Beauty's Daddy (Billionaire Daddies #1)

by Jane Henry

  Was this the little town of Whitby? Or had I somehow transported to an alternate reality? It was bizarre, this elaborate limo out front with this driver waiting for me on my tiny street in front of my broken-down rental, while I stood there in a pair of scuffed ballet flats I’d bought at a thrift store for a job interview four years earlier. I swallowed, mustering all my bravado, and walked toward the limo driver. He had a bushy moustache and severe brows over stern brown eyes. “Mister Gryffin told me to be here at eight o’clock,” he admonished. “I’ve been waiting.”

  Were all these guys like this? “Nice to meet you,” I replied sarcastically, climbing into the luxurious, leather-scented interior. He shut the door, and opened his, sliding open the little screen between the back and front of the limo.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Annabelle,” he said. “But I do think it only fair warning to tell you that Mister Gryffin expects his instructions to be followed to the letter. He does not like to be left waiting. Please, for your own good, don’t do it again.” And without another word, he slammed the screen shut.

  I frowned, but suspected that there’d be video cameras or something inside this ridiculous car, and even though I did not regret intentionally coming late, I didn’t want to give Mister Gryffin, or whoever he was, any more fodder for his anger.

  With a heavy sigh, I leaned back and observed my surroundings.

  It was amazing. The floor was carpeted, the interior in complete black with silver accents. The seats were covered in a leather, and across from where I sat, a gleaming counter housed a small bar. He had a bar in his limo. Was he some sort of alcoholic? Who had an actual bar in their limo? A flat-screen TV flanked one door, but it was off, and no remote in sight. A pile of magazines stood up against one arm rest, but with titles like Wall Street Today and The Enterprising Entrepreneur, I took a pass. Not my thing. In moments, the nose of the car dipped upward and I tipped sideways. We were ascending a steep hill. I tried to look out the windows, but they were so heavily tinted it was hard to see much of anything, as night had fallen on Whitby.

  I started when a voice came over a little speaker. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” the driver said. “I prefer to keep my hands on the wheel and not use the screen when driving. May I get you anything, Miss Symphony?”

  I shivered a little, unsettled being called by name by a complete stranger. I looked around the interior, unsure how to respond. Did I just speak into the air?

  “Uh…” I began, looking around.

  “Hit the button under your arm rest. The silver circle.”

  My cheeks hot, I pushed the button. “I am all set, thank you.”

  “Very well. We will arrive shortly.”

  I took the opportunity to press my face up against the window and cup my hand over my eyes, doing my best to look out the window. This helped, and I could now see a bit beyond the car. When I did, I gasped.

  Waves crashed against enormous, craggy rocks, seemingly right on the other side of my window. God, how narrow was the road? The waves pounded with such ferocity I could almost hear the roar piercing the night air. In a panic, I pushed the button again.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  “Oh my God, how close are we to the edge of the cliff?” I asked, my voice high-pitched and no longer even under pretense of having any decorum.

  A responding chuckle did not alleviate my fears. “Far enough away, Miss. We’re pulling up to the estate now.”

  I blinked. Lot of help he was. But my thoughts quickly shifted as I peered through the tinted window and saw a huge, black wrought-iron gate in front of us, as the driver’s window lowered. He punched in a code, and the gates opened to the biggest, most majestic, terrifying home I’d ever laid eyes on.

  Chapter Four

  Sawyer

  I expected her to defy me eventually, but not so soon.

  The very first instruction I gave her, and she had the audacity to disobey? I paced the lush interior of my office, my hands behind my back, trying without success to control my temper. When the door creaked open, I turned on my heel, glaring, expecting the girl to be brought into my presence. However, Millie, the maid who’d served my family since I was a child, stood before me. She was an older woman with graying hair, with the appearance of an old-fashioned schoolmarm. She always wore a skirt and blouse in grays and blues with an apron, and she oversaw the cleaning of my house.

