Ruthless Daddy_A Romance Collection

by Emily Bishop

  “Yeah. Everyone thinks she’s a bitch, but she was really nice, actually. Really shy, too. Lovely girl.”

  I feel good in Lilly’s capable hands.

  *

  But a few hours later, in front of the mirror in my palatial yet dusty room, I don’t feel so good. I bite my lip and study my reflection. I don’t really do short dresses, so I vetoed plenty of suggestions Lilly brought to my room. In the end, I chose a mint-green chiffon number, with a beaded bodice, thin straps, and a chiffon skirt that grazes my knees. I wanted to straighten my hair into a shiny dark curtain, but Lilly said not to be ridiculous. Celebrities pay thousands of dollars to get curls like mine. She twisted it up into a chignon, so it’s sleek at the back, with an explosion of curls at the top of my head. Then she pulled down a few curls at the front to frame my face. It does look pretty good, I can’t lie. After Lilly adds a pair of gold earrings with what look to be opals in the middle, the look is complete. But I still don’t feel confident.

  “You look really good,” Lilly says. “What are you so worried about? I can see it in your face.”

  I turn and watch myself in the mirror, checking how I look from all angles. “I’m not used to clubbing. I want to do it right.”

  Lilly laughs. “You can’t do clubbing right. What is there to do? You drink too much, stagger around, snog a stranger, and go home. Then suffer in the morning.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll fit in.” It all sounds a little pointless. Maybe even mindless.

  She gets me wrong. “You? You’re so graceful you could fit in anywhere. I’m sure you were the most popular girl in school.”

  I laugh out loud at that. “You are tragically wrong, Lilly. You look more like the popular type.”

  Lilly smiles. “Well, I like people. So people like me. You know, Prince Jago and I dated in school. He’s the Queen’s grandson.” She beams. “People always said I was with Gray for the status, but that’s a downgrade, right? He’s only the heir to a Dukedom. Big deal.” She waves her hand dismissively. “By the way, don’t feel bad about our past. I have no interest in him. I’m chatting to the son of the owner of Harrods. He’s just as rich, just as handsome, and much better connected than Gray. So you have nothing to worry about.”

  My head reels. Is she going to tell me she breakfasts with the Queen next?

  I feel a lot more normal once Gray and I are in the local town. It’s not swarming with aristocrats, royalty, and Rolls Royces, as I dreaded. It’s fairly pedestrian, really. A nice town, to be sure, with cobbled streets and upmarket restaurants and stores, but it’s no Monaco—thank goodness.

  “You like it here?” Gray asks as we walk down the street. He parked his Mercedes at this little boutique hotel, a white four-story townhouse.

  “Yes.” The cool evening air runs over my bare arms, and it feels good. I feel good. I feel good being here. Being here with Gray.

  “Excellent.” He leads me to the restaurant and holds the door open for me like a perfect gentleman. “This is one of my favorite places to eat. French a la carte fused with Thai. Crazy combination, isn’t it? But it works.”

  The meal is a dream. The whole experience is perfect. Gray introduces me to all the waitstaff as his fiancée, and we’re showered with congratulations. Free champagne, too. I almost believe this is going to be easy after all. Gray and I will pretend so well the solicitor will offer to walk me down the aisle in the absence of my father. The huge check will be signed over, and Gray and I will look into each other’s eyes and say we don’t want to lose each other at all—the engagement has become far too real. And then… No, I have to stop imagining things. Then, despite our feelings, we’ll come to our senses, and I’ll fly back to Seattle. I’ll pump all the cash into my father’s business and restore it to its former glory. Then, after another five years, maybe I’ll meet my human rights lawyer or honest-to-a-fault accountant and settle down. Have two children, a home with a mortgage, and a dog. And forget about Gray. But who could forget the unique, one-in-a-million Grayson Fairfax II?

  He holds my hand on the way to the club, and I don’t pull it away. “We’re rather convincing, aren’t we?” he says, but I’m sure he wants to hold my hand anyway. He’s not just doing it for pretending’s sake.

  I want to hold his hand, too. I smile at him. “No one would guess we despise each other.”

