Ruthless Daddy_A Romance Collection

by Emily Bishop

  “It could have been prevented,” she says. “It could have been prevented. I should have prevented it.”

  I hate to see her like this. Overcome with a feeling I’ve never had before, one I can’t name, I snatch her hand up in mine. “Look at me, Isabella. Seriously. It’s not your fault. You weren’t even in the country. You did everything that was your responsibility. You couldn’t have done any more.”

  She lets her hand rest in mine for a sweet moment then pulls it away with a sigh. “I don’t know. There must have been something wrong. I should have seen it. I should have known. I was in that store less than a month ago.”

  “It was an electrical problem, you said, right?”

  She bites her lip. “Um-hm.”

  “Well, you’re not an electrician. How were you to know if there was something wrong?”

  “I can’t keep making excuses, Gray. It’s my store. There was a problem. People got hurt. I can’t explain it away. I just can’t.”

  The sadness in her eyes is haunting. If only I knew some technique, some trick, the right words, anything, to take it all away. “You’re a good person. You didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  She looks back out the window again. “But it did. It did, it did, it did.”

  “Yes, but at least no one died.”

  “Not yet,” she says darkly. “You never know. Someone could die in the hospital.” Then a whimper escapes her lips and she snatches up her iPhone from her purse. “I’m checking the news again. Maybe they have updates.” As the page loads, she repeats over and over, “Please let no one die, please let no one die….”

  I wish it right along with her and realize how out of my depth I am. She holds so much responsibility with this business. It’s only now that fact hits me square in the face. How different her life is from mine. How small mine looks in comparison.

  “Oh, thank god,” she says with a relieved exhale. “There’s an update here. No one’s died. They reached Natalie for comment. She said we’re going to investigate the whole thing and see what happened, and that I’m going up to the hospital.”

  I watch her, seeing her in a whole new light. “You’re doing very well.”

  She puts her iPhone back in her purse and stares back out the window. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say decisively. “Yes, you are.”

  She looks up at me and for the first time since she heard of the fire, smiles a real smile. It’s small, and it’s tentative, but it’s real. “Thank you. I’m trying.”

  “And succeeding.” I want to tell her all about how I see her now. All about how I understand what she’s been saying all along. About responsibility. About doing something more than drinking and partying. About life having some kind of meaning that I wasn’t seeing. But I can’t find the words. I’m not used to these kinds of conversations at all. Conversations where the words coming out of my mouth actually reflect what’s on the inside. I’m much more used to twisting words and toying with people’s feelings until they give me what they want. Having an agenda. I don’t have any agenda here except expressing what’s inside me. That feels weird. But even as I keep my mouth shut, the words long to spill out. I feel this tugging sensation in my chest, like something wants to come out of it and go toward her.

  “Thank goodness,” she says as we turn into the street where the hospital is. The traffic has been jam-packed. “Thank you,” she says to the driver. She rummages in her purse and pays him.

  Then we’re out of the taxi and running. She practically sprints along the sidewalk. Dodge this way, weave that way, around all the people. I could go faster than she does, but I follow just behind. She’s the leader here. This is her turf. I want to watch her in her element. It’s all new to me.

  The checkin and elevator ride is a blur of frenzied activity. But just before the elevator opens on the third floor where we’ve been directed, she looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair is wiry and frazzled. Her eyes have red rings around them. “Oh, fuck, I look like death.” She tries to push her hair back into some kind of submission, but it’s not playing along.

  “You look beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. Sure, she’s not perfectly groomed. But that’s because she’s been trying like a madwoman to get here and couldn’t get much sleep on the plane. I’d much rather have thus than some dolled up girl with perfect hair and no responsibility. These thoughts are all new. Exhilarating.

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” The elevator doors open and she clears her throat, pushes her shoulders back, and walks into the hallway.

  I follow behind, an observer. I feel like an explorer, discovering new territory. She’s been “here”—not this hospital, but in this position of power and duty—a thousand times before. A seasoned veteran. We turn into the ward.

  A nurse meets us outside the door as he comes out of the room. “Who are you here to see?” He looks frazzled, too, like he’s run off his feet.

  “I’m Isabella Price,” she says in a measured tone. “I’m here to see the burn victims. It was my store in which the… incident happened.”

  “Oh.” His eyes widen. “Are you sure you want to come in?” He lowers his voice. “You’ve been a hot topic of conversation in here. And not all of it’s flattering.”

  God. I think I’d have turned running if it were me. But Isabella gives him a diplomatic smile. “I think that’s to be expected. I have to see them.”

  The nurse raises his eyebrows as he opens the door. “Well, all right. Good luck.”

  As we walk in, every head turns in our direction. I scan everything quickly. There are two beds, each with a patient. There are visitors, too, little groups of family and friends crowded around.

  “That’s Isabella Price,” someone whispers.

  A woman sitting in the corner on a visitor’s chair, next to the bed where a teenage girl plays on her phone with headphones on, pushes herself up on the chair arms to standing. She glares at Isabella and marches over. “Miss Price?” She sticks out her hand.

  The teenage girl glances up, rolls her eyes, and looks back down at her phone.

