Broken Daddy

by Blake North

  “The fifteenth.”

  I frowned. I went to the calendar, just to check. I wasn’t wrong.

  The fifteenth was the day after tomorrow.

  “Oh. My. Goodness. Me.”

  I laughed.

  My biggest worry at that moment was how I was going to sleep tonight. I was so excited. I accepted the interview, checked my portfolio, and then I turned back to the article I had been writing.

  “The best way to move to attract guys is to be yourself.”

  That was what everyone needed to know. Now that the pressure was momentarily off for this job, I finally knew what I wanted to write. I finished it in an hour, proofread it, and sent it off.

  I leaned back in my chair and smiled. Brianne was right. Sometimes one just had to trust. I was so, so excited about the day after tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWO – BECKETT

  The window at the top floor of Sand Corporation building had a wonderful view over downtown LA. My office is at the top—I am, after all, CEO of Sand Corporation, for what that’s worth. According to my latest chat with my finance people, that is quite a lot. At this moment, all that thought did was add to my stress. I leaned forward in my leather desk chair and sighed.

  “I still don’t believe I’m going through with this.”

  I ran my fingers through my dark hair. I was quite at home at a board meeting, confident presenting ideas in front of halls of people. I was really quite at home giving a speech. But the thought of what I was getting into made my palms damp with anxiety.

  I was about to hire a wife.

  Even I think this is ridiculous. I shudder to think what anyone else might say if they knew!

  I chuckled. Beckett Sand didn’t really care much for public opinion: of my hotel chain, yes, but not necessarily of me. I was used to weathering media slurs. I’d been doing it for the last decade and a half. The only person whose opinion still had power to hurt me was Estella’s. My daughter.

  I hope she’s okay with this when she finds out.

  I sighed. It was because of Estella that I was doing this. That was the ridiculous part. My hand moved involuntarily to my phone, then I forced it to relax. I didn’t need to stress about that too, now. I had got over the late nights of waking in a cold sweat, the drinking a brandy, then two, to stifle the dreams and the worries that kept me from dreaming. I did not need to think about that now, did not need to face my worries for my daughter’s safety. I sighed.

  I did have to face them. Now more than anything. Because I had received another message that morning.

  Damn these people! My hand clenched into a fist again and this time I did not try to stop it. Everything in my life had been going well before they arrived. My company, which started when I was twenty, was finally going wonderfully after almost twenty years. I was a multimillionaire, with a beautiful film-star wife and the most stunning daughter—then fourteen—that I could imagine. That was when my past had come out of the dark basement to hound me.

  And they still, three years later, would not leave me be.

  This is why I’m doing this. To protect Estella from what I had been. I hadn’t managed to save Lacey, my wife, well, she was okay, but my marriage was the sacrifice. Now I would save Estelle.

  “Mr. Beckett?”

  I looked up at my secretary, Mrs. Douglas, a discreet knock at the door-frame attesting to her quiet presence. It was one of the reasons I hired her in the first place—she was genteel and efficient. The silent type.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about five minutes before interview, Mr. Beckett. If you want to go to the office…” she trailed off, knowing I understood.

  “Yes, Mrs. Douglas.”

  I sighed and got smoothly to my feet. I rolled my shoulder. It had frozen.

  I need to get to the gym and fix the thing. I rolled it a few times, feeling thick muscle draw it back, and smiled to myself. I didn’t do too badly for a desk-job man. I shrugged into my blazer and headed into the glass-fronted room behind the small boardroom.

  That was where I could see the interview, unobserved.

  I settled down at the one-way mirror that made one window of the other office, leaning back in the chair and trying to get comfortable. I had made this office because it was useful, sometimes, to be able to attend the the occasional meeting without anyone knowing I was there and observing. People spoke freely in my absence. I had learned more from their honest opinions than I might have done from their inhibited ones. It had been very helpful over the years.

  I had never thought to use it like this before.

