suspected the great Brian Scanlan, doyen of the Upper East Side, to have such close ties with the Mob, let along be a stone-cold killer. The man he’d hired to kill Cory Wheeler was himself now dead—a punishment for hurting Brian’s love. The night he’d found that Marley was in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the belly … no. Only he would decide whether she lived or died. She belonged to him, and no other.

  He’d been magnanimous long enough, giving her time to grieve for her lost love, but now it was time. He’d made the arrangements over the past year—a new apartment for them to live in together on the Upper East Side, a whole new wardrobe for Marley, each piece tailored just for her in the colors that he, Brian, had approved. He’d make her dye her hair back to its natural color—she looked like a whore with that blonde mess. Make her scrub the makeup from her beautiful face—the mother of his children would not need it.

  Yes, he had everything planned for her, and now it was time to put that plan into action.

  It was only the next morning, when Marley failed to appear on his television screen, that Brian Scanlan discovered that he had been wrong. Marley had escaped him.

  Marley was gone.

  And his rage knew no limits.

  Chapter Four

  Monday morning, Sunday tried to put the fact that she was gone from New York would today become public and tried to concentrate on the drive up to the Giotto house. The night before, she’d spent a fun evening with Daisy Nash, and now she was full of optimism that her job would be just what she was looking for.

  Carmen greeted her like an old friend and showed her to the little office where Sunday found a state-of-the-art laptop set up for her, as well as a comfortable chair and solid oak desk. A couch completed the room, of which one wall was solid glass looking out over the valley below.

  Sunday shook her head, chuckling in disbelief. “How am I supposed to concentrate in the face of that?” She indicated the view and Carmen smiled.

  “You’ll do fine. Listen, anything you need, come find me and please help yourself to anything in the kitchen, food, drink. You have a mini-fridge with water and sodas, but anything else, please, really, help yourself.” Carmen glanced at her watch. “I’ll do lunch for one o’clock, okay?”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  Carmen rolled her eyes, smiling. “See you later. Oh, bathroom at the end of the corridor on the right.”

  Sunday sat down at the desk and pulled her reading glasses from her bag. Two fat journals sat at the side of the desk—presumably the ones Giotto wanted transcribed. She wondered why he hadn’t done it himself but when she opened them, she realized why. The handwriting was neat but incredibly tiny, the script beautifully rendered. Instantly Sunday knew this would be the work of months rather than weeks and she was relieved. She’d wondered how on earth transcribing two diaries could take more than a few weeks, at least, but now, seeing the thickness of the books and the writing that covered every page? Yeah, she’d be okay for a few months.

  She flicked on the laptop, saw it was set up with every piece of software she could hope for, and spent an hour or two setting it up the way she liked it. Then she took one of the journals and sat on the couch to read through the first few entries, curling her legs up under her and winding her hair up into a bun.

  She soon got absorbed into the diary. Ludovico Giotto had been a man of vision, of incredible intelligence and warmth, that much was obvious even from the first few pages. They dated back almost fifty years to when Ludo’s father had brought his young wife to America to begin their family. Already a billionaire, Giovanni Giotto had doted on his four children, especially his eldest, Ludo, but had also been determined they would have the best of everything only when they had learned to appreciate it. He had sent them to prestigious colleges on the understanding that, afterward, they would all give five years of their lives to voluntary service. All of them, except his daughter Perdita, had fulfilled their promise. Perdita, Ludo’s adored youngest sibling, had never lived to go to college, succumbing to tuberculosis when she was eight.

  Ludo, and his surviving sisters had worked even harder after that, and not only had given their promised five years but extended that promise to their future spouses and children.

  We all lived lives of great privilege, Ludo wrote, but none of us ever took it for granted. We saw many among our peers and our father’s peers who lost everything and had no way to pull themselves up, for they had never witnessed or experienced true hardship. We, at least, knew nothing in this world is certain, and certainly nothing we had in material worth meant anything in the long run.

  “True story,” Sunday murmured to herself and looked up from the book, rolling her neck. Her journalistic senses were tingling in a way they hadn’t for a long, long time and she wondered idly if River Giotto would allow her to work on an official biography of his father and his family.