  “Hello,” Isabella says. She shakes the woman’s hand, and I can see the woman shakes so hard it must be bone crushing. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Well, I’m not pleased to meet you,” the woman says. “Not at all.”

  “Don’t you talk to her like that,” I say, before I’ve even thought.

  Isabella turns to glare at me. “I’ll handle this, thank you,” she says under her breath. Then she turns back to the woman with an all concerned smile. “I can understand we’re not meeting in the most ideal of situations.”

  “The most ideal of situations?” the woman repeats, fury bubbling in her voice. “This is a disaster! My daughter was shopping in your damn store when the explosion went off. She now has burns all over her leg and won’t be able to walk for a week. And she’ll never be able to wear short clothes again, unless she wants the whole world to stare at her. That’s all your fault.” She pokes Isabella in the chest.

  It takes all of my strength not to holler. But I keep my hands at my sides and let Isabella take care of it.

  “I am so sorry about your daughter,” Isabella says, and the weight in her voice makes everyone know she means it. She gestures toward the teen. “Is that her over there?”

  “Yes,” the woman says defiantly. She seems taken aback, like she was expecting Isabella to defend herself, and then she could unleash a tirade of abuse.

  “May I speak to her?”

  “I don’t think—”

  The teen now has her headphones in her lap. “Yes,” she says.

  “This is the owner of the store, Melody,” her mother replies in a patronizing tone. “The woman whose negligence got you hurt.”

  Melody rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom, I know. I want to ask her a question.”

  I feel so protective of Isabella I want to jump in front of her and screen everybody before they can get to her. You have a question? Ask m
e first. You have an insult to sling? Sling it at me and I’ll make you regret trying to ever hurt her. But I know she’d be furious if I did such a thing.

  She advances toward the teen with a friendly, open face. “Hello, Melody,” she says. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you. If you have any questions about what happened, I’ll do my best to answer as much as I can for you.”

  “Oh!” The mother throws her hands up in the air. “How about answering how the hell you can be so irresponsible to let this happen?”

  “Shut up, Mom!” Melody hisses, embarrassed.

  “It’s a valid question,” Isabella says. “A very valid question. I’m devastated this has happened too, for our employees and our customers. We checked all the plans and tested the electricity. We have insurance, as well, of course.”

  “You’d better,” the mother says, “because you’re going to be needing a lot of money to cover these expenses.”

  I see Isabella stiffen. I know what’s going through her mind. All these people will sue her for millions, and her father’s business will die, with or without my cash injection.

  “I can understand your feelings,” Isabella says. “We’re going to do a full investigation to find out exactly what happened and address any problems.”

  “You sound like a sleazy politician,” the mother says with disgust.

  A silence falls around us. Isabella holds her head high, but I see as she clasps her hands behind her back that they’re shaking a little.

  “I just wanted to ask something,” Melody says.

  I hope against hope it’s not a question that’ll bring Isabella tumbling down. If it is, I won’t be able to hold myself back from protecting her. I’ll take her in my arms and tell everyone she’s doing her absolute best and they all have to leave her alone.

  “Go ahead,” Isabella replies steadily.

  “You know that purply-red mascara you stock?” Melody asks. “I really want some. That’s why I was in the store. No one else has it. Do you think you can get some for me?”

  “Melody, don’t be ridiculous,” her mother snaps. “How can you think about makeup at a time like this?”

  “The doctor said the burns would heal, and it’ll look almost normal.” Melody looks up at Isabella. “Please, that’s my favorite mascara, and I ran out last week.”

  “Of course, I’ll do that for you,” Isabella says. “What other makeup do you like? I’ll bring you a whole set.”

  Melody’s face lights up. “You will? Oh my gosh, well, I like the Revlon lipstick in color 3A, and…”

  I watch Isabella talking to the girl and writing all the makeup products down on her phone.

  Yeah.

  This woman is really something special.

  Chapter 22

  Isabella

  DAY 16

  The hospital wasn’t the lynch mob I expected, but I still feel sapped of energy. I don’t like hospitals as it is. That was the very same hospital I held my father’s gnarled old hand in as he passed to the other side. In any case, neither of these reasons is any excuse for flopping into bed as I want to and denying my responsibility.

  I leaf through papers, desperately hoping to find something that explains it all, and desperately hoping not to at the same time. Electrical wiring sheets. Codes. Plans. I picked them all up from the office on the way back to my apartment. I want answers to give these people. But I dread finding some tiny detail I’ve overlooked. If there’s a loophole for them to sue, I know the business will never recover. Never.

  Gray and I picked up Indian takeout, but we haven’t touched it. It’s sitting on the kitchen counter, looking sadder and sadder by the minute. But I don’t care. I have to get through all these papers for the third time. There must be something I’ve missed. There must be. I don’t know if I want there to be or not. This feels like torture.

  “Come on, babe,” Gray says. He comes over from the couch and touches me gently on the back. “You’ve done enough. Try to relax.”

  “How can I relax?” I rifle through the papers still. “I need to know how much of a mistake I made here. What the future of everything is.”

