Daphne Vs. Daddy

“Right,” I say, trying to quell my laughter. I really shouldn’t be egging him on. He’d taken three weeks to show up here, after all. I should make him pay for that somehow.

“I’ve been thinking after our last…meeting, that what I really ought to do is take you out on a little yacht that I have, and we can just hang out for the day on the water.”

“Really?!” I can’t help it – I am shocked. Most guys think that to impress a girl, they need to take her to the fanciest restaurant they can afford, and pour as much wine down her as possible. I don’t know if I’ve been ‘wi

ned and dined’ too often, or what, but that just doesn’t do much for me anymore.

“Yeah. Just you, me, and the ocean for a day. Or a week. Do you have any vacation time coming up?”

“A little.” Truth? My boss has been on my ass to take at least a week’s vacation, or corporate will have to pay it out to me in cash, and they hate doing that. It’s gotten to the point that my boss has started putting brochures for five-star resorts on my desk every day.

I don’t want to go to a resort, though.

But a week on the ocean? That sounds like…heaven.

I run my hand up his thigh, letting my fingernails scrape along until I get dangerously close to his dick. His eyes flare with desire and internally, I grin in triumph. So maybe he’s made me suffer for the last three weeks, but he still wants me.

He asks, “Want to go out for a drink tonight? At Bungalow 8 again? I can show you some dance moves out on the floor.”

God, I love guys who can dance. If he can really dance, I may melt into a pile of goo into my stilettos, like a non-witch version of the Wicked Witch of the West. So many guys think that going out onto the dance floor and waving back and forth, feet firmly planted in place, somehow counts.

Not even close.

A guy who can dance, and wants to take me out on a yacht and is an amazing fuck and loves libraries and is worth about a gazillion dollars? Oh, and is drop-fucking-dead gorgeous?!

What isn’t to love?

I open up my mouth to reply when—

“Sir, you aren’t supposed to be back here,” a security guard says at my elbow. I jerk my hand back down into my lap and my face flames a brilliant red. Goddammit, now I look like an idiot to my co-workers. I had really thought he’d gotten the okay to be back here.

“You are supposed to be in the Creaking Maple conference room, not back here among proprietary trading technology,” the security guard continues, pompously. I have to wonder how he’s able to say that with a straight face, especially the Creaking Maple bit. I don’t know who named the Carter Jeffries conference rooms, but they have fuck-awful names. I usually snort coffee up my nose every time someone says XX SEXUAL REFERENCE.

“Well, I’d just come back here to say hi to Brittney,” Kaden says with a confident smile.

“You know this man?” the guard demands, staring at me.

I look back and forth between the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, and an overweight balding security guard with a pompous attitude that’d fit right in with the royal family of England.

And I feel that naughty grin come back.

“No, sorry sir,” I say apologetically. “I was just sitting here, working, when he came up and started talking to me. I’ve never seen him before in my life.” Well, all of that was true except the last bit, so I figure I’m only going to slightly roast in hell, instead of having flames lick up my legs. And anyway, he really deserves this, for coming back into the employee area without permission. I could get into deep shit over this.

The stunned look on Kaden’s face is worth it all. “But…but…” he stutters, as the security guard whistles to his backup, and together, they drag Kaden out of the office area, giving him a stern talking to as they go.

I turn back to my desk and let the grin out fully. Sometimes, I have a little too much fun...

I lean over, grab my phone, and text him. “Meet me at Opal in Turtle Bay in 45 minutes.” I can go out to lunch with him, and teach him how the real world works. Starting with, don’t fuck with a girl’s career.

79

Kaden

I drum my fingertips on the table impatiently. After getting a dressing down from security guards like I was six years old, I was shoved out the front door and not allowed to go down to the Creaking Maple conference room – god, their conference rooms are just as bad as ours – where the buyout of Atlantic Trading Group was being discussed.

I was…not happy. I’d done everything I was supposed to. I’d brought business to Carter Jeffries, something she cares about. I’d offered to take her out on my yacht, something she cares about. I’d even learned how to do a couple of dance moves, despite being born with two left feet, and my leg muscles now ache from three weeks of dance lessons every night by a local hip-hop dancer. Guaranteed to impress her, I’d paid an ungodly amount of money to learn these moves straight from a master.

And yet, she’d lied, fucking lied, when the security guard showed up. This is twice that I’ve gotten into trouble over her, and she doesn’t seem to give a good goddamn. When she shows up, I’m going to give her holy hell for that stunt. I’m going to—