The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  “Congratulations.”

  “They have to hold the position open for me, of course. I can’t imagine having a child over here.” She waves at the New York skyline. “Three months leave. It’s barbaric. With my holiday time, I’ll have nearly a year.”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m sure that delights her employer, but I don’t care enough to discuss it. I stare out the window at the passing buildings, wishing I was anywhere but here.

  She draws in a long breath and blows it out. “What do you want me to do, Lo? Beg? Go over your knee? I’m a little big.” She rubs her palms over her belly.

  I give her a side-eye. “I’m not your master anymore, Mir. If you’re looking to be punished and forgiven, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

  “I am sorry!” she hisses.

  I turn my head and look at her. Now, she’s flushed. “Are you? No, don’t answer that. I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. All that matters now is dealing with the consequences.”

  It’s her turn to stare out the window. “Why does it matter to you? If you don’t want me back, then why are you pushing this paternity test?”

  “If I’m the father, I’m seeking custody,” I say simply.

  “What?” She swings her head back to stare at me incredulously. “Have you lost your mind?”

  I shrug. I’m not debating sanity with this woman. If she thinks about it for two seconds, she’ll realize the irony.

  “What can you possibly want with custody of my baby?” Miranda persists. “You never wanted children.”

  I don’t want children with Miranda. I never did. I still don’t. She’s wholly unfit to be a mother. Aside from The Thing she doesn’t know I know about, she’s one of the more self-centered people I’ve ever known, with the values of a social class I’ve come to despise. I can’t imagine standing by and watching her pass that on to our kid. Parenting with her would be an unending tug-of-war. If I’m the father, I’m seeking sole custody. But that’s a fight for another day.

  “You’re right. I never wanted children.” I leave “with you” unspoken. “But I’d also never abandon what’s mine.”

  “You bastard. This is my baby,” Miranda hisses through her straight, white teeth. Very un-British, Miranda’s teeth. Otherwise, she’s a perfect English rose.

  “Everything in me hopes that Colin’s the father. When I pray, that’s what I pray for. But if he’s not, if I’m the biological father, then I’m seeking custody. I don’t walk away from the consequences of my actions, Mir. You’ve known me long enough to know that.”

  She turns her head to stare out the window again and we pass the rest of the trip to the East Village in silence.

  * * *

  I try to drop her off at her hotel, but she’s not having any of it. She insists that I stay with her during check in, which makes sense on one level since the room is reserved on my credit card, and I notice she doesn’t try to put it on hers, but on another level, it just irritates the ever-loving fuck out of me.

  Her room’s small but nice, all white linens and dark-stained wood, with a view over First Park. She gestures to the mirror-fronted closet and I set her rolling case inside it, then prepare to escape.

  “Can I meet her now?” Miranda asks, before I can make it out the door.

  “Who?”

  “Emily, of course.”

  That was the plan, but now that Miranda’s here, and all my anger has coalesced into a hot, spinning ball in my gut, and the clanging chimes of doom haven’t stopped ringing in my head, and I realize it’s not a count-down to her arrival, but to me going around the fucking bend, having her over for dinner seems like the worst idea in the world.

  “Why? You’ve spoken to her on the phone and had not a single nice thing to say to her. Why would I let you meet her?”

  She glares at me. “If she’s going to be part of your life, and if you’re seeking custody, then I have a right to know who is going to be in contact with my baby.”

  “Miranda.” I shake my head. I don’t actually disagree with her, but she’s getting so far ahead of herself, it’s untrue. “She actually wanted to invite you to dinner, but that seems like a terrible idea now. How ’bout I meet you tomorrow at the testing center?”

  Miranda flips her hair over her shoulders. “Give me five minutes to clean up and I’ll be happy to accept Emily’s invitation.”

  Fuck me. I pull out the tiny desk chair from the equally tiny desk and take the weight off my aching leg. While Miranda washes, I pull out my phone. I have an unread text at 15:50 from Emily to say she’s had her snack. I send her a text back.

  Good girl for eating your snack. Miranda’s coming to dinner.

  She must have her phone right next to her because her response is immediate.

