High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

Time to suck it up, princess. “Thanks, that’s really nice of you.”

“Great. Why don’t you hang out in the living room and call your dads while I get this mess cleaned up?”

Chicken that she was, she wanted to hug him for giving her an out to escape his bedroom. Instead, she skedaddled away from the temptations he offered—it took a little effort, but she did it—and strode into the front room, which was dominated by a huge TV and a well-worn couch. She whipped out her cell phone and punched in the number she knew by heart.

“How’s my favorite bulldog doing today?” Henry’s voice immediately calmed her riled nerves.

She sank down into the dark blue couch. “If I tell you the truth, do you promise to sit on Anton until he calms down?”

“You know I’d be sitting on him until Betsy Ross mop caps came back into vogue before that happened. You better just spill it.”

For a second she considered lying to protect her fathers from the mess her life had dissolved into. They’d done so much for her, and she’d spent every day since her adoption day trying not to disappoint them or be the center of any kind of drama. She owed them that much. But she had to face it, her life of staying safely out of the spotlight was over.

“Someone broke into my apartment,” she confessed.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Tony and I were at The Darling House when it happened. They only took my computer, everything else is still there.”

His voice lowered back to its normal octave. “Thank God. Please tell me you’re not calling from your apartment.”

“No way. We relocated to Tony’s in Waterberg.”

“Why not come here? You can stay in your old room. We’ll make s’mores and watch Casablanca.”

Her throat closed up and the cell slipped in her clammy hands. Hurting her fathers was the last thing she wanted to do, but she couldn’t chicken out of telling them the worst part. Tightening her grip on the phone, she braced herself.

“Whoever is behind all this wants to hurt me—not the High-Heeled Wonder, but me. They know who I am, and are probably going to lash out at everyone I love. The best way to keep you safe until we figure it out is for me to stay away. I’m so sorry. I took the High-Heeled Wonder moniker so whatever I did on the blog wouldn’t reflect badly on you. I didn’t ever want to cause trouble for you, not after all you’ve done for me and Anya.”

“Do you think I care about that? Do you think Anton does?”

Sylvie fumbled for words when the only thought in her head was yes.

“Well, we don’t, Sylvie Anne Bissette. You’re our daughter. We love you. Unconditionally.” He sighed into the phone and she knew from experience he was pinching the bridge of his generous nose. “We’re proud of you. We always have been. Go tell the world that you’re the High-Heeled Wonder. As long as you’re safe, we don’t give a damn.”

Biting her lip, Sylvie stared at the ceiling in Tony’s living room and sniffed back relieved tears. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Any time, bulldog. Now, how about coming here for those s’mores?”

“I’ll think about it, but at least for tonight I’m already settled in at Tony’s.”

Tony smoothed a hand over the fresh sheets before tossing a thick comforter on top of them. He would not think about Sylvie sleeping in his bed. Her hair spread out on the pillows. Covers twisted around her long, bare legs. The way the streetlamp filtering through the window would caress her skin.

His cock twitched. Yeah, he wasn’t thinking about it, but his dick sure was.

He tried to shake the vision out of his head, but it refused to vanish. Stubborn, just like the woman herself.

“Can I borrow your laptop?”

On instinct, he jammed a pillow in front of himself, blocking Sylvie’s view of his arousal. “My laptop?”

“Yeah, I need to change the password for my blog.”

It took a second, but his brain finally caught up. Stalker. Robbery. Missing laptop. “Sure. It’s in the office.”

“Thanks.” She spun on a toe and disappeared down the hall.

Client. Daughter of murder suspects. Woman who would hate him if she ever found out what he’d done to her. Forcibly reminding himself of the facts did little to ease the throb behind his zipper. He swore his cock was laughing at him. Refusing to think only with the small head any longer, he tossed the pillow on the bed and grabbed his phone, punching the numbers harder than necessary.