Dirty Daddy:A Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance(4)By: Alexis Angel
“Incorrigible, but just on Thursdays,” I shrug, downing the rest of my awful-tasting green juice. Swear to God, this thing could use some whisky in it.
“Magnus, this is serious. You need to get your shit together. We need to do some damage control, and we’ll have to change the image you present to the public.”
“Yeah, yeah … I know about all that,” I wave at her, going around the counter and walking toward the couch. I sit down next to Joyce’s assistant, and her pretty eyes seem to widen so much I wouldn’t be surprised if they jumped out from their sockets. She turns her head slowly, her eyes roaming over my naked chest; I stretch then, offering her a nice view of my washboard abs. I know Joyce is off limits, but what about her assistant?
“I’ve set up that $1 million dollar donation you asked me to do,” Joyce sighs, following me all the way to the couch and sitting between her assistant and I. Which is a good thing, or else I’d probably end up making a move.
“Which one?” I donate so much fucking money that I lose track of these things. One day it’s the refugees in WhoFuckingKnowsLand, the other it’s the whisky draught or some bullshit like that. And then there’s the fucking polar bears, and whatever animal is close to extinction this week.
“The one to the children’s wing of the NYU,” she replies patiently, cracking open one of her folders and balancing it on top of her knees. “You’ll deliver the check at a fundraiser tomorrow, and you’ll be the keynote speaker.”
“Hey, slow down. Fundraiser? Keynote? What are you going on about? I told you I wanted the money donated anonymously.” That’s the trick when donating money: always do it anonymously. If you don’t, people will hound you for interviews, prop you up as some messiah, and then tear you down the moment they find out you also donated to some animal rescue center while being an animal eater. Trust me, if you ever find yourself with a million to spare, don’t donate and brag about it. It’s not worth it. If I didn’t have such a soft heart, I’d just blow it all on strippers.
“Yeah, you told me you wanted it done anonymously. But you pay me to do what’s right by you, so I ignored you. That anonymous shit needs to stop, Magnus. We need to get the city behind you, and this donation will be a huge step in that direction.”
Well, not much to argue there.
“Fine, I’ll go to that stupid fundraiser.”
“You’re finally being rational --”
“You better make sure there are hot women there.”
Good reporting is as much about stealth as it is about moving quickly. And today’s a day for a frontal assault. Guerrilla style.
Magnus is going to be at the fundraiser gala for the NYU children’s wing, and that’s exactly where I’m heading right now. I’ve bought a new dress (and an expensive one at that), one that’s the perfect blend between classy and slutty, and I’m wearing my favorite Jimmy Choo heels. I've spent close to two hours in front of the mirror, trying to get the makeup just right. It’s femme fatale hour.
By the time my taxi stops in front of the Four Seasons, the place where the gala is being held, the whole thing is already halfway through. That’s on purpose; being fashionably late should always be part of a woman's arsenal, and it’s a weapon I’m not afraid to use.
I stroll inside the hotel with my head held high, and I approach the receptionist with an easy smile. Laurel Trask has secured me a place on the guest list, and all I have to do is give the receptionist my name before she points me to the room where they’re holding the gala.
The place is packed with New York’s finest, the crème de la crème; there’s Parker Trask, the former mayor, more than a dozen billionaires and a few of the major political players in the city. All told, I should be the only person in here whose net worth doesn’t break the one million mark. But I have my Jimmy Choo heels on, and these shoes are even better than having a few million in the bank, so I’m not particularly concerned.
I scan the room, trying to find Magnus, and I find him leaning against the bar, nursing a glass of scotch and looking as bored as one would be at a funeral. He’s taking a deep breath. I make my way toward him and lean against the bar casually, trying hard not to make eye contact with him. He looks more roguish up close, even more so than when I've seen him on TV. And, as much as it pains me to say it, he really does look devilishly handsome. Even though he’s in his mid-thirties, young men in their twenties wouldn’t stand a chance against him—either in a fist fight or in the bedroom. It isn’t hard to see why women seem to drop their panties when around him.
