Sugar Daddy Read online

  Cover Copy

  She needs a job. He wants a mistress. Hearts and contracts are bound to get broken.

  Shay Greer is pure GRITS—a Girl Raised In The South–but nowhere near a demure southern belle. She’s looking for a way out of her broken down marriage when she lands an unexpected job offer she really should refuse. Position? Mistress. Fringe Benefits? Of course. Fraternization with sexy CEO Reardon Boone? Required. Lured by the promise of intimacy missing from her failed marriage, Shay signs on. She’s barely survived a hellish year of heartbreak and needs a fresh start, but she gets more than she bargained for with lowcountry-boy-made-good Reardon Boone.

  Bankrolling Shay into his bedroom, Reardon sticks by his tried and true rules: no-strings-attached seduction, no messy emotions, absolutely nothing resembling a relationship. This sassy, sultry woman fits the bill precisely…until she arouses more than his erotic appetite.

  So desirable he sets hearts on fire in everyone from downtown debutantes to downhome mommas, Reardon is as irresistible as he is unattainable. Shay falls hard despite their unorthodox arrangement. Determined to discover what’s concealed beneath his Forbes 400 facade, she has no idea how close to home the truth will hit.

  CONTENT WARNING: Hotter than a South Carolina summer

  A Lyrical Press Contemporary Romance

  Highlight

  “Whoa! Do you always shave naked?” I shouted. My volume control had gone out the window, with his towel, apparently.

  I did an about-face.

  He reached around me, locking us in. “It is my house.” He spun me around. My eyes slammed shut. He laughed. “I’d give you a hug, but…”

  I peeked at him through traitorous eyes to see his arms wide open, not hiding a damn thing. “Oh, you...you!” Slapping his sides, my fingers ran up to his well-defined chest.

  He lowered his mouth, kissing the curve of my lips from one side to the other. When I was good and cross-eyed with lust, he chuckled and bent toward the mirror. Nude. Still.

  I studied the marble underfoot instead of his marvelous glutes. “What about Temperance?”

  “She knocks.”

  “I knocked.”

  “I know.” He winked at me through the reflection.

  Biceps bulging, broad back and toned waist and narrow hips, Reardon tilted his neck, pulling the razor through foam. Diamonds of water dewed along the muscles fanning out from his spine, gathering in the dimples above his butt. I never wanted to be a towel so much in my life.

  Sugar Daddy

  By Rie Warren

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  Acknowledgements

  Many, many people had a hand in bringing Sugar Daddy from imagination to life. Thank you to Piper Denna for her invaluable editing skills, guidance, and belief in my story. My respect and admiration go to Renee Rocco who astounds me with her energy that binds Lyrical Press together. Gillian Littlehale marshaled through about a million incarnations of Sugar Daddy from concept to sale and is a woman I’m lucky to have in my corner. I owe many thanks to an insightful group of critique readers who never hesitated to cheer me on or give me what-for: Jenna Barton, Kari Haines, Tracey Porcher, and Claudia Storheim. Thank you as well to Judy “Maw” Porcher for sharing her stories, and John Littlehale for letting me dig around his business mind.

  Of course, I have to extend heaps of love and gratitude to my family–my husband and daughters and parents—for putting up with an MIA wife, mommy, and daughter.

  Chapter 1

  A Very Personal Assistant

  “You want what?” My voice rose to soprano level.

  His fingertips tapped against the polished arms of my chair. Cool blue eyes turned hot, his gaze roaming my body. I shivered with all the yearning I’d suppressed for months, waiting for a sensible reply that had nothing to do with the serious seduction going on.

  This was not what I had expected. Hell, Mr. Boone wasn’t even what I’d been expecting after he called to arrange my interview for the personal assistant position. I’d been a fool to think his voice–a masculine rumble akin to a warm summer thunderstorm–wouldn’t match his appearance. The minute he walked into the room, my carefully constructed notions that the owner of The-Voice-I’d-be-happy-to-have-free-phone-sex-with was an overweight, Wednesday afternoon golfer with a classic case of Cialis cock crumbled like the foundation of my cookie-cutter starter home.

