Daddy's Pretty Baby Read online

  Daddy’s Pretty Baby

  ~A DD/lg Romance~

  © 2017

  By Cassandra Dee

  Want to hear about my newest illicit romance? Addicted to virgins and alpha males? Join my mailing list at http://eepurl.com/cgt2DD and get a FREE BOOK unavailable elsewhere!

  © 2017 Cassandra Dee

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all products of the author's imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters are represented as 18 or over.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Daddy’s Pretty Baby

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DOUBLE PRINCES

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  RELATED BOOKS

  DEDICATION

  For all the little girls out there begging for more.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Melissa

  “Melissa!” shrieked the voice from the other side of the door. “Melissa!” Catherine screamed again.

  I sighed, burrowing under my sheets. God, if only I could make my roommate go away. I was behind on rent, true, but at the same time, the café had cut my shifts even though I was barely scraping by as is. Plus, I wasn’t a waitress at a high-end restaurant where the servers make a bonanza in tips. I was a waitress as the Dunkin’ Doogie, a place two blocks away that specialized in Doogie Donuts and Doogie Dingos. Don’t ask me about the ingredients, it’s gross, involving unnamed fluids that are more than a little unhygienic.

  But the Dunkin’ Doogie was my only source of income right now because I’m an art student trying to graduate, and between supplies, classes, rent, and food, I was flat broke. No, worse than broke. I was in the red, I owed more than a thousand dollars in back rent.

  “Melissa!” screamed Catherine once more. “Get out here!”

  With a reluctant sigh, I yanked my comforter off. My entire room was dingy and sad, a huge yellow water stain on the ceiling, the floor uneven and tilted. Even Goodwill furniture was out of my budget, so instead I’d turned to cast-offs found on the street, whatever I could scavenge, and the result wasn’t pretty. My bedside table wasn’t really a table, it was an upturned cardboard box that I’d tried to make look nice with a colorful sheet draped over the top, never mind that the sheet had a hole on the side. My bed was just a mattress on the floor, a frame would have blown my budget. And the only source of light was a halogen lamp that tottered unsteadily, definitely a fire hazard, the marshal would have a fit if he saw.

  But this was home. This was my first apartment since moving to New York City to pursue my dream of being an artist, and frankly, I was happy to have the privacy. When you’ve grown up among a throng of kids, any personal space is a blessing, even if it isn’t much.

  But rent. Right. I hadn’t paid my half last month, begging a loan from Catherine, and shit, but this month had come so fast. I didn’t have anything, not if I wanted to eat. So reluctantly, I tied a scraggly bathrobe around my waist and pulled open the door.

  “I know, I know,” I said apologetically, holding my hands up. “I’m sorry, I’ll find a way to get you the money, I know we’re behind.”

  But Catherine stood with her hands on her hips, chin jutting out accusingly.

  “It’s too late, Melissa,” she snarled. “Look, we got a notice,” she said, holding out a piece of paper.

  I took it, and it didn’t look so bad. It started, “Dear Tenant,” and went on for paragraphs and paragraphs, most of it legalese that I couldn’t understand. What the hell? I was gonna go blind reading this stuff, I needed a magnifying glass.

  “I’m sorry,” I sighed again. “But what does this say? You know I’m an artist, these long documents are gibberish to me.”

  Catherine grew purple with rage then, the veins on her forehead pulsing, her entire face swelling with anger.

  “What it says,” she spat. “Is that we’ve been evicted. We have a week to get out of here.”

  I went pale, staring at the paper in my hands again.

  “What? Wait, where does it say that? Wouldn’t it be in red letters somewhere, something along the lines of YOU’RE EVICTED?” I asked, nonplussed. I don’t know a lot about housing law, but surely this wasn’t the letter. It looked too nice, black words on stark white paper, hell, with a real signature at the bottom. The document looked more like a presidential citation than an eviction notice.

  But Catherine snatched the paper away from me then.

  “Here, it says right here,” she snarled, a perfectly polished nail pointing at a sentence. I leaned forward and squinted a bit.

  “That doesn’t have the word eviction in it,” I remarked dubiously. “It just says that the owner’s son is moving in. That’s fine, he can take my room, I can sleep on the couch,” I said in a conciliatory manner.

  “No, you dipshit!” screamed Catherine. “They don’t want your room, they want the entire place! New York rental law stipulates that one of the reasons you can get kicked out is if the owner himself wants to move in. And now, because you’ve been such a bad tenant, we’re being made to move. Gawwwwd!” the blonde wailed, her red pout turned upside down. “Gawwwd! Where is Muffy going to live? How am I gonna find a pet-friendly building without some godawful deposit?”

