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The Millionaire Daddy Project
A Men of the Zodiac Novel
By Roxanne Snopek, Wendy Chen Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2015 Roxanne Snopek
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-270-2
CHAPTER 1
The man had stage presence, she had to give him that.
Pamela Atwater, Chief Executive Assistant to The Great Dane Bergman—in her mind, the letters were always capitalized—waited for the king to finish wowing his subjects, wishing she wasn't just a tiny bit wowed herself. But he really was great, from his perfectly tousled hair to his lean, long legs and everything, she imagined, in between. Flash and dash, the kind of strategic packaging a smart girl like her knew to appreciate from a safe distance. She bit her lip. She hadn't quite figured out the parameters of that safe distance, unfortunately.
The boss stood at a podium in the main test kitchen of the Resource and Development —aka "Creative"—department of his kingdom, drawing out the suspense while his employees sat in rapt attention. He gestured grandly to a small box on the podium, then whisked off the linen napkin covering it, like a magician revealing a prize.
A magician with McDreamy's smile and Patrick Jane's golden curls.
"In appreciation for your hard work on our latest venture, I've prepared gift cards for you all, good at any of our establishments."
He prepared, thought Pamela. His entire contribution to the bonus was the instruction: "$500 for each of them, however you want to do it."
Naturally, Dane's announcement was met with enthusiastic applause. Bergman employees were extraordinarily proud of their chain of restaurants, which included the Railhouse Pub, famous for its craft beer, and the Station, for more upscale dining. Dane frequently provided such inducements, as a way of encouraging them to bring in their friends and family. No one could fault his generosity.
Dane had a Mr. Darcy-esque air of justified entitlement, and somehow, the combination with his good looks resulted in an endless lineup of women vying to bask in the circle of Bergman love light.
Seeing how quickly that light shifted kept Pamela safely out of the lineup, able to enjoy her tiny bit of wow because, well, she wasn't dead, was she?
That girlfriend queue would thin out dramatically if they spent forty hours a week with him. The man loved his work. Everything else was the choice of last resort. She'd never be satisfied with second best, no matter how hot the guy was or how much money he had.
"With your help," he continued, waving his arm to encompass the dozens of people in front of him, "the Bergman Group will rise to even greater fame, bringing the best of food and drink to the good people of Vancouver. Here's to STRUT!, the city's newest, edgiest night club!"
The fact that there was a community protest set up outside the refurbished building housing the new night club was inconsequential to him, merely a smudge on his latest diamond, awaiting Pamela's polish.
"STRUT! is a place where beautiful people go to see and be seen," he continued. "You're all representative of the Bergman brand so bear that in mind at all times. New uniforms are on the way and remember to use your complimentary corporate gym memberships. You look your best when you're healthy and happy."
Pamela saw a few smiles slip.
Thin ice, boss. He didn't seem to realize how much work went into "natural" beauty. Thank goodness her own position didn't depend on sex appeal, she told herself. She preferred staying behind the scenes. No distractions that way. No expectations.
"Pamela?" Dane turned to her and she felt his gaze like a jolt of electricity. "Do you have anything to add?"
To smooth over? You bet she did.
"Thank you," she said, stepping forward to address the group. "Mr. Bergman's comment regarding our common core values is well taken. The Bergman Group is about beauty, pleasure, sensuality even. Obviously, we don't dictate how you use your personal time; we merely encourage you to take advantage of your benefit package in the manner that suits you best."
As she expected, a relieved titter rippled over the room.
"The next six weeks will be busy as we prepare to showcase our new club at the Vancouver food festival, so I'd like to take this time to recognize Chef Castellano," she nodded toward an Italian man in immaculate whites, "and the entire Creative team. You've created a brand new menu for STRUT! without interrupting the award-winning service in either the pub or the restaurant. Thank you!"
Money was great, but people still needed to hear words of appreciation. The broad smiles and applause proved it.
"Are there any questions?" Pamela always provided a public forum as an opportunity to speak, but most of them chose to address her privately. Since most of their concerns were about whether or not they'd displeased the boss somehow, she understood it. She remembered that feeling. His smile of approval didn't come easy, but when it did, wow.
She'd learned to ignore it.
A hand went up from one of the newer employees at the back.
"Have you ever considered setting up a corporate day-care facility here?"
Pamela saw several heads nodding in agreement.
She knew about the lack of quality, affordable child care. She'd looked into the logistics of establishing their own program before, but the cost-benefit analysis had never passed muster with Dane. She was about to say so when he stepped in.
