Daddy In Charge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Daddy In Charge

  Autumn Collins

  Copyright © 2017 Autumn Collins

  The right of Autumn Collins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Chapter 1

  Mitch Stuyversant

  Somebody brushed against my arm. For a moment I didn’t respond, but the pressure was insistent. I turned to find a woman beside me. She had carefully manicured black hair, braided atop her head in an elegant bun. That was my first impression of her.

  Her hand on my arm had a disconcerting, almost pleading force to it. The woman was tall and her features were those of a ballerina – a slim, serious face, thin drawn lips, huge black eyes and a pale, perfect complexion.

  “Mr. Stuyversant,” the woman said in a breathless discreet whisper. Her English was very good. “I have someone who would wish to talk to you.”

  She was beautiful in a fragile, porcelain kind of way. Her fingers were long and delicate, her eyes fringed with long curling lashes. “He is an important man and he wishes that you would speak with him.”

  I forced a genial smile. “Certainly,” I said over the ebb and eddy of noise from the milling crowds around us. “I’m always happy to talk.”

  The woman looked pleased and relieved. She glanced over her shoulder and made eye contact with a man who emerged from a nearby group of stern-faced delegates.

  The woman made the introductions.

  “This is Mr. Sergey Volostok. He is a member of our negotiating team.”

  I shook hands with the man, and the woman – her job done – disappeared like a wraith into the crowds that moved about us.

  “You look uncomfortable, Mr. Stuyversant,” the man’s voice was a deep bass that rumbled like thunder across a stormy sky. He was holding a crystal wine glass in one of his massive hands. “Are you not enjoying our Russian hospitality?”

  I smiled smoothly. The man’s English was heavily accented. He was big-boned but squat in stature; something that not even the immaculately tailored suit he wore could disguise. The fabric smoothed down the lumpen width of his shoulders and the powerful bulges of his upper arms, but nothing could completely conceal the raw brute power of his physique.

  He was bald, in his mid-fifties with a broad flat face and dark penetrating eyes. He was staring at me with a questioning expression. He had an embassy nametag pinned to the lapel of his suit.

  “I’m not uncomfortable, Sergey,” I assured him. “I’m just taking a moment to admire the magnificent architecture.”

  I lifted my eyes to the high arched ceiling of the Great Kremlin Palace and the Russian mirrored my action. The silence between us lasted a few seconds.

  “This is the St George Hall,” the Russian explained, turning and casting wide his hand in a sweep of the vast room. “The palace has other similar rooms also.”

  If the Russians had wanted to project a subtle sense of national power upon the trade delegation, they had certainly chosen the perfect venue for the glittering reception. The Palace was a wonder of gold paneling and plush red curtains, while the high vaulted arches that supported the ornate ceiling gave the hall a cathedral-like grandeur. Around the edges of the vast room were red velvet-covered chairs and it was all cast in dazzling golden light by the massive chandeliers that hung above the polished floor.

  There were perhaps three hundred other people in the hall – the men dressed in dinner suits and the women in long shimmering gowns. Yet still the sounds of murmured conversation seemed to echo hollowly.

  I arched my eyes with just the right amount of impressed awe and saw Sergey smile.

  He was some kind of Russian intelligence officer. I knew that… and Sergey knew that I knew.

  Half the men – and a few of the women – in the room were either American or Russian spies. Hell, most of the white-shirted waiters were attached to the Russian security apparatus.

  Trade delegation or not, the great game of international intelligence and counter-intelligence went on unabated at every opportunity…

  I took a careful sip of my own drink, scanning the room casually over the rim of my glass. Across the space of the hall a tall blonde woman was staring in my direction. She was the wife of one of our Embassy staff; a pretty, slender woman wearing a white dress that was provocatively split to the top of one thigh. The woman smiled at me, languidly slanting her eyes. She dabbed at the gloss of her lips with the tip of her tongue and then turned suddenly and gave a delicate little laugh in the direction of her husband.

  I glanced sideways at Sergey.

  The Russian missed nothing.

  He was smiling to himself with a knowing expression on his face, tucking away every morsel of information for the contact report he would write at the end of the night. Then suddenly his eyes hardened, the veneer of politeness replaced by an expression that gave his face a look of artless cunning.

  “May we speak frankly?”

  “I would prefer it,” I said.

  The Russian grunted, paused, then spoke in a sudden rush.

  “We don’t know who you are, Mr. Stuyversant,” he said bluntly. “And that bothers us. It makes my Government nervous.”

  I looked bemused. A waiter walked past holding a silver tray. I gave the young man my empty glass and he offered me another in faltering English. I took a crystal tumbler off the tray then paused until the waiter had disappeared through one of the high arches. When I was sure the Russian and I could not be overheard, I leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper.

