“Hello, Daddy,” I smile at him, stepping aside as I invite him in. He tries to hide his surprise at my words, but I can see it in his eyes. He wasn’t expecting me to call him daddy. But then again, who is? “Come in,” I continue, and he steps inside my apartment with a confident strut, almost as if he’s trying to hide the way I threw him off.

I close the door behind us and steal a glance at his body as I do it. Old habits die hard, I guess. I remember him being quite handsome when I was younger and ... Jesus Christ, he was a piece of forbidden sin, but I guess back then I wasn’t mature enough to appreciate the kind of man Derek really is.

With a face capable of making a woman’s heart stop beating for a few seconds, his body is exactly the kind of thing capable of turning up the heat in the blink of an eye. And when I say ‘turning up the heat’ what I really mean is ‘turning up the wetness’. Yeah, that might be a crass way of putting it, but sometimes being straightforward is the best policy.

I mean, just look at him! His muscles fill up his tailored Tom Ford suit perfectly, and I can’t help but wonder how cut he is under all these clothes. He looks impressive in a suit, but I bet that’s nothing in comparison to how he must look wearing nothing but hardness between his legs. God, I can’t believe I’m thinking about my stepfather’s cock.

As he turns up to meet my gaze, I snap my eyes back to his and, for a fraction of a second, a question dances in my mind: is he still fucking my stepmother? They got divorced a while back but, if I were Wanda, I don’t know if I’d be able to simply forego a man like Derek. But what the hell, that’s none of my business. I’ve tried to forget all about Wanda during my time in Europe, and it isn’t like me to be thinking of her right now.

“So, how does it feel to be back? You’ve been gone for a long time,” Derek asks me, his deep rumbling voice like a spell.

“Oui, c’est vrai,” I reply in French. Derek’s probably thinking that I’m still the same silly girl I was just when I left but, even though I partied hard these past few years, I’ve also matured and learned a few things along the way.

“Oh? Très fancy,” he laughs, unbuttoning his jacket and then taking it off. He throws it on top of my couch, and my eyes dart back to his chest, taking in the way the fabric of the shirt hugs his firm pectorals. “I guess you did more than party while in Europe. Picked up some French?”

“And Italian. And Spanish. Oh, I did much more than just party,” I reply with a chuckle, wetting my lips with the tip of my tongue. “A lot more,” I add with a heavy whisper, and the smile he offers me tells me right away that he knows exactly what else I'm referring to besides partying.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he whispers, his eyes shamelessly running down my body, taking in the round swell of my breasts and the way my hips curve. His eyes are undressing me as we speak, and my heart starts kicking against my chest as a response, warm blood rushing to my cheeks. Pursing my lips, I take a deep breath and try to focus on the situation at hand.

“Oh, I’m full of surprises. Might be you’ll end up surprised,” I grin, walking past him and making a straight line toward the cabinet at the end of the living room. “Macallan, right?” I ask him as I reach for one of the bottles of whisky, grabbing two low glasses with my free hand.

“That’s right, how did you know?”

“Surprised already?” I laugh, pouring some of the aged malt into the two glasses. “I have a good memory. For instance,” I push one of the glasses into his hands, “I still remember that you like your whisky neat. Just like I do.” With that, I raise my glass and push it softly against his in a make-do toast.

“You’re really full of surprises,” he says, swirling the whisky around and taking in its scent. He then closes his eyes and takes a gulp. “Perfect.”

“So, Daddy,” I whisper teasingly, once again that wicked word finding its way to my mouth. I guess it’s part of my DNA to be a bad girl. “To what do I owe the visit?” I look into his eyes and see something there, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Well,” he clears his throat, and then drinks some more Macallan before continuing, “you’ve just inherited a fortune. You’re still young and inexperienced, and so I thought I could offer you my help and --”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure,” I tell him, downing my whisky all at once and setting my glass down on the coffee table at the center of the living room. “You came here to offer me your help,” I say, turning to him, “just like half the people in this city. Everyone wants to offer a helping hand once they find out you’ve just inherited $250 billion dollars.”

It’s true, since I landed in New York City my personal assistants have been swamped with phone calls coming from everywhere in the States. Even the President has called to let me know how he appreciates if I keep that money in the states and invest it in our country. Everyone wants a piece of the Seymour fortune. And shame on me for thinking that Derek Stackford could be any different. Sure, he might be my stepfather, but I doubt that would be enough to make him come here and knock at my door. But $250 billion, well, that’s an incentive to connect with his long lost stepdaughter, isn’t it?

A word of warning—if you think money is the key to a happy life, snap out of it. More often that not, having money (well, at least more money than God) just makes you lonely and estranged from the world around you.

“It’s not like that,” he starts, but I just look at him with a calculating expression, ice now in my veins.

“No? Tell me what it’s like then,” I shoot back, pouring myself one more glass of whisky. Then, before I even notice it, he’s by my side. He takes the glass out of my hands and sets it down on the table; grabbing me by the wrist, he makes me turn to him.

“You’re my daughter, Eliza,” he says, seriousness deepening the gentle lines on his face.

“Stepdaughter,” I correct him, but he doesn’t even seem to be hearing me right now.

“You’re my daughter,” he repeats, “and I came here to offer you my support.” His eyes are focused on mine and, for an instant I can almost feel the world around me fading away. My eyes slowly fall down to his lips and the sound of my heartbeat drowns out everything else. “I know we aren’t exactly close … but maybe it’s time we fix that,” he continues, and my insides clench as I watch his lips move. God, I could lose myself in these lips. I could succumb to his embrace and to his body, and I could do it right now… “I can help, Eliza.”

With that, I close my eyes and I’m almost ready to surrender when a voice cuts through the moment like a knife.

“And what exactly are you going to help her with, Derek? A wet t-shirt contest company?”

Opening my eyes fast, I take one step back from Derek and look toward Carter, coming from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine in his hands.

“What the fuck?” Derek says, looking from Carter to me with a confused look on his face. But, more than confusion, there’s also anger there. “What the fuck is he doing here?” he snaps at me, his words coming out like a growl.

Smiling, I just shrug.

“Carter came in for a visit. Just like you. He got here fifteen minutes before you,” I tell Derek, and I gotta say… I’m enjoying this. He came in here thinking that, perhaps, he could play the charming experienced man to a naive girl. But I’m far ahead of him. If he thinks I’m a dumb girl with too much money on her hands, he’s in for a rude awakening.

“Fuck,” Derek hisses, and I notice his hands balling into fists.

No love lost between the two of them, it seems.

“He even called me three days ago when I landed. Wanted to know what I was up to,” I say.

“You know he’s trying to get your money, don’t you, Eliza?” Derek sneers. “He’s broke. Everyone on the Street knows he made some bad bets.”

“Of course I know,” I snap. But in truth it’s news to me.

I need to regain the momentum.

“The bigger question, boys,” I say as Carter takes a step closer. “Is which one of you is going to get me?”