Princess Brat

By Brianna Hale

When Father's away, with Daddy Dom she'll play  

Throwing tantrums may be childish behavior, but it's the only way Adrienne Westley feels she can be heard. In the middle of a tabloid scandal, her father cares more about his career than the threats to his mouthy daughter. So when bodyguard Dieter Vanderbroeck enters her home, she's shocked by his dominant presence. 

Try as she might to defy him, Dieter doesn't give in to her bratty attitude. Instead, he challenges it with a commanding voice and a firm hand. His authoritative tone calls to a part of Adrienne that she's long kept hiddenand as Dieter begins to unravel her submissive nature, it becomes harder and harder to keep things professional.  

Adrienne's about to find out just where bratty little girls go: over Daddy's knee. Because he no longer wants to be just her bodyguardhe wants to be her Daddy Dom.  

This book is approximately 50,000 words 

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you're looking for with an HEA/HFN. It's a promise! Find out more at CarinaPress.com/RomancePromise

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carina Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781488028229

Book preview

Chapter One

I hate him on sight, this hulking stranger who is being foisted on me. I slam my water glass onto the kitchen counter and glare at my father. "You have to be kidding me. I’m not having this troglodyte following me around twenty-four/seven because of your screwups."

The bodyguard is standing by the stainless steel cooktop, wearing a dark suit. Does it piss him off, hearing me call him names? He glances at his watch, and if anything he looks bored. Striking and broad-shouldered, but bored.

My father’s ears turn beet red. Adrienne, you stupid girl. He’s for your protection. He’s small in comparison to the bodyguard, five-feet-five and with wispy blond hair atop his domed head. I feel a perverse blaze of triumph that I’ve managed to enrage him so quickly. I’ll match him scream for scream. We’ll bring this house down about our ears before I let him have his way.

If you insist on going to that university, he continues, "then someone’s got to watch you—or you’ve got to learn some sense. But we haven’t got much hope of that."

He’s referring to the encounter I had with the Daily Gazette journalists last week. They ambushed me on the street and shoved microphones in my face.

"Is your father going to step down as editor of the Herald?"

Do you have anything to say to Connie Masters’s family?

Why has your mother left the family home?

I looked at them, snapping my bubble gum. I don’t know. Why don’t you all piss off instead?

I guess I half-knew one of them was filming me, but they’d been dogging me for a week and I just didn’t know what I thought. I still don’t. The paper is my father’s, but the paper made a young woman kill herself? What do I do with that?

When my father saw the edited video all over social media, he flipped. Me, my hair as pink as my bubble gum, excessive amounts of eyeliner, seeming bored with Connie Masters’s suicide.

It’s your fault they were even interviewing me, I cry. I wasn’t in any danger, and I don’t need a bodyguard.

You weren’t in any danger then, but you bloody well are now, my father shouts, gesturing to a stack of printouts and opened letters on the marble counter. Hate mail.

Go hang yourself you privileged oxygen thief.

I hope you DIAF you rich slut.

Someone put this little bitch out of her misery.

It was churning through my Twitter feed in minutes and the comments found me on Facebook and Tumblr soon after. Then someone leaked our home address on a forum and the letters started turning up here.

You’ve made your bed, now you lie in it, Adrienne.

"I’ve done this? I shriek. You printed stories about her, not me." I look around for something to throw but the glass I was drinking out of just moments ago has mysteriously moved along the kitchen counter, closer to the bodyguard. He’s young, about thirty, though he’s weathered like he’s been out at sea or in the desert. His eyes rake me like they’re seeing all my weaknesses. I don’t need yet another person hating me or judging me and I’ll go mad if someone like him follows me about all day.

I want to scream the place down, but maybe if I keep my head I’ll be able to convince my father I’m fine on my own. You’re overreacting. My interview will be buried in a couple of days when you uncover the next sex scandal or whatever.

My father ignores me and turns to the bodyguard. Here. You’ll be needing these, I presume. He stuffs the hate mail into an expanding file and holds it out to the bodyguard, who ignores it. You’ve got Adrienne’s university schedule.

Hey! I’m talking here. Being ignored ratchets up my fury and I can feel I’m close to losing it. If I do it’ll all be over and he’ll say something like, You’re too emotional, Adrienne. Do as you’re told. Just one more time I try and explain what I want. Doesn’t it matter, what I want? "He’s not coming to class with me. That’s my place." The only place I feel even remotely happy these days is at the Slade when I’m painting.

I’ll show you up to your room. It’s on the same floor as my daughter’s.

