by Melissa Beck
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The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©2008 by Melissa Beck
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Advance praise for THE DADDY ISSUE...
The Daddy Issue
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the author...
Thank you for purchasing
Other Champagne titles to enjoy:
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"Would you like to see a picture of my goddaughter, Gretchen's little girl?"
"Uh. Sure.” Kids weren't his forte. And to see the child Gretchen had with her next lover? Weird.
She rummaged in her purse, and pulled out a bi-fold wallet. Opening it, she held it out.
He reached for it, and gazed down at the child's image.
"Her name's Amy. She's four."
Daniel brought the wallet a few inches closer. Her eyes looked familiar. Damn the plastic sheath. He started to pull the photo out of it, then remembered himself, and with the edge of the picture between his thumb and forefinger, glanced at the woman. “Do you mind?"
"No."
He eased the photo out.
His breath caught in his throat. Good God.
"I—I better get going."
He gaped at the photo.
"There are photographers here, and I don't want to end up in the news as your latest date,” he heard her say, around the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “My husband wouldn't find that funny."
He became aware of her tugging on it, and reluctantly released it.
"This probably won't happen,” she said, as his gaze followed her every move in putting away the photo and wallet, “but if you happen to run into Gretchen, don't tell her I mentioned her. I promised I wouldn't.” With one last look, she started backing away. “Oh! Congrats on your award."
Turning, she headed for the stairs.
Daniel stared after her, not seeing her. That photo, that image of the little girl, had burned itself into the front of his brain.
Advance praise for THE DADDY ISSUE...
"Beck's strong writing is definitely the high point of this enjoyable story. Both Gretchen and Daniel are well drawn and complex characters with their own troubled pasts, mannerisms, and goals."
~BooksForABuck.com
"This is a fun read that, while taking the oft-used premise of an unknown child suddenly being discovered, is still an interesting story. The small-town characters are quaint without being stereotypical..."
~Romantic Times Bookclub
"Melissa Beck's debut into the print publishing world comes with great promise. THE DADDY ISSUE ... comes packed with emotional drama, humor, and a drop of truth that fills the reader to the brim. This reviewer has found a new author to follow, and knows readers who pick up Ms. Beck's novel will not be disappointed in any way. I highly recommend readers of traditional romance pick this novel off the shelves and bring it home into their hearts. This novel is one for the keeper shelf!"
~Love, Romances & More
"Melissa Beck's THE DADDY ISSUE offers readers more than just the typical ‘secret baby’ storyline..."
~Romance Junkies (Rated 4.5)
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Daddy Issue
by
Melissa Beck
[Back to Table of Contents]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Daddy Issue
COPYRIGHT ©
2008 by Melissa Beck
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2009
Print ISBN 1-60154-464-2
Published in the United States of America
[Back to Table of Contents]
Dedication
To Mom and Dad and my sisters,
for your unwavering support.
And for Frank, Ben and Torie.
My greatest blessing is family.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Prologue
He hated crowds. No one would believe it, of course, and especially not tonight. But as Daniel Nicholson crossed the threshold of the Haley mansion with the beautiful Elena on his arm, he gritted his teeth in anticipation of all the moments of this awards dinner that would make him want to slip out the back door. Fortunately, he did it with his lips parted, so everyone would assume he was smiling.
In the well-lit foyer, he glanced around at clusters of men in tuxes and women in long gowns. They talked. They laughed. They drank. He could use a drink. Their head-spinning chatter made him want to stuff cotton in his ears.
Pressing his palm between Elena's birdlike shoulder blades, he guided her toward the grand ballroom. She drew murmurs of recognition. Her flawless face and body were, after all, plastered on a vodka billboard along I-90. But Daniel felt the love from spectators, too, in their expressions when he caught them glancing at him and in the way their gazes trailed him.
As he weaved his way toward his table, he paused to shake his peers’ hands when they thrust them his way, and grinned at the banker who patted his back and assured him he was the shoo-in for tonight's award. Only he was aware that as he pumped each hand and acknowledged congratulations on his “Businessman of the Year” nomination, inside it was as if someone had poured concrete around his vital organs.
Finding his place in the front of the ballroom, he seated Elena and waited on the scotch he'd added to the banker's order from the cash bar. When his pal returned with it, plus champagne for Elena, he refused Daniel's money.
"On me this time, buddy. This is your night."