  Great! Arsenic hors d’oeuvre will be served at 6.

  That’s almost enough to make me smile.

  I’m already in the throttling zone.

  Poor Daddy. I know what will help.

  She finishes with a string of emojis: a peach, a clapping hand and, strangely, an avocado.

  An avocado spanking?

  Sorry, that was supposed to be an eggplant.

  An eggplant spanking?

  A spanking and sex!

  I chuckle; I knew what she meant.

  That will definitely make me feel better. Put Stanley in before I get home.

  I will, Daddy. ILY.

  ILY2, baby doll.

  I brush my thumb over the screen, feeling better than I have since Miranda walked through the security doors. I may be forced to deal with the woman who is deliberately undressing in my peripheral vision for the next forty-eight hours, but at the end of that, she’s going to climb on a plane and return to the ruins of her life, while I’ll go back to my life with a little girl who makes me stupid happy and wants avocado spankings.

  Miranda walks naked from her closet to the bathroom, making sure I see her. My friend Ryan refers to the swelling of his wife’s breasts during pregnancy as a visit from the Titty Fairy, and I see that the Titty Fairy has visited Miranda. The sight of her swollen breasts leaves me unmoved. All I can think of is the icy, calculating heart beneath them, and the very warm heart behind my little girl’s modest B-cups.

  Evidently remembering that I’m more of a leg-and-ass man, Miranda pulls on a wrap dress with a short skirt. She carries a pair of strappy wedge sandals over to me and sets them down on the desk before she sits on the edge of the bed and lifts her foot onto my thigh. She wiggles her painted toes. “Do you mind, darling? Bending over is impossible these days.”

  “Sure.” I fasten on her shoes without touching her. She leaves her left foot resting on my thigh when I finish buckling the ankle strap, rocking it back and forth on my thigh. Fuck, she just doesn’t give up, does she? I’m unpleasantly reminded of when we first met. She was persistent then, too. “Mir, move your foot.”

  “My ankles are so swollen from the flight. Be a love and give them a rub?”

  Her ankles look normal to me, and even if they were swollen, I wouldn’t be interested in touching them.

  “Sorry, no.” I push her foot off my leg and rise out of the chair. “Ready? It’s six blocks to the house. Can you walk in those things?”

  She tosses her hair back over her shoulders. “Of course.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Emily

  Apparently, Daddy only dated supermodels before me.

  I thought Rachel, who Icky-Rick accurately, if tactlessly, described as a cross between Halle Berry and J.Lo, was bad enough. But Miranda has Rachel beat. Miranda even throws Lucy into serious shade. No wonder Daddy wasn’t interested in poor Lucy when he had Miranda.

  Miranda towers over me, nearly as tall as Daddy in her wedge sandals. And why is she wearing wedge sandals when she’s seven months pregnant? Shouldn’t she be wearing Crocs by now? Of course, she has to be one of those women who wears pregnancy as well as she wears couture. In fact, I’m pretty sure the white-and-blue-patterned, wrap dress that em
phasizes her boobs and makes her baby bump look oh-so-sleek is couture. She could be a maternity-wear model, all perfect skin and blue eyes and high cheekbones and impossibly glossy, golden-blonde, spiral curls even though she’s just off a transatlantic flight and her hair should look like Kate Moss’s after a hard night at Club Mayfair.

  I hate her on sight. And on principal. No one as beautiful as she is should have to trick a man into giving her a baby. She must have had willing sperm donors lined up from London Bridge to Teddington Lock. Why did she have to use my daddy?

  She gives me those stupid air kisses on both cheeks and looks me up and down in a way that says she finds me mildly amusing. I’m still wearing the sundress Daddy put me in this morning, with ankle socks and my bunny slippers. Until Miranda breezed in, I felt little and cute. Now, I feel like an idiot and wish I was wearing full body armor.

  I don’t give her air kisses back, or say that it’s nice to meet her because Daddy would book me into the playpen permanently for that lie. Instead, I smile and ask how her flight was.

  “Inconvenient, as travel to America has been since nine-eleven,” she says, waving a hand.

