One Sexy Daddy (5 page)

“Everyone needs a job.”

“But you're good at housekeeping and child-caring. The things I need. I was going to ask you—”

“I do.”

“You do need a job? Because you're—”

“Sort of.”

“You're hired.”

“Good.”

He stared.

“You might not want me when you hear what I want in return,” Stacy said.

“Money isn't a problem. Name your price.”

“I don't want money. I want something else.”

“What?”

She took a quick breath for courage. “Sex.”

He stared at the half of her face illuminated by the porch light. Her unblinking amber eyes had not a smidgen of come-hither. Although the top button of her sundress was undone, the dress was modestly cut with a fluff of white cotton covering the swell of her breasts. A man couldn't even get a good look at her ankles without some effort, luck or a good breeze.

She was just the sort of woman you'd expect to find in Wisconsin and never, no never, on the cover of a lingerie catalog.

And nothing had changed in the past two seconds—she hadn't suddenly sprouted a bed-ready hairdo, dragon-lady talons, her scent was still soap and talc. Hardly the stuff to give a man the wrong idea or the right idea or any kind of idea at all.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I could have sworn that just now you said—”

“Sex,” she repeated.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it
again. And then stared. But she didn't make it easier for him. Just quietly waited for his answer. Yes or no. Sex or no sex.

He had enjoyed the seductions of many women in his travels. In Colorado, he had returned to his hotel room late one evening to find a ravishing brunette rental-car agent in his bed—wearing a smile and a rose behind her ear. In Washington state, the woman who served his morning coffee at the café near the work site slipped him her phone number and an indecent but delicious suggestion on his receipt. On a twelve-hour flight into Buenos Aires, his seatmate had explained to him the membership rules for the mile-high club—and had proceeded to induct him in a very special and intimate ceremony. In fact, every trip out of Chicago had resulted in some kind of encounter—romantic, occasionally platonic or merely carnal, but always interesting.

But he had never had a woman just flat out ask him.

Sex!

“I've heard you're good at it,” she said, with the same sort of tone one might use to indicate prowess at golf, bowling or double-entry bookkeeping. “One of the secretaries in your office explained your reputation to the mayor's wife. Is it true about you? Are you really good at it?”

“Well, uh, it's not like golf,” he said, tugging at his shirt that had suddenly seemed to shrink sev
eral inches at the collar. “There's no system of handicapping. And nobody hands out medals.”

This mild-mannered maid had gotten the courage to ask for what she wanted, and now there was no stopping her. She probably used the same tone of voice to extract confessions of candy-snatching, wall-crayoning and other wrongdoing by kindergarteners.

“So are you?” she persisted.

“What, good at it? Sex isn't really a skill. It's more something that always depends on the chemistry between the two people.”

He noticed she was tapping her foot. Waiting for him to finish avoiding the question so she could repeat it. She wanted an answer, and aw, hell, answer it, he thought. He reared back his shoulders.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I am good at it. It's not the kind of thing a man should admit to. Or even think about one way or another. But I'd say if you're talking about a national average for men, I'm in the upper fifty percent.”

She didn't look particularly impressed.

“Upper twenty-five percent,” he amended.

Three out of four men were not as good as him, but the corresponding fact was that one out of four were. She wasn't the slightest bit impressed.

“Upper ten percent?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, worked his mouth as if he were thinking seriously about the matter, all the time wondering whether she was
crazy or if perhaps all the residents of Deerhorn were a little off.

“Five percent is about right,” he said.

She looked out over the lawn, past her own fence to the houses across the street. One or two second-floor lights on, forgotten lawn sprinklers hissing, the insistently sharp smell of a barbecue which had been started with too much fluid.

“And you like doing it?”

“Sure,” he said. “Who doesn't?”

“Don't be annoyed. I'm just asking.”

“You're asking a lot.”

“You're feeling awkward because the bull is giving milk.”

“Huh?”

“It's a Wisconsin phrase that means that things are the opposite of how they usually are.”

“How utterly charming,” Adam said dryly. “Now about baby-sitting…”

“I've still got some more questions.”

“Can't you take cash like a normal babysitter?”

“You don't want to,” she said flatly.

“I didn't say that,” Adam protested. “I'm just a little confused by the offer. You're saying you'll baby-sit Karen for me if I have sex with you?”

