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“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he whispers, his eyes shamelessly running down my body, taking in the round swell of my breasts and the way my hips curve. His eyes are undressing me as we speak, and my heart starts kicking against my chest as a response, warm blood rushing to my cheeks. Pursing my lips, I take a deep breath and try to focus on the situation at hand.
“Oh, I’m full of surprises. Might be you’ll end up surprised,” I grin, walking past him and making a straight line toward the cabinet at the end of the living room. “Macallan, right?” I ask him as I reach for one of the bottles of whisky, grabbing two low glasses with my free hand.
“That’s right, how did you know?”
“Surprised already?” I laugh, pouring some of the aged malt into the two glasses. “I have a good memory. For instance,” I push one of the glasses into his hands, “I still remember that you like your whisky neat. Just like I do.” With that, I raise my glass and push it softly against his in a make-do toast.
“You’re really full of surprises,” he says, swirling the whisky around and taking in its scent. He then closes his eyes and takes a gulp. “Perfect.”
“So, Daddy,” I whisper teasingly, once again that wicked word finding its way to my mouth. I guess it’s part of my DNA to be a bad girl. “To what do I owe the visit?” I look into his eyes and see something there, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Well,” he clears his throat, and then drinks some more Macallan before continuing, “you’ve just inherited a fortune. You’re still young and inexperienced, and so I thought I could offer you my help and –”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure,” I tell him, downing my whisky all at once and setting my glass down on the coffee table at the center of the living room. “You came here to offer me your help,” I say, turning to him, “just like half the people in this city. Everyone wants to offer a helping hand once they find out you’ve just inherited $250 billion dollars.”
It’s true, since I landed in New York City my personal assistants have been swamped with phone calls coming from everywhere in the States. Even the President has called to let me know how he appreciates if I keep that money in the states and invest it in our country. Everyone wants a piece of the Seymour fortune. And shame on me for thinking that Derek Stackford could be any different. Sure, he might be my stepfather, but I doubt that would be enough to make him come here and knock at my door. But $250 billion, well, that’s an incentive to connect with his long lost stepdaughter, isn’t it?
A word of warning—if you think money is the key to a happy life, snap out of it. More often that not, having money (well, at least more money than God) just makes you lonely and estranged from the world around you.
“It’s not like that,” he starts, but I just look at him with a calculating expression, ice now in my veins.
“No? Tell me what it’s like then,” I shoot back, pouring myself one more glass of whisky. Then, before I even notice it, he’s by my side. He takes the glass out of my hands and sets it down on the table; grabbing me by the wrist, he makes me turn to him.
“You’re my daughter, Eliza,” he says, seriousness deepening the gentle lines on his face.
“Stepdaughter,” I correct him, but he doesn’t even seem to be hearing me right now.
“You’re my daughter,” he repeats, “and I came here to offer you my support.” His eyes are focused on mine and, for an instant I can almost feel the world around me fading away. My eyes slowly fall down to his lips and the sound of my heartbeat drowns out everything else. “I know we aren’t exactly close … but maybe it’s time we fix that,” he continues, and my insides clench as I watch his lips move. God, I could lose myself in these lips. I could succumb to his embrace and to his body, and I could do it right now… “I can help, Eliza.”
With that, I close my eyes and I’m almost ready to surrender when a voice cuts through the moment like a knife.
“And what exactly are you going to help her with, Derek? A wet t-shirt contest company?”
Opening my eyes fast, I take one step back from Derek and look toward Carter, coming from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine in his hands.
“What the fuck?” Derek says, looking from Carter to me with a confused look on his face. But, more than confusion, there’s also anger there. “What the fuck is he doing here?” he snaps at me, his words coming out like a growl.