"Working parents face many challenges," said Dane, blithely childless. "Nothing is more important than providing for your families, and I admire each and every one of you who does this vital job. As for child care, the Bergman Group attracts the top talent in part because of our above-industry-standard compensation, but also because we always strive to meet the needs of our team members. We want you to be the best sous chefs, the best technicians, the best hostesses and bottlers and servers and busboys. If child care remains an issue, I'll have Pam look into it again. Now, if you wonderful people will excuse me, I've got a meeting."
Great. He made it sound like he was actually open to suggestions, when she knew darn well the numbers would crunch exactly as they had last year.
He gave them his usual dazzling smile, all bright white teeth and twinkling tawny eyes, and left the room.
Pamela sighed, thinking of the headhunter who used to email her like clockwork every month. She could have had another job in a heartbeat, once. But no, she chose to work here. For Dane.
She loved the Bergman Group, she reminded herself. Dane's good outweighed the bad. Also, she owed him.
"I'd like to see Mr. Dane Bergman, please."
Pamela looked up from the gleaming expanse of her desk, hoping her impatience didn't show. She hadn't even had time to make notes on the staff meeting yet, let alone address Dane's attitude toward the day care question.
The last of Dane's bimbos had received her parting gift months ago, so Pamela was braced for a fresh onslaught of hopeful women anytime now.
But this one didn't look like a Dimbo. The severely cut skirt and jacket were far more like what Pamela herself was wearing. She glanced down at her own plain but serviceable pumps. There was a fine line between timeless and old-fashioned. Perhaps it was time to update her look.
The woman held a thin file of papers in front of her, like a shield. "I'm afraid I must insist on seeing him immediately."
Professional, well-modulated speech. And a definite imperative, which poked a stick in the direction of Pamela's well-buried inner crab.
Dimbo-wannabes could be surprisingly creative. A single man of good fortune and all.
And the Bergman Group was a very good fortune indeed.
Chelsea, the main-level front receptionist, burst into the room behind the woman, gasping. "I'm so sorry, Pamela." She pushed past me. I couldn't stop her."
Pamela set down her pen, aligned it with the single sheet in front of her and waved the girl away.
"It's fine, Chelsea."
Pamela insisted on protocol to protect Dane's privacy as much as possible, even though he laughed at her worries. Enterprising gold diggers were a mere annoyance compared to the less likely but far greater threat: journalists.
"May I ask your name?" She stood up from her desk and walked around to the front of it. "And to what this is regarding?"
Although Dane didn't see it, his latest project was the kind of Corporate-Evil-Displaces-The-Needy story that newspapers loved. STRUT! straddled the line between the city's historic Gastown and soup-kitchen lineups filled with homeless addicts and sex workers.
"I'm afraid my business with Mr. Bergman is of a personal nature."
The woman's tenacity rang warning bells.
"Mr. Bergman has an opening," she said, consulting her calendar, "two weeks from today, at two thirty. Shall I reserve it for you, Ms. ...?"
"My name is Marion Oliver," she said in a hushed voice. "I'm from child welfare."
"We have applications on the first floor for causes seeking donations," said Pamela.
"It's not that." Marion Oliver looked like she had an urgent plane crash to attend. "This is highly confidential information."
Pamela waited.
"There is a child, you see."
"A child."
The woman gave up, her words spilling out in a great rush. "Last week, a woman named Carmen Wilde passed away suddenly. She left behind a child. I have signed affidavits attesting to Ms. Wilde's assertions that the child's father is Dane Bergman. I'm here to collect a DNA sample. Should the sample confirm paternity, Mr. Bergman must either accept custody or sign away all parental rights."
Carmen Wilde. This name rang no bells.
Parental rights?
Dane?
Pamela took a step back to lean against her desk.
"Now," added Marion Oliver, "will you finally let me see Dane Bergman?"
CHAPTER 2
Dane paused with his hand on the massive oak door separating his office from Pam's, trying to make sense of the social worker's words.
Carmen was dead? He hadn't seen or heard from her since she'd unexpectedly left him, what, three or four years ago. Obviously, if Carmen had a baby, it wasn't his.
They'd met at a fund-raising event. She'd handed him the Platinum Supporter plaque, and he'd taken her for drinks after. They'd been together for several months until she ended it, no reason, just boom, done.
The sting to his pride wasn't a memory he enjoyed revisiting. Women loved him. He was a catch, one that would never be caught, let alone thrown back.
Carmen had been the last one to get anywhere near his heart, the one that had solidified his determination to keep things light. It was hard to imagine a spirit like that extinguished.
Where had life taken her?
A rare vision sprang to mind of his mom, stumbling home to their sunless basement apartment, too tired to do anything more than crack open a box of macaroni and cheese ...
Anger heated his chest. He shook his head, displacing the memories. He couldn't imagine Carmen's life spiraling downward like that. But if someone had left Carmen and her baby, hadn't had the decency to step up, Dane would track the deadbeat down and force him to be a man.