  There’s a line outside the club entrance.

  “I knew you’d come!” Lilly, in a tight-fitting black dress and towering heels, runs over to us, arms outstretched. She always seems to be doing that. She gets closer, and I see her smile is a little lopsided. Her eyes have a tipsy sheen to them. She’s on the verge of drunk.

  Grayson takes her arm that’s flailing in our direction and pushes it away firmly. “Leave us alone.”

  “No, it’s all right, Gray,” I say. “Hi, Lilly.”

  “I’m going inside,” he announces. “Isabella, are you coming?”

  I crane my neck to look inside, then bite my lip. It’s all loud music and scantily clad girls gyrating. Then I look at Lilly. I think I’d rather talk to her for a while. “I’ll just stay out with Lilly for a second.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink for when you come in.” He takes off without a backward look.

  Lilly laughs. Not a nice laugh. Then she looks me up and down. “You look like a bridesmaid.”

  It’s so unexpected I don’t register it. I laugh with her. “I guess maybe I do. But you helped me pick it out. You said it would be perfect.”

  Her lip curls as she surveys me again. “I was wrong. Tragically wrong. And that little throw thing you’ve put over your shoulders? No. Just no.”

  Normally if someone knocks me down, I’m back on my feet swinging in an instant. But I’m stunned into silence. It’s her turf. I’m a fish out of water. A misfit.

  “It’s giving off a spinster-aunt kind of vibe,” she says then cocks her head on one side. “And it’s such a shame, because you’re so pretty. Only no one’s going to see that tonight.”

  I find my voice. It’s not as steely as I want it to be, but it has a hard edge. “Gray saw it.”

  Her laugh is insincere. “Oh, him. He’ll sleep with just about anything that has legs. Surely you know that already?”

  “Not anymore.” I push past her and go into the club. I tear off the shawl—I think she might have had a point about that—but try to feel sexy in my bridesmaid-looking dress.

  I make a beeline for the bar and buy myself a double dark rum and Coke. I swig it and try to look casual, though I feel totally out of place. I scan the crowd for Gray and finally see him on the dancefloor. He has a whole bottle of champagne in his hand. Oh, wonderful. He already had far too much wine at dinner. He’s going to be “sloshed,” as he calls it. Girls surround him. Girls with ample cleavage and batting eyelashes and sexy dance moves. They look like another species to me. As if they haven’t a care in the world. I wonder what they do on a day-to-day basis. Are they lawyers? Cashiers? Stay-at-home moms? Business owners? Aristocrat socialites? It’s impossible to tell.

  I zone out people watching.

  “Hey, sexy,” a drunk guy says, staggering over.

  I barely cast a glance at him. “Keep it moving.”

  “Frigid, uptight bitch.”

  His friends pull him away. But the insult stings. I know he’s just a drunk misogynist. I do feel uptight. I know I look uptight.

  After a while, it’s Gray who’s staggering up, just as drunk.

  “It’s time to get totally sloshed!” He splays his arms out wide then leans over the bar. “Hey, mate,” he slurs at the bartender, “a whole bottle of Courvoisier, please and thank you.”

  I hate seeing him like this.

  Then he pushes his body up on me. “Fancy a grind?”

  “Jesus Christ, Gray.” I push him away and back up. “Can’t we go back to the hotel?” This is so uncomfortable.

  “No. I’m happy. Happy happy happy. Happy to be home in my shitty little village. In my mansion p
rison. In my dead father’s shadow.” He takes the huge bottle from the bartender, pops it, and swigs. Then he grabs at my waist. “Come on, babe, let’s dance. None of these girls can hold a candle to you.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, stepping back.

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Be miserable. It suits you.” Then he weaves his drunken way back into the dancing crowd. He keeps looking back and gesturing for me to come over. I turn my head away and ignore him. Every minute feels worse. It’s like I can’t breathe. I don’t like this world. This world where he’s “happy,” where everyone grinds with strangers and drinks themselves into oblivion. People do look kind of happy. I wish I could break down the invisible wall between me and them. But I’m in a fortress.

