Broken Daddy

by Blake North

  “Right,” he said shortly. “See you at six. We can meet in the dining-room. Mrs. Delange will show you the way. And please call her to say if the dress fits. She’s on edge to get it done.”

  I laughed. “I think I like the sound of her.”

  “You will. She’s a great person.”

  We looked at each other, both smiling. It suddenly occurred to me how odd it was to be in this ultra-feminine space with him opposite me. I felt shy and lovely at once. I swallowed.

  He flushed, and it seemed it had just occurred to him too. He coughed self-consciously. “Okay,” he said awkwardly. “See you in three hours.”

  “See you,” I said.

  He walked out. I waited until I couldn’t hear feet on tile anymore, then shut the door.

  I collapsed back onto the bed. Looked up at the ceiling. A sigh escaped me.

  I can’t really be here. This can’t really be happening.

  I walked slowly to the dressing table and sat down. Looked in the polished oval mirror at my face. Hair slightly disheveled from lying down, lips parted, eyes enormous, I looked quite scared. I was.

  I feel like I’m in some weird dream. It’s like a fairytale, or Disney. But it’s got me in it.

  I laughed. Disney Princess I wasn’t. Though, in my eyes, Beckett Sand wouldn’t have been out of place in a fairytale. Handsome, considerate, proper…he had all the princely virtues. I laughed again.

  Crazy or not, there are some basic principles that seem to apply even in dreams. Like, when you’re stressed, take a bath.

  I tiptoed into the bathroom. White tiles whispered under my bare feet. A fan hummed almost-silently. The scent of some vanilla-scented soap wafted to my nose. I sighed.

  Ten minutes later I was soaking in a hot bath, looking up at the ceiling, the scent of roses drifting from the water, my muscles relaxing in the delicious warmth.

  I felt my eyes closing, and realized that if I stayed in here for too long, I would actually fall asleep. I shook myself firmly. I needed to try on that dress. I stayed in the water for another twenty minutes. After all, I couldn’t waste it now, could I? And then, wrapped in scented, soft, and fluffy towels, went through to the boudoir next door.

  I lifted the dress. Looked at it. It was silver-gray, the bodice low-cut, the design figure-hugging. It had a skirt that came down to just over the knee. It was classic and elegant and silky-soft. I glanced at the shaping and was sure it would fit almost perfectly.

  It did.

  I loved the way it felt on my body, the lining smooth and soft and slipping against my skin. The slippery feel made it feel, well, sexy. I felt a heat in my loins and laughed at myself.

  You are doing a job and it doesn’t involve anything like that.

  I slipped through to the bedroom.

  The mirror showed me a compact woman with brown hair and big brown eyes. Her body was curvaceous in ways I would never have imagined mine to be. I was surprised. The dress clung over my breasts, narrowing in at my waist and clinging again over my hips. The tube-shaped skirt was a perfect conformation to my body, and the fit on the bodice was perfect.

  Whoever made this was skilled beyond imagining. It must have cost a small fortune.

  I sighed. How he had managed to get a dress that fitted me so well, I had no idea. How had he guessed my measurements so exactly?

  The thought of him assessing me like that made heat flood my cheeks. It was such a delicious thought that I felt my whole body tighten, tingling as I imagined his eyes on my curves. I laughed.

  “Come on, Hayley. Stop it.”

  I said it aloud to the apparition in the mirror, but she looked too flushed and excited to take much notice. I laughed.

  Well, I have to tell the housekeeper it fits.

  I slipped the dress down over my body and dressed quickly. My old clothes felt odd on my body. I wondered what I would be wearing during the rest of my stay.

  First things first, I told myself. Ring the housekeeper.

  I did that. Two minutes later, someone knocked on my door.

  “Yes?”

  I opened it. A small compact woman with a strong face and wise dark eyes looked up at me.

  “Hello?” I said uncertainly. “I’m Hayley Morris. I was told you needed to know if, well, the dress fits?” I said lamely. I laughed.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Chantelle deLange. And good that the dress fits. I’ll call the couturier and tell them they can quit sweatin’ now.”