  He was a playboy, and he wanted to play with me.

  My conscience had warned me with her usual curt disapproval after I’d purchased some scanty panties for the interview. Because lingerie was the just the ticket when presenting yourself as a competent professional before the Chairman and CEO of Radaman-Slaughter Holdings. Ignoring her priggish counsel, I stuck to my guns–and my awesome new undies–because I’d take just about anything to boost my confidence.

  Setting me aside for overtime, TV time, cracking open the beer time, my husband Palmer had no time for me. I hadn’t been the center of male attention for well over a year, nor had I made a living to cushion our joint bank account, which hovered just this side of insufficient funds care of creative bill paying. I’d survived on handouts from Palmer, his closed thoughts and closed-down emotions shutting me out.

  His dead-eyed dismissal sure as hell didn’t make me feel like a million hot-momma bucks. I needed to feel feminine again, capable of more than folding laundry, emptying the dishwasher, and keeping house. A confident, professional woman who could turn a head when she wanted to. So I’d done what any penny pincher in need of a pretty pick-me-up would do. My rare trip to Victoria’s Secret–redeeming months of freebies and money-off offers–went a little way toward setting my knocked-down self image upright again. Every successful man might have a good woman behind him, but every good woman was wearing a kickass set of lacey lingerie underneath her power suit.

  I was armed to the teeth, ready to negotiate my way back into the working world.

  Not that I’d meant to become that sort of working girl.

  Truth was, I’d been unable to figure out why Mr. Boone wanted to see me in the first place. Maybe I’d won the Looney Housewife Lottery because I’d been out of the workforce for more than a year, and my references weren’t up to snuff. I could only imagine what my former employer–Ginger Wentworth aka Cruella de Ville of downtown Charleston–had to say about me. Her high maintenance demands damn near sent me to the state home for the unhinged. One minute she’d accuse me of laziness, the next she’d laud my professional proficiency. By the time I gave notice, I’d been a short week away from seeking professional help, in the form of prescription narcotics.

  Although, eight hours in the presence of my neurotic boss was preferable to the front row glimpse of hell I’d been privy to since leaving her employ. My world had imploded with the impact of an atomic bomb. I’d dried up into a husk, all bruised blues and blood reds.

  My marriage to Palmer was bruised and bloodied too.

  Most nights I cried myself to sleep, curling into a ball and smothering my tears in the pillow. Palmer flinched from every hesitant touch I gave, my empty hand hanging over the impassable gulf between us. Deeper love didn’t transcend our tragedy.

  Between us there was only unclaimed blame. Sharing a bed with no intimacy, we lived a life that had become a lie.

  My doubts about Mr. Boone had grown when I pulled my circa 1991 Honda–huffing and puffing and close to breaking down–into the Tides parking lot. Amidst Cadillac SUVs and sleek convertibles, I’d cut
off the engine, listening to it rattle on, and on. Yanking down the visor, I knocked on it twice before the faulty light came on.

  I blotted my lips, muttering into the mirror, “Don’t you worry, baby.” I swiped a tissue over the dusty dashboard. “These cars can primp with their high gloss polish and purse their prissy grills all they want, but you’re my girl.” Even though you’re a neglected, rusted-out pain in the ass.

  Surveying the scene, it didn’t get any better. Mr. Boone had supplied directions to my reply of, “Uh huh, oh yes, mmm hmm,” but everyone knew The Tides. I didn’t need his guidance or a Magellan-whatsit-system to get there, which was good, because I sure as hell couldn’t afford one.

  The Tides had been envisioned as soon as the new suspension bridge was built, spanning Cooper River from Mt. Pleasant to downtown Charleston. The gleaming Ravenel Bridge replaced two rickety byways held together with duct tape, chewing gum, and wishes. Likewise, the colossal condominiums of The Tides took shape from the edge of the river in granite, smoky glass, and glittering steel. No doubt the condos boasted constituents from filthy rich old Charlestonian families, keeping-up-with-the Jones’s living on credit, or–even worse–carpetbaggers.