  “Mister Gryffin, may I get you some tea? Coffee? A drink, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Millie,” I said, turning again abruptly to resume my pacing as I waited for the girl to arrive with Worthington.

  “Sir, if I may offer you some advice,” she began, coming in the room and shutting the door. I sighed, turning back to face her.

  “No, you may not.”

  She blinked, folded her hands behind her back, and continued anyway. “You haven’t entertained in years, sir, and honestly, if you are this angry with her before she’s even set foot in the house —”

  “Millie, you don’t have the first clue what this meeting is about, or what I shall propose. Your job, need I remind you, is simply to do my bidding. Furthermore, I just told you I have no interest in advice.”

  She frowned, but bowed her head and turned to go. “Very well, sir,” she said, as she opened the door. “I’m just reminding you that a bit of a gentle touch can sometimes go a lot further than your growls and blustering.”

  “Leave me!” The door closed with a bang.

  Had I lost complete control of my staff, that she thought it fitting to scold me like a naughty child? My anger merely stoked, I walked to the sideboard and poured myself a drink, downing the fiery bourbon as a second knock came at the door. I inhaled, turning to face the door, and did my best to rein in my temper. “Come in.”

  When she walked in, I almost forgot I was angry. Gone was the drab uniform. Blacks and grays did not suit this woman. Her hair, no longer tucked into a matronly bun at the nape of her neck, hung down in loose, gleaming waves, a rich chocolate brown as dark as wet sand below my cliff. I wanted to wrap her hair around my hands, run my fingers through the silky strands, pull it until her mouth dropped open… and that mouth. How had I not seen the fullness of her rosy lips, now pressed in a firm line, attempting to pretend she was not afraid as she stood trembling before me? Wide brown eyes framed with long, black lashes, met mine across the room. She carried a small purse in one hand, which she clutched to her side as if her life depended on it.

  “Sit down, Miss Symphony.” It was no longer my temper I fought to control but the arousal that coursed through me along with the whiskey — hot, liquid fire. I swallowed and nodded. The girl still stood by the door, and my anger flared to life again.

  “I instructed you not to keep my driver waiting, and now you refuse to sit when bidden to do so?” I leaned against the sideboard and watched her through narrowed eyes.

  Her eyes flitted about the room, taking in the large mahogany desk that flanked one wall, the stack of papers, the shelves filled to the brim with books, but still, she did not sit.

  In my mind’s eye, I crossed the room to her, grasped her slim wrist in my hand, sat on the arm of the couch, and dragged her across my knee. How I longed to lift that skirt of hers and paint her ass red for her defiance.

  She’d learn I expected obedience.

  “Excuse me?” she said, eyeing me curiously, her little chin lifted up as her eyes met mine. “I did not know you were instructing me. I thought you were inviting me. I’d rather stand, thank you.”

  And with that, my temper snapped.

  I slammed my drink glass on the sideboard and stalked toward her. To her credit, she looked suitably afraid, her eyes widening, but she did not step away. I stalked until I was only inches from her. I grabbed her hand. Her bravado was a mere front. I tugged her over to the couch and pulled her to sitting before releasing her hand. “I do not have the time or patience for suggestions,” I explained to her, mustering what little patience I possessed. “I told you when
to be here. I told you to sit down. You’ve done neither. Now are you here to play games with me, or are you here to make amends?”

  Her eyes closed briefly, and when she looked back at me, they were lit with fire. “I am here to make amends,” she said, her voice dropping. “I apologize for being late.”

  I blinked, allowing a beat to pass before I spoke again. She was in my clutches now. I had to play my cards well, but I also could use this situation to my advantage.

  “I accept your apology,” I said, wanting her to know that I needed more than that, that I needed control. But if I told her too much, if I pushed too hard, she would run. And I had to get her deeper in my snare, if I were to ensure my plan worked. I would test her, though. I would see how she reacted. “But although I accept your apology, I would like to explain something, Miss Symphony.”