  “We can’t tell the future,” he says. “You’ve looked through all of that already. You know you have. The food’s getting cold.”

  That sounds so trivial. “Who cares about food?”

  “You haven’t barely eaten since we left England. The plane food wasn’t good, and what have you had since?”

  I think. “Nothing.” But I don’t even feel hungry. Adrenaline has rushed through me the whole time, pumping me with overanxious energy. Food seems so overindulgent. “I don’t want anything.”

  “Please,” he says. “I’m starting to worry about you. When are you going to stop beating yourself up?”

  “Never,” I say. “It was my responsibility. And people got hurt.” I feel this horrible lurch in the pit of my stomach, like I want to throw up, but there’s nothing inside except emptiness. “It’s all my fault, and it always will be.” I flop down on the chair. “I feel… so hopeless.”

  “You’re not hopeless.” He takes my face in his hands and looks dead into my eyes. They’re so piercing and strong I have to avert them. “You’re the least hopeless person I know, in fact.”

  I laugh insincerely. It feels like I’m choking. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, really.”

  “I’m a total screw-up.”

  “You are not.” His voice is so stern, like he’s telling me off. “Don’t ever say that again.”

  “I am though.”

  He kneels down in front of me, and even though he’s the one looking up at me, he’s very much the one in control. “All right. Let’s say you’re a total screw-up. What does that make me?”

  I pause and look into his eyes. “A man who realizes his priorities have been a little skewed. A man who wants to come out from under his father’s shadow. A man who’s… realizing a lot.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Now, my turn. What I see when I look at you.”

  Anxiety buzzes through me. I make a joke out of it. “A frizzy-haired girl who pretends to be an Ice Queen on the outside while being nothing more than useless mush on the inside. Who pretends like she knows what she’s doing but doesn’t have a clue.”

  “No.” His face floods with concern, then a passion leaps into his eyes. “I see a fearless woman.”

  “Well, you’re wrong about that. I have plenty of fears.”

  “OK,” he says with a nod. “A woman who has plenty of fears but goes ahead anyway. She doesn’t let them dictate her life. A woman who walks into fire when other people would run the other way. A woman who holds her head high and carries on, no matter what. A woman who’s learning that…” He looks into my eyes like he’s searching for something. “That… trying to be perfect is too stressful.”

  My chest, sinks but not in a bad way. Like I’m sinking into the most comfortable bed in the world after the longest journey.

  “A woman who looks at herself and sees mistakes and failures,” he continues. “But let me tell you something about what I am.”

  “What?”

  “A man who looks at her and sees something he’s never seen before. A type of woman who’s so rare she’s the first he’s come across. He doesn’t see the mistakes and failures she does in herself.”

  There’s a lump in my throat. “What does he see?”

  He takes my left hand and kisses my little finger. “Beauty.” Then my ring finger. “Loveliness.” Then my middle finger. “Strength.” Then my index. “Dignity.” My thumb. “Integrity.”

  I want to believe this is some Grayson Fairfax II game, so I can run away and not feel the rip that’s being torn in my heart. I always thought if someone would tell me these things, it would feel like floating on clouds. But this is a strange pleasure-pain that tears at the seams of my being. I can’t say anything. But I can’t pull away either.

  He kisses the thumb of my right hand. “Independence.” Then my index finger
. “Did I say strength already? Well, I’ll say it again.” Then my middle finger. “Gorgeousness.” Then my ring finger. “Grace.” Then my little finger. “And complete and utter, dripping-with-it, oozing-with-it, sexiness.”

  “Gray,” I breathe. I can’t find anything else to think, let alone say.

  He puts his strong hands on my knees then runs them up my thighs under my skirt, his dark eyes glued to mine. I shiver, wanting him.

  “Isabella,” he whispers. “What do you want?”

  I feel my clit pulsing. “You.”

  He takes the hem of my skirt and pushes the front of it up around my waist. My sensible blue panties don’t look all that sexy to me.

  He runs his finger over my panties, down from my pussy lips and up to my clit. “You’re getting those wet,” he whispers.

  Before I can reply, he reaches behind my back, grabs the panties, and pulls them down. I have to shift on the chair a little for them to slide over my buttocks. He takes advantage of my position and shoves my legs up in the air, pushing my ankles toward my head. My panties stretch between my thighs, and my pussy’s exposed to the air, right in front of his face.

  “Mmm,” he says, watching with enchanted eyes. He leans forward and kisses my clit. He looks up to see me shiver, and even though his mouth’s on my cunt, I can see the smile in his eyes.

  “Now, tell me, Isabella,” he says. “What do you like best? Do you want me to lick your clit? Or bite those gorgeous lips of yours? Or take your clit hood in my mouth and suck until you come?”

  “Oh, fuck, Gray,” I moan.

  “That’s not an answer,” he says in a commanding tone. “Tell me what you want.”

  I know what I want. Shivers went up my spine when he said it. “The last one.”

  He looks up at me, a glimmer in his eye. “I’ve forgotten which that one was. Tell me again.”

  Oh god. My nipples are on fire. My pussy’s pulsing. “Take my clit in your mouth,” I say, trembling.

  “And…?”