Heiress for Hire (16 page)

"Maybe." She shifted on him, settled in a little more against his chest. "Are you really my father?"

Danny spread the palm of his hand on her warm back, stroked his thumb back and forth. He nodded, never so sure of anything in his whole life. "Yes, I really am."

"That's good," she whispered.

That it was.

Amanda bit a French fry as she walked into her kitchen. It tasted so damn good, she had to close her eyes for a second.

"Aaahhh. Good thing I'm alone. I think I just had an orgasm," she said to her Burger King bag.

Never again would she take fast food for granted. When Danny had dropped her off at the end of her first day nannying, she had gone into the house and found another four dollars and seventeen cents in pennies. And promptly turned on her heels and walked the block to Burger King, where she had gotten a sandwich-fry-gigantic-soft-drink combo.

Perhaps not the wisest use of her unexpected windfall, but man alive, she was hungry. The ham and pretzels at Danny's hadn't even dented her appetite. She had a whole week's worth of eating to make up for, and a Whopper was a big lead on accomplishing that.

Besides, Baby had needed the walk after being stuck in the house all day. Jamming three more fries in her mouth, she picked up the phone and dialed Brady Stritmeyer's number.

"Hey, it's Amanda," she said, chewing her fries, when Brady answered. "How's your leg?"

"Annoying. What's up?"

"You need some cash? I've got a job for you." She was still pleased at her brilliance in coming up with this scheme. Bedroom on a budget, she was all over it.

"Cash is good. But I'm kind of incapacitated right now. What's the job?"

"Painting butterflies on Piper's bedroom wall. We'll sit you in a stool, you'll be fine."

"Sure, I could do that. Butterflies, huh? Realistic or cartoon-like?"

"Pink and purple in whatever style you want. You tell me what supplies you need, and I'll get them."

"Cool. What's the pay?"

Like she knew. Nor had she discussed an actual budget with Danny, but surely he wouldn't begrudge a little paint. He seemed pretty eager to make Piper happy.

"What do you usually charge?" There, that sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

"Ten bucks an hour. It will probably take me about eight hours to sketch it out and paint it."

"Ten bucks! Are you sure?" She was fairly certain her mother's decorator would charge a thousand bucks to have a wall mural painted. It seemed cruel to have Brady do it for only eighty, with a broken leg besides.

"Is that too much? I'm not trying to stiff Danny or anything. I can take eight bucks an hour."

Amanda reached for another fry. "No, no, ten is fine. I just thought you might want more."

"Oh."

There was a silence where they both seemed to be trying to figure out where the other was coming from, before Brady let out a snort. "Ten is good. And if you want the walls painted first with a color or a base paint, you'll have to do that. I'm not up for standing on a ladder or anything."

"Paint the walls first. I can do that." She had thought maybe they would use a crisp white instead of the dirty beige that was on there now. That way Brady would have a blank canvas to start with. "Thanks, Brady. I'll go to the paint store tomorrow, so I'll call you when I'm there and you can tell me what to get. I'd like you to get started over the weekend or Monday. Sound good?"

"Cool. Talk to you later, A."

"Bye."

She liked that kid. He was flaky, yet all there at the same time. Sort of like how she saw herself. And damn, could Brady draw.

Well enough that she was willing to eat up some cell phone minutes and call Stuart in New York.

"Hey, I have an artist for you."

"Well, hello to you too, Miss Fell Off the Face of the Earth."

"Miss me? Guess what, you're the only one." She shoved another fry in her mouth. These things were addictive. Every time one was in her mouth, she felt just a little bit better.

"Uncle Brett put out the word that no one is to assist you, my little debutante, in getting yourself anywhere. What gives between you two? That's a little harsh even for him."

Rolling her eyes, she licked salt off her lip. "He's just in a mood, that's all. This too shall pass, I'm sure. But in the meantime, I'm hanging out in Cuttersville."

"Oh, God." Stuart sounded horrified. But then again, he thought leaving Manhattan was indulging in the primitive. "Why don't you call one of your sugar daddies and ask for a plane ticket? Uncle Brett said family couldn't help you, but he has no control over the men you sleep with."

Amanda reached for her eighty-seventh French fry. "Apparently you've confused yourself with me. I don't sleep with sugar daddies."

"Well, shit, why not? It's vaguely like prostitution, but it's such naughty fun. And then you wouldn't find yourself rusticating where fashion hasn't ventured."

"The reason I'm calling," she said loudly, so he would snap out of his sexual musings, "is because I met a kid here who is talented. I want to send you a sketch he did."

"Sure, gorgeous. Send it my way. But make sure it's not a sketch of a hound. I hate dog pictures."

She laughed. "I promise—no pooches."

"Pooches. Now there's a word you don't hear every day. I like it. It almost sounds dirty."