  She raised a brow, folding her small hand on her knee, and though she tried to hide it, it trembled. “Oh?” she asked. Her voice was husky, her eyes lit with what I hoped was more than fear or curiosity.

  “I am an exacting man,” I said, allowing my voice to drop as I stared at her. We sat a little too close, our knees almost touching, as her eyes met mine. She swallowed. Her knuckles on her knee whitened.

  She laughed, then, but it was forced. Her eyes still danced with fear. “Mister Gryffin, you don’t need to spell that out. I have surmised at least that much with our interactions thus far.”

  Oh, she’d surmised shit.

  “I have a small staff here, and the only ones I continue to employ are those who are willing to obey me.” I could practically feel the increased tempo of her heartbeat as she stared at me unblinking. “I dismiss those who do not.” I cocked my eyebrow at her. I wanted her questioning, wanted her curious. “I believe in authority and obedience, and as a successful businessman, I demand control.”

  She pulled her fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ears, still pretending to be perfectly calm and collected. “I understand that, sir,” she said.

  Fuck.

  Sir.

  My cock thickened in my pants at the sound of sir on her lips.

  I moved a bit closer to her on the couch. “I’m glad,” I responded. She did not understand. But she would. “So I’d like to move on to a proposition. Instead of me taking you to court, or demanding you pay me for the damages against my person and property, I would like to make you an offer.”

  I watched her chest rise and fall with her labored breathing. “Mister Gryffin, does the offer of a drink still stand?”

  I bit my cheek to keep myself from smiling. “Certainly,” I said, rising and walking over to the sideboard. “What’s your poison?”

  “Do you have white wine?” I had chardonnay, pinot grigio, sauvignon blanc, viognier from all over the world. “Of course. Host’s choice?” I asked, but I had already chosen. The question was a mere formality, as was her little nod. I poured her a glass of Montrachet chardonnay from France, the most expensive wine I owned. She held her glass and took a long pull, holding onto the stemware awkwardly, as if she were a child with a too-big cup. After a greedy sip, she removed her mouth, that beautiful lush mouth, and licked her lips.

  “As I was saying,” I continued, allowing my voice to deepen to get her attention. “A proposition.”

  Seemingly emboldened by her liquid courage, her shoulders straightened and her gaze met mine. “Yes?”

  I was well versed in propositions, convincing my clients that what I had to offer was in their best interest. I had clients practically begging me to take their money.

  And I did, over and over again.

  But with her, I was proposing something far riskier, with a greater reward. “I need you to pretend to be my wife for a month.”

  Her lovely mouth dropped open, her eyes the picture of shock as she stared wordlessly at me. I needed to push this, explain my proposal, and convince her of the merit of what I asked before she wrote me off as a madman.

  “It won’t be difficult,” I said. “I don’t know how much you know of my life, Miss Symphony,” I began, and she shifted on her seat, her eyes looking away from mine, guilt if ever I saw it. She knew enough. “But I’ve been a recluse for a full decade. And now Le Point magazine would like to do an article on the country’s most wealthy businessmen. To deny the interview would be foolish,” I said. “It is an opportunity to market myself and my brand, an opportunity I cannot pass up.” There was more to it…so much more to it. But she did not need to know how I longed for this chance, to prove myself not a monster but a human. “I will require very little of you, and if you do as I ask, not only will your debt to me be forgiven, but I will pay you ten times your monthly salary.”

  Her fingers grasped her neck, clasping at imaginary pearls. “Ten times?” she whispered. The desperation in her voice almost undid me. I felt an unwelcome sympathy for this woman, in such desperate need of money and assistance. I’d researched her. She was damn near impoverished.

  “Ten times. And your every need would be met. I would buy you a wardrobe, and anything else you need. But you will not be allowed to leave. I do not wish for you to speak to the reporters, but merely give the illusion of being a happy recluse like me. You will dine with me in my hall, and spend time with me, so the locals see I’m not a monster, and you will have the freedom to roam our grounds and my home.” I paused. “Mostly. There are some areas that I will ask you stay away from so that I can have my own privacy.”

