Dirty Scoundrel (Roughneck Billionaires 2)

The driver parks the car and comes around to my side, opening the door. “I’ll wait out here for you, Ms. Weston. Take as much time as you need.”

I nod. “Thank you.” I slide my phone into my pocket and gaze at the house, my stomach in knots. There’s a few workers scattered outside the house, two of them on ladders and replacing a window on the second floor. There’s a new sign for the museum with a charming logo and a picture of my dad back in his younger, more famous days. Even though I approved all of the changes, I’m still surprised to see the new opening for the gift shop, along with the fresh paint and the brand new roof. Everything looks brand new. Amazing what can be done in just two short weeks. It’s almost like I’m not needed here.

Wishful thinking, I’m sure.

I open the front door and things look less finished inside. The museum pieces are all covered with dust cloths, stacked along the walls, and the carpets have been pulled up. Men are working feverishly—and surprisingly quietly—on the flooring. There’s very little hammering, and everyone talks in hushed voices. I’m sure it’s all for my father’s sake, and I wonder if he appreciates the lengths the contractors are going to in order to accommodate him.

Probably not. My dad rarely thinks of anyone but himself.

I squelch the selfish thought.

Mr. Slocum waves at me as I make my way further inside, but I point at the stairs. “I’m just visiting my father,” I assure him. “Carry on.” I hurry up—even the stairs don’t creak anymore!—and turn down the hall toward my father’s room. Before I get there, I can hear music from Little Tiki Princess playing in the background.

I knock on the door, biting my lip. I wonder what Dad I’m going to get today—the one that doesn’t know where he is, the one that’s living in the past, or the one that’s coherent and has all his thoughts?

“Who is it?” My dad’s voice sounds strong, with just a hint of wobble due to age.

“It’s me, Natalie.”

“Come in.”

I open the door, a beaming smile on my face. “Hi, Dad!”

The look I get in return is less than enthusiastic. “So you finally remembered that I exist, eh?”

Seems like the dad I’m going to get today is dramatic but coherent. All right, then. I shut the door behind me, keeping the smile pinned on my face. “Of course I remembered you.”

“Hmph.”

I ignore my dad’s grouchiness and sit down in the empty chair across from his bed. He’s sitting up, and I’m happy to see his sheets look fresh and crisp. The curtains have been drawn back on the big bay windows in his room, letting in the sunlight, and across from his bed on the wall, Little Tiki Princess plays on the big-screen TV. That’s not surprising, given that my dad loves to watch himself in his old movies. I do like how tidy his shelves are, and how everything’s been kept neat. It seems as if his nurses have been tidying his things, which is good. Dad gets in moods where he pulls everything out, looking for one particular item, and makes a huge mess. He’s like a little kid in that you have to watch him constantly. “It’s been a busy week and I haven’t been able to steal away much,” I tell him as I reach over and hit “Pause” on the remote. “I told you about my new job, didn’t I? It’s the one that lets me afford to get you all these great nurses.”

“You told me about the new job, but I don’t see why it’s necessary,” he tells me petulantly. He plucks at the sheets tucked at his waist. “I’d much rather you be downstairs so I can call for you at any time. You should quit this job. It’s not necessary.”

“Of course it’s necessary,” I tell him, clasping my hands in my lap and sitting with my back upright, just like he always chided me to do when I was younger.

“No, it’s not. We’re fine on money.”

“We’re not fine on money. There isn’t any money. That’s the problem, Dad.”

“Nonsense.” He waves a long-fingered hand. “Who told you we were broke? The accountant? It’s his job to be cheap. He’ll always tell you there’s none left, and then he always magically finds more.”

“No,” I say firmly. I’ve gone down this path with him before. “You always magically found more because you’d open up a credit card or write a check that the accountants didn’t know about. There’s no money left, Dad.”

“You’re wrong. And if we’re so broke, why did you hire all these men to come and fix up the place? I hear them hammering all day long.”

My lies are starting to catch up to me. Well, they’re not lies exactly. They’re more like “glaring omissions of truth.” “I told you that we got an investor in the museum. He wants the place looking good for the grand reopening. Don’t you remember?”