Oh, god, he’ll be living here, too. I’ll never escape him. I fist my hands in my hair and scream, You’re not listening to me. You never listen to me!

My father continues talking. I’ve got your security notes to go through tonight, but I think you’ll find that the systems in place in this house are...

I go on screaming to drown out the sound of his stupid voice. When I look up again the kitchen is empty and the file is gone. I catch my fuzzy reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator door and my cheeks are a mess of eyeliner and tears. I want to run out into the night and just keep going till I’m far away from here, but I can’t because there are a dozen journalists camped out front, waiting to ambush anyone the second they step outside.

I’m trapped.

* * *

The room I’ve been given has a view down to the front door and I can easily get to a window overlooking the back garden, as requested. There’s a desk, and I set down the file of hate mail and take out my laptop. I glance around as it’s booting up. Typical moneyed London town house furnishings: beveled mirrors, handwoven textiles, off-white walls. The bed has too many pillows and the tub in the en-suite has gold clawed feet. The Brecon Beacons feel very far away. Kandahar feels light-years away.

I shove open the casement window and lean out, taking great gulps of the crisp evening air, my hands tight with anger on the windowsill. It’s not being called a troglodyte—I’ve been called far worse—or the young lady’s tantrum, though that was a sight to behold. It’s her goddamn father.

Why didn’t Mr. Westley tell his daughter he’d hired a personal security officer for her? I doubt he even noticed the look on her face when she came in from class and I was just there, a stranger in her house. She’d been afraid. Fear had shone out of her eyes for just a second, and then she’d smothered it. I saw the same expression in her eyes on that video the Gazette had published. Not the version that’s making the rounds on social media. The full version that you have to dig through YouTube to find. I log into my laptop, open the browser and play it again.

It shows rough, handheld footage of the street outside. Miss Westley is just visible in the distance, a shock of long, pink curls, a neat little blouse and a gray pinafore dress. Almost schoolgirlish, though she’s twenty. She’s got black socks pulled up over her knees and a furry backpack over one shoulder. Her gaze is directed upward at the falling autumn leaves. She hasn’t spotted the journalists yet. Then they’re calling out, running toward her, and she freezes like a rabbit staring down the barrel of the gun. My mouth twists when I hear the questions that I know by heart, and I watch her rearrange her face into an affectation of youthful disinterest. When she tells them to piss off I feel an unprofessional desire to do the same.

I play the version that’s been retweeted and shared thousands of times.

Do you have anything to say to Connie Masters’s family?

I don’t know. Why don’t you all piss off?

And that’s it. But it’s her expression that damns her. Her face is stiff, like they’ve offended her by asking her to think about someone else. Women aren’t supposed to look cold in the face of tragedy. They’re supposed to emote, cry—but not too much. Too much is unstable, suspicious. I don’t know which arbiter of good behavior came up with these absurd rules.

I turn my attention to the folder of hate mail. Some of it is pretty innocuous: I hope you die your a shitty person you don’t have feeligs do you why dont you come out of your ivorey tower and down with the rets of us who know what real life is than you might grow sum feelings.

The worst letters don’t even refer to the Connie Masters scandal. I encounter vile, vicious fantasy after vile, vicious fantasy. I’m going to rape you with a Stanley knife till you bleed out through your—

I make myself read every letter, mentally cataloguing the threats as I go. Kidnap, murder and sexual assault are the worst of them, then stabbing and physical assault. Acid attack isn’t mentioned but I add that to the list as a possibility as it’s easier and cheaper for an ordinary person to get their hands on acid than a gun or a knife. Could she have a stalker? Possibly. There’s a high probability of misdemeanors in the coming days: graffiti on the house, the smashing of windows and keying of cars. Being catcalled or mocked in the streets. Fireworks or feces through the letterbox.

I spread the letters out on the table when I’m done looking at them. Most people who send hate mail or internet hate messages have no intention of taking things any further. The act of posting a letter or pressing send is enough to make them feel heard and validated.

But then there’s the rare individual who finds that sending nasty letters isn’t enough. They get a rush imagining their victim reading the letter and feeling afraid, but that quickly dissipates and they crave more. It’s these individuals who pose the greatest risk, but until they act they present like the more benign types. I look at a surprisingly well-drawn picture of Miss Westley being decapitated, and grimace. Which sort are you? I wonder about the artist.

The final part of my assessment is on Miss Westley herself. The young woman has made it plain that she doesn’t want a personal security officer. All her hatred and fear is directed squarely at her father and I suspect she’s led a spoiled, sheltered life until now. I’ve had spoiled, sheltered principals before but never one who actively resents my presence.