  I want to snap at her and tell her there’s a good reason for the inconvenience, but I don’t think that’s being the bigger person, so I just smile.

  “Lo tells me you’ve made dinner,” she continues. “I’m sorry you’ve gone to the trouble. I’d have been happy to eat out.”

  “No problem,” I say, just as Daddy says, “Maybe another time.”

  Does he want to eat out with the Mir-beast? Because I really, really do not. I’d rather have the home-court advantage.

  Logan offers Miranda a drink. I guess he’s decided to play host, even though he’s been glowering at her since they walked through the door. When she asks for tonic water and lime—yuck—Daddy heads off into the kitchen and we trail through the great room behind him.

  “You’re not from the City,” Miranda says.

  I’m not sure it’s a question, but I answer it anyway. “I come from Syracuse. That’s upstate—”

  “Yes, I know where it is.”

  Her condescension runs down my spine like an ice needle. Ouch.

  “How long are you staying in the City?” she asks.

  “Um—”

  Daddy, using his Batman hearing, intercepts the question even though he’s a room away. “Emily lives here now.”

  Miranda’s pink-bow mouth purses like she’s already tasting the lime. “You always said you didn’t want your submissive living with you. That your work was too demanding to pursue the lifestyle full time.”

  Daddy cuts up a lime and puts a couple of wedges in a tall glass with ice, then pours the fizzy tonic water over the top. It’s a pretty drink, but, ugh, tonic water. He comes back around the kitchen island to hand Miranda the drink, puts his arm around me, and draws me against his side.

  “My priorities have changed,” he says easily.

  “While you’ve recovered. Of course, I understand.” She swirls her glass, making the ice cubes clink against each other. “This is half ice, darling. You’re reverting.”

  Something I never understood in all my visits to England: why they still don’t have icemakers in the twenty-first century. Tonic water on its own is bad enough, but room-temperature tonic water? Gag.

  I notice Logan doesn’t have a drink. I feel weird, serving Daddy under the Mir-beast’s basilisk gaze, but the idea that his needs aren’t being met itches along my skin like poison ivy.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask softly, so he can ignore me if he wants to.

  But he doesn’t ignore me. Not my daddy.

  “Yes, little girl. I’d like a dirty vodka martini, shaken, not stirred, and a lager and lime with dinner.” He winks at me. “You can have a glass of your iced tea now if you’re thirsty, and water at dinner.”

  Bond, Daddy Bond. If Miranda wasn’t glaring at me, I’d melt.

  Since I can’t melt, I stretch up on my toes and whisper in his ear, “Ta very much, Daddy.”

  When he releases me, I slip behind the kitchen island and get out the shaker, vodka, vermouth, ice, and olives.

  “What on Earth is that concoction?” Miranda asks, cold, blue eyes following my movements.

  Daddy chuckles. “Emily introduced me to it. It’s a martini with vodka and olives. Perfect, since I can’t stand gin.”

  “Blasphemy, darling,” Miranda says, swirling her drink around again. “There’s a gin bar on every corner in London. I love it. Well, I’ll love it when I can drink again.”

  “Two years,” I say, trying to commiserate with her a little. “That’s a long time.”

  She shoots me a frown. I feel it smack between my eyebrows like a poisoned dart.

  “I’m not sure what they teach in schools over here, Emily.” She gives a brittle laugh. “But pregnancy only lasts nine months.”

  Mir-Monster.

  Bigger person. Bigger person.

  Deep breath.

  “Right, but a lot of babies breastfeed for over a year.”

  My friend, Gracie, breastfed her son for eighteen months. It was a little freaky when he started talking while he was still breastfeeding and would ask for “booby,” but Gracie told me all about the amazing benefits babies get from breastfeeding, so I totally understood why she kept at it for so long.

  Miranda tosses her curls expertly. Oh, no, she’s a hair flipper.

  “That’s not on my agenda,” she says.

  She’s not going to breastfeed? Wow. I have to get her together with Gracie. Gracie will have her going to La Leche League meetings before Miranda knows what hit her.