  I laughed. She was chuckling too. I liked her instantly. Beckett was right; she was a lovely person Sunny, friendly and full of fun.

  “Good,” I replied honestly. “I’m glad. What time is dinner?”

  She made a face. “Depends,” she said at length. “When Mister Beckett’s in, it’s usually six-thirty or seven. But tonight, you’re going out for dinner. I don’t know.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” I was quite hungry, actually, since I hadn’t had anything for lunch. I wondered how things worked here. I had an idea. “Could you give me a tour of the house? Just so I know where to find things?”

  “Oh! Sure,” she nodded, smiling. “I’ll show you all the things you need. Follow me.”

  The whirlwind tour of the house followed. I found myself getting number and number, quite overwhelmed with everything. From the high, decorated ceilings to the long staircases, to libraries and billiard rooms, I felt completely at sea. When we reached the kitchen, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Whew,” I said, smiling.

  “Confusing, isn’t it?” she agreed. “Thought we’d never run out of house, first time I saw it.” She laughed. I laughed too.

  “It’s enormous,” I said, nodding. I looked around the kitchen. Ultra-modern, black and white and stylish, it nonetheless had a homely feeling. I guessed Mrs. Delange had this as her sole domain more or less. I saw a loaf on the sideboard and my stomach rumbled. “Can I have coffee?” I asked cautiously.

  She blanched. “Of course! I’m losing my memory…must be gettin’ old or something,” she grumbled. “Mr. Beckett said we’d have something round three thirty, and it’s bang on time. Good you reminded me. Now. I’d better take these plates upstairs…we’ll set it out in the drawing room. Up you go, Miss Morris.”

  I felt confused., not sure I’d get back to the drawing-room without a guide. Luckily, she seemed to understand my concern.

  “Come on,” she said, smiling. “Follow me.”

  Mrs. Delange went first, carrying a tray of eats, followed by another woman who carried a coffee-set: cups, a pot, saucers…all old-world and charming, but modern at the same time. If this was Beckett’s taste, I liked it.

  In the drawing-room, which again had the same mixture of history and modernity, I sat down at the table where Mrs. Delange and her assistant left the tea. I helped myself to a small cookie and some coffee. The cookie was deliciously crumbly and sweet, the coffee strong and dark. I leaned back on the chair and sighed.

  I felt as if I had arrived in a heaven of sorts. A scary sort of heaven, with unexpected things lurking around every door. But a heaven, nonetheless. At that moment, sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in my hand and a plate of eats at my elbow, a garden of meticulous care and magnificent size spread out below the window, fragrant with roses, I felt as if my life was perfect.

  While I sat drinking my coffee, I couldn’t help the fact that my mind strayed to thoughts of Beckett. Having seen him for longer, and from a closer distance, I couldn’t help noticing what an absolutely stunning man he was.

  I closed my eyes, trying to make a mental picture of what he might look like under those wonderfully-tailored designer suits he had. I could see he had broad shoulders and the outline of his chest promised abs underneath that immaculate shirt. His legs were long and well-proportioned, and his hands were corded with muscle.

  I think he must look stunning underneath that suit.

  I giggled, feeling my face flush.

  Miss Morris, you are a shocking in
dividual, I hope you know that.

  Again, the reprimand was in his tone, and that made me smile. I imagined what he would think if he could read my thoughts. I was sure they would shock him. After all, I was just his make-believe wife. The thought made me feel suddenly sad, and I put aside my coffee-cup, feeling as if a cold wind blue through the window onto my lightly-clad body. I couldn’t help wishing it was for real.

  CHAPTER EIGHT – BECKETT

  I’ll get dressed when you’re gone. The words played through my mind. I found it hard to concentrate during the conference. No matter how hard I tried to focus on the words my executives were saying, my mind kept going downstairs to her bedroom. I kept imagining her in her underwear.