He shoved the door open with both hands.
The social worker jumped, and the folder in her hands went flying. Pam stepped forward calmly and gathered the papers together but instead of giving them to Marion, she handed them to Dane. Always reliable, always there for him.
"Mr. Bergman," she murmured with an annoying hint of a smile in her gray eyes. Always just this side of insubordination, too.
She didn't believe this crazy accusation, did she?
"Ms. Atwater."
Okay, she was the perfect assistant but her silent mockery of his love life irritated the hell out of him. As if she didn't have a personal life, never loosened that tidy knot of dark hair.
Give me a reason to reprimand you, Pam.
The folder rustled and crunched in his grip. Why should he care what Pam thought about him? She did her job. That was what mattered.
"Excuse me," said Marion, reaching for it. "That information is highly confidential."
Dane evaded her easily, opened the folder and glanced over the first page. It was a computer printout with the sum total of Carmen's life on it. Name, birth date, insurance information, beneficiaries, survivors.
Death date.
Cause of death: injuries sustained in a motor vehicle accident.
Poor Carmen! He snapped the folder shut.
"The time frame eliminates me as the father, Ms. Oliver. But I'm sure that doesn't matter to you. Will a cheek swab do?" he said. "Or are you out for blood?"
Marion's face was pink as she pulled a plastic collection tube from her briefcase. "A swab is sufficient."
He opened his mouth, and she ran the soft tip across the inside of one cheek, then the other, a sensation both intimate and unwanted. Tiny bits of himself were being removed to be turned into data.
He wished Pam wasn't watching. This was his business, not hers.
The social worker snapped the container closed but before she could return it to her case, Dane took it from her.
"I need to send it off," she said. "It'll take a week for results. We don't want any further delay."
Dane slipped the plastic container into his breast pocket. "We'll have results by tomorrow, copied to your office."
"But—"
"Will there be anything else, Ms. Oliver?" he asked, holding out the file. Enough time had been wasted already.
Pam took the file from his hand and opened it herself.
He hadn't expected that. His relationship with Carmen was ancient history, private. He began reaching for the file, then stopped. Pam already knew he was a player.
Still, he felt annoyingly ... exposed.
"I'm afraid I must insist—" began the woman.
"Don't be afraid," said Pam, paging through the file. "It's bad for your heart."
He stifled a smile. Poor social worker had no idea who she was dealing with. But why was Pam so interested, anyway? What made her eyebrows dip like that? Pam was always getting in his face about his love life, thinking every woman wanted to hop on the Dane Bergman gravy train via a little caboose.
Pam was paranoid, finding problems where they didn't exist, but maybe that's what made her the valuable assistant she was. He allowed Pam access to the most important details of his life and his business. In a way, it was the most intimate relationship he'd ever had, but he never worried his trust was misplaced. Pam didn't fall into the same category as other women. The line between them was razor-wired, inviolable. Which is why he could trust her. Her pit bull loyalty had nothing to do with him. She was simply protecting the Bergman Group.
Still, it was odd for a woman to be so completely immune to his charms. Odder still that it irked him so much.
"Ms. Oliver," said Dane. "I will study the situation with my legal counsel. I may elect to make a donation out of respect for my prior relationship with the child's mother. But the baby is not mine."
Marion Oliver's knuckles were white, but her gaze was unwavering.
"Mr. Bergman," she said. "The 'baby' will be five—"
"Dane?" said Pamela.
Something about her tone made him look up. Pam held a photo of Carmen, holding a little girl. Her expression was unreadable.
Carmen's smile made his heart clench.
Then he looked closer. Her cheek rested against the head of a little girl who must have been around—wait, did someone say five? Carmen's sleek black waves fell over boisterous blond curls, her dark eyes and demure smile in sparkling contrast to the kid's honey-eyed grin.
"Her name is Danielle," said Ms. Oliver.
Danielle.
He put a hand to the back of his neck, recalling pictures of the towheaded troublemaker he'd been at the same age. Little Daniel, he'd been then.
"If the surviving parent is incapable or unlikely to provide an appropriate environment, we seek out other options," said the social worker. She ticked off the criteria on her fingers. "You have no criminal record, numerous reputable character references, ample means, solid standing in the community. We will be able to make frequent checks to ensure the child is receiving the care and nurturing she needs."
This was all moving way too fast.
"Surely there's someone else! What about Carmen's mother?" He vaguely recalled that Carmen and her mom hadn't been on good terms. But bad enough to keep her from her grandchild?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Millionaire Daddy Project by Roxanne Snopek, Wendy Chen. Copyright © 2015 Roxanne Snopek. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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