“Yes. You'll do for my purposes,” she said. “And I'm perfect for your purposes. I'll even keep house and leave dinner for you every night. It's tough to see a downside.”

She had him there. He looked her up and down. Sure, her dress covered everything that a man in his position would want to see before shaking hands. He would put her in a new dress—he had always been partial to something black, something low-cut. And he'd give her some heels because all women's legs looked better with a bit of a lift. He'd get her a hairdo a shade more complicated than the black elastic band holding her curls in a ponytail. And he'd give her lipstick—red—perfume—Chanel still did it best—and a not-so-transactional approach.

Then he remembered himself.

“No way,” he said.

She looked surprised but not nearly disappointed enough.

“The people in this town don't look like they'd take kindly to the idea of a trade-off like this,” he explained. “They'd think I was taking advantage of you.”

“I don't intend for people in this town to know.”

“A total secret.”

“Cannot tell a soul. Even Karen. Especially Karen.”

“You're serious.”

“Yes. That would be one of the conditions.”

“What are the others? Not that I'm saying yes, I'm just interested.”

“You'd have to understand there's no future once you leave town.”

Excuse me, that was his line!
One he delivered before a woman came to his bed. Although he tendered it more gently, even with a touch of regret. Stacy was blunt, no-nonsense and crossed her arms over her chest as if to say “Don't even think of bargaining with me over this one, buddy.”

“I don't want to be in your black book. I don't want to hear from you later.”

“My black book?”

“It was on your kitchen table. I didn't look past the
A
s.”

“Any other conditions?”

“No weird stuff,” she said. “But I want to try everything. Everything within reason.”

He caught something subtle in her tone of voice. “Stacy, how many times have you done this?”

“Done what?” She said. She ducked her head so that the front-porch light couldn't give away any secrets.

“Started an affair like this.”

Her chin jerked up pugnaciously. “That's none of your—”

“It is if I'm supposed to be your lover!”

“Shh!” she hissed. They both looked around the street. Two lights on the house directly across from hers had gone dark. Someone had turned off their water sprinkler. Cicadas stopped for a moment,
poised for eavesdropping, and then their annoying chorus rose.

“All right, I'm a little inexperienced,” she said. “And that's all I want to say about it.”

“No, you gotta tell me everything. Otherwise I won't do it. At all.”

There. He had found his bargaining chip. She wanted him. Really wanted him. He sure would like to know why.

“Why me, Stacy?”

“I thought all men were happy to have sex. With any woman.”

“All men are not like that.”

“You seem to be.”

Adam opened up, ready to launch into his defense. Then he sat down on the porch swing.

“All right, maybe a little. But I'm a man with strong appetites. And I've changed a lot since I was in my twenties. I like women. I won't give you any argument about that.”

“Am I the kind of woman you'd want?”

A momentary flicker of insecurity crossed her face. He stretched his arms to either side. His shirt collar seemed quite comfortable. In fact, Adam was feeling pretty good right about now.

“You're easy on the eyes, easy to talk to. I'd say yeah, sure.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Okay then, you've got something I want—sex. And I've got
something you want—housekeeping. And I think it's a fair trade.”

“I'd still feel better if this was a cash transaction.”

 

A
T THAT
moment, Stacy would have liked nothing better than for the ground to collapse into a sink-hole the size of some of those she had read about in newspapers. That or perhaps a meteorite clunking her on the head.

“Forget I asked.”

“Stacy, I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It's just you're beautiful and there's gotta be men up here in Deerhorn who'd be happy to—”

“I said forget it,” she said, marching up the steps to her house. This was too humiliating.

“It's just you're far too pretty and far too nice to have to…hey, don't run away, we should talk about this.”

She whirled and nearly shoved him off the porch. “Forget it.”

“It's just that the way your proposal came out sounded so cold-blooded and professional.”

“Okay, so I'm clumsy at it.”

He steadied her with a firm grip on her arms. He looked her up. And down. She followed his gaze…and buttoned her top button over the froth of cotton at her breasts.

“Can we please start over?” he asked.

“I think we should simply say good night.”

She shoved her hand to the bottom of her purse, engaging her keys in a game of keep away. She could nearly hear a metallic giggle each time her house key wriggled free of her grasp. Adam leaned against the doorjamb.

“Stacy, can we talk?”