  And I frowned then. That was true. Muffy, despite her delicate name, is actually a pit bull mix, totally out of character for someone as uptight as Catherine. The she-dog has jowls that hang down to the floor, gummy and slobbery, and red eyes that make her look like the Tasmanian devil. The pup is actually quite sweet, but based on appearances, she came off like a ferocious fighting animal. Catherine inherited Muffy from her brother or something, and the canine is her go-to, her confidante, her everything since the blonde doesn’t exactly make friends easily.

  “Listen, I’ll hel
p,” I said reasonably. “I need to look for a new place too, we’ll look together, only dog-friendly apartments, got it.”

  And my so-called friend shot me a frigid look then.

  “You mean we’ll look for apartments apart,” she spat. “Your credit is shot, Melissa, there’s no way you’d qualify for any apartment. Plus, prospective tenants need to make forty times rent. Are you even close? How’s that job of yours going?”

  I bit my lip. This clearly wasn’t the time to reveal that my shifts at the café had been cut and I was short on money again. So I just nodded sagely, putting my hands up.

  “I get it, I get it,” I said in a soothing voice. “We’ll go our separate ways, you and Muffy, and me alone. Sure, no problem.”

  At that, Catherine swung around, her blonde ponytail almost hitting me in the face, grabbing her dog’s pink leash.

  “That’s right,” she snapped. “Do your own thing, we’re through. I don’t want my credit to be ruined too, Melissa, you’ve just been such a fucking hot mess lately, I can’t deal anymore.” And with that, Catherine stomped out the front door, Muffy sniveling and trailing behind her. With a sigh, I listened as they clattered down the stairs of our fifth-floor walk-up, her pet probably leaving slobbery strands of drool on the steps. God, what a safety hazard, but I guess it wouldn’t be my problem anymore. Maybe the next place I lived could be ground floor or even basement. I wouldn’t mind living in a subterranean place so long as the rent was cheap.

  So I strode back into my room and threw myself on the bed. Ouch, without a box spring, the coils dug into my back and my head literally bobbled, perilously close to the ground. Man, I was in a bad state, I really couldn’t afford anything.

  But where there’s a will, there’s a way, so with determined resolve, I flipped open my ancient laptop. Please, please, please turn on. And with a slight buzz and a flickering screen, it did. Thank god, today was gonna be my day, I could feel it.

  But as I browsed apartment listings, I realized that my initial spark of optimism was nothing but a flash in the pan. Because today was not going to be my day, nor was tomorrow, nor the day after. The listings I saw were either way out of my price range, or super-skeevy sounding. There were a couple listings only for females, and it wasn’t because the current person preferred the cleanliness and fastidiousness of a girl. It sounded like they wanted a female to give them a massage in return for a reduction in rent, for some kinky play on the side. Or there were some that offered Central Park views and a private bathroom, so long as you provided “personal services” for the owner. Uck. That was definitely off the list.

  But I don’t judge, if there are girls willing to go that route, more power to then. It’s hard to get by in NYC, cost of living here is astronomical and artists like me are being forced to move to the far outer boroughs, heck, even Westchester sometimes just to get decent studio space. But I wasn’t there yet. I wasn’t at the point where I’d be okay giving “massages,” or doing “light housecleaning nude” for a rent reduction. Hell, I wouldn’t even do that if you paid me a million dollars, it was going too far, probably some old dude with a huge paunch wanking off as he watched a girl scrub his floor, tits out, pussy exposed.

  So I was just about to shut off the laptop and reward myself with a cigarette break when suddenly a listing caught my eye. It was short and to the point, and seemed fairly decent.

  THREE MONTH TERM. NEW JERSEY ESTATE SEEKS RESPONSIBLE HOUSESITTER. RENT NEGOTIABLE. PLEASE CALL ANGELA (345-6803) FOR DETAILS.

  Okay, the three-month term wasn’t ideal. I didn’t want to move again after three months, but seeing that I needed to get out of here asap, the three months would buy me some breathing room, I could continue to look for a new place while housesitting at this estate. And what was with the word “estate” anyways? The term brought to mind Downton Abbey with huge castles set on manicured grounds, people who had acres and acres to their name. Was this really that? Did that exist in New Jersey, of all places?

  Because I admit, I’m biased. New Yorkers are always looking down their noses at Jersey, it’s where cows moo and all the Jersey boys live. I definitely didn’t want to be there, but then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and besides it was for three months only. So scolding myself, I gave in. I had to come up with something, and right now, this seemed like the best bet.

  With one hand I dialed the number in the listing while chewing thoughtfully on my pen. And surprisingly, a human picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello, Valley Pine Manor,” said a well-modulated female voice. “Who is this please?”

  I cleared my throat hastily, completely unprepared.