  Feeling desperately uncomfortable, I settled into the leather desk chair, a book and pen before me. Though taking notes was a habit rather than a necessity, I chuckled at myself for having them with me today. I sat back and waited for the interviewee to arrive.

  My heart thudded and my hands were sweaty. I told myself I was being ridiculous, but could I help it? No. I felt somewhere between a voyeur and a man awaiting execution. Excited, aroused and terrified.

  The door opened. Mrs. Douglas came in with the head of HR—a tall, severe looking woman named Mrs. Chalmer. The interviewee came in behind them both.

  Wow.

  That was my first thought.

  The woman following Mrs. Douglas was not tall, but she carried herself with a posture that made her appear so. She had dark hair and dusky lips and huge eyes.

  It was the eyes that got me. As she sat down, she glanced around the room, eyes settling on the mirror. Somehow, they looked into mine.

  Caramel-brown, about two shades paler than her hair, they dazzled me. They gave an earnest prettiness to a face that would otherwise have been serenely lovely.

  I was captivated.

  Okay, not saying that the rest of her didn’t play a role. She had a stunning figure—curves, absolutely delicious ones—large bust, short but well-proportioned legs. And that poise would have made her beautiful no matter what she had looked like. She walked like a dancer.

  I glanced at her CV, reminding myself. She was a dancer. That was one of the reasons I had picked her from all those who had applied to the vague-sounding job description. I needed someone used to acting.

  I shook myself, forcing myself to pay attention to the interview.

  “…and it says on your CV that you have acting experience.”

  “Dancing experience,” her voice cut across Mrs. Chalmer. She had a nice accent. Refined, slightly clipped. I liked it.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Chalmers sounded discomforted. I grinned. Sometimes I liked to make her fidget a bit too. She was desperately serious, a quality I at once admired and couldn’t resist teasing just a bit.

  “I worked on Broadway,” the woman explained quietly. “So it’s a bit difficult to know what to classify it as. Dancing, mostly, with a slight frosting of acting on top.” She smiled confidently.

  Smart answer. I was starting to like this woman.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Chalmers said again. If I were Ms. Morris, that sound would have made me nervous. Apparently, the same couldn’t be said for her.

  “I have my portfolio, if you’d like to see it?”

  She sounded confident and hopeful. Whatever was in that portfolio, she was sure it was good. I would have asked to see it. It could help to get to know her better. Mrs. Chalmers coughed softly.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Oh?”

  I wanted to laugh, but risked discovery. The poor woman looked so surprised, and a little put-out. I saw her nose wrinkle as she started speaking again, as if she had smelled something that disagreed with her.

  “We have seen samples of your work online, Ms. Morris,” my HR specialist continued relentlessly over whatever Ms. Morris had been about to say. “W found it satisfactory, else you would not be here. Now, what is your reaction in a challenging situation?”

  As the interview wore on, I tuned out the routine questions. Upon further reflection, I should have paid closer attention. But I couldn’t help it: I was me
smerized by the candidate. And considering what the job was, I could see my point.

  She will look really presentable. Okay, more than presentable. Great. I wish I was better with sizing, then I could get something made up in advance for our first outing.

  Because that was, after all, the central most important part of the plan. I must appear to have a wife. We would not actually marry, though the media would have their feast taking pictures of us doing everything but take actual vows. Those would be private. So we didn’t do them.

  I smiled to myself. My PR people had been discreetly leaking the news to the public that I was dating again.

  That way, Ms. Morris appearing on the scene will be no great surprise. And she has a background where it is just possible I would have met her at a premiere or something. Perfect.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a raised voice.

  “…yes, Mrs. Chalmers. I accept that it is company policy. But I find that question offensive.”

  My ears went up at once. She must have asked the important question: Any recent relationships?

  “Ms. Morris,” the reply came back, with a layer of ice that would have been good in a drink, but not on a voice. “I hesitate to remind you—since it should be obvious—that we are at an interview. There is no need to raise your voice here.”

