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The Millionaire Daddy Project by Roxanne Snopek   Copyright © 2015 by Roxanne Snopek. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

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?”