 
She closed the book and went to the computer. Opening up a browser window, she paused. Monday. The first day that Marley Locke officially didn’t show up for work. Would it be torturous to see if her absence had made any news? That’s presumptuous, she thought, shaking her head. No. Behind the scenes they would be wondering, even worrying, but nothing would be said on screen until it had to be.

  And then … God, she could barely even think about the lengths the FBI had gone to protect her. An unidentified Jane Doe matching her description. Someone’s daughter, someone’s baby, would be used as a decoy. Someone from the police would ‘identify’ the body as Marley’s. A suicide. Or an accident. Marley Locke would be officially dead.

  Sunday shivered. What a life. She stood up and stretched, closing the laptop. She didn’t need to know what was going on in New York, it would just upset her. Focus on your job.

  At lunchtime, she shyly went to the kitchen and Carmen waved a spatula at her as she hovered around the stove. “We’re having omelets. I hope that’s okay? His majesty isn’t eating, so it’s just the two of us.”

  For some reason, Sunday felt relieved. After reading River’s father’s diary, she felt as if she would want to pepper the man with questions, and it really wasn’t an appropriate time for that.

  Carmen flipped a stunning-looking omelet onto a plate for her. “It’s just veggie—we have meat-free Mondays here, much to River’s disgust. But it keeps him just a little healthier.”

  “He likes his meat?”

  “He does. Red meat, red wine, cigarettes. That’s River’s fuel. Thankfully, I’ve banned smoking in the main house.”

  Sunday giggled. “You really are the boss.”

  “I have to be. River takes artistic temperament to the nth degree.” Carmen’s smile faded. “But he’s going through a hard time at the moment, so I’ll let him rant and rave if he wants to.”

  She didn’t offer any further information and Sunday didn’t feel as if she had the right to pry. They chatted happily while they ate their lunch, Sunday complimenting the chef on the light, fluffy omelets. She finished it all to Carmen’s approval.

  “Good girl.”

  “I’m never one to say no to food.”

  “Favorite?”

  Sunday considered. “A good flame-grilled steak and a bloomin’ onion. God, onions. I can be summoned by someone just frying them near me.”

  Carmen laughed. “Then I’ll remember that.”

  Sunday thanked her for lunch again and went back to her office, feeling happy. If this was to be her life now, then she felt blessed. Going back to the chapters she had read, she began to transcribe them onto the computer, and by the time she looked up from her work, it was dark outside. She stared at her reflection in the window. She saw sad eyes, dark hair escaping from the messy bun, the tiny glint of the nose stud in her ear. She had to admit, she looked nothing like the polished news anchor she had been only a few days ago, but in a strange way, she felt she looked more like herself.

  Just after seven, she packed her bag and walked through the house to say goodbye to Carmen. As she walked into the kitchen, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to look out of the window. Across the courtyard, the far wing of the house stood mostly in darkness. Was she imagining it or was there a figure silhouetted against the black, watching her?

  Sunday squinted. Yes. He was there … somehow, she knew it was her mysterious employer. Feeling awkward, she raised her hand halfway in greeting then let it drop. Weirdo. She turned and walked away from the kitchen, running into Carmen in the driveway and bidding her goodbye for the evening, without mentioning the incident.

  The apartment was cold again and Sunday decided that, while the heating did its job, she would go out to eat supper. There was a diner along the block and, gratefully, she huddled down into a corner booth.

  A young, punky-looking waitress whose nametag read Cleo came over. “What can I get you?”

  Sunday scanned the plastic menu quickly. “Oh, um, black coffee and a … um …”

  Cleo grinned at her suddenly. “I’ll give you a minute, honey, don’t worry. Nice tattoo. I’ll get your coffee.”

  Sunday smiled her thanks at her. Really, people were so nice. The place was pretty full, obviously a favorite haunt of the locals, and when later on, Cleo brought Sunday a stacked burger and fries, Sunday could understand why. She moaned as the savory burger juices hit her taste buds, and the salty, hot fries crunch satisfyingly under her teeth.

  One good thing about not being on camera anymore, she thought with a grin to herself, is no more calorie restrictions. She had warm apple pie for dessert and then groaned as Cleo offered her a second helping on the house. “God, no, that’s so kind, but I will actually explode.”

  Cleo grinned. “Daisy said you were nice. We’re buddies.”

  “That makes sense. I hope we will be too.”