  I watch Gray enjoying himself. Why would I ever want him? This partying, irresponsible bad boy? More to the point, I realize, with a sickening feeling in my stomach, why would he ever want me? This straight-laced, serious, goodie-two-shoes who doesn’t know how to have fun? Am I being hard on him? On myself? I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.

  Time passes so slowly. But Gray’s getting drunker and drunker by the minute. I watch. And then I see something that makes my heart stop. Lilly sidles up to him and starts dancing next to him. He doesn’t push her away. Sure, she’s not actually touching him. But she’s facing him. Smiling. Throwing her hair back. Making sexy moves. He’s dancing, too. Not paying her full attention, but still. They’re there. Next to each other. Dancing. Then Lilly looks in my direction. Her gaze strikes right through me like a sword. Then she smiles. A horrible, sickening smile that makes my stomach churn.

  “Hey, frigid bitch, come and sit on my cock.” I turn to see that disgusting guy again. Now he’s grabbing at his crotch and laughing with his friends.

  All the rage and uncertainty leaps up in me like a flame. I storm over to him and give him a hard slap in the face. The short, sharp noise it makes is the most satisfying thing of the night. His friends’ raucous laughter at him comes a close second. Then I march outside and hail a cab. I’m going to sleep in the hotel.

  Chapter 15

  Grayson

  DAY 11

  Oh, god, where the hell am I?

  I open my eyes, and my head pounds like there’s tiny guys with jackhammers inside it. Thump. Thump. Thump. The bright sunlight streaming through the white voile curtains makes me squint with pain. All the furniture in here is white. Blinding. I’m certainly not in the dark, dusty, wood-paneled Fairfax mansion.

  Oh, I remember. I’m in the hotel in town. Where’s Isabella? I sit up with a jerk and look around me. There she is. Sitting at the desk, tapping away on her laptop. I feel a sense of dread, with no idea where it comes from.

  “Oh, finally up, are you?” She taps on the keys still and doesn’t look in my direction. Her voice is cold. Oh fuck, what have I done?

  A dizziness hits me, and I have to sprawl back on the bed. I grip my head. “What the fuck happened last night?”

  “Nothing of note.”

  “When did we come back?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I came back around midnight. You somehow made it back at some point. And threw up all over the bathroom.”

  “Hell.”

  “Yes, that was a nice sight first thing in the morning. I nearly stepped in it.”

  I roll over, feeling like death. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll have to apologize to the poor maid. She had to clean it up.”

  “That’s their job, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she snaps. “Their job is to change sheets and vacuum and dust. Not clean up the vomit of a grown man. You made a fool of yourself.”

  “Nothing this town hasn’t seen before. Oh. I remember a little now. You wouldn’t dance. You stood at the bar looking like someone had killed your cat.”

  “I have no time to talk about this.” She rearranges the papers on the desk, agitated. “I’m busy with paperwork. Business. Responsibility. Something you know nothing about.”

  I really don’t have the energy for this. I roll over to the phone.

  “Front desk, how can I help?”

  “Send up some breakfast to me, please.” My groaning voice is not attractive.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s 11:30, and breakfast finished at 10.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Isabella clicks her shoe against the table leg, over and over again. “If you can drag yourself out of bed, Gray, the checkout time is noon.”

  “Right.”

  I heave myself out of bed and pad to the shower. Somehow, I manage to get through ablutions, and by a quarter past noon, we’ve checked out and are sitting in the greasy spoon I always come to after a heavy hangover. I order a full English breakfast, which thankfully they serve all day every day, with a mug of sweet tea on the side. Isabella gets a black coffee and sips it with tight lips. She goes through her papers, marking parts out with a red pen, refusing to meet my eyes.

  When my breakfast comes, I try to make conversation. Mushrooms, hash browns, fried eggs, baked beans, sausages, fried bread, and bacon. “Have you ever had an English breakfast before?”

  “No.” She surveys my meal. “Looks like a heart attack on a plate.”

  I’m tired as hell but try to laugh. I want to reestablish the connection. “You’re right. It’s a once-in-a-while treat. When I’m extremely hungover.”

  “Wouldn’t that be every day then?”

  “I’m not an alcoholic, Isabella.” Her tone got under my skin.