  Her gaze flitted over my shoulder, fixed on the world globe that stood in shadow on a shelf. It was outdated but one of my most prized possessions, not because of its worth or beauty but because my mother had purchased it for me.

  “My mother…” she began. “I…I don’t know if I can leave her alone for that long,” she began. “Is there any way I can merely visit you and pretend —?”

  “No.”

  I hated not having what I wanted. Hated when what I desired was out of my reach. I would have this woman in my house if it killed me. I had to solve the issues that barred her from accepting my proposal.

  “Do you have no one else in your home who could watch your mother for a month?” I knew her sister lived with her. I’d had her researched thoroughly this afternoon before following through on the plan I devised while in the hospital. But I didn’t want to let on I knew where she lived, who she lived with, her birthday, and so much more. I know that she did not go to college, despite the fact that she graduated from high school as valedictorian three years prior. She’d stayed home to take care of her mother, and taken a job far beneath her just to make ends meet. I knew every penny of what she earned went back into providing for her mother and sister, and that she did very little for herself. Furthermore, I knew that her sister’s last course ended this week, and that she’d be home now, if she did not take a job.

  “My sister is finishing up her classes,” she said, her chin at her hand as she echoed my thoughts. “She normally takes a few hours here and there tutoring over the summer, but if you are prepared to pay me ten times my salary, I could ask her to skip those summer jobs.” Her voice trailed off, her gaze again on the globe. “I don’t always trust her, though,” she said. “She doesn’t always pay attention.”

  “I could assign someone to assist her,” I offered. What was I doing? I was getting in far too deep with this girl. Why her? Why did I have to choose her above all others? With my wealth and power, I could have just about anyone.

  I did not want another woman.

  I wanted this one.

  “You mean…like a home health aide or something?” she asked. Her eyes softened as her gaze met mine, and in that moment, I’d have given her anything she’d asked, and I have it delivered to her on a silver platter.

  “Precisely,” I said.

  She sighed, her eyes eager and excited. “Oh, that would be wonderful,” she whispered.

  “Consider it done,” I said. “And I will arrange for you to have your job back when the month is up. I will pay your boss
handsomely for allowing you to work with me.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “So if I…accepted your proposal,” she paused, faltering for a few seconds before she continued. “I would…pretend to be your wife.” She swallowed, her eyes meeting mine once more. “What exactly would that entail?”

  Though she sat stock still, I could feel it, I could see it, the rising of her chest, how her knees drew instinctively together as the tension between us grew. “You wouldn’t have to share my bed, Miss Symphony, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Goodness, no,” she sputtered, but I continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all, interrupting her.

  “You will have a room of your own. I will have it leaked to the press that you do not speak to reporters and that you enjoy reclusivity with me. All you have to do is allow for a few discreet pictures to be taken, and when I allow it, you may be interviewed. But other than that, this is merely a front. The staff here will refer to you as Mrs. Gryffin, and the reporters shall do the same.”

  Never would I invite such an invasion of privacy into my life like this, but this chance…this one was different.

  “I see,” she repeated. “So all I have to do is live in the lap of luxury, pretend to be your wife for a month, and at the end, you’ll pay me ten times my regular salary? That is all?”

  I swirled my glass of whiskey and sipped, meeting her eyes. “And obey me,” I said huskily, allowing the words to settle over the room like nightfall.

  I welcome the burning course of liquor down my throat, needing to be cleansed of my sins. I took another sip, and another, until only small squares of ice hit my lip, but I felt little more than a warm sensation curling in my gut.

  “Obey you?” she asked, her brows furrowing. “As in, do what you ask of me?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Given you’ve asked so little, I expect that to be fairly innocuous, Mister Gryffin.”