Chapter 8

There's no sound in the car as we drive silently toward my townhouse.

I've no idea what to fucking make of this. I'm pissed at myself for not recognising her, but in my defence, seventeen years is a long fucking time and she's no longer a teenager. She's a woman now.

She looks completely different.

Taller.

Blonder.

Her body has filled out… fuck. I want to slap myself repeatedly, especially since her arousal is all over my goddamn face.

I palm the back of my head, my heart galloping in my chest. I need to calm my fucking nerves, but since I don't smoke, and barely drink — even at birthday parties where my friends will try anything to get me inebriated — my usual go-to of choice is to fuck. But considering who the woman beside me is in my Porsche, I can't exactly do that, either.

"Nice ride." She gazes out of the window as I navigate the quiet streets. It's almost three in the fucking morning.

"Cut the crap, Charlize. What are you really doing in London?" I don't know why I have the sneaking suspicion she did this to get back at me. Because of the guilt that I still feel for not being there? For not being the father figure that she needed at that time. Fuck knows I screwed up as a husband to Abigail, but we both knew our marriage was one of convenience, and it suited the two of us. It was a transaction, but Charlize won't want to hear that. Not that she and her mother were close. I think Abigail just didn't know how to be a proper mother to her. She was a product of her own shitty, cold upbringing —she didn"t know any better. And the circumstances around how Charlize was conceived and what happened to the father always made Abigail bitter — not that Charlize is privy to any of that.

She was never meant to be caught in the crossfire in any of this. I wanted to protect her, not drive her away. And now I've committed the ultimate sin.

I put my fucking hands on her. My mouth. What's worse? I fucking enjoyed every second of it.

I shake the thoughts off. I can't let her get under my skin, which is exactly what she seems determined to do with her smart, bratty mouth. If she really was mine for the night, I'd shut that smart mouth up with my cock all fucking night long.

"I told you already, I'm working in a bar during the day."

"And you do this by night?"

"What's it to you?"

I look at her sharply. "Don't play coy with me, Charlize. I fucking mean it."

She ignores me, looking straight ahead. "Fine. I work in a bar."

"Which one?"

"Why does it matter? Do you suddenly care about what I do?"

I take a deep breath. "I wish I'd known you were in London."

She turns to look at me. "Why? It's not like we've ever been close." That's true enough, but the words still sting.

I run a hand through my hair, though that motion is getting a little old. I'm fucking nervous and I hate it. "You've no idea the shit fight I went through, but I had no rights. None whatsoever. I tried, and I want you to know that. Your grandmother wouldn't even let me see you. I wrote, but I'm sure you never got any letters."

"You wrote?"

"Yes. I felt terrible that she wrenched you away from your friends and what you knew."

"Trust me. They were easy to miss."

I take a breath. "Which is why this — what happened tonight — can't go any further, Charlize. I'm not kidding around. If I'd known it was you, I would've stopped it." Why does she act like none of this was wrong? Like she couldn't care less?

"Keep your hair on. We're two consenting adults who aren't blood related. I saw you half a dozen times growing up, Alistair. You were never my father. But now may be a good time to chat about what was up with you and my mother."

"Now isn't a good time." Never will be a good time. I try not to sound bitter, but I can't help it. So much about that time, and the regret I have, eats away at me. Maybe it always will because I couldn't help Abigail. Maybe that's my penance in life; the burden I have to carry for all of my sins. Now I have the memory of giving Charlize oral sex and talking dirty to her to add to the list. What is wrong with me?

How do I get myself into these situations?

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.

"Why not? Seventeen years is a helluva long time, Daddy dearest. I'm sure you could've thought of a good story by now."

"Very mature. And there's no story."

She shrugs like a petulant child. "Are you sure? I mean, most girls don't get to see their stepdad's big dick…"

"One more dig, Charlize. I swear to fucking God."

I think she's getting some kind of sick enjoyment out of this. And a part of me knows that I fucking deserve it. I didn't try hard enough, and that's on me. I should've fought harder.

I was selfish and arrogant back then. I could've done more than I did, and it's one of the biggest regrets of my life. Even if going to court would've been futile, at least she'd have known I did care.

"You always were cute when you were angry." She hugs herself, sitting back in the seat. I clench the steering wheel while she continues to taunt me. "I know what my mum saw in you, and that isn't a dig. You always were the protective type. The man of the house. Sometimes I think she needed that, you know, a big strong man to take the pressure off her. She struggled so much. Maybe that's why I stayed away at boarding school without a fuss. I hated it, but I wanted you guys to make things work."

Her words sting me. I don't like the idea that she hated school, and perhaps if she had been home more, she'd have seen the lie between me and her mother firsthand.

I know Abigail struggled. I saw it. When she couldn't be herself and live how she wanted, she'd bolt. That"s what she did her whole life. When Charlize was born — so I was told — when she struggled with addiction and with her overbearing mother; she'd bolt. When she couldn't take the pressures of everyday life; she'd leave. It was her MO.

"Clearly I wasn't protective enough."

"Did you ever love her?"

The question comes out of nowhere and it hits me in the chest like a thunderbolt.

But I have to answer honestly, I can't lie to her, even for the greater good. "I did, in my own way. Not in the way you're thinking."

"You weren't in love." It's not a question.

"Your point being?"

Her eyes meet mine. "Well, that you were legally married. You didn't love each other, you weren't intimate — as far as I can tell — and then she died. So us and what we did, doesn't have to have any guilt attached to it. You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Alistair."