  “I’m nobody, Sergey.”

  The Russian’s face showed no reaction. He searched my eyes then slowly shook his head. “No, you are a somebody, Mr. Stuyversant,” he said with a sad, emphatic shake of his head. “Otherwise you would not have flown to Russia to advise your Ambassador on these negotiations.”

  I gave a dismissive shrug of my shoulders. “I’m just an interested spectator.”

  “This is untrue,” the man’s expression became crestfallen as though the telling of the lie saddened him. “You are a close confidant of your President. This much we know. And clearly, you have the ear of your Government’s most powerful leaders… but you,” he stabbed a thick finger at me, “You personally are an enigma. We have no records of you. No file.”

  I sh
rugged again and kept the thin smile on my face fixed. Sergey shuffled his feet, stepping a little closer. I could smell garlic on his breath and there were beads of sweat on his brow.

  “Then tell me this, American,” he started to growl and then reproached himself with a moment of inner recrimination. He tried again, this time his voice made less jagged. “Then simply tell me this thing,” his English began to fracture. “Are you here to destroy those trade issues our Governments have worked hard to negotiate common ground on?”

  I stared at the man and made my face sober and sincere. I realized he wasn’t angry – he was anxious. He may have been one of the key architects behind the entire negotiating process that had been two years in development.

  “Sergey, I’m not that man,” I assured him. “I am a fixer, not a destroyer. On that you have my word.”

  The Russian leaned back and slitted his eyes warily. I held his gaze. Finally relief spread across his face, smoothing out his features, wiping away the scowl of mistrust.

  He raised his glass. “Nostrovia.” He allowed himself a companionable smile. I lifted my own glass in salute.

  “Nostrovia,” I replied.

  We stared into each other’s eyes for a second longer and then I saw the Russian’s gaze waver, drawn instead towards someone over my shoulder. Subconsciously his free hand went to his tie and adjusted the knot like he was preening himself. He straightened his back.

  I resisted the urge to turn. By watching the Russian’s eyes, I could tell the person who had caught his attention was coming closer. Then I smelt a waft of perfume.

  “Connie,” a young woman came to my side, her face lifted to mine, her eyes glittering with breathless wonder. The top of her head was at the level of my shoulder and in the sparkling light her long blonde cascade of her hair glinted like molten gold.

  “Are you impressed?”

  “Oh, yes!” Connie Wyatt smiled, her voice a little husky and shy. “The Palace is magnificent.”

  She was barely twenty years old with deep blue eyes beneath a broad pale brow and a wide friendly mouth. She wore just a dusting of makeup so that her lips were soft pale pink. She was wearing a long sapphire blue gown that left her shoulders exposed, and it cupped nicely beneath the creamy smoothness of her breasts. The dress cinched tight at her narrow waist, then fell shimmering to the floor.

  The Russian bowed deeply to Connie in a fumbling attempt at gallantry.

  He looked to me. “Your beautiful daughter?”

  I smiled thinly and shook my head. “No,” I said. “Connie is my personal assistant. She flew from America with me.”

  “Aah,” the Russian blushed in acute embarrassment. He unwrapped his best smile and spread it across his face. “It is my great pleasure to meet with you, young Miss Connie.”

  The Russian diplomat took Connie’s hand and held it like it was something precious for a very long time. Connie’s expression became demure. She straightened, becoming suddenly formal.

  “Very nice to meet you,” she said.

  A string orchestra had begun playing the soft strains of classical music in one corner of the great hall, and some of the delegates paired off and began dancing. I took Sergey by the elbow and led him towards one of the high arches where a line of chairs was arranged. But we didn’t sit. Connie hovered at the fringes of our conversation, close enough to overhear every word, but with her face turned towards the dancers.

  “So…” the Russian said as a prelude. We were quite alone. Most of the delegates had been drawn towards the music.

  I smiled to myself. The Russian was not a typical intelligence officer, of that I was sure. Nor was he any kind of high-ranking diplomat. He was too direct. He lacked the subtleties required of the espionage craft, and his attempts at conversation were too stilted to pass as natural in a high-powered setting.

  “Yes?” I let him squirm. He was clearly uncomfortable.

  “Have you seen much of Moscow since you arrived?”

  I shook my head grievously. It wasn’t an act. “No, regretfully,” I said. “We flew in just last night. There hasn’t been time yet. But I am very keen to see more of the city. I really am. If you have any suggestions…”

  Sergey stared down into his wine glass as if perhaps the answers might be there. He was contemplative for a long moment.

  “Do you want to see the tourist attractions, Mr. Stuyversant… or do you want to see the real underbelly of Moscow?”

  It was a question, a challenge, and a deft invitation all in one.

