“Here’s to an imperfect world,” she offered her glass to the Australian.
“And to making the best with what we’ve got,” Sheila replied as she toasted Amanda’s glass.
More people approached Amanda, drawing her into similar conversations, so much so that she became suspicious. When Arnaud finally joined her, she had to ask, “Did you put your friends up to this?”
“Up to what?”
“Telling me not to mind being your mistress?”
“I would never do such a thing. And you’re not my mistress.”
Amanda raised a brow at him, noting his possessive tone of voice. “Is that so? Then what am I?”
But another group corralled her and insisted on giving her a tour of the premises. Duncan, meanwhile, seemed to be doing everything in his power to avoid her. As she walked away with his friends, she gave Arnaud a look that said, this isn’t finished yet.
Only Camille saw her nephew silently mouth words as the beautiful, green-eyed redhead was led out of the room by a gaggle of laughing people. It was in French and made up of three words but pronounced with only two syllables. It spoke volumes regardless of the language it was spoken in: je t’aime.
Camille’s eyes hardened as she clenched her fists and made up her mind. She’d been putting it off for some time, but it was clear that she could no longer do so. She therefore vowed to do everything she could to put a stop to it.
Arnaud had to be protected, even from himself. She’d made that vow to his parents before they died. The family’s future depended on it, after all.
Despite Duncan’s protests, she left the building.
*****
Richard sat in his car and watched the old lady step into her limo. He vowed to get rich, some day, so he could own one, as well. But it wouldn’t just be a limo, oh no. He’d get Amanda and himself a gorgeous mansion, some day. Given the exchange rate, he could probably get them one in Spain or some Eastern European country, eventually.
He frowned. Given the plummeting value of the British pound, perhaps in India or some former British colony. But at least it’d be a mansion! Yes! That’d get that Frenchman out of her head, it would.
He was a patient man, he was. Amanda would come around soon enough, and together, they’d begin the future that he’d so mistakenly jeopardized. He’d spend his entire life making it up to her, he would.
Chapter 13
Amanda stared out at the snow as she lay in bed. She reached out to where Arnaud usually lay, curling into the space where he was not.
“Je t’aime,” he’d said to her on this very bed as she cuddled up to him, last night. She couldn’t believe he’d said it. She’d demanded to know what she was to him if not a mistress. And he’d said I love you.
She’d stared at him for long moments... until she had to ruin the moment by bawling her guts out. For though a part of her knew she loved him back, she was terrified to admit it even to herself. And so he had to go and beat her to it. Men! So typical.
Arnaud loved her and she loved him back. She’d told him so the moment she recovered from her bawling spree. In the face of that, of what value were labels like ‘girlfriend’ or ‘mistress’?
Amanda realized that her logical mind and its obsession with lists and schedules had held her back. Her concern about what other people thought was another problem. But no one she knew and cared about had a problem with her love life – not Savitri, not her assistant-trainee, and certainly not Arnaud’s circle of friends. Only she had had a problem with it and it had done nothing to make her happy.
There was still no guarantee of a life ever after, of course, still no certainty that this would even last out the year. But she was happy here and now, and that was all that mattered.
Arnaud was out of town on a business trip, not with his wife. It was she, Amanda Sorensen, he’d return to, not to Sophia Marguerite d’Havrincourt et du Lac. He’d come back here to this bed and to this home.
“Our home,” Arnaud had told her emphatically, “ours!”
Given the little she knew about Sophie’s condition, it was highly unlikely that he would ever share a bed with her again. Or a home. What they had on the 16th arrondissement was simply a house.
Comforted by that thought, Amanda let herself drift off to sleep.
And so she didn’t hear the front door open slowly. In an apartment this luxurious and well-maintained, doors do not creak. Nor do the heavily-carpeted floors, as the figure breezed through the foyer and into the living room.
The intruder moved through the large living room, needing no light as that which shone in from the full moon and the streetlights below were more than enough. The person paused at certain points, touching various items here and there, content to feel but not to take. For now.
Booted feet made their way unerringly to the oak doors that led to the corner master bedroom where Amanda slept – still curled up on Arnaud’s side of the bed. A gloved hand flicked, extending the blade of a butterfly knife as the other gloved hand turned the door handle.
The figure watched Amanda sleep for long minutes as their breathing became harder and harder with each passing moment. Raising the knife, the intruder approached the bed.
“I’M HERE, AMANDAAA!!!!”
Amanda shot up just as someone slammed into her, knocking her to the floor.
“I’M HEEERE! OUCH! STOP IT!!!”
Amanda scrambled away on all fours, smacking the wall till she hit the lights. She couldn’t understand what was happening. Two people were tussling on her bed. The first was a woman in a white sweater and jacket with leather gloves.
The other was Richie. “I’VE GOT YOU!” he yelled as he struggled with the woman. “Don’t worry, Amanda! I saw this bloke break in, and... Oh my god! It’s a woman!”
With a loud, hysterical scream, the woman kicked Richie off the bed, then glared at Amanda with such hatred. She scrambled around the bed, looking for something, then howled in frustration.
