The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

am rewarded with an even narrower glare and a louder, rusty rumble. Deciding that’s a good thing, I reach out tentatively, and am gratified when the cat closes its eye and lets me stroke its forehead.

Emily shifts and yawns into my shoulder, then whispers, “Good, Sable. Good boy.”

I don’t say anything and neither does the cat, which is reassuring. You never know with cats. Sable lets me pet him for a minute, then unfolds his paws from that weird position cats sit in and sinks what feels like a hundred needles into my chest.

“Ow,” I say mildly.

“No, Sable, no. That’s not nice.”

Sable gives a creaky trill and thumps the tip of his tail against my chest but doesn’t move.

“Your cat’s trying to top me, little girl.”

She giggles.

Sable’s ears go back at the sound, then he starts purring again and kneading my chest. Feels like a lot more than five claws at a time.

“You picked a sadistic cat, Emmy.”

“I think all cats are sadists, Daddy. Is he hurting you?”

“Little bit. But it’s okay, as long as he’s getting comfortable with us.”

“When he’s settled in, I’ll trim his claws so they’re not so prickly.”

“That’d be good. This is like getting a massage from a cactus.”

“Do you want me to take him off you?”

“No, it’s good he’s come out of hiding. Let’s let him do his thing for a little while.”

Emily shifts back against the couch cushions and lifts her arm from around my waist to stroke the cat. Sable squints and rumbles and kneads. My chest is going to look like a pincushion before he’s done.

Happily, the cat tires of puncturing me before I bleed out. He stands, stretches, and sinks twenty claws into me, before he jumps down and ambles off into the kitchen, meowing.

“He hasn’t eaten anything. Maybe I should feed him.” Emily sits up and watches the cat as he twines through the legs of the three barstools at the kitchen island.

“I thought I saw some dry food in his dish.”

“I did. I mean, I put out some dry food, but maybe he doesn’t like it.”

“Britney said he eats both. Let’s wait and feed him some wet food at dinner time. If he’s hungry now, he can have the dry food.”

“Okay, Daddy.” As we watch, the cat flops onto his side in a patch of sunlight. Only a cat could want to lie in the sun when it’s nearly a hundred degrees. Once she’s confident the cat’s not in imminent danger of starvation, Emily snuggles back down. “Did you get a good nap?”

“Uh-huh.” I check my phone. Three missed calls. One from a California number. That’s the fucking debt collector. One from an unknown mobile, which is probably one of the Fire Island party guests returning my call. And one from Miranda.

I let the phone flop face down on my chest. I might as well bite that bullet.

“Emmy, I need to call Miranda back. I’m pretty sure she’s calling about the paternity test.”

My little girl lifts her head, then starts to push up from the couch. “The results?” she asks.

“No, she hasn’t taken the court-ordered test yet.”

“Oh.” Emily sits back on her heels, somehow fitting into the narrow space between my thigh and the couch-back. She’s such a little thing. “Do you want me to go upstairs?”

“No, I want you to lie back down and put your hand over my heart and keep me grounded. It’s going to be a challenge for me to have this conversation without shouting at her.”

Emily already knows that because she was with me in the hospital when I discovered Miranda was flying out to San Diego to “help” Emily take care of me, against my very express wishes. To say I lost my shit at Miranda is a vast understatement. Since that transatlantic shouting match, I’ve let my lawyer in Manchester handle communications, which have all been in the form of legal briefs and court orders. That Miranda’s contacting me directly after six weeks of silence tells me she’s either going to try to convince me not to pursue the court order, or she’s flying to New York to take the test. Or both.

However it goes, it’s unlikely to be a pleasant conversation.

I could shield my little girl from the unpleasantness. If it seems like Emily’s getting upset, I will. But until it begins to distress her, I want Emily with me; her touch will help keep me calm. And I want her to know I’m not hiding anything from her.

Emily stretches out beside me and nestles her hand over my heart. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer any false platitudes. Just gives me her soft, sweet comfort. A pet and a day in bed giving her orgasms don’t really begin to repay her for everything she gives me.

I pick up my phone and thumb it to return Miranda’s call. It rings several times and it occurs to me that it might be too late to call. I check the time. Sixteen-thirty. There’s a five-hour time difference. She should answer, unless she’s on shift.

“Lo,” she says as she picks up after the sixth ring. No greeting. I suppose I shouldn’t expect one after turning her husband over to the police and dragging her into court.

“Mir. I’m returning your call.”

“Yes, thank you.” She blows out a breath. “I suppose you’ve seen the court order?”

“I have. Did my solicitor give you the list of labs?”

“Yes, she did. Darling, this is so unnecessary, don’t you think? A lab here is perfectly competent to do a routine paternity test. Can’t we just agree on one in London?”

“No,” I say flatly. Miranda’s a doctor herself, although her specialty is oncology. Still, she’s seriously plugged in to the British medical community. Every time I visited, she dragged me to another dinner or charity event where she fawned all over the administrators of every major hospital in London. So, no, I’m not letting her have the paternity test where she might be able to influence the results.

Surprisingly, the British judge