  “I want to see the real city.”

  The Russian smiled. “Then perhaps I can arrange something,” he said. “Are you a married man?”

  I sighed and made my voice weary. “Sergey, do you have a notebook?”

  “Da.”

  “Then write this down.”

  The Russian fumbled inside a pocket of his jacket.

  “I am forty-eight years old. I have no brothers or sisters and both my parents are dead. I made my fortune in oil and the stock market. I was born in Chicago and married when I was thirty-two. My wife’s name was Sylvia. She died three years ago. I have no children… and I have been a personal friend of the President of the United States since we served in the military together. I am here in Russia to help push through the trade deals our two countries have negotiated because our President wants to strengthen the global ties between our countries. Got all that?”

  The Russian looked up from his notepad. “Da,” he said again.

  “Good. Now perhaps we can talk like real men instead of playing games, yes?”

  The Russian smiled, and it was an expression of understanding and relief.

  “Yes.”

  He slid the notebook back into his pocket and in his hand instead was a small white card.

  “Are you free tomorrow evening, Mr. Stuyversant?”

  I turned and glanced a question at Connie. She nodded her head.

  “You have a meeting with the Ambassador after tomorrow’s negotiations,” Connie said quietly. “That should last an hour. There is nothing scheduled for the rest of the night, sir.”

  “Then perhaps I could take you somewhere on the outskirts of the city so that you can see what life is like in Moscow?” the Russian offered.

  He held out his calling card like it was a peace token. I passed it to Connie.

  “Let me check with some other people at my embassy first,” I shook Sergey’s hand. “Then I’ll get Connie to call you.”

  Connie Wyatt

  Does it show?

  Can he see how I feel about him?

  He’s such an insightful, dangerous, powerful man. Can he see it in my eyes and in my face every damn time I look at him?

  He seemed godlike to me at that moment, standing with the Russian in the great Kremlin Palace as though he was born to this world of glittering wealth and power.

  Everything about him; his shoulders wide as a gallows tree, his darkly classical features, the cut of his suit, the straightness of his back, the thrust of his jaw and the gray at his temples that bestowed dignity… everything about Mitch Stuyversant seemed a gift borne from Olympus. If he had asked me… if he had even noticed me… I would have gladly thrown myself on my knees and worshipped him.

  I slipped the Russian’s business card inside my clutch purse and stood with my back straight, a polite smile fixed on my face – but beneath the façade my emotions were swirling in utter turmoil.

  I was in Russia! Fucking Russia!

  Just a week ago I’d been working in a tiny cubicle in Washington, doing temp work for the government offices, when suddenly I’d been transferred urgently to fill in for Mitch Stuyversant’s ill secretary. The ensuing days had flown by in a whirlwind of security clearances, late nights of crammed research and long phone calls.

  And in the eye of that crazy tempest, infatuation had blossomed and then become the angst of a deep lustful desire that I knew in my heart could never be fulfilled.

  Mitch Stuyversant didn’t know
how I felt about him – how he turned my stomach to jelly, heavy as molten lead, that spread through my lower body and pooled damply in my panties. God! I would have fainted of embarrassment if he even suspected.

  And I would have died of shame if he knew the problems I was facing. That was something even the security agencies hadn’t discovered.

  Because behind the smiling face, and concealed beneath the dutiful dedication to my work and my boss… I was in real trouble.

  The reception for the American delegation ended at eleven and we stood on the steps of the great palace and waited patiently as a procession of black limousines pulled up to the curb to steal us away to the Embassy compound.

  It was bitterly cold; the wind cut like a razor and there was snow heaped in high mounds along the surrounding sidewalks. The lights along the wide plaza were haloed in fog. I stood close beside Mitch and shivered. No one from the delegation spoke.

  We didn’t have long to wait. A sleek black vehicle flying the pennants of the United States on its long hood glided to the corner and a uniformed driver came out of the car to hold the rear door open. Mitch went down the steps and I followed him dutifully. On the sidewalk, he turned and looked back, searching for the face of the Ambassador. Mitch waved to the man and he came through the crowd to join us. He was a man in his seventies, with a thick crop of gray wavy hair. He was hunched in a deep warm coat – one of the benefits of foresight of having lived so long in Moscow, I guessed ruefully.

  The Ambassador slid into the back of the vehicle. Mitch caught my eye. “It might be a little tight,” he apologized. “But it’s only a short trip.” He sat beside the Ambassador and I tried to squeeze myself discreetly into a corner. The driver pushed the door shut and I stared out through the window.

  I could feel the press of Mitch’s thigh against my own leg. I could feel the warmth and the toned resilience of his muscles through the cloth of his trousers and I made no move to pull away. I couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to. There was simply no more space on the upholstered leather seat.