by Stasia Black
The Virgin and the Beast
By Stasia Black
Copyright © 2017 Stasia Black
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
“You can’t fire me!” I stare across the desk at my boss, shocked. When he called me in here this morning, I thought it was to talk about a promotion. Which, considering everything that’s happened over the past two weeks, would be some very welcome news.
“I’m your top earning junior associate,” I sputter. “I single-handedly closed the Johnson account.”
“An account which we’re about to lose because of your father’s association with this company through you.”
“I’m not my father,” I say through gritted teeth. “I have nothing to do with his company.” He made damn sure of that over the years. Van Bauer & Sons is strictly a male-only operation and has been for three generations. No daughters allowed. A thought which still rankles me even now, though I should be thanking my lucky stars I’m not caught up in the scandal and FBI scrutiny.
Dan shakes his head at me, the fluorescent light shining off his bald spot. “It just doesn’t make for good optics to have a Van Bauer associated with our company right now, Melanie.”
He can’t be serious. “Look, I’m happy to change my name. Legally, if that’s what it takes. But I just bought an apartment in Manhattan, I can’t afford to lose this j—”
“Your father defrauded some of the most influential people in this city,” Dan cuts me off, slashing a hand through the air. “Not to mention the thousands of regular Americans who lost their pensions to his scheme. New World Media and Design cannot and will not be associated in any way with Frank Van Bauer. You’re out. Today.”
My mouth drops open, ten rebuttals on my tongue. I glance down, momentarily distracted by the giant New World Media and Design paperweight Dan has on his desk. It’s a horrible logo, created from a giant round-tipped arrow shooting up out of what I think is supposed to be a mountain range?—the whole thing just looks incredibly phallic.
In stressful situations, my mind likes to focus on super useful details like this. But really, what am I supposed to say to that? That it’s completely unfair. I’ve spent my entire professional career trying to make it on my own instead of leaning on Dad’s business connections. And I’ve done it, too. I’ve fought tooth and nail to climb the corporate ladder since I graduated early from Brown six years ago. To prove I could do it, that I was just as good as the son I know Dad always wished he’d had.
And now?
If this is any indication, I’ll never be able to work in this town again. And Dad, he’s facing jail time. As in, a life sentence.
I bite back the threatening tears, knowing if there’s one rule above all others, it’s never to let the bastards see they affect you. Any emotion, especially tears, in a corporate environment will be mocked as womanly weakness and held against you for years.
I stand abruptly and hold my chin high. “This is wrongful termination.”
Dan looks at me disdainfully. “I already told you we almost lost the Johnson deal over this.”
I can’t help but swallow hard at that. Only weeks before Dan was falling over himself praising me for bringing in the multi-million-dollar contract.
“Your very presence at the company weakens our brand, which gives us perfectly legal means for termination. Not to mention that the CFO himself personally lost millions to your father’s little scam. Be glad you’re leaving with a severance package, Ms. Van Bauer.”
He stands and leans over his desk. “Now remove your things immediately. Your ID badge will be deactivated at noon.”
I grit my teeth together and start toward the door. Take the high road, Mel. They go low, you go high.
At the last second, I twirl around. “The company’s logo looks like a penis and balls. Just an FYI.” I smile sweetly and then stomp out the doorway.
***
When I get down to my office, all of my coworkers are eyeing me like I’m a contestant on the latest reality show about to head for the chopping block. God, did everyone see this coming except me? I knew it was bad when the news broke about Dad a week and a half ago.
Bail was set at one and a half million dollars. The bank froze all his assets. I was only able to pay it by not only using up everything in the savings Grandpa left for me but also by putting a second mortgage on the apartment I’d just bought. Not imagining that I’d have any suddenly dramatic life expenses, I’d put a lot of cash down on the place, so I had some equity in it… Which I then needed right back to get my father out of prison.
I bang into my office, ready to throw my things in a box and get the hell out of here as fast as possible.
But I stop in my tracks when I see a stranger sitting in one of the two chairs across from my desk. He’s an impeccably dressed older gentleman. I was always around wealth growing up, but over the last few years especially, I’ve learned to pay attention to the small details that differentiate true wealth from the cheap imitation of it.
So I recognize the elegant tailoring and fine cloth that indicate this man’s suit was custom made and expensive. And the fact that his cufflinks appear to be real gold, maybe an heirloom. Grandpa used to have some like that. The man’s black wingtips are polished and expensive. I always check men’s footwear when sizing up a potential client.
This guy is real money. The serious kind.
Too bad I didn’t pay more attention when Dad started wearing knock-off Louis Vuitton shoes a few years ago after Mom died. She’d left him years before but he was always stupid over her.