Fuck. The way she keeps saying my name.

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who hired an escort."

"No, but I am an escort, for all intents and purposes."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She sighs, turning her head away. "Never mind."

"Tell me." I forgot how fucking stubborn she could be. Which is exactly like Abigail.

She folds her arms over her chest. "It was my first night, okay."

Relief floods through me. "So you've never done this before me?"

"Duh."

"You're acting very bratty, Charlize. I thought after all these years that chip on your shoulder would've worn off a bit."

"Sorry to disappoint. You can drop me off at the next corner, that's clearly all I'm good for."

I take a long breath, trying not to let my rage show. I don't like this at all. And she's not going to be fucking men for money. That I can guarantee.

"Yeah, nice try. You can't play a player, Charlize. You should already know that. You're a smart girl, but I do have one burning question."

"Impotence can be treated."

I stifle a chuckle, but it comes out wrong. "You think I suffer from impotence? I think we both know that's not true." I know she's just trying to rock my boat, but still, I've never had complaints about my cock before.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

I choose to ignore her snipes and continue. "What I was going to ask was why are you doing this? Having sex for money. I thought you got an education."

She shakes her head, letting out a huge sigh. "There you go again, making assumptions. It isn't just losers who choose to do this. And for the record, I do have an education, no thanks to you." She's no idea I paid for her tuition and I'd like to keep it that way. Because she wanted to study hospitality management, dear old Grandma didn't think that was a reputable enough occupation. In fact, I may have had a hand in helping her get the fuck away from that old crony when she applied for the American exchange program. There was no other way to get her away from the toxicity she'd already endured. If Charlize thought her grandmother gave her the money to go, then I can live with that. The main thing is; she did get away. And she never went back.

"I guess the money's good. Some girls can't go past the big bucks, am I right?"

She laughs. "Five grand for tonight? Hell yeah, I'll be able to afford to go to Ibiza, or Paris…"

I frown. "You have no money?"

She goes quiet suddenly, like she's already said too much.

"Charlize?" I press.

"Dear old grandma didn't give me shit —when she was alive and when she died — if you really want to know. I've had to work for everything I have. If it wasn't bad enough that I was born an illegitimate mistake, then it certainly didn't get any better when my mum married you. Did it?"

"Trust me when I say it was never meant to go down like that. I had no idea that Abigail was suffering."

"Because of me." Her face is distraught, and I don't like it. "She was always angry because of me and the fact she had me so young."

I shake my head. "No, that isn't it."

"Really, Alistair?" Her temper flares. "It really seems a lot like it to me. In fact, I'd go all out and say it was an equal match between dear old Mummy and Granny in the hatred stakes. I was never going to be good enough for either of them and you know it. I often wonder why she even went through with the pregnancy at all."

I turn to stare at her. Is she joking? "Charlize." My voice is pained. "Don't ever speak those words ever again. I know your mother couldn't show you what you meant to her — she never had that kind of upbringing herself. Look at the mother she had raise her. She was never good enough, either. She didn't know how to show affection or love let alone be loved. None of this is on you. Do you hear me? None of it."

She curls her knees up and rests her head on top, her arms wrapping around. She says nothing more, in fact, her eyes close as I keep driving to my townhouse.

She's not going home.

She's never going home, not until I make this right.

I don't like hearing her say those words about herself, and I know I have a lot to make up for, but I don't plan on that taking another seventeen years.

By the time I'm pulling into the drive and the automatic gates move aside, I can tell she's fallen asleep. She looks like an angel. Her head resting back as her golden locks fall over her pretty face.

I feel a surge of protectiveness wash over me and try to push down the images of her naked body from my mind. What a fucking mess.

I drive ahead, the gates closing behind, and I pull into my parking garage.

Turning the engine off, I turn to look at her once more.

I can't believe she's here. After all this time.

I climb out of the car and move toward her side, opening her door."Charlize," I say, crouching down. She doesn't stir.

With a sigh, I realise I can't leave her here, nor do I want to wake her. Taking a quick inhale of breath, I sling her bag over my shoulder then scoot my arms under her body and haul her up into my arms.

She jostles slightly, murmuring as I kick the car door closed with my foot.

She barely weighs a thing. I use my thumb print to gain access to the front door as I step inside. Her head rests on my chest and I dare not glance down at her sleeping form in my arms. I have enough guilt swirling around inside me without adding to it.

I contemplate leaving her on the sofa, it's comfortable and warm, but I don't want her to wake with a sore neck. So I head straight to the guest room. She'll be comfortable there.

I wander down the hall, the lights illuminating on a sensor as I walk. I mount the stairs to the first floor, push the door open and lay her bag over the armchair. I carefully slide the covers to one side as I lay her on the mattress. I pull her heels off, shaking my head at the sheer size. How she was able to walk in these, I'll never know.

I pull the covers back over her and stand for a moment, looking down at her silhouette.

Charlize Prescott.

I can't believe she's here.

If I can ever get the memory of her naked body out of my mind, then maybe I can look her straight in the eye again. The jury's still out on that one.

I move out of the room. If I'm caught standing here staring, she'll only accuse me of being even more of a creeper.

But there are things to say to her that I need to get off my chest.

Things that she has a right to know, and details I should've told her long before now. To set the record straight.

I just hope she's in a better mood when the morning comes.