Chapter 1

                                                                       He’s At it Again

                                                                         By: Judy Budd

                      New York’s favorite playboy, Derek Dawson, is at it again with new shenanigans.

                                        The billionaire heir was discovered bedding

                               not one, not two, but three of Philippa Dandridge’s granddaughters

           at the eighteenth hole at the New York Country Club at ten o’clock at night on a golf cart.

            The grounds manager called country club security when he realized someone was out there.

                                                  Little did he and security know it was members

                             of the club and not a couple of wayward teenagers messing around.

                     Considering the Dawsons and Dandridges are members of the club and have lots of clot,

                          security let them off with a warning and asked them to vacate the premises.

                                    This isn’t the first, second, third, or fourth time Derek has been caught

                                            in a compromising situation during the past few years.

                To this reporter’s shame, I have to say I appreciate him giving me loads of writing material.

            Derek’s father had summoned him to the townhouse on the upper east side. When Walter ‘Walt’ Dawson called you better answer. Derek wasn’t sure what his father wanted to see him about, but he quickly found out when he walked into the den.

            “It’s been two weeks and your mother still turns red with embarrassment when she crosses the threshold of the country club,” his father barked.

            Derek looked over at his mother who was lounging on the sofa with her feet up.

            She adverted her gaze from him.

            “Derek, you’re almost thirty-five years old. It’s beyond time for you to settle down,” his father said.

            “I’m going to marry in a few years,” he stated.

            “Hell, we don’t have enough dignity left to wait another few years,” his father snapped. “Between the Bartholomew scandal, the Townsend trial, and now the Dandridge debacle you’re going to settle down sooner rather than later. And that’s not counting the episodes in between those scandals. You’ve embarrassed me and your mother for the last time.”

            Derek was taken aback by the words and tone. “What does that mean?”

            “It means it’s time for you to get married and have a family of your own,” he stated.

            “Wait a minute. You had said you understood a young man having a good time,” Derek said defensively.

            “You fool! I said that when you were twenty-four. Acting the way you do at thirty-four is just irresponsible, sick, and pathetic!”

            Derek’s eyes widened. He’s father hadn’t talked to him like this since he was fifteen- years-old. He had stolen one of his father’s cars and went joy riding - which resulted in him totaling the vehicle.

            “I see,” Derek said as he straightened. He be damned if he was going to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him shamed.

            “You’re about too,” he said evenly. “Son, you got one year to get your act together. And before you ask what I mean by that I’ll explain. I went to our attorneys and had a codicil drawn up to be attached to my last will and testament.”

            How come I don’t like the sound of this already?

            “The codicil has a clause stating if my only son, you, hadn’t married in a year starting tomorrow to around this time next year, your inheritance will be left to your sister and your third cousin,” he revealed. “That includes your trust fund, the yacht, and the jet.”

            “What!” Derek shouted.

            “Oooh, what choice did you give us,” his mother moaned with distress.

            “You got one year, Derek. You got one year to find a wife and settle down.”

            “Walt,” his mother said as she sat up on the sofa. “You didn’t say you were going to put such a tight time restraint on it. It might actually take him a year to find an appropriate wife – to get to know her before marriage.”

            “No, it won’t,” he said in a high-pitched tone as he shook his head. “He’s bedded most of the women in the tri-state area between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five. He can pick a suitable wife out of that bunch, I’m sure. He’s taste tested most of them. It shouldn’t take long considering that.”

            Derek frowned. “I don’t appreciate having my social life examined nor I appreciate my life being planned out for me.”

            “Appreciate it or not, that’s what it is.” his father said as he walked to the mini bar. “One year, Derek. If you’re not married in a year the codicil will stay attached to my will, leaving you nothing when I die.”

            “Have you really thought this through?” Derek asked, thinking he could get his father to back down. “Deidre may be a hell of a VP in marketing at Dawson Inc. but she can’t run the company – or are you going to leave the company to Cousin Ralph with his sweaty ass?”

            Ralph Dawson was Derek’s third cousin by blood.  He was a rude, crude, sweaty pig that weighed damn near three hundred pounds. If Ralph wasn’t a Dawson and rich, his wife probably wouldn’t have married his disgusting ass. He lived Boston.

            “I’m leaving the company, the jet, and half the trust to Deidre. I have all the faith in the world in her to run the family business.  Ralph will get the rest including the other half of your trust,” Derek.

            “I don’t believe this,” Derek nearly shouted, awestruck.

            “It doesn’t have to end up that way, Derek,” his father said as he turned around with a brandy in his hand. “It’s up to you.”

            “Your fate is in your hands, son,” his mother said softly.

                                                                            ****

            Derek slammed the door on his Aston Martin. “Damn, him!” he shouted. He ran his hand through his thick, lengthy dark hair. Some older women had said his hair was like Elvis’s but thicker and sexier.

            He pushed the button on the dash. The engine of the burgundy Aston Martin roared. Derek put the car in drive and pulled out in traffic cutting someone off. He ignored the blare of the other driver’s horn.

            “Hell, he has a bad heart, high blood pressure, and asthma. The old man can drop dead any minute.  Damn, damn, damn!”

            But once Walt Dawson got an idea in his head, it was hard to get him to deviate from it. Plus, he had discussed it with Derek’s mother which made it more real and permanent.

            “Damn!” he swore again to the heavens as he flew through a green light.

            Derek was worth over a hundred million on his own. His father had given him three million dollars when he had graduated from Harvard and said, “Do something constructive with it and feel free to impress me.” That’s when Derek had bought the building his first business still occupied. The Oasis. It was one of the best night clubs in the city. He had other investments and small businesses that kept the bills paid, but he wasn’t true billionaire. Just a billionaire’s heir. Being a multi-millionaire and a billionaire where two different things. Being a multi-millionaire meant you could get the best table in the house. Being a billionaire meant not only getting the best table in the house, but getting blown while you sat at that table. And he loved the family yacht. He was the only one who used it so why give it to Ralph?

            “He has to be bluffing. He has to be. I didn’t see any paper work,” Derek said as he slowed the car at a yellow light. “And I’m his only son. He can’t just cut me off like this.”