  “…and shares are up, so something’s going right…”

  The words of my executives in Tokyo washed over me, and I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of them. I shook myself, clearing images of curves and lacy panties from my mind.

  “Fine. And the advertising campaign? Any results to show me?” I asked, trying to sound as if I was present and concentrating.

  “Oh yes! We have some exciting things to show…”

  When it finally finished at four o’ clock, my nerves were shredded. I leaned back and looked at the ceiling. At least I had two hours before meeting my new house-guest. I could work out and calm down for a bit.

  I headed to the gym and jogged for a while, then did some basic exercises on the mat. By the time five pm arrived, I was sweating, panting and relaxing at last. I went upstairs, showered, and dressed hastily. I grabbed my black Calvin Klein suit and stood before the mirror, feeling a new sensation.

  I was shy. I grinned at myself. The tall, lean man in the mirror grinned back. Was my hair okay? I paused, reaching for a comb. It had curled a little in the shower, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good look on me.

  Stop it, Beckett.

  I decided I could overdo things a bit, and reached for my Dior cologne, then went down.

  I was pacing in the dining-room, waiting for her to arrive, when I heard shoes on the tiled floor beyond the doorway. High-heeled shoes.

  Oh boy.

  When she walked in, my blood left my brain and flooded unmentionable places of my body.

  Leggy, despite her short height, those fabulous curves clad in soft satiny fabric, she was a vision to inspire wanting. And I did want her. An alluring fragrance swept across the gap between us, and she looked up at me coyly from below a fall of dark hair.

  “Ready to go?”

  I nodded. My mouth wouldn’t make words, so I coughed to clear my throat. “When you are,” I said.

  She laughed. “I’m ready as I’ll be anytime in the future.”

  I chuckled, then stood back for her to go through the door ahead. “After you,” I said.

  She laughed, looking back at me with those shining eyes. “Gallant too. Impressive.”

  I blushed. “Thank you.” It was the first time she had said anything so intimate—anything beyond the purely businesslike or polite. That, and that moment in the guest-suite, when she had thanked me for the place, were the moments when our agreement blurred around the edges, going a little hazy on me.

  I can’t keep blurring the boundaries like this. This is a pretense. Miss Morris is employed by me to pose as a wife. She’s not actually dating me. Not really.

  I sighed. Closing my eyes a moment to let my body get a grip on itself, refusing to watch her swaying hips as she descended the staircase, I followed.

  We reached the hallway and went outside to where Stafford, my driver, waited with the Merc. I slid in and she slid in beside me. Then we sped off into town.

  “You like theater?” I asked, trying to make conversation. I could see a pale thigh as the dress rode up a little as she sat, and I was trying not to focus, to resist the temptation to run my hand along it.

  She grimaced. “I was in it, remember? It’s hard to watch as anything but a participant.”

  “Oh?” I was interested. “I wish I’d seen you onstage,” I added.

  “If you were at Broadway from twenty-twelve to fifteen, you probably did,” she commented drily. I laughed.

  “I would have noticed you.”

  “You might have,” she said frankly, raising a brow. “But you’d not have recognized me. Stage makeup does weird things to your face.”

  I laughed again. She was wearing makeup now. I’d hired an esthetician for the evening, and the result was natural but highly stylized at once. She was always beautiful, but the added artifice gave a polished, sophisticated twist to the look.

  “Really?” I asked, drawing my focus away from her full lips, glistening with lip-gloss.

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “I don’t really know if I’d recognize myself on the photos, actually: brown-haired dancer third from the left in the back row…one of many brown-haired dancers in the cast. Could be anyone.”

  I shook my head. “I’d recognize you,” I insisted. “You’d stand out.”

  She blushed. Very delicate and pink, but a blush. Seeing it sent a jolt through my groin that actually hurt. I winced.

  “You would?” she asked, sounding amazed.

  “Try me.”

  “You’re on!” she laughed. “I bet you won’t, and the winner gets…a Starbucks coffee.”