  “Um hi, I’m calling about the ad in the paper?” I asked, my voice swinging up high. This would never do. “Hi,” I started again, more assertively this time. They probably had the whole world calling them, who wouldn’t want to live in a palace? For free maybe? “My name is Melissa and I’m calling about the ad I saw in the Village Voice, for a housesitting position. Is this the right number?”

  The woman replied.

  “Yes, Valley Pine is looking for a housesitter. Could I get your name again please?” she asked, business-like.

  “Mel,” I stated. “I mean, Melissa. Melissa Carlson.”

  “Great,” said the woman, obviously jotting something down. “And what do you do for a living?”

  “Well, I’m an artist,” I said slowly, “or more accurately, trying to make it as an artist. I still have a couple years of school, so I’m making ends meet by waitressing at the Dunkin’ Doobie in midtown. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” I asked hopefully. God, I’d never been so embarrassed by the café’s name before, usually I didn’t care, but right now, trying to make a good impression, it definitely didn’t help.

  “No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” the disembodied female voice said. “And what is your annual income please?”

  Oh god, oh god, this was the worst part. I mentally braced myself to be shot down, to be rejected on the spot.

  “Um, maybe fifteen thousand a year?” I said, biting my lip. “But I get a lot of that in tips, so it’s all cash, and not taxed.” Oh shit, what had I just done? I’d just admitted that I was evading Uncle Sam, that I wasn’t paying my fair share of taxes like an upstanding citizen. I groaned internally, half-expecting to hear the click of a phone and a dead ringtone, the entire conversation ended just like that. But instead, the woman made no noise, just the scratching of her pen across the line.

  “Thank you,” she said, voice reasonable. “Now for the job. We’ve found that the best way is for prospective sitters to come to the estate and take a look. Would you be available sometime soon?”

  Yes, yes, yes! I hadn’t shot myself in the foot just yet, hadn’t blown off my head with my big mouth.

  “Sure, I’d love to come by,” I said. “I’m free just about any time.”

  “How about today then?” asked the woman reasonably. “Mr. Lancaster is away, but I can show you the grounds and the manor, you can get a look at Valley Pine and see if you’d be comfortable living here.”

  I almost laughed. Grounds? Manor? Even the name, Valley Pine? Unless it was all a clever marketing ploy, this was sounding better and better, like I’d be a princess living in a castle with a moat. So I nodded eagerly.

  “Sure, today works fine. Is three p.m. okay?” I asked quickly. “Dinner shift starts at five.”

  “Certainly, we’ll have you back before then,” the woman intoned, professional and brisk. “A car will come by to pick you up at two thirty. Your current address please?”

  I gulped. I didn’t want to give them my address, they’d see what a hovel I lived in, how the building was clearly violating all sorts of city codes with pilfered cable TV, random electrical cords coming off the roof, and a crumbling brick façade. It made me look too desperate. So I said, “I’ll wait outside the Starbucks at West 47th and Eighth Street, it’s fine, it’s really hard to find my building.”

  The voice betrayed no
surprise.

  “Certainly, I’ll have a town car pick you up there then,” she said efficiently. “And if you have any questions, my name is Angela, you can reach me at this number.”

  Ah ha, so it was the Angela from the ad. Who was this person, a secretary, a maid, a housekeeper? If this Mr. Lancaster had a housekeeper already, then why did he need me? Couldn’t he just pay Angela to come every day and make sure the place was okay? How bizarre. All I knew was that I had a shot at cheap rent for three months, and I couldn’t afford to let it get away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Melissa

  A black town car pulled up in front of Starbucks and I straightened my skirt nervously. It’s not often that I get dressed up, usually I’m in a painter’s smock and loose jeans, or my waitressing get-up. But I wasn’t going to wear either of those outfits today. It was important to make a good impression, to come across responsible and organized so that this Mr. Lancaster guy would let me have the run of his house. I dunno why he didn’t have a friend who could do it, but when opportunity knocks …

  So yeah, I was wearing a knee-length grey skirt with a red v-neck sweater, demure without being revealing, appropriate and boring. I’d put on my only pair of semi-nice heels, a pair of black Mary Janes complete with a strap across the front. The Mary Janes were nice, a grown-up version of the kid kind, and besides, I didn’t have a choice. It was either these shoes or sneakers, so I went with the black patent.

  And mincing to the town car, I peered into the window.

  “Hello, I’m Humphrey!” exclaimed the elderly driver. “Are you Melissa Carlson?”

  I nodded cautiously, looking around. If there was ever a time to be kidnapped, it was now. I was getting into a car with a stranger, about to be whisked off to the wilds of New Jersey. But Humphrey looked elderly, about seventy, with white hair and decked out in chauffeur uniform. Hmm, he didn’t look too threatening, at least not from this vantage point. So I nodded.