Amanda backed up, terrified. The woman bared her teeth, growling like a dog as she got up on all fours then launched herself across the space between them. Amanda braced herself against the wall and kicked out with her right leg.
“WAAAAAH!!!” screeched the woman until Amanda’s foot made contact with her stomach. “Uurk!”
Thud.
The attacker lay on the floor, gasping and convulsing as she tried to suck in air.
“I’m here, Amanda,” Richie wheezed on the other side of the bed. “Don’t worry! I’ll save you!”
Loud voices came in from the living room, heading their way. Amanda looked around desperately for something to use as a weapon. She grabbed the knife, still not understanding how it got there, but grateful for it, nonetheless.
Two uniformed men ran in and Amanda gasped in relief. They were the police.
“Amanda!” a woman yelled. “Amanda!” It was Camille. “Oh thank god, you’re alright!”
“I saved her,” came Richie’s weak voice as he struggled to get up.
“Camille!?” Amanda gaped. “Can someone please tell me what the heck is going on here!?”
*****
“I wasn’t sure it was her, at first!” Camille sobbed as Amanda paced back and forth in the living room. “She had scratch marks all over her hands the night you were attacked at the museum, but that meant nothing. Sophie would sometimes hurt herself. I only got suspicious when she kept mentioning the MNHN. And I wondered why she was so eager to fly to Australia. She wanted to get away.
“Then we retrieved this,” she handed over a series of black and white photographs. “It’s from a security camera in Montemartre. The pictures are grainy, but I’m sure she’s responsible for Arnaud’s car. She must have followed you. So I asked Guillaume to get the police report about your first attack. You described a red parka to them.” Camille shook her head. “That’s when I knew.”
Amanda still had a hard time understanding it all. “But how did you know to come here?”
Camille shuddered. “She killed her nurse. Sylvie found the body. Forgive me, Amanda. I should have sent her away sooner. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”
EPILOGUE
Arnaud nervously approached the bed. “Are you ok, Amanda?”
She was exhausted and sore, but she smiled as she held the bundle out to him. His eyes were brimming with tears as he picked up his son with trembling hands. “What should we call him, Mme. du Lac?”
Amanda was still getting used to her new name, but she was liking it quickly. Still, something this potentially explosive had to be handled with tact. So she took a deep breath. “Richard.”
Arnaud groaned.
“He did save me, remember?”
Arnaud gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t refuse her anything. “So long as we pronounce it the French way, not with the English ‘chah’ sound.”
She blinked at him with wide eyes.
“Argh! Fine! His name is Rishard Sorensen du Lac. And to make sure, I want it spelled with an s and an h! I refuse to leave this hospital without that in writing. Understood!? Ooh, non, non, non, don’t cry, Rishard. Don’t cry. Daddy’s not mad, shhhh...”
Camille beamed as she stood in the doorway, not wanting to intrude, just yet. “You know, Savitri, I can die now.”
“What!? Why ever would you say such a thing, you old dingbat? I refuse to babysit that brat on my own when it gets old enough to start walking!”
But the old woman only had ecstatic eyes for the newborn being cradled in his father’s arms. “Because our family’s future is now secure.”
“Good!” Savitri huffed. “So make sure you live long enough to do your share of babysitting because I meant what I said.”
Dominated by Daddy’s Best Friend
By: Natasha Spencer
Dominated by Daddy’s Best Friend
© November 2017 – All rights reserved
By Natasha Spencer,
Published by Passionate Publishing Inc.
This is a work of fiction. All names and characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
This book is for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Warning
This book is intended for adult readers, 18+ years old. Please close this e-book if you are not comfortable reading adult content.
Chapter 1
“Fuck,” Candice said. She held the pregnancy stick in her hand. The little white space showed a plus sign. “No, no, no!”
She grabbed the box off the top of the toilet tank and looked at the instructions again. She should have had her period already. She knew because she kept track in her planner writing a big “P” for period on the day that her monthly menstruation started.
Letting Mitch cum in her wasn’t a good idea. She knew it. She was a little drunk and when the condom broke, she said that it was fine. He’d been insistent and she caved a little. It’d felt good and afterwards she’d taken a shower. She hadn’t thought about it much then. She had never gotten pregnant before.
Now though it didn’t feel so good. She’d got the test at the pharmacy after she’d finished work. She hadn’t thought much about missing her period by a day or two; sometimes things came a little slow and she’d been working out a lot lately. Candice had read somewhere that working out more could alter your cycle. Then one day had turned into two and after more days had passed, she had finally decided to buy the pregnancy test once and for all.
She’d sat on the toilet and peed on the stick then set it facing up on the sink. She tried not to think too much about urine potentially being on her sink, after all there were bigger problems at hand. Candice had waited the necessary five minutes for the results to come in. She’d left the room and had turned on Home Alone.
Kevin McCallister, played by the young Macaulay Culkin, was just being miscounted by his family when the alarm on her phone rang. As Kevin woke up home alone while his entire family went on vacation, Candice was in the bathroom looking at the plus sign.