  I saw Ms. Morris blink. I thought that had subdued her a moment, but it seemed she was just preparing for a fresh attack.

  “Well, if this is an interview, I find that the policies of Sand Hotels are not in alignment with mine,” Ms. Morris said. “Good afternoon.”

  Before I could comprehend what was going on, she was standing up, collecting her things and heading back out.

  “Wait!”

  My heart sank. I had just profoundly given myself away.

  Mrs. Chalmers turned and looked at me, one perfect brow arched in query. She was inspecting me as if I might have lost my mind. I probably had. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted her to stay.

  She looked at me. Caramel-brown eyes locked with mine.

  “Excuse me,” she said in a voice that was quite small and proper. “Who are you?”

  I felt a little light switch on inside me where before all had been dark. “Good afternoon,” I said, unable to keep a grin off my face. “I’m Beckett Sand.”

  What are you going to make of that, Ms. Morris?

  I tried not to smile as I waited for her answer.

  CHAPTER THREE – HAYLEY

  The world stopped as I stared at the man before me. I always thought that was an exaggeration, but it really happened. I had probably seen him in a magazine or paper once, years ago. But no photograph is ever quite like the real thing. Trust me.

  A tall, imposingly-built man with dark hair and a lean, coiled-and-ready-for-action body, Beckett Sand was the kind of person who drew the eye. I found myself unable to look anywhere else.

  He was wearing a well-cut jacket in deep blue, sand-colored trousers and a cream shirt. But it wasn’t the clothes—impressive though they were—that captured me. It was those eyes.

  Bright green, in contrast with his hair, they were set below hollow temples in a lean face that had a watchful, hungry caste to it. I couldn’t look away.

  Then, as the sudden drama of his arrival dissipated, a thought hit me.

  “You were listening, weren’t you?”

  I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the thought surprised me. I felt a bit angry, actually; angry and cheated. How dare he hide behind a screen and pry on a private interview? If he wanted to take the time to be there, he should have been in the room like Mrs. Chalmers was! Little as I liked her by now, she was at least honest! I decided in that moment I didn’t like him.

  He had the grace to smile. “Yes.”

  “I think that’s unfair,” I said, before I could stop myself.

  “Oh?” His smile deepened and I was left with the feeling I was being mocked. I didn’t like that feeling.

  “Yes. If you were going to be bothered to attend such an unimportant interview, you should have been open about it. She was open,” I said, indicating Mrs. Chalmers. He looked at her.

  “Yes, she was. Thank you, Mrs. Chalmers.” His voice was quiet. “Would you mind leaving us a moment?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sand.”

  I looked, slightly horrified, as she walked out of the room, poised and collected.

  I swallowed hard. Why was he here alone with me? Why was he conducting my interview, for Heaven’s sake? Why had he come here?

  “Mr. Sand,” I said, hearing a tremor in my voice and doing my best to ignore it, “I know I haven’t exactly followed protocol here,” I laughed shyly. “But I don’t think whatever I did wrong requires your intervention. Do you?”

  His eyes met mine. They were bright green and they twinkled with merriment. I couldn’t help a flush creeping through my body. He was so, so stunning.

  “On the contrary, Ms. Morris. I felt the need to…um…parlay.”

  “Oh?”

  I wanted to smile as I heard the “oh” come out of my mouth. It sounded like Mrs. Chalmers. He evidently noted it because he smiled.

  Nice smile. It was a warm smile, unstudied and genuine, and it lit those green eyes, making them sparkle with brightness.

  “Would you sit down?” he asked, quite politely.

  I shrugged and took a seat where I was before. He sat opposite me. It felt tense. A strange tension, though: the sort I used to get on stage, almost. A tingling in my belly almost as if an electric current passed through my tummy. A fluttery, exciting sort of feeling. I faced him.