  I finish mixing Daddy’s cocktail and take it to him, receiving a lovely forehead kiss and a huggle, before he releases me so I can check on the vegetarian lasagna I have in the oven. It’s bubbling away nicely but the top hasn’t browned yet, so I leave it for another few minutes. In the meantime, I take prosciutto-wrapped melon wedges out of the fridge and put them on the kitchen island near where Daddy’s standing so that he and Miranda can nibble while I put the salad together.

  “Mmm,” Logan says, picking up a melon wedge. “You know what I like, little girl. Are the peppered ones for me?”

  He’s such a pepper-monster. And a paprika-monster. And a curry-monster. Rub some spices on it and Daddy loves it.

  I grin and nod at the wedges I’ve made for him, while adding a little more pepper to the salad I’m making. It’s a simple green salad, to balance the richness of the lasagna, with a couple of different kinds of greens, basil from the garden, and tomatoes from the plants Lizbeth brought me. In a moment of impishness, I sprinkle chia seeds over the top before I whisk the vinaigrette together.

  Miranda eats a few melon wedges but leaves most of them for me and Logan. Nursing her drink, she walks over to the open French doors and gazes out into the yard.

  “The garden’s looking better, Lo.”

  Daddy smiles at me and takes another melon wedge before he answers her. “That’s all Emily. She’s got flowers and vegetables growing again. Mum’s smiling somewhere.”

  Miranda sniffs. “When you can fly, you must come see my flat. It has lovely landscaping, like a Japanese water garden. And a view down to the River Brent. It’s divine.”

  “You moved out of the house?” Logan asks. He sounds surprised.

  “It was Colin’s house,” Miranda says, sipping her nasty drink. “The flat’s much closer to the hospital anyway. And I already have the nursery set up. I’ve gone with a nautical theme. All pink, blue, and white. So adorable.”

  Daddy nods but looks off into the middle distance with a frown, as though something’s just occurred to him. I wonder if he’s thinking about a nursery for the baby. I want to tell him it’s not a problem; I’ll happily give up my little room if he doesn’t want to lose the guest room. But I don’t want to raise the issue in front of Miranda. I tuck it away for when we’re alone.

  Once the lasagna’s top has browned, I take it ou
t and let it sit while I take the salads, vinaigrette, and a pitcher of ice water over to the table. Then I cut up a lime and make Daddy’s lager and lime so it’s ready when he sits down. Finally, I put the hot dish on a trivet between the three place settings.

  I wish there was a fourth, but Lizbeth had to turn around on the Turnpike after one of the twins forgot her EpiPen and the camp called in a panic. Lizbeth said she’d be here after breakfast tomorrow, which is a comforting thought, but I wish she’d made it up tonight.

  It’s going to be a long meal.

  When it’s just the two of us, Logan and I eat in the breakfast nook, which is cozy and has the best view of the yard. But the breakfast table is too small for three, so we’re at the big dining table, with Daddy seated at one end and Miranda and me to either side. Without much subtlety, I’ve put Miranda on Logan’s left, so that he can hold my hand while we eat, if he’s so inclined.

  Happily, he is. He not only holds my hand but leans over and kisses me on the forehead again after saying grace, giving me permission to eat, and looking over the spread. “This looks amazing, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you.” I try to tamp down my grin, given that Miranda is glaring at me again.

  Miranda bends her head over her salad, flicking it at with her fork. “What are these, exactly?”

  “Chia seeds,” Logan says, shooting me a grin as he takes my salad and cuts the leaves into bite-sized pieces.

  “Chia seeds,” Miranda repeats, with much less humor.

  “Logan’s cholesterol was a little high—” I begin.

  “What do you call me, little girl?”

  I glance at him. His eyes are dark, but warm and amused.

  Melting. Melting. Melting. He wants me to call him Daddy in front of the Mir-beast. And he’s cutting up my food for me. My wonderful daddy.

  “Sorry, Daddy.”

  Miranda takes a bite of salad, chews, and gives me a fake smile. “Well, it’s not lobster.” She reaches out and puts her hand on Logan’s arm. “Lo, do you remember that wonderful lobster the weekend we spent in Maine? What was the name of the restaurant?”