“Fuuuucccckkkk,” she said. She threw the stick into the garbage. It bounced in the small trash can. Her apartment was small, a one bedroom, and the sound of the pregnancy test slamming in the trash echoed in the room.
Candice looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. She wasn’t ready to be a parent. She should have taken a morning-after pill. She shouldn’t have trusted Mitch.
She turned on the water in the sink and splashed cold water on her face to wake herself up. She didn’t have anything to do until 9 a.m. tomorrow at which point she’d have to be at work again. Water dripped down her face and she massaged her cheeks. She pulled back the skin and leaned into the mirror. Small crow’s feet were beginning to form at the edge of her eyes. Everyone always told her that she had a young face. She’d inherited her father’s ageless face but wrinkles were starting to form.
She sucked in her cheeks and bit down on the flesh inside her mouth. Her teeth grated against the soft tissue and she could feel the inside of her mouth begin to bleed. She gripped the edge of the sink and leaned her head forward. Her forehead touched the cold mirror. A drop of water fell down her forehead and onto the mirror leaving a trail. It would smudge the mirror and leave a water mark.
She pulled away from the mirror and walked into the living room. The apartment was thirty-five square meters. She afforded it from her job as a copywriter for an internet startup. She’d been living in the Bay Area for ten years now, originally following her sister to the area. Pauline had moved back to Los Angeles to be close to her mom and dad but Candice had stayed. She’d stayed and made bad decisions.
She went and sat down on the couch. She began to zone out as the movie played on. She half paid attention as Kevin McCallister was spooked by Old Man Marley, the terrifying next door neighbor.
Candice stared at the TV and tried to think as the Wet Bandits, the villains of the movie, plotted to break into McCallister’s house and steal his family’s belongings.
She had to make the call. She had to tell him.
“Hello?”
“Yeah I’d like a large pizza to be delivered,” she said.
“Sure. Are you calling from 890 Wood Street?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Great. Did you want any toppings on that?”
“Can I get pineapple and jalapeño?” Candice asked.
“Sure. It should be about 20 minutes. We’ll give you a ring when we’re there.”
“Great.”
Candice hung up. “I’ll call him after I eat,” she said aloud. She was pregnant, or at least the pregnancy test, which according to the internet and to the box that stated it was 90% accurate, said she was. There was still a sliver of doubt though. It could be a false positive, she hoped.
She wondered what the etiquette was for her situation. Should she even tell Mitch? They’d been hooking up for the last few months, but it wasn’t like they did much more than fuck. Other than that, she didn’t know much about him.
She knew his body well though. He had a scar on his left ribs from having punctured his lung in a motorcycle accident when he was young. His first tattoo had been of a bird on his upper right shoulder. He’d gotten it when he was eighteen. It was faded and not well done. In the mornings, if he wasn’t hung over, which was rare, he did push-ups. She would watch as his elbows acted as levers and he sank towards the floor. He did 50 push-ups and 100 sit-ups. Afterwards he would take a shower. He didn’t brush his teeth before bed so Candice had bought him a toothbrush. He used it only occasionally.
His hair was light brown and he had a large nose. He didn’t wear glasses but he needed to and would often squint at her. His chest was caved in and he told her that he spent most of his high school years trying to correct it.
Candice had been attracted to him enough. He made her laugh, occasionally, with bad
jokes, mainly puns. His voice, one of the more attractive parts of him, was soft and smooth. It reminded Candice of melted butter. It was rich and added to everything that he said. She wasn’t sure what she liked more, him or his voice.
On their first date, they’d had coffee. He’d shown up 10 minutes late and on a café racer. The bike, as Mitch went on about it, cost him $10k. He’d worked two jobs to purchase the bike, although he never told her what two jobs he did.
“It has a ride by wire throttle,” he said. “Traction control that can be switched on and off. A slip-assist clutch. And look at the way it looks, it’s absolutely beautiful.”
The two had sat at a coffee shop that was all white in the interior for forty minutes. He talked about his motorcycle for twenty minutes and then had switched to his next favorite subject, pizza.
“I never much liked Lanesplitter’s,” he said. “They are inconsistent and the interior of the restaurant is a bit drab.”
“You like Pizzaoila better?” Candice had asked.
“That’s too pretentious. Who wants to spend $20 for a small personal pizza? Yeah it has figs on it with cheese from the Himalayans but do goats from the mountains really create that good of feta? I don’t think so.”
“Do you ever make your own pizza?”
“No. I always order out. I have a list. I’m making my way through it.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a complete list of all the pizzerias in the Bay Area. I got through Berkeley already. I’m going through North Oakland now. I get at least two pizzas a week. It’s basically the only thing I ever eat,” he said.
Candice had sipped at her latte slowly as Mitch had gone on and on about pizza. The perfect crust, the perfect cheese, the perfect balance of topping to cheese ratio. He then went on to talk about his shrine to pizza in his apartment. He’d framed several pizza boxes and a few articles that he’d written about pizza for his personal blog. He’d never been published anywhere else for his food reviews.
Stroked by my Dad's Best Friend_A Billionaire Secret Baby Romance Page 19
