Taboo Love Part 2(8)

“So you think I should go for it?” I came and sat beside him on the couch, checked his oxygen machine as I did often.

“Damn rights you should go for it.” He sat up straighter. His soft brown eyes flared with determination. “You can’t pass up an opportunity like this. Personal assistant to one of the richest men in the world. You gotta take it.”

“According to Forbes, he’s only the tenth richest man in the world.” I gave Dad a cheeky smirk and he waved me off, calling me a wiseass while sporting a return smirk.

“Let’s face it, Charlotte.” His face became a map of wrinkles as his expression grew serious. “I know looking after me is getting harder and harder for you. This guy is willing to set me up in the ritziest senior care community in the city. That and the job, traveling all over the world with him, you’d be a fool to let that go, sweetheart.”

“Taking care of you isn’t hard.” I squeezed his hand. He gave me one of those ‘I know you’re lying’ looks. But handing over Dad’s care to someone else admittedly made me nervous. After all, he’d always been there for me. When I was four, Mom went out to get her hair done with the girls, and she never returned. Dad had been my mother and father ever since. Sure, he’d tried to remarry, but working in homicide and raising a daughter had made it hard to socialize, and Dad’s line of work sometimes scared women off. I often told him I didn’t need another parent. He was all I needed.

He took both my hands in his. “Do this for you and me, Charlotte, please?”

I hadn’t told my dad the true nature of the job I’d be accepting with Dmitri Nichvalodov. Two days ago, my boss, a prominent sex therapist and well known billionaire, had propositioned me to be his mistress. Currently I was his secretary, and would remain so, but this promotion—if I could call it that—promised top of the line care for my father, and all my financial needs would be met by the generous salary. The feminist in me warred with the pragmatist, but for Dad I had to take this job. His care was growing difficult and would get pricier. There was no alternative. However, Dmirtri wasn’t hard on the eyes, so that was another added bonus.

“Okay.” I kissed Dad’s dry, papery soft forehead. “With your blessing, I’ll do this.”

***

5 Days Later

“What do you think, Mr. Hanson?” Dmitri gave my father that winning smile as I wheeled Dad up the pristine white corridor.

People in hospital scrubs and nurse shoes, or white coats and brown loafers, smiled as they passed by. Some nodded their greeting, while others, buried deep in some important thought, frowned down at clipboards and hurried on, oblivious to our presence.

“This is something else.” Dad’s eyes were wide like a kid’s as he spoke and looked around at everything. Floor to ceiling windows lined the hallway, giving us a spectacular view of the well kept, vibrant green grounds.

I stayed silent for the time being. Of course, Dad already adored Dmitri. They chatted like old pals in the limousine on our way to the care home. (Thank goodness that made sex a nil option, I’d thought, refusing to acknowledge the part of me that was disappointed by the inability to touch Dmitri’s chiseled pecs.) Dmitri asked Dad about his time on the force, compassionately inquired about the history of his illness (Dad had been a chain smoker, and our old place had been too close to a factory that pumped out regular air pollution). This guy was making all the right moves to win my father’s approval, and a part of me resented him for it. Smooth operator indeed.

After we got Dad all tucked into his new living space—which was twice the size of our old apartment—Dmitri tucked me back into the limo and told me we’d go shopping before he showed me to my new apartment.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, pinning me with those calculating, far too sexy eyes. “I took the liberty of choosing an apartment for you. It’s already furnished, but, of course, you can redecorate however you see fit.”

I gave him a curt “Thank you,” and he took my hand, holding it to his chest. My pulse betrayed me by pounding loudly in my ears.

“Are you angry with me, Charlotte?” He almost sounded amused, which made me more infuriated.

“If my father knew the true nature of my employment, he wouldn’t be so happy to hand me over to you.”

“I see.” He moved closer, and his muscled leg flexed against mine. “So you feel manipulated?”

I whirled on him then, unable to hold back my surly mood. “What do you think? Of course I feel manipulated. Then, today, you turn on the charm and manipulate my father. Make him think he’s your new best friend—”