“Whisky, neat,” I ask the bartender, and I feel him turning on his stool to face me. I ignore him all the same, sitting on a stool of my own and looking around the room as I wait for my drink. Parker Trask is on stage now, giving a heartfelt speech about making a difference and whatnot, words carefully designed to part rich men with their money.
“Whisky, uh?” I hear Magnus say as the bartender slides me my drink over the counter, and I repress a smile. He swallowed the hook. “I figured you’d go for a Sex on the Beach.”
“Is that what you drink when you’re picking up girls at the bar?” I shoot right back at him, turning on my stool and flashing him a smile. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, expecting him to recognize me any second now, but that doesn’t happen. Unbelievable—the bastard doesn’t even remember his own stepdaughter!
“I love Sex on the Beach,” he replies with a grin. I grit my teeth, realizing that I dived headfirst into this verbal trap. Magnus is an experienced man, and he’ll run circles around me if I don’t step up.
“Does your boyfriend know about that?” I say, perhaps more haughtily than I should. Any other man would be stammering right now, but he just laughs at my words.
“Cheeky. I like that,” he chuckles, and then offers me his hand. “The name’s Magnus. Nice to meet you.” I stare down at his hand, but I don’t reach for it.
“I know who you are,” I merely say, feeling the blood run cold in my veins. I lock eyes with him, once more waiting for a spark in his eyes as he remembers I’m his stepdaughter, but that moment never comes.
“Oh, I see. Have we fucked before?” he throws at me, and I feel my blood unfreezing and starting to boil; it rushes straight to my head, and I feel my cheeks burning up. Did he really ask me that?
“So it’s true, you’re as much of an asshole as everyone says,” I sigh, picking up my whisky and taking a gulp. The amber liquid burns its way down my throat, and I struggle against the avalanche of indecent thoughts filling my mind. The moment I heard the word fuck on his lips, an image of his naked body pressed against mine flashed right in front of my eyes, and now my heart’s racing because of that.
Magnus might be the biggest jerk in New York, but there’s one thing I gotta admit: he’s the most handsome jerk I’ve ever met. And the worst part? He knows it. Sitting here by my side in his tailored Tom Ford suit, his panty-dropper smile on his lips, the man seems like he stepped out of some Hollywood highlight reel.
“Maybe I’m an asshole,” he starts, slowly leaning toward me, “but I’m the kind of asshole you just can’t help yourself around.” He stops for a moment, his words hanging in the silence wrapping us both. “Or am I wrong?” he then adds, like a flourish, and I feel my body reacting on its own.
My pussy grows wet with each heartbeat, and time seems to slow down around the both of us. His deep voice turns and twists around my thoughts, slowly choking the rationality out of them, and all that’s left is some primal urge to… No! Oh, no. I’m not going down this way. Even though the man oozes sex, every inch of his body screaming for mine, I won’t stumble and fall before him like a crippled prey.
“You’re right,” I finally manage to say, looking back into his eyes and forcing a grin onto my face. “I can’t help myself when around assholes like you,” I say and, with that, pull my hand back and let my open palm fly straight into his face.
He stares at me, blinking once and then twice, and then laughs, brushing his fingertips over the place where I just slapped him.
“I know the kind of man you are, Magnus Davion. You’re the kind of man who thinks he can bow everyone and everything to his will just because he has money. You don’t care about anyone, Magnus. Only about yourself,” I find myself saying, the words flying out from between my lips before I can even stop them. I had them bottled up inside of me for too long, it seems.
“Self-esteem, babe, it’s the new craze in Europe,” he continues, talking to me as if I hadn’t just insulted him. He’s not a quitter and, hell, the bastard sure knows how to be charming.
“That’s not self-esteem. It’s arrogance. You only care about yourself,” I repeat, feeling as if I’m losing control of the situation. I hate him because of everything that he stands for; I hate him because of what he did to my mother… And, even so, I can’t help but feel irresistibly drawn to him. He’s like human quicksand: the harder you struggle, the faster you sink.
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