I knew he was struggling. I just thought it was personal—I never dreamed the business was in trouble, too. Once when I dropped by to check on him, I caught him at home, drunk at eleven a.m., sitting on his couch in nothing but his boxers. It was obvious he’d been crying.
He yelled at me to get out, and Dad never yelled. Then he didn’t talk to me for a whole month. When he finally invited me out to one of Manhattan’s most exclusive restaurants for dinner—a place you go to be seen as much as for the exquisite cuisine—he was in his most expensive suit and smiling his salesman’s grin. Business was good, he was hobnobbing with the rich and famous, and all was well in the world.
Or so it seemed anyway. He always put on such a good face. I had no idea he was digging himself deeper and deeper until it all toppled like a house of cards.
“Sorry,” I say to the stranger, suddenly feeling the weight of reality like a lea
d weight on my shoulders, “All my appointments today are canceled.” I lift my hands. “As of ten minutes ago, I’m no longer employed here.”
“You are Melanie Van Bauer?” the stranger asks. When I nod, he stands and holds out a hand to shake. He’s of medium height, maybe pushing seventy, with a full head of neatly cropped white hair.
“Yes,” I say, drawing out the word as I reach forward and take his hand.
“You can call me Owens,” he says with a pleasant smile, giving my hand a firm shake before releasing it. Then he gestures for me to sit behind my desk. “Please, sit. I have a business proposition to discuss with you.”
I tilt my head sideways at him. “Look, I just told you I was fired. I don’t know what kind of—”
“Your father is going to be imprisoned for the rest of his life,” he starts with no preamble. “Probably for multiple consecutive life sentences once all the gory details of his Ponzi scheme are trotted out in the court of public opinion. That sort of thing is not supposed to affect the jury, but we both know this will be tried in the news for months before it ever makes it to the courtroom. The public is crying for blood and believe me, no one treats a man who steals the retirement pensions of nice little old ladies well in prison.”
Oh God, not another one. I’m so not in the mood for this.
“Get out.” I point toward the door. Dad and I have been harassed ever since the news broke. People camp outside my apartment, flinging accusations and worse—I got pelted with a tomato a few days ago. A bag of dog crap the day before that. We’ve been getting death threats over social media and in the mail.
I seriously don’t need this bullshit right now. “I don’t know who let you in here but I’ll call secur—”
Mr. Owens holds his hand up. “What if I told you that you could spare him all of it? That it’s within your power to help him?”
I pause with my desk phone mid-air, about to dial security. What the hell is this guy talking about?
Seeing my hesitation, he hurries to continue on. “I have an interested third party who can get him to a non-extradition country and set him up comfortably for the rest of his life.”
I bark out a laugh and look around. “What is this? You have the office bugged and you’re trying to get me on tape saying something incriminating? I told you bastards I had nothing to do with his company and no matter how deep you dig, you won’t find me anywhere in the records.”
I turn around and speak to the wall, carefully enunciating every word. “Daddy dearest didn’t think a girl was good enough to work at his precious real estate company. So guess what? I never stepped one foot on that property or touched a single file on any of his computers.”
“There’s no trap, Ms. Van Bauer,” Mr. Owens says calmly. “And there’s no need to raise your voice. I’m happy to prove my identity, though at this time I cannot reveal the name of the party I represent.”
I turn back around to him. And he really doesn’t look like he’s joking. In fact, this guy looks so stoic and serious, I’m not sure he’s ever laughed at a joke in his life.
“Here are my credentials.” He produces some papers from his inner jacket pocket and hands them to me. “Feel free to Google me, as they say.”
I check out the fancy, embossed watermarked papers. They bear both his name, Francis Roger Owens III, and the company name, Owens, Jenkins, and Rosenberg Trust.
I take his suggestion and pull out my phone to look him up. A few taps later and it becomes clear that Owens, Jenkins, and Rosenberg Trust is one of the top New York wealth management firms. When I search images, I see the man in front of me standing at the Met Gala with half of New York’s elite. There’s a picture of him with Mark Zuckerberg. And one with the actor from that famous zombie show.
I look up from the phone, my mouth going dry. “What exactly is it you’re proposing?” And why is such an obviously powerful man coming to the daughter of an infamous investment broker?
He smiles. It’s the smile of a man who knows he’s about to close a deal. Not kind or unkind, just the lift of both sides of his mouth and the glint in his eyes that say whatever deal he’s about to offer, I’m in no position to say no.
“It’s a small thing, really, when you compare it to saving the rest of your father’s life. He had you when he was so young. He’s only forty-nine years old. One hopes he has equally as many years left to live.” Mr. Owens leans forward. “You can make all those years a gift to him. He can live a life of luxury instead of enduring God knows what in a super-max prison facility.”