  “I would really like it,” I said slowly, “if someone could tell me what is going on?”

  He smiled. “I’m going to continue with your interview, Ms. Morris. It seemed Mrs. Chalmers was taking a stance that was…um…not best aligned to company policy.”

  “Whew,” I sighed. “I’m pleased to hear that! No company nowadays should care about marital status. Can you believe it? What a thing to say!”

  His eyes narrowed, but he was smiling still. “Well, you didn’t let me finish where that thought was going,” he said slowly. “It isn’t our policy. But it is mine. So. Are you married?”

  “This is insane!”

  I said it before I had thought about it. I felt a bit desperate, actually; as if somewhere I had passed through the portals of some crazy time-machine and was now, like Alice in Wonderland, stuck in some wild place where nothing made sense.

  “Mrs. Morris. Please. Sit down!”

  I stared at him. I had barely noticed I was pacing the room, but his command cut through my agitation like a whip-strike. I looked up at him, heart beating.

  “I am not a dog, sir,” I said frostily. I was nervous, but I was also angry. I’m not sure when I have been that angry. At that moment I couldn’t have cared if he was the CEO of an hotel company or the State President. He was the embodiment of all the oppressors I’d met in my life. And I was sick of it.

  He blinked. I think it was a long time ago someone spoke to him like that. Good.

  Then I started shaking. All the anger drained out of me and my energy went with it, like someone had unplugged the sink. I was empty. I sat down at the desk again, my whole body shivering a little all over, and slumped onto the table before me.

  “Ms. Morris?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. My voice, and his, sounded as if they came from far away. I looked up at him, expecting to see a frosty, Darth Vader style anger. I saw tenderness.

  “You’ve had enough today, I can see that,” he said kindly. “Please accept my apologies.”

  I wanted to return with some cutting comment, but couldn’t. I hadn’t the energy, and, besides, he looked like he really was sorry.

  “Apology accepted,” I said tiredly. I felt drained. I had just shouted at the CEO of a huge company. He could have bought and sold my house and everything in it ten times without noticing, and he probably had a fleet of cars and security peop
le whose job it was to keep people like me away from him. I laughed.

  “What?” he asked. He sounded like he really meant it.

  “I was just thinking that I really, really blew this interview.”

  I grinned at him. He grinned back.

  “Actually, no. The job is yours. I take it you still want that?”

  I stared. “What?” I was laughing again, but this time with incredulity and joy. “Serious?”

  “Of course.”

  I leaned back in the chair, feeling a strange sensation pass across my heart. It was gratitude, yes, but relief was in it too, and a sort of mix of wonder and happiness that I couldn’t recall ever feeling. It was nice. “Thank you,” I said.

  He laughed. “You’re welcome.”

  I sat up. I met his gaze and he looked back steadily, in a way that made my already-overburdened heart do strange things.

  I remembered something. “What is the job description, again?”

  This time we both laughed. He smiled at me, an apologetic sort of a grin.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly descriptive, was it?”

  “You can say that again!” I laughed. It was weird, but it suddenly felt as if there were no barriers between us. Whatever his status and mine, the fight we’d had broke the boundary and made me feel like I could say anything.

  He nodded. “Well, it was deliberately vague.”

  “Oh?”

  I might have imagined it, but a distant look crept across his eyes, and he didn’t look at me but through the window. His posture shifted and he straightened his coat in a fastidious gesture that probably meant he felt ill-at-ease. That’s surprising.

  “Well,” he said, “I had to make it a bit, you know, generalist.”

  I frowned. “Why, sir?”

  “Because it’s a broad job?”

  “Oh!” that was simple. If that was why, then how come he was still looking at me with that sickly expression, as if he was really uncomfortable instead of me? I sighed. “I know this is a stupid question, but what exactly is this job? What will I be doing? I need to know…honestly.”

  His eyes closed, and he looked like he was having a bit of an internal struggle. At length, he said it.