"You're a nut." He was the closest thing she had to a sibling, and she loved him in all his quirkiness.

"No, a fruit." Stuart cleared his throat, and his voice got serious. "If you need money, I'll give it to you, you know that. I don't give a shit what Uncle Brett thinks."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, and it wasn't from a fry. "You're sweet, Stuey, but I'm fine. I'll keep in touch."

"Alright then, you know how to reach me. Kiss, kiss."

"Hug, hug." Amanda hung up the phone and reached for her burger.

The cell phone immediately started ringing, and she eyed her food with longing. Probably Stuart calling back. Or it was one of her friends or her father, though that seemed unlikely. He hadn't exactly been anxious to get hold of her.

But it was him. His name flashed boldly on her caller ID and Amanda drew a deep breath. "Hi, Daddy. Long time, no talk."

"Where are you?" he demanded, sounding brisk and impatient, adjectives he owned most of the time.

"Standing in my kitchen, watching my burger get cold while I talk to you."

"You're at the apartment? But the doorman said you haven't been back."

At least he cared enough to spy on her. She'd been starting to wonder if he wanted her to disappear. "I'm in Cuttersville, where I was when you cut off my credit cards. How do you think I could have gotten back to Chicago?"

"You don't have any money at all?"

"No!" Where had he been, Mongolia? "I told you that."

"I thought you were exaggerating."

"I wasn't exaggerating. I had fifty bucks and change a week ago."

"How much do you have now?"

"Two dollars. Fifty bucks doesn't buy what it used to." She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed in his ear.

"So you can't get back to Chicago?" The distinct sound of computer keys tapping came through loud and clear. Dad was multitasking. "I thought you would have enough to get home, and we could talk when you got here."

All that drama and he just wanted to get her home so they could have a daddy-daughter lecture? Her father was always about control, always had been, always would be.

He sighed. "I'll get you a flight home this afternoon. I mean what I said about the money, but I'll get you home and set you up with some job interviews."

With her father's quote, unquote friends who would hit on her. Most of them were divorced and on the lookout for a new, younger model of trophy wife. And any job he secured for her meant she was indebted to him as usual.

"I already got a job. Here. In Cuttersville."

The typing stopped. There was dead silence. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I got a job. What did you expect me to do? Starve? Beg for food?"

Wiping a little ketchup off her lip, Amanda watched Baby running back and forth across the kitchen floor, playing with a sock she had given the dog after she'd popped a hole in it with her puppy teeth. "Daddy's shocked speechless," she whispered to Baby, hand over the mouthpiece.

"You're not stripping, are you?"

Her amusement disappeared. "You so did not just say that."

"Well, what are you doing?" He didn't sound the least bit remorseful for accusing her of dancing naked for cash.

Pissed off, she didn't temper the sarcasm. "I'm a nanny. I have the complete and total care of a small child. And I'm good at it. I rock. I'm like Mary Poppins and Jane Eyre all rolled into one. But better looking."

"A nanny? Jesus Christ, that's scary. You can't even take care of yourself."

The insult was so unexpected, so brutal, that it ripped through the thin veneer of nonchalance Amanda wore like a mink coat. She felt the unmistakable, embarrassing sensation of tears in her eyes— tears she had thought she'd seen the last of.

But he still had the power to hurt, deep and biting, aching, hurt that had her sucking in a shuddering breath and striving for con-trol. She despised that after everything, at twenty-five, she still needed and wanted her father's approval.

He would never give it.

That was the reality of the situation.

He had spent thirty grand on fertility treatments for her mother and had wound up with Amanda instead of the son he had dreamed of. And she had had the pleasure of hearing him tell her mother just how disappointed he was with his investment when they had a fight over the cost of Amanda's tenth birthday party.

So she had never had any delusions about his feelings for her.

But it still hurt. And she hated that.

There were a lot of things she'd like to say to her father, including the fact that he'd gotten exactly what he'd created, but she didn't trust herself not to splinter and crack in front of him. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking down, and she wouldn't sacrifice her pride.

"Thanks for the call, Dad, but I have to go. Burger King tends to congeal if you let it sit too long. But I'm sure you have plenty to keep you busy. Maybe you can call cousin Stuart and cut him off, too, just for fun. And maybe put a red flag on Mother's credit card. That would be a good joke."

"Stop acting like a child, Amanda."

"Stop manipulating your family."

"Call me when you're ready for the plane ticket."

She'd accept his ticket when her mother let her natural gray show—not in this lifetime. "I don't want your ticket. I'm staying here. You can close up my apartment and do whatever you want with the furniture, since you paid for it all. But if you could pack up all my clothes and personal items and ship them to my Cut-tersville address, I would appreciate it."

"Your teenage rebellions are getting a little tired."

"And so is this conversation. Good-bye, Dad." Amanda hung up the phone, her hand shaking and her stomach churning.