  “Right back atcha.” Cleo looked around to see if her manager was watching then slipped into the seat opposite Sunday. “Listen, just a quick word of warning, friend to friend. Daisy tells me you’re working for River?”

  Sunday nodded. Cleo sighed. “Then watch out for Aria. Daisy won’t say this, but Aria’s a grade-A bitch. She’ll make trouble for you if she can. Ignore it.”

  “I will, thanks. Not here to make any enemies.”

  Cleo grinned at her. “You are nice. Hey-ho, boss is back. Listen, let’s have coffee soon, yes? Not here, I mean.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Sunday lingered over her coffee, not wanting to leave the warmth of the diner. Cleo, having finished her shift, had left a half hour before and Sunday had made sure she got the generous tip she had certainly earned.

  Cleo had thanked her and left her cell phone number. “For whenever or whatever,” she’d said.

  Sunday was reading news stories on her cellphone when she heard someone come into the rapidly-emptying diner. She looked up and saw a man, tall, with shaggy dark curls, brush snow off of his coat. He glanced across at her and their eyes locked.

  Sunday felt a jolt through her entire body. The man was spectacular looking, a ruggedly handsome face, but it was his eyes that got her. Light green and thickly rimmed by black lashes, they gazed at her without wavering. She felt that glance everywhere.

  Time seemed to freeze but then he walked over to her booth. “May I?”

  Oh, darn it. Why did he have to have that deep, sexy, gravelly voice too? She nodded dumbly. He sat down opposite her. Another waitress drifted over and took his order for black coffee. He looked at Sunday questioningly.

  She shook her head. “Just one, please.”

  Sunday felt like a lovestruck teenager and she cleared her throat, trying to stop her face from burning.

  “You’re new here.” A statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway.

  “Sund—”

  “No names.”

  A thrill of something shot through her and suddenly she knew that whatever was going on here, she was going to let happen. She wanted this man, whoever he was, and she didn’t need complications. A one-night stand? Yes, please. She let the desire show in her eyes and his mouth hitched up in a satisfied smile.

  His arrogance was compelling and strangely sexy and Sunday grinned back at him. “You’re very confident.”

  “I know what I want.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You. I don’t like to mess around or play games.”

  “Me neither.” Sunday straightened her back. “Nor do I want complications.”

  “Then we agree. Do you have a place nearby?”

  “Yes.”

  He tilted his head onto one side. “Are you’re sure about this?”

  “Like I said, no complications. You want to fuck? Let’s fuck.” Sunday couldn’t quite believe the words were coming out of her own mouth, but what the hell? New life, new rules. The last thing she wanted was a relationship with anyone, but her body had needs, for chrissakes.

  Her suitor gazed
at her for a long moment, then grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s go, beautiful.”

  Chapter Five

  They ran through the snow to her apartment. Inside, he drew her close and crushed his lips against hers. God, he tasted good. She snaked her hand down and cupped his cock through his jeans. Huge. She moaned in anticipation and he chuckled.

  “That’s all for you, beautiful. Now get your clothes off.”

  They stripped each other quickly, tumbling onto her bed. His body was hard and well-muscled, broad shoulders leading down to slim hips and strong legs. He ran his hands over her body, admiration clear in his eyes. “Sensational,” he murmured, then bent his head to take her nipple into his mouth.

  “Wait … wait … I don’t have any protection …”

  Without breaking contact with her breast, he leaned over and grabbed his jeans, pulling a condom out of his back pocket. Sunday relaxed, closing her eyes as his tongue flicked around her nipple, sending sweet sensations through her body.

  Sunday stroked his long, thick cock against her belly, feeling it quiver and tremble under her touch, swelling in her hand. “You keep doing that, gorgeous, and I’ll have to fuck you before I do anything else.”

  Sunday grinned at him and began to stroke harder. He groaned. “God, you dirty little girl …”

  She tore the condom packet open and rolled it down his cock as he hitched her legs around his waist. “You’re gonna take this all, pretty girl.”

  He thrust into her and Sunday almost screamed at the pure animal pleasure of it. They fucked hard, each clawing and biting at the other, kissing until their mouths were sore. God, it felt so good be fucked without inhibition, to know there were no feelings involved, to be this animal, this feral, this abandoned.

  Eventually their fucking grew so rough, they tumbled to the floor, and he pinned her hands above her head as he drove her towards a body-shattering orgasm.