Left to himself again, Daniel lifted the highball glass. He turned it in his hand and watched the light from crystal chandeliers dance across its etched pattern. Gazing about the room, he thought, This is what you wanted. It's where you belong. But though he'd done lunch, been in meetings or taught seminars with many of the people around him, it'd never occurred to him until now that they didn't really know him, and he didn't know them.
He tipped the glass and swallowed a healthy amount of its amber contents. The pleasant warmth that trickled through his veins lent a hand to the buzz he'd gotten a head start on with champagne in the limo. It stil
l wasn't enough to fully release him from the emptiness that had plagued him for months now. Futility gripped him with fierce determination, like the wind that whipped between Chicago's downtown skyscrapers, slamming into commuters and ripping scarves from their necks in an attempt to get at their cores. No, the booze proved no muffler against this gripping apathy.
Elena shifted in her chair and wriggled against him. “So how does it feel to be the main man tonight?"
He soaked in those exotic eyes of hers, incredible cat-like eyes that had already seduced a rock band's drummer, or so he'd heard.
She sucked in her full lower lip, and arched a brow.
The liveliness in her expression, the promise of fun, passion-filled nights, left him cold. Leaning in and catching a whiff of perfume that failed to register with his pheromones, he murmured, “Sorry to put you through this. It's got to be boring for you."
She tossed him a wicked smile. “I just want to be with you."
Why? They'd only met two nights ago, at a club. She'd come on to him big-time, dancing up and kissing him.
All that signaled was the start of yet another empty relationship.
What was wrong with him? Always before, “empty” was fine. Empty meant no real ties, so no loss and no pain. Why the problems with it now, of all times, when he was with one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen?
After dinner, the Association president began the ceremony. “This year's nominees were all exceptional,” he noted, glancing around the room and making brief eye contact with each of the four contestants for the coveted title. “But unfortunately we could only choose one.” His gaze rested on Daniel as the last of the four, and lingered.
Pick someone else, Al. I'm a fraud.
What was he thinking? He loved honors. He loved the limelight.
"Our winner built his business from the ground up, and today his ‘Little Advertising Agency That Could,’ as the press once nicknamed it, is a force to be reckoned with. I remember the first day I met him. He came by my office with thumbnail sketches of print ads for one of my product lines. He wanted the job so badly, he offered to do the launch for free."
Appreciative chuckles rumbled through the audience.
"Instead I ended up paying him three times the going rate. You've all heard the story before. His ideas were so out-of-the-box, I had to have exclusive rights.” More rumbles, this time accompanied by a few all-out laughs. “He was barely out of college, but he had me sold."
Daniel stared at his hand resting on the table as his friend elaborated on his accomplishments. Each sentence seemed designed to pound at him, to prod him back toward “them."
Whoa. When had he begun to think of it as “them” and “him?” His head throbbed, and he reached up and rubbed a temple.
"And of course, tonight's honoree is currently in talks with a very high profile corporation for an international TV-and-print ad campaign."
Daniel glanced around the room. Did any of these people, other than his big rival, The Chroma Agency, give a damn? Surely most were about to nod off.
They didn't love him. They probably loathed him.
"Before you go thinking all he does for a living is work,” Al continued, “remember, just a few years ago, this man I'm proud to know and extremely lucky to be standing next to at certain times—” He paused for effect, and got the usual bawdy hoots from those who suspected what was coming—"This guy walked away with that other infamous title, Chicago Bachelor of the Year."
Daniel groaned.
Elena squeezed his arm again. “You just hadn't met me yet. Maybe your bachelor days are over."
Considering his lack of interest tonight, he had his doubts.
He caught other women arching their brows at him as they clapped. Snatching up his drink, he knocked back the remainder of the whiskey. Wouldn't help the throb in his head, but at least it'd take the edge off before he had to proceed to the podium.
"So with that, ladies and gentlemen, I give you our ‘Businessman of the Year,’ Daniel Nicholson."
He pushed his chair back and stood, dipping his chin to acknowledge the barrage of applause. As he weaved his way around tables, his associates offered more handshakes, and he performed in a grin-a-thon.
"This way, Mr. Nicholson,” barked a photographer.
Pivoting in that direction, he barely blinked when the flash went off.
Stepping up to the dais, he took his spot behind the lectern. How many times had he carried off holding observers’ attention as he pitched his agency? And yet, he wasn't “on” tonight. They couldn't tell, though. His voice came out smooth and flawless. His words flowed, from years of practice.
Thirty minutes later, he stood in the upper hallway and stared over the railing at the crowd below. His peers lingered in and around the tables, their conversations bouncing off the high ceiling and returning in a buzz of white noise. Off in the corner, a jazz band's fight for air space resulted in a pleasant melody trickling off the brew of voices.