  About to face-off with one of the thumbing-their-noses Tides dwellers, I’d been on the verge of peeing my pretty new panties while the June sun made a landslide of my lightly applied makeup. A pep talk was in order. No swearing, damn it all. No ogling the finery like a Dumpster-diving street urchin, no fidgeting, because Momma would know about it and cuff me later. And absolutely no sweating, or perspirin’, as we Dixie women preferred to call it.

  The burning South Carolina sun hounded me all the way to the building, where the doors opened to subtle strains of classical music and a wash of cool air. I strolled into the reception, startling when a hand cupped my elbow. I thought for sure I was going to get turfed onto the street, or have my body cavities searched a la TSA.

  “Right this way, miss.” My fears were soothed by the young concierge, especially since he’d referred to me as miss instead of ma’am. “You’re here to see?”

  “Mr. Boone.” I channeled my inner puma, closing with a wink.

  My inner puma must’ve been having an off day, because I was led to a desk sequestered behind sharp fronds of palm and birds of paradise for a look-see at my credentials.

  Giving me the all clear, the cute concierge placed me in an elevator, ran a passcard over a scanner, and punched the P.

  Lord Almighty, P for Penthouse Pawpaw.

  As the doors slid shut, I got a good look at the lobby. Wall-to-wall lacquered floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, windows interspersed with gallery art, and everything offset with potted palms and perfect lighting. King Tut’s pyramid resembled a plastic playground hut next to this stuff.

  At the top of the Tides, I tripped on the fancy rug running the length of the hall, landing hands-first on the only door in sight. I blamed it on my heels, which had just earned themselves The Box of Shame in the back of my closet.

  I was probably being Punk’d. Yeah, the host and camera crew would jump out, waving a mic in my face, blinding me with cameras and spotlights in a Shame Shay moment.

  Had to be.

  Fueled by sudden cowardice, I tiptoed back to the elevator. My retreat halted when the double doors opened to a warm pretty face. Mr. Voice-that-spoke-to-my-vulva had a maid too. A fifty-something, statuesque Helen Mirren look-alike. A Helen Mirren Maid, not a Merry Maid.

  I knew it. So getting Punk’d.

  Stifling my anxiety, I mustered an ounce of class, like my momma raised me to, and crossed the threshold. An air of understated luxury oozed from stormy blue walls. It dripped from the furnishings to the bamboo floors, shadowed by huge leafy fans turning overhead with a lazy whip-wop. Beguiled by the siren call of Bangkok the oriental feel of the place evoked–’course I’d never been to Bangkok, but we’d had National Geographic growing up–I’d surreptitiously inspected my fingers for the ever-embedded garden grime before daring to run my hand over the sofa’s pre-plumped cushions.

  I bet Mr. Boone kept a fluffer on his books, for more than those hand-embroidered throw pillows.

  The maid–or housekeeper, or house manager, or whatever the hell the politically correct term for a cleaner was these days–ignored my obvious staring, offering, “Please let me know if you need anything, Miss Greer. Mr. Boone will be right with you.”

  “Okay, I’ll sit tight.” And drool and leave my greasy paw prints all over the polished tabletops. Too jittery to sit tight, I’d meandered about, sneaking a peek at how the other half lived. By half, I meant the tiniest top tier of the rich.

  Taking in the palatial pad, I walked toward the glass wall. Late afternoon sun dappled through eight-foot tall windows opening to a swaying marsh-scape of sweetgrass and wandering saltwater courses. Two cargo ships passed each other in the slow motion of such giants, sending big rolling waves to the shore. Pressing my face to the glass, I peered left and right at the balcony’s endless stretch in both directions.

  Transfixed by the awesome vista before me, I took a step back and saw my face-print smudged front and center. Muttering obscenities at myself, I used the sleeve of my summer suit to clear the mark, only smearing it more.

  I finally settled on one of the pristine sofas to wait.

  And wait.

  And wait some more.

  Bored and too bold for my own good, I treasure hunted between the couch cushions, to see how efficient Helen Mirren Maid was, of course. I turned half around, my rear in the air, burrowing harder for the damn...thing...that kept slipping through my fingers.

  A polished pair of masculine shoes almost overlapping the adorable peep-toes of my pumps interrupted my search.