Dad frowns and then gives a slow shake of his head. “I guess I don’t. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

That small, sad statement makes me want to cry. “It’s all right.” I reach out and take his hand in mine, clasping it warmly. “Tell me about your nurses. How do you like them? You look good! They must be taking good care of you.”

“If you mean do they bother me every minute of the day, the answer is yes.” He gives me a look I’ve come to associate with Chap Weston, the actor (and not Chap Weston my dad). “But they’re all very pretty and they love my stories.”

“I hope you’re not harassing the nurses, Dad.”

“I just like looking. I can look, can’t I?”

I smile. “You can.”

“But the nurses aren’t the same as having you here.” He squeezes my hand and gives me a sad look. “It’s not the same as having my daughter around. You should tell your boss that you need time to be with your father.”

“It’s just a temporary job,” I tell him, my heart squeezing painfully. It might be temporary but that doesn’t mean I want it to be.

“Yes, but I’m old, Natalie. Who knows how much longer I’m going to be around? Shouldn’t we be spending that time together? Instead of you just casting me off to some nurses?”

And there’s the guilt trip. Combined with the sad gaze he’s sending in my direction, it works. I feel so guilty. I should be spending more time with him, and he is right, he won’t be around forever. But spending time with Clay is so nice and it makes me feel so free and happy . . .

I bite back my sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

My mood’s ruined by the time I leave. Even though my dad’s in a chatty mood and he stays in the present the entire time, he likes to lay the guilt on thick, over and over again, until I’m about ready to scream in frustration. It doesn’t help that I already feel guilty, too. He’s not subtle. He doesn’t have to be—everything he says is the truth and confirms my own guilty thoughts. Should I be staying away so much and entrusting strangers—albeit well-trained, competent strangers—to take care of my dad? They don’t know him like I do. They’ll never care for him as much as a daughter would.

And to make matters worse, he thinks I’m away because I’m being someone’s assistant.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there’s not much assisting going on. That it’s all a ruse so Clay could get my attention.

I also haven’t told Dad that my new boss is Clay Price. He’d really lose it at that point.

The weight of all the secrets and my guilt weighs heavy on me during the car ride back to the hotel. I need a sign from the universe. Something that will tell me that I’m on the right path, and that I’m doing the right thing by being with Clay.

Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t give me any signs. What it does give me are two car wrecks that I pass by on the interstate.

I hope those aren’t my “sign.” I pretend they’re not.

When I get back to the room, Clay’s still not back yet. He won’t be for a few more hours. But while he’s been gone, he had the hotel staff deliver a dozen roses and put a box of chocolates on the end of the bed, along with a little note for me.

Nat,

Miss you already. Home soon.

CP

Of course, that just makes me feel worse. He’s so thoughtful. And it’s only a day trip—to think that he did all this just so I’d feel special while he’s gone for a few hours. I sniffle as I pick up the box of chocolates and then crawl into bed, feeling like the worst daughter—and worst assistant—ever. Eating the whole box of them doesn’t help, either. It just makes me feel worse, because now I’m sick to my stomach as well as feeling guilty. I change into my pajamas and lie in the bed, moping and worrying over what to do.

Clay gets home a short time later, and I click off the reality TV show I’m watching as the door opens. He bounds into the room, as if he can’t stand being without me for another moment, eyes gleaming. He doesn’t pause at the edge of the bed but just flings himself into it next to me, fully dressed, work boots and all.

I give a little squeal as a cloud of dust comes up from his clothes. “Clay! You’re filthy!”

“Mmm, yes I am.” He pulls me down under him and begins to nibble on my neck. “I thought so many filthy things about you today. I’m surprised your ears weren’t burnin’, babe.”

I sputter at the amount of loose dirt that comes off his clothing. “Did you get caught in a sandstorm?”

“Naw. It’s just windy and flat out there. Visited the new rig site and then went ’n’ said hello to Seth. He wasn’t none too pleased about bein’ back on the job, but Boone n’ Gage were givin’ him hell about skippin’ out on work, so he went back out. Knox and I showed up to jaw with him a little.” He nips at my neck. “You don’t like a big, smelly redneck as your man, baby?”

I do, actually. The problem is that I like it far too much. I want to make a sassy retort, but I think of my father’s disapproving face and tears come to my eyes.