“Nothing to talk about,” she mumbled into her front door. The fight had gone out of her. She had humiliated herself. And she hadn't even told him about all the things she wanted.

Were the normal experiences of everyday life really so out of reach for her? Had the eight years of caring for her father really put her so behind everyone else in depth of living that she could never catch up? Would she have to talk to the librarian?

He stepped behind her, so close his breath caressed the exposed skin where her oversized sundress had shifted off the shoulder. He smelled of citrus and pine.

And it was such a seductive scent—and yet, when she went to the grocery store, oranges didn't make her blush and in the woods outside her house, the conifers didn't make her body feel something like hunger but a whole lot warmer.

“I made a mistake,” she said. “It's just…it's just…it's just…”

“It's just what?” he asked, turning her around. His arms felt so natural around her waist that she didn't protest, although she buried her head low
into his chest so that she didn't have to look him in the eye. His heartbeat was strong and calming. “Talk to me, Stacy. What's going on?”

“I just want one chance,” she said, bursting at the seams with a secret that had never been shared. “Just one chance. That's all I'm looking for.”

“One chance at what?”

“At everything.”

“Everything?”

“Sex.”

“We call it making love,” he said gently. “And it hasn't happened for you before? No, don't turn away. Tell me.”

Her head drooped to her chest. He brought her chin up with the palm of his hand.

She stretched her neck to the right. His hand guided her back to his inquisitive stare.

She jerked her head to the left.

He leaned close.

He smiled that charming smile, a little indulgently. It took a lot of self-discipline to resist him.

He wasn't giving up.

“No, never. Never, never, never, never,” she admitted. “All right? Never. And it's not going to happen if it doesn't happen now.”

“Twenty-eight isn't—”

She put her hand on his soft, full lower lip.

“Don't say it. Twenty-eight is too old to be a virgin.”

His gray eyes widened.

“A virgin?”

She jerked her hand back as if she had touched a red-hot stove.

“It's okay to be a virgin,” he said.

“It's not when you're my age.”

“No, it's fine. It's just…different. It's kind of sweet.”

“Adam, you're being nice.”

“No, really.”

He guided her to the porch swing, his arm tensing only once when she tried to wriggle out of his embrace.

“Sit. And tell me the whole sorry story.”

“I'm an old maid.”

“You didn't start off life that way.”

“No, I thought my life would be different, that's true. I thought I'd be married by now. A few kids. But a month ago, I woke up and realized—I forgot to get married. I forgot to have kids.”

“You didn't forget.”

“No, other things got in the way.”

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“Come on, it's okay. Tell me how this happened. How did your life go in such a direction?”

“All right, but stop me when you get bored.”

“I never get bored.”

“My father ran a landscaping company that did all the yard work and gardening for the resorts in the next county. He saved up enough to send me to the University of Wisconsin. I was half-way through my freshman year when I got the call from my sister. My father had had a series of strokes. He needed around-the-clock care. I was the natural choice.”

She caught his look.

“My sister Marion had just started married life, and then, later, she got pregnant. She couldn't have handled more. And a nursing home—none of us could bear the thought. He had been our mother and father since our own mother died. We love—we loved him so much. When I came home we thought it would be a few months. Just until he got better.”

“And it turned into eight years.”

“Eight years that ended just last month.”

“I'm sorry he died.”

“Don't be. At the end, he was so dependent it made him angry. Looking back over his last two months, I think he willed himself to die. But he was surrounded by friends and family—and he never had to go into an institution.”

“And during the eight years, you didn't see anybody?”

“A couple of boys from college came down to see me in the early months, but it was always difficult. I couldn't leave Dad alone for more than a few minutes. Marion tried to help out, but she's not good with sickness. And she had those boys. Don't get me wrong. I love my nephews. But they're a handful.”

“And men from around here?”

“They steered clear—they knew being with me meant living with my dad. And besides, for the first year, I was trying to keep the business going. I ran it from home with a crew that had been with my dad forever. But dad was the genius at making plants grow, at knowing just the right fertilizer, the right time to prune back, the right time to water. He had an artistic sense of placement so refined he could make the plainest golf course look elegant.”

“Your garden looks beautiful.”

“But without him on the job, we were just another lawn mowing service and we got underbid on a lot of projects. Besides, I couldn't supervise the crew. Within a year, I closed down. And now with Dad gone…”

“So start your life over. Move to Chicago. Go back to school. Get a job.”