  My concentration moved from plundering the pillows to admiring our exquisitely matched feet. I smiled at them until the clearing of a throat made me bolt upright.

  Shit on a shingle. The Voice-that-made-me-fantasize-about-a-good-sex-session had caught me mid-dig for spare change.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Greer, but I see you found something to keep you occupied.”

  This was bad. Scratch that. This was downright disastrous. An embarrassed flush creeping over my cheeks, I lifted my eyes.

  Up.

  And up.

  And way the hell up.

  Oh my, my. I’d been so, so wrong about Mr. Boone.

  Overhanging gut?

  No.

  Paunchy face riddled with broken veins?

  Hell no.

  Fat old geezer who probably couldn’t get laid unless he paid for it?

  Big old nope.

  Mr. Boone was tall. He was lean where he should be–hips and waist and stomach–muscled right where a woman wanted. His chest was wide, his shoulders filling out the soft fabric of his shirt. What was that about Bangkok before? Oh yeah, I hadn’t been banged by a cock in a damn long time. Mr. Boone looked up for the job.

  A-men! C’mon sisters, say it with me. My conscience glanced over long enough to give me the beady squirrel-eye.

  The urge to shout some Hail Yes Marys overtook me when I saw his face. The Temptation? Yeah, I was livin’ it.

  Slightly weathered. Slightly wary. A bit amused by my staring, no doubt, Mr. Boone possessed raspberry red lips wearing a wry smile, and a jawline begging to be licked. High cheeks topped by eyes a tropical shade of blue framed by crinkles and long lashes–the shit Maybelline was made of–spoke of laughter and days in the sun.

  His hair? I wanted to grab the dark waves, sink my fingers into the wonderful wildness glinting with faint sprinkles of silver, and hold on for the ride of my life. Dark stubble shaded his dimpled chin and jaw in a wanna-touch way. The man didn’t have five o’clock shadow, he had early afternoon sex scruff.

  Mindful of my situation as a married woman, albeit unhappily, trying to get a position–not one included in the A-Z of the Kama Sutra–I hoped I hadn’t visually assaulted Bossman Boone to within an inch of my integrity. />
  I rose with care in case the rush of blood to my sex made me faint. Mr. Boone stood his ground. My thighs brushed his, my breasts touched his body, my breath skimmed the faint swirls of jet hair peeping out to say Hi’ya from the first two buttons of his undone collar. Even though I wasn’t a small woman, standing at five foot seven with the charms to match, I felt petite against him.

  After I’d salivated at the sight of him a few more moments, Mr. Boone withdrew, tucking his hands into his pockets.

  Bang Cock.

  “What were you doing down there, Miss Greer?”

  Let me think. Molesting you in my mind?

  “I noticed some lint in the cushions so I was tryin’ to dig it out, and then I found a penny.” Really, Shay? Like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I’d opened my palm to show him the gleaming copper.

  Plucking the penny from me, he leaned down, his eyes never leaving mine, my breath never leaving my chest. He spun it on the end table, the copper swirl a suggestion in my side-sight because I was imprisoned by his sweltering gaze.

  While the penny whirred, a sensuous spell spanned between us. He didn’t move. My head spun, and a thousand tingly webs wandered from my nipples to the warmth inside my panties.

  A deep breath filling his chest, Mr. Boone stood to his full height. “Shall we go to my study?”

  I nodded, withdrawing from the invitation of his hand poised to take my elbow. Chewing the corner of his mouth–playing really, really unhelpful images of me lapping the same sweet spot–he motioned me ahead of him. Too close, his body gave off the heat of a kiss, the touch of a lover while he took me down one hallway, then another. Flirtatiousness I hadn’t felt in years taking over, I swished my hips and flicked my hair, looking back.

  His eyes were trained on my rear.

  Goddamn.

  Something was clearly wrong with this scenario. The man looked like he wanted to serve me for dinner, naked and spread for a bare bodied, all-you-could-eat Shay buffet. Flickering flames hurried up my thighs, blazing a back draft down my belly. What pulsed through me was arousal, not the expected five-alarm anxiety over his proximity.