  I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help a guffaw escaping me. “We can do better than that,” I promised her.

  “You bet what you want,” she said firmly. “I’m betting a coffee. That way, if I’m wrong, I don’t owe you something I can’t afford.”

  I smiled. She was remarkable, like no-one I’d met before. She was honest. I really, really liked it.

  “You’re on.”

  She leaned back in the seat, though I noticed she was watching the scenery as it drew past with a little smile on her face. She seemed interested in everything and I felt excited about sharing everything in Pasadena and elsewhere, with her.

  We got out at the theater. I had expected the press to be there, but when our car rolled up, even I felt intimidated by the clamor of people at the door. The place was lined with photographers, and the flash of the flashes and the shouts of the reporters wore on me. I saw Hayley stop, rooted to the spot. I squeezed her had.

  “I bet you everything’ll be okay. A proper coffee, though.”

  She licked her lips, clearly nervous, then smiled at me. “You’re on.”

  Together we walked up the carpet and into the reception area.

  The show went on a little longer than I would have liked, though every time I risked a glance at Hayley, she was leaning forward in her seat, seeming to sway with the music, sometimes frowning, sometimes nodding appreciatively. She clearly loved the theater and I reminded myself that we should have many evenings like this. She enjoyed it so much, and it was a way to get publicity. I needed people to know about us. My plan hinged on that.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” she said to me, when the curtain came down for interval.

  “Yes,” I nodded. “I suppose it is.”

  Not so much the play: my neck had frozen in place ages ago and my ears rang with the singing. But sitting with her was exciting.

  Several times I had to restrain myself from touching her leg and I knew it was only a matter of time before I forgot myself and actually did so. We had to get moving.

  “The cafe downstairs?” I suggested lightly. “I owe you coffee.”

  She laughed, that lovely noise again. “You do, mister!”

  Smiling, we headed to the cafe.

  In the lobby, the place was crowded with celebrity faces. Even I found it a bit intimidating, though I tried to pretend this was all old hat. I saw Hayley wince and she drew closer to me, her hand bumping against mine. I squeezed her hand.

  “I think they don’t bite,” I whispered. “Not unless you provoke them.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Beckett!”

  I felt a small glow in my chest. That was the second time she’d spontaneously used my first-name. With a
ny luck, it would become a habit, I thought, smiling.

  I saw a flash go off as we leaned into each other. I was glad. That was yet another picture of us together. I looked down at her moist lips and considered kissing her. She turned away.

  “Is that the cafe?” she asked, looking across at the tables where people were sitting to discuss the first half of the action, or just to have a quick chat before the play resumed.

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  We had coffee. I enjoyed it. The scalding coffee and her quick banter combined to make my head fizz. I’d never enjoyed the theater this much before. She brought a new pleasure to it, since she knew so much about it.

  The event resumed. I was starting to get tired, and regretted those hours in the gym before we came out. We hadn’t had supper yet, and I was hungry too. I glanced at my watch. Only half an hour more.

  When the play finally ended, and we stood for an ovation, I squeezed her hand. She looked up at me, startled. Her eyes were wide.

  “Shall we go?” I whispered.

  She nodded.

  We slipped out through the throngs of the well-dressed and the famous, onto the red-carpet again. This was it. The moment I had been preparing myself for mentally.

  We had to kiss. For the press photographers. It was as good as making an announcement in all the tabloids of the nation.

  I looked down at her. She was flushed and excited, her long hair falling over one shoulder, swept up elegantly on the other side. Her shoulders were covered by the wide straps of the gown, though it showed her delicious breasts, held up by a push-up bra. I looked at those wide eyes, those glistening lips.

  I kissed her.

  She gasped, and that little motion of her lips opening sent fire through me. I kissed her with my tongue, pressing it through that tiny gap to fill her sweet lips.

  She leaned against me and involuntarily we were hugged close together.

  As I closed my eyes, the taste of her filling me and her soft body pressed on mine, I realized that this was a real kiss. My nerves were overloading, my heart aching.