The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

half-smile, like I’ve given her good news and bad news. “Are you sure you don’t want to add anything to our contract? I’d understand.”

“I’m sure.”

I have not one single doubt about our relationship. Lots of doubts about what’s going to happen with Miranda. But not one single doubt about Emmy and me.

Her smile loses its shadow. “It’s just that I might want kids. Maybe, you know, someday. Not right away.”

“Emmy, I haven’t wanted kids in any of my previous relationships. I was happy being Uncle Logan. And I very definitely didn’t want kids with Miranda. For reasons I can’t get into with you, she’s not someone I’d ever trust around children. I don’t feel that way with you. I’m not pushing you or putting any time-limits on it. Unlike Miranda, my biological clock is not ticking. But I’m open to it with you.”

She breathes out a long sigh of relief. “Okay, Daddy. Thank you for being so clear with me. Ta very much.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t know what I did wrong with Miranda. Probably a lot of things. But I know we weren’t communicating by the end. I had no idea how much this desire for a baby had turned her head inside out. That’s not going to happen with you and me. We’re going to talk and talk and keep talking.”

“Ta, Daddy.” A wide, happy smile. Above it, I see thoughts moving behind her big eyes, but they’re neither fears nor doubts. “You’re the only man I’ve been with who didn’t make me feel like I’m being too needy talking about our relationship. Ash would just disappear when I tried to talk to him. Like, for days. Matthew told me I should relax and go with the flow, and I try, I really do. But then I get scared and it’s easier to pull back and protect myself. But I know that’s the coward’s way out, and I’m trying to be super-brave for you.”

“Daddy’s proud of you, sweetheart.” I rub noses with her again. “It is easier to pull back and hide your feelings. It’s much less likely you’ll get hurt that way, isn’t it? But I won’t tolerate that from you. I’ve only ever demanded honesty, little girl. I give you honesty and I require it in return.”

She turns the big eyes on me, brimming with emotion. “Love you, Daddy. And I am a little threatened by Miranda. I mean, she was your subbie for a long time and now she might be carrying your baby. It’s a lot. But I promise to be honest with you and tell you if it’s getting on top of me.”

“Good.” I give her a deep kiss. “Because the only thing that’s allowed to get on top of you, little girl, is me.”

She giggles and we cuddle on the couch until I’m ready for another round, because I can’t seem to get enough of her today.

* * *

It’s after dinner, grilled white fish with lime and fresh basil from the garden, with the cat happily chomping away on the fish skins Emily’s put in his bowl, that I get back to Rick’s problem. He’s responded to my update by saying he’s approved my cost estimate but the firestorm is still driving a ton of traffic to his website, and Glory’s not happy with me doing anything that reduces traffic.

“All publicity is good publicity,” he quotes at the end of the email.

I start to type out an angry response but delete it. There’s no point getting into a pissing match with Rick or Glory. While I don’t believe all publicity is good publicity, I do believe the client is always right.

Well, usually right, and when he’s wrong, it’s impolitic to shove his nose in it.

Besides, Max has confirmed that he’s brought EvonneBringsTheTruth’s site down, and has a program running which automatically deletes posts or comments that combine Rick’s name with the word “rape” or the hashtag “RespectABitch.” That’s enough damage control for now, while I hunt down the woman behind the firestorm.

I return the missed call. Oliver Rowe, film financier. According to Rick’s notes, he’s a friend of both Castillos, with a toe in each pond: movie making and finance. I haven’t heard of any of the films Rowe has financed, and I wonder if they’re art-house indies, or just vanilla porn films I haven’t come across.

Rowe’s eating when he takes the call and doesn’t stop noisily munching in my ear after I introduce myself and explain the purpose of my call. It sounds like he goes through an entire bag of potato chips while we speak.

“Oh, talent,” he says with a sniff when I ask him whether he knows Rick and remembers seeing him at the party. “No, I didn’t spend any time with the talent at that party. I was there for more important reasons.”

“What were those?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? No, seriously, Pedro brought in two nice gentlemen from one of the Stans. Big beards, tattoos, heavy accents, dripping oil money. I was hoping one or both of them would drip some on me, but no such luck. It was a waste of a weekend, actually.”

“One of the Stans?”

“You know. Urzukastan. Bananaramastan. I can’t keep track, those little Balkan states reinvent themselves so often. Neither of them was as hot as Sebastian Stan, I do remember that, more’s the pity.”

I’m fairly sure the Balkan states do not include any ‘stans. But it’s been a few years since I studied geography at Heysham St. Peter’s.

“Okay, two foreign gentlemen. They came to the party. Did you have a meeting with them?”

“Meeting?” He snorts and crunches. “They were only interested in drinking vodka and eye-fucking the girls in bikinis. It wasn’t a meeting. It was foreplay. I think we talked shop for less than ten minutes. You know?” His voice shoots up an octave. “I remember something else. After I gave up on the Stans, I walked down to the pool and saw your friend getting his knob waxed. The girl