“I can't. I don't know how to do anything. I don't want to be a nurse—even if I could handle
the class work—because I can only do it for someone I love. And there's one other thing.”

“What?”

“Marion's asked me to come live with her and her husband Jim. Marion needs to spend more hours running the bookkeeping end of Jim's plumbing business, and having me at home would help out. You know, with the boys and housework. It would solve the problem of what to do with me.”

Adam narrowed his eyes.

“And you'd never have a social life.”

“Probably not.”

He shook his head. “I can't imagine being in this situation,” he said. “I'd never give up my freedom for eight years.”

“But you have already. Just in a different way.”

“How so?”

“With Karen.”

He shook his head. “No, I've run away from being responsible for her.”

“You're doing more for her than her mom.”

“Not by much, but I'm going to learn. I've had housekeepers and my secretary helps out with interviewing a new one when one quits. When I'm out of town, I live life like a single man with no encumbrances.”

“In other words, a woman in every port?” she teased.

“You don't have to put it that way.”

“How would you put it?”

“I have relationships,” he said, catching her disrespectful look. “I do! They're wonderful while they last even if they don't have a future. I always make that clear at the beginning. The romance ends with the job.”

“That's exactly what I want.”

He stared at her. Rubbed his five o'clock shadow. Flicked his tongue over his smooth white front teeth.

“There's something strange about this,” he stated.

“What's strange is you're used to doing the pursuing.”

“True.”

“And setting the rules.”

“True.”

“And being in control.”

“True,” he said. “I feel like a pickup man.”

“My pickup man,” Stacy corrected with a smile.

He glanced down at himself, as if looking for sudden evidence of the swank immorality of a pickup. An Armani suit, perhaps. Or a flashy expensive watch.

His suit was five years old, purchased at a small English-owned discount chain near his Chicago home. And his watch—his grandfather's, which he kept even if it didn't work so well.

“There's also some other things I want,” Stacy offered. “It's not just sex I'm looking for.”

“What else is there?”

“Wait here. I'll show you.”

She unlocked the front door and slipped into the living room. She returned with a hardcover book.

“I thought, just now in the living room, that we might kiss.”

“Kiss?” Adam asked and then a smile stealthily opened on his face. “A kiss is part of the package. No extra charge.”

“Your daughter is asleep next door. You're going home in a minute. I just want a kiss. Right here, right now. Just to get an idea of whether we're compatible.”

She started to tremble at her own boldness. But if she was going to ask for what she wanted in life, she'd have to learn a little boldness.

“Just to see if I'm as good as the home office says?”

“If you want to put it that way, sure.”

“All right,” he said. “Let's try it.”

He leaned back on the porch swing, stretching his arms out on the backrest. She perched on the edge of the seat and waited.

And waited.

“Stacy, you have to get closer to me,” he said gently. “Our lips are going to touch. Come here.”

She scooted over.

He cupped her chin in his hand and brought her
face to his. Softly he swiped her mouth with his lips. Back and forth as light as an angel's touch. And then he paused, letting her know that there would be more, much more to his kiss.

“Close your eyes, Stacy.”

“Sorry.”

“When was the last time you were kissed?”

“By a non-relative?”

“Yes.”

“On the mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Bob Bergman. University of Wisconsin Freshman Mixer. Eight years ago. He was drinking too much. I didn't know any better.”

“Did you close your eyes then?”

“Not on your life.”

“Do it now.”

“Are you going to close yours?”

“Absolutely.”

She obediently closed her eyes.

He teased her trembling mouth open with his tongue and then, remembering his word, closed his eyes. And felt the rush of sensation. His tongue plunged into the sweet virgin flesh. He put his arms around her, shielding her from the glare of reality. And for one glorious moment, he felt her relax and believe in the powerful forces of natural attraction.

When he relinquished her, she had been thoroughly kissed. And it showed. Her blush was no fragile lady-like bloom, but rather a five-alarm fire
on her cheeks. She stared at him long and hard and then abruptly stood up.

“Looks like you'll do,” she allowed. “You'll do quite nicely.”

And with as much dignity as a woman can muster under the circumstances, she strode to the front door and said good night.

When the door shut, he noticed the piece of paper. He picked it up and had read half-way through the list before she popped her head out the door.

“Did I do okay?” she asked.