What did I do in a past life to deserve Miss Westley? I mutter, reaching for her university schedule.

She has classes at the Slade School of Fine Art over in King’s Cross from nine the next morning. That should be straightforward. All the same, I set my alarm for six a.m. so I’ll be ready and waiting for her in case she tries to sneak out early. I’ve never had a reluctant principal before and think with frustration about the morning run I’ll have to forgo.

I get into bed and try to read a book about the siege of Leningrad, but my head is still swimming with hate mail and irritation. Given that Miss Westley doesn’t want a bodyguard and seems to be spoiled to the point of ruin I don’t suppose that this will be a position I will hold for very long. I give it three days before Mr. Westley gets sick of her tantrums and fires me.

And Miss Westley? I glance at the desk, covered in hate mail. She’ll be on her own.

* * *

I hear someone clatter downstairs at seven-fifteen. Adrienne hasn’t run away in the night, then. I’m already dressed and waiting by the front door and I listen to her in the kitchen. The fridge door opens and closes, a spoon rattles in a bowl. Then everything goes silent, and I picture her standing by the sink scrolling through social media on her phone while the cereal at her elbow goes soggy. I want to go through to the kitchen and knock the phone out of her hand. Nothing she’s reading can be doing her any good.

At seven-forty she comes to the front door carrying a backpack and large black portfolio. From the way she stops short when she sees me waiting for her I guess she thought she was going to get out of the house without me.

Can I take that for you? I ask, holding out my hand for the portfolio, but she just scowls at me. I nod at the front door. Are you ready for the journalists? You can put a coat over your head while we get past them if you like.

Her eyes flick up to mine, and I realize with a jolt how pretty she is. Heart-shaped face. Liquid brown eyes. She’s got on a gray sweater and a little skirt with socks pulled up over her knees again. It’s defiant in a cute sort of way. I suspect the pink hair and heavy eyeliner is meant to project an arty, I-don’t-care attitude.

No. It’s fine.

How do you usually get to the Slade?

I walk. It’s only forty minutes.

Not today. We’ll take my car.

She bristles, and I can see I’m about to have an argument on my hands. We’ll take my car, I say, a little slower and my voice hardening.

With a roll of her eyes she opens the front door and flounces outside. I watch the swish of her pleated skirt. Brat.

The streets of Belgravia are slick with rain and the wind has plastered yellow leaves onto all the cars. The journalists are clustered in small groups by the gate, chatting. Some are holding takeaway coffees. As soon as they see us they spring into action, eager for more surly soundbites from Adrienne. Recording devices are dug out of pockets; flashbulbs burst. Adrienne doesn’t wait for me, but strides on ahead.

Miss Westley, are you aware that Connie Masters’s parents have commenced legal action against your father?

Do you have anything to add to your statement of last week?

Is it true that your mother’s in rehab?

This last question seems to trip her up. I silently will her to keep walking, my eyes fixed on the journalists surrounding us as I follow her, looking for potential danger. Normally I would keep physically close to my principal when we’re pushing through a crowd by holding an arm up near her shoulder; not quite an embrace, but enough to protect her and keep the others off. But I can feel her hostility directed not only at the journalists but at me as well. She resents us all equally. I tap her arm and point her toward my black Land Rover two doors down and remotely unlock it. The journalists more or less shut up once she gets in and slams the door closed. The photographers look resigned. Adrienne hasn’t said anything so they know their photographs will probably go unpublished.

I get in and start the engine, and once we peel away from the house I allow myself one glance in the rearview mirror, enjoying their disappointment, and then focus on the road ahead.

We’ve been driving for two or three minutes on the narrow, residential streets of Mayfair when she says, Let me down here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.

When I don’t pull the car over she turns to me. "I said I’ll walk." I still ignore her, and at the next traffic light she undoes her seat belt and tries the door. I’ve locked it internally and the handle flaps uselessly. She swears, then gives up, her arms folded.

Put your seat belt on, I say.

Piss off.

Put your seat belt on or I’m going to turn this car around.

The Slade is the only thing I have over her. She wants to go and I’ve got to make her think that I’m her only way of getting there. Obedience is a tricky thing: control is all about mental tethers, not physical ones.

After a minute the threat works and she reaches over her shoulder and clips the belt back on.

This sucks, she mutters.

What sucks? Everything, obviously, sucks for her right now, but I’m curious to know which part is sucking the hardest.

You watching me. I hate being watched.

What, with hair like that?

She holds a lock of her hair in front of her