  “A funaholic.”

  “Stop judging me. That’s all you do. Judge judge judge.” I tuck into my meal with a vengeance.

  “You’re actually judging me for judging,” she says, looking back down at her papers. “Thankfully, I don’t put much stock in your opinion.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I spear a hash brown. “You couldn’t have a lower opinion of me if you’d found me on the bottom of your shoe.”

  She purses her lips. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. We’re just not compatible.”

  “I’ll say.” I watch her. Her beautiful, self-righteous face hits me in the heart like a sucker punch. “Why are you acting like such a bitch this morning? What exactly did I do to you?”

  “Charming,” she says. “So, first you dance the night away with hot sexy aristocrat Lillia Smythe-Darcy. And now you call me a bitch. This is wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  “I didn’t call you a bitch,” I say hotly. “I asked why you were acting like one. That means you’re not one.” That sounds really lame coming out of my mouth. “But what was that about Lilly?”

  “You were dancing with her. Don’t you remember?”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Ha!” She says it so loud other patrons turn to stare. “Yeah. It’s my wildest fantasy. To see her gyrating and making eyes at you. It was amazing.”

  I try to scan back in my memory, but I really can’t remember. In truth, there were a lot of girls gyrating and making eyes at me. That’s par for the course. “You know I can’t stand Lilly. Why would I dance with her? I don’t even want to get a glimpse of her.”

  “Maybe it’s all an act.” Isabella doesn’t look up. “I think you’re still in love with her, just denying it to yourself. And I think she knows that, too.”

  “What?” I slam my fist down on the table, and the sweet tea sloshes over the side of the mug. The cutlery clatters. People stare.

  Isabella gives me an icy stare. “I’ll finish up my paperwork in the car.”

  *

  She doesn’t talk to me all the way back to the mansion. I feel like death warmed up and slump my arm over the steering wheel. I keep glancing toward her. I try to read her face. One moment, I feel like I want to please her. The next, I feel I want her to get the hell away from me and stay away. The trip is exhausting. By the time we pull up the mansion drive, I’ve thoroughly confused myself. Or maybe she has. I don’t even know.

  But I put on my swagger. My nothing-ca
n-rattle-me swagger. I walk to the door without a look back at her.

  She hurries up the steps after me. “I still want to talk figures with you. Let’s do it now.”

  Maybe that will make her happy. Open up a bit. “Yes. In the dining room. Come.” We go through the hallway, past the dusty tapestries and windows that aren’t quite clean enough, like once you’re inside, you can’t see out properly. My vision of the world is covered with a film of dust.

  When we get to the dining room, I’m ready to listen attentively. To make her see that I can be serious. That responsibility means something to me.

  Isabella smiles and places her laptop on the table. It looks like she’s going to warm to me again.

  “Eh hem.” We both whirl around. My stomach sinks the minute I see who’s sitting at the head of the grand polished table, grinning at us. Lilly.

  “You again?” The fury’s hot in my voice.

  “I’ll be going to my room.” Isabella turns on her heel and hurries away, clutching her papers under her arm.

  Lilly watches her leave with a sick smile. “Yep. She knows who the queen is around here.”

  “I hope to god you’re not talking about yourself. Unless you mean queen bitch.” I pick up Isabella’s laptop to go take it to her room.

  Lilly laughs and starts to walk toward me. Her walk is slow. Seductive. She brushes her fingertips over the curved back of each chair as she makes her way toward me. “Gray, I’ll never understand why you would like a woman like her. She’s so boring.”

  I turn to face her and square up. She’s doing a dirty battle, and there’s no way in hell I’m falling for it. “Isabella’s worth more than a dozen of you.”

  She pretends to look hurt. She pauses her procession and puts her hand on her heart. “Gray. How could you say that?”

  “Truth hurts.” I watch her manipulative, sly face with all its fake hurt, and with a jolt of rage, I remember the past. “You were only with me for money and status.”

  “Status? Ha!” All of a sudden she’s smiling. A horrible, leering grin. “Your family name can’t hold a candle to mine, Grayson. Don’t think you’re special because you have money. That’s vulgar of you.”