“You're a natural,” he assured her. “First natural-born kisser I've had the pleasure of meeting.”

Her golden-amber eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.”

She slammed shut the door. He finished reading the list. And when he slipped the list in her front door mail slot, he couldn't decide whether he admired her spunk or rued her selflessness in staying in a town that couldn't possibly appreciate her. He wondered what he was supposed to do next.

Make an appointment?

Call her for a date?

Bring her flowers?

Wait for her call?

Wait for her call! He was the one who always did the calling.

He walked across the lawn and Mugs met him at the pebble drive. He scratched his old friend's ears. They ambled up the drive to the house. Friend
and dog closed up the house. Before going to bed, Adam left a voice mail on Lasser's office line informing him that the project was falling a few days behind deadline because town officials wanted something “softer.”

Then he looked at his notes from the day's meeting.

Softer?

Not so stark?

More inviting?

They were getting a school, not a pillow, he groused privately.

He picked up the phone before it finished its first ring.

“Tyler here.”

“It's me. Stacy.”

“Hello.”

“I've made a big mistake.”

“No, you haven't.”

“I feel embarrassed about it.”

“No need to,” he said, feeling a little more in control. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles on his desk.

“I'm not usually so bold.”

“Being bold is going to get you what you want.”

“I can't do it. Just forget I even said anything about it.”

“If that's what you want,” he said, thinking it
was kinder to say little if her mind was truly made up.

“But I still am happy to help out with Karen.”

“I'll forget everything you told me.”

“Thank you. You're a real gentleman.”

“Wait! Don't hang up. Will you still—”

“Eight dollars an hour.”

“Deal.”

He stared at the phone a long time after she hung up.

You had to admire a woman who tried—however clumsily—to get what she wanted, he thought. To get what she needed. But she'd be better off with a different kind of man. Someone from around here. Someone she could marry. Someone she could have kids with. She'd be a good mother. A good wife.

Then he thought of the men he had met in Deerhorn. Not one of them that he could recall didn't have a gold band on the left ring finger, except for the librarian who had been so unhelpful about the parenting books. That was a man he immediately dismissed as being worthy of her—that thing on his head was definitely not real.

Maybe Adam
was
what she needed, but he didn't like the idea of being responsible for a virgin. The women he made love to were uniformly experienced, worldly and knew the rules of the game of love. Not the kind of woman a man mar
ries—but that neighbor of his was wife material with a capital
W
.

“Maybe she should start with the easy things on her list,” he said out loud. “Like the photo album. Yeah, that looked real safe.”

Adam undressed and put on pajama bottoms. He had just slipped between the sheets when a white-gowned figure came into the bedroom.

“Daddy, I forgot something,” Karen said.

He turned on the bedside light.

“I'm really sorry,” she said miserably. “I'm really, really sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said. “Stop being so sad. What is it?”

“I forgot Mrs. Smith says I have to bring snack tomorrow,” she said and quickly added, “I'll make the cupcakes. Because it's my fault I forgot.”

“No, Karen, I'll take care of it. I told you that you're a good kid and I mean it. You are. Every kid occasionally forgets things. That's why they invented adults. How many cupcakes do you need?”

“Thirty Plus one for the teacher.”

He groaned.

“And one for the janitor. Daddy, I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay. Thirty cupcakes.”

“Thirty-two.”

“We can buy them at the bakery on the way to school.”

Her face fell.

“Everyone else does homemade.”

“I'll set my alarm early and I'll make them.”

“It'll be too hard! Look what you did with the pancakes.”

“Cupcakes will be a snap,” he lied. “That's why they call things that are easy ‘a piece of cake.' I'll have them made before you get up. You go to sleep. Take Mugs with you for company.”

Mugs lurched from his spot at the end of Adam's bed and followed Stacy down the hall.

That night Adam dreamt that he was surrounded by cupcakes. Every time he brought one to his lips, it became Stacy's mouth that he devoured.

He awoke to a 6:00 a.m. alarm. He was a strong man, used to pushing himself to his limits. Although he ached to hit the snooze button, he got up right away and put on jeans and a work shirt.

On the way downstairs, he considered the items necessary for the production of homemade cupcakes. Flour, butter, sugar, eggs, baking powder and those funny little paper cups—and wasn't there a special kind of pan? To say nothing of icing.