He tracked Elena with his gaze, watching her move in her slinky red gown, straight platinum hair brushing her bare shoulders as she worked the men in the crowd. He'd grown used to the women he dated finessing their ways into the right circles. It wasn't a matter of not trusting them, but of understanding them. They were savvy about what they wanted. He wondered if dissatisfaction would set in once they got what or whom they pursued, the way it had his ex-wife.
Maybe that was what was eating at him tonight. Maybe he missed the rush he got from his job, back in the early days. You never really captured it again, did you? Just like with marriages, once it was gone, it was gone.
"Daniel?"
He turned, to find a thirty-ish dishwater blonde in a simple black dress standing at the top of the staircase.
"I'm Charlotte Singer.” She didn't offer her hand. Hesitation seemed to flicker in her eyes. “My husband and I own Michigan Avenue Antiques?"
"Nice to see you again,” he murmured, wondering what she was about to try and sell him.
She tilted her head. “You don't remember me, do you?"
"To be honest, no."
"I'm Gretchen Parks’ college roommate. I met you when she brought you by the shop."
Gretchen. He frowned as a face with delicate features drifted to him through the scotchy mist in his mind—a face framed with medium-brown hair whose precise shade he couldn't recall. But her smile had been a sweet one, and even after five years, he remembered her girlish laugh. Still, she had that other distinction of being the woman who left him. His ribcage tightened. “I remember stopping in some shops with Gretchen. How is she?"
"She's fine. And doing a beautiful job as a mother, I might add."
The girl who'd been dumped at the altar and had been crying in her beer when he'd scooted his barstool over was a mother now? A twinge of some emotion he didn't recognize tickled his gut. So much for her solemn, if tipsy, pledge to never trust another man. He, on the other hand, had honored his drunken, divorce-papers-fueled vow never to trust another woman.
"She's married, then,” he murmured. Probably went back to her runaway fiancé. “Good for her."
"No, no.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Gretchen isn't married."
He stiffened. “She's divorced?” Poor girl. Dumped again.
"No, she's never been married. She hasn't even dated much since she moved back home to Ohio."
"Huh.” He frowned in confusion.
"Would you like to see a picture of my goddaughter, Gretchen's little girl?"
"Uh. Sure.” Kids weren't his forte. And to see the child Gretchen had with her next lover? Weird.
She rummaged in her purse, and pulled out a bi-fold wallet. Opening it, she held it out.
He reached for it, and gazed down at the child's image.
"Her name's Amy. She's four."
Daniel brought the wallet a few inches closer. Her eyes looked familiar. Damn the plastic sheath. He started to pull the photo out of it, then remembered himself, and with the edg
e of the picture between his thumb and forefinger, glanced at the woman. “Do you mind?"
"No."
He eased the photo out.
His breath caught in his throat. Good God.
"I—I better get going."
He gaped at the photo.
"There are photographers here, and I don't want to end up in the news as your latest date,” he heard her say, around the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “My husband wouldn't find that funny."
He became aware of her tugging on it, and reluctantly released it.
"This probably won't happen,” she said, as his gaze followed her every move in putting away the photo and wallet, “but if you happen to run into Gretchen, don't tell her I mentioned her. I promised I wouldn't.” With one last look, she started backing away. “Oh! Congrats on your award."
Turning, she headed for the stairs.
Daniel stared after her, not seeing her. That photo, that image of the little girl, had burned itself into the front of his brain. She had his mother's eyes, with their tilted edges and earthy brown color. Prune eyes, he remembered his mother joking as she pointed from hers to his. Yeah, Gretchen's daughter looked a lot like the faded photos of his mother as a child, in the few albums he and Sam had been able to save.
What was he thinking?
No way. They'd used protection.
Sometimes protection fails. And she's the right age...
He turned and stalked blindly toward the hallway, nodding when some guy congratulated him. On what? Oh, yeah. The award.
He passed the men's restroom, and returned to shove the door open. No one was inside. Good. Heaving a frustrated breath, he went to the sink, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face.
He stared into the mirror as water trickled down into his tux collar. Me, a father?
A surprise pregnancy might explain Gretchen's hasty departure from him, and from the city. He'd just figured by her vague “Dear John” letter that she wasn't that into him.
Had he gotten her pregnant? No. Come on. You were together a few times, for a couple of weeks. That's some other brown-eyed guy's kid.