Oh shit. Why is he still pitching? It’s not good when someone sells and sells the pitch without talking costs.
“Bottom line,” I say, cutting him off when he looks like he’s going to keep spouting BS about what a wonderful life Dad’s going to magically have without paying any consequences for destroying the lives of all those people.
Mr. Owens smiles again. “All my client is asking for is what could be as little as a year of your life. A year of your life to give your father the rest of his.”
“Doing what?” I demand, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
Mr. Owens drops the smile and pulls a contract out of his briefcase. He slides it across the desk to me. “My client needs an heir. You’ve been vetted as an acceptable candidate. You will stay at his residence and sleep with him until you come to be with child, then remain until you give birth. Then both you and your father are completely free of debt. In fact, you’ll be well compensated for your time. And the federal government will never be able to touch your father for the rest of his natural life.”
What the—
Sleep with?
Give birth?
He can’t be fucking serious.
He gives me that let’s-close-a-deal smile again, then pulls a pen out of his briefcase and holds it out across the table for me. “If you’ll just sign here and here,” he indicates two places on a long contract, “then we can get started.”
Chapter 2
I stand up as tall as my 5’6 frame will allow—well, 5’8 with my killer two-inch heels—and stare Mr. Owens down with every bit of haughty contempt bred into me by three generations of wealth and privilege. “Get the hell out of my office.”
“I’ll just leave this with you while you think it over. Here’s my number.” He produces a card, also from his inner coat pocket, and lays it on the contract. “But do call soon. My client is a man of…” he pauses as if looking for the perfect word, “peculiar habits. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I scoff in outrage and sweep both the contract and card into the trash beside my desk. Because while there’s all that WASP breeding in my DNA, there’s also my mother’s Latina blood in me. “Well, you can tell your client to go stuff it because I’m not a prostitute or baby mama or whatever the hell you think—” I break off, shuddering at the thought of all of it. Having sex? With some disgusting stranger?
This is just fucking insane. How dare this man, however powerful he is, come in here and basically offer me a job as a prostitute? Dad being in the news so much has officially brought out all the crazies.
“Get out!” I shout.
Mr. Owens doesn’t seem fazed by how upset I am. He just steps back from the desk and taps his wristwatch. “Tick tock, Ms. Van Bauer. Only forty-five minutes before security will come and physically escort you from the building. Better get packing.”
With that, he turns and heads for the door. But not before tossing over his shoulder, “I look forward to your call.”
***
I walk in the door to my apartment at a little before two in the afternoon. I couldn’t find a box, so I had to stuff my large purse with all my belongings. It’s bulging so much I have to hold it in front of me like a papoose to keep everything in.
Like a baby.
I shudder even at the thought.
I hate babies. I mean, that sounds bad, but I never want to be a mother. Lord knows my own mom was a bad enough example to put me
off the idea forever.
God, that guy propositioning me like that was the most insane thing I’ve ever experienced. And that’s saying something, considering I just learned two weeks ago that Dad tried to pull off the biggest Ponzi scheme since Madoff.
“Mel?” calls my dad’s voice in a panic. “Melanie, is that you?” Dad rounds the corner of my foyer and his face crumples in relief. “Thank God. Why haven’t you been answering your cell?” He’s wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt stained with last night’s spaghetti sauce. He looks like a shadow of his former self.
I stare at him confused. “My battery probably died. What’s going on, Dad?” I drop my purse with a loud thump.
He rushes forward and grabs me in a crushing hug. “I tried your office line too, and no one answered. You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”
He squeezes me even tighter. Okaaaaaaaay. Dad and I are close but we aren’t exactly the touchy-feely type. I can’t remember the last time he hugged me.
“I got fired.” No point in beating around the bush. Unlike him, I can’t keep up a perfect sheen that everything’s a-okay when in reality it’s going down the shitter.
He takes a step back. “What? Why? You’re the best damn ad account manager they’ve seen in years.”
I just stare at him. I’ve never heard such high praise from him.
Then I heave out a sigh. “Daddy, I—” How do I tell the father I’ve always tried so hard to impress that I got fired from my dream job because of him? Because of the Van Bauer name?
He waves a hand but then the same hand is quickly raking through his hair. “None of that matters right now. We’ve got bigger problems. Everything’s just—”
He’s scaring me. All of this came as an insane shock when it blew up two weeks ago—my dad, the man I’d looked up to forever, defrauding all those people, lying to me, to everyone, for years.
He starts pacing back and forth in the entryway and finally heads into the living room. I follow him. All the blinds are drawn and the TV is muted, flashing some cable news show. Used plates and junk food packages litter the coffee table.