Page 7 of Daddy's Pretty Baby

“Does he have a dead daughter then?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper. “Am I staying in his dead daughter’s room?” Oh my god, oh my god. If that was true, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Even though I didn’t want to throw in the towel on my first day, didn’t want to be labeled a quitter, still, I just might have to if this room belonged to a ghost.

But Angela merely threw her head back and laughed then, a real, belly-deep chortle.

“No, Mr. Lancaster has never had any children,” she assured me, eyes twinkling. And I let out a huge gasp of relief, head swimming, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. Thank god. Thank the Lord Almighty. But before I could ask more questions, Angela was out the door, striding down the hall with long steps.

“I’m so sorry to leave you like this,” she called, voice echoing with her departing figure. “But I’ve got a three o’clock and I’m going to be late. Just call if you have any questions, okay Melissa?” she asked again. “Just call,” her voice sang, and I nodded numbly, turning back to the room, and going slowly back inside. God, this was weird. I could swear one of the fairies on the wall was looking at me, pointing her pink glittery wand my way. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, and I was definitely in the begging camp.

So woodenly, I put my bag on the bed and tested it slightly, jouncing the mattress up and down. Seemed fine. Still wary, I pulled up the mattress to look underneath, but there were no peas, there was no princess, this was no fairy tale, and it was just a bed. A plain old bed. So shaking my head once more, I walked with more confident strides to the en suite, although I still held my breath. God, what awaited me, was there going to be potty-training unit in the corner, a pink toilet maybe?

But once I opened the door, I breathed again with relief because it was normal. There was a bathtub, a shower, a toilet, and a vanity, all full-sized, made for adults, with nothing indicating that a five year-old girl lived here. There were no child-size soaps or bath toys, just regular white towels embroidered with pink flowers. I could live with that. So slowly stripping off my clothes, I squeezed into a swimsuit. Might as well enjoy the pool on the first day, it was warm and balmy, and heck, the last couple days had been stressful, topped off by Catherine’s fit this morning. Besides, I didn’t have to hang out in this room except to sleep. As terrible as it was, it was just a small detail, I could use the bed at night and enjoy the rest of the estate during my waking hours.

So with a renewed bounce to my step, I padded downstairs in my suit and stretched out by the pool, letting the sun bathe me in warm rays. It felt good, really relaxing. I know there are all these warnings from dermatologists about UVA and UVB, SPF this and SPF that, but I was gonna get a tan, dammit, and feel amazing doing it. So my eyes drifted shut lazily as my mind floated off in sleep.

But a male voice woke me, intruding on my hazy daydreams.

“You’re gonna look like a lobster if you lay out here any longer,” it rumbled. “Better cover up, girlie.”

Go away, go away, my mind chanted silently, eyes still closed behind my sunglasses. I’m having a dream, this is nothing but a dream.

But then big hands began to stroke my shoulders, even touching the skin of my décolletage and I jolted upright, gasping, curves bouncing this way and that, letting out a small shriek.

“What the hell? Who the fuck are you?”

My voice, despite starting in an accusatory yelp, died out in a whisper. Because the man before me was gorgeous. Huge, tall and broad, he had the bluest eyes and blackest hair, almost like someone had put a filter on him, the colors so vibrant as to almost be unbelievable.

And hearing my stutter, the big man chuckled.

“What am I doing here? This is my place,” he rumbled easily, gesturing to the grounds. “I’m Robert Lancaster, I own this spread.”

That made me gulp and grab for my towel. But shit, I’d forgotten it, so there was nothing to cover me but this swimsuit and it wasn’t doing much. Because in the last couple years, I’ve developed a lot, without the funds to buy myself a new suit. So I was literally wearing something two sizes too small, breasts bulging out from the top and the sides, the string ties clinging for dear life around my neck. But the worst part was the bottoms. They were so small that it was like a postage stamp of cloth on my pussy, the outline of my lips visible, and oh my god, looking closely you could even see the hard nub of my clit.

Because it was stiff and horny, that’s what this man did to me. Mr. Lancaster was so unbelievably gorgeous, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, blue eyes amused. And shit, but my body was saying hello, nips poking out like rocks, the throbbing of my pussy visible beneath the thin material. Oh shit, oh shit, and this was my new employer! Oh shit, talk about a embarrassing start.

But instead of being offended or surprised, the big man merely smiled again.

“I knew Angela had found a housesitter, but I never expected her to look like you,” he rumbled more to himself than anything. “What did you say your name was?”

“Melissa Carlson,” I blurted out quickly, growing red. “You can call me Mel.”

“Melissa,” he said thoughtfully, rolling my name on his tongue, “Melissa, Melissa, Mel.”

God, I almost dissolved into a puddle hearing it. I’d never heard my name pronounced in such a deep rumble, his voice caressing the syllables, each vowel sounding like a prayer, my insides heating up to about a million degrees.

But Mr. Lancaster looked at me thoughtfully then.

“I don’t like Melisa,” he said offhandedly. “Doesn’t suit you, doesn’t sound like a girl who looks like you. I’m gonna call you Melly instead,” he said with total authority.

I jerked back, astonished. What the hell? Who says that to a total stranger, someone you don’t know? People have called me Melissa or Mel my whole life, and it worked just fine, I was Mel at the café and Melissa at school. Besides Melly was a silly name, singsongy and frivolous. Wasn’t the shy pansy in Gone with the Wind named Melly? That woman had been spineless, I didn’t want to be associated with her.

So I was just about to open my mouth to protest when suddenly a small voice rang out in my head. This man pays your salary, warned the voice. Mr. Lancaster puts a roof over your head and gives you money. If he wants to call you Funky the Monkey or Riddles the Clown, just let him, you’re better off.

So I pasted a smile on my face.

“Sure, Melly works,” I said lightly. “No worries.”

And the big man eyed me closely, a grin playing around his lips.

“I see you’re very trainable,” he rumbled. “That’s going to work in your favor, Angela chose very well.”

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