CHAPTER TWO – BECKETT
The window at the top floor of Sand Corporation building had a wonderful view over downtown LA. My office is at the top—I am, after all, CEO of Sand Corporation, for what that’s worth. According to my latest chat with my finance people, that is quite a lot. At this moment, all that thought did was add to my stress. I leaned forward in my leather desk chair and sighed.
“I still don’t believe I’m going through with this.”
I ran my fingers through my dark hair. I was quite at home at a board meeting, confident presenting ideas in front of halls of people. I was really quite at home giving a speech. But the thought of what I was getting into made my palms damp with anxiety.
I was about to hire a wife.
Even I think this is ridiculous. I shudder to think what anyone else might say if they knew!
I chuckled. Beckett Sand didn’t really care much for public opinion: of my hotel chain, yes, but not necessarily of me. I was used to weathering media slurs. I’d been doing it for the last decade and a half. The only person whose opinion still had power to hurt me was Estella’s. My daughter.
I hope she’s okay with this when she finds out.
I sighed. It was because of Estella that I was doing this. That was the ridiculous part. My hand moved involuntarily to my phone, then I forced it to relax. I didn’t need to stress about that too, now. I had got over the late nights of waking in a cold sweat, the drinking a brandy, then two, to stifle the dreams and the worries that kept me from dreaming. I did not need to think about that now, did not need to face my worries for my daughter’s safety. I sighed.
I did have to face them. Now more than anything. Because I had received another message that morning.
Damn these people! My hand clenched into a fist again and this time I did not try to stop it. Everything in my life had been going well before they arrived. My company, which started when I was twenty, was finally going wonderfully after almost twenty years. I was a multimillionaire, with a beautiful film-star wife and the most stunning daughter—then fourteen—that I could imagine. That was when my past had come out of the dark basement to hound me.
And they still, three years later, would not leave me be.
This is why I’m doing this. To protect Estella from what I had been. I hadn’t managed to save Lacey, my wife, well, she was okay, but my marriage was the sacrifice. Now I would save Estelle.
“Mr. Beckett?”
I looked up at my secretary, Mrs. Douglas, a discreet knock at the door-frame attesting to her quiet presence. It was one of the reasons I hired her in the first place—she was genteel and efficient. The silent type.
“Yes?”
“It’s about five minutes before interview, Mr. Beckett. If you want to go to the office…” she trailed off, knowing I understood.
“Yes, Mrs. Douglas.”
I sighed and got smoothly to my feet. I rolled my shoulder. It had frozen.
I need to get to the gym and fix the thing. I rolled it a few times, feeling thick muscle draw it back, and smiled to myself. I didn’t do too badly for a desk-job man. I shrugged into my blazer and headed into the glass-fronted room behind the small boardroom.
That was where I could see the interview, unobserved.
I settled down at the one-way mirror that made one window of the other office, leaning back in the chair and trying to get comfortable. I had made this office because it was useful, sometimes, to be able to attend the the occasional meeting without anyone knowing I was there and observing. People spoke freely in my absence. I had learned more from their honest opinions than I might have done from their inhibited ones. It had been very helpful over the years.
I had never thought to use it like this before.
Feeling desperately uncomfortable, I settled into the leather desk chair, a book and pen before me. Though taking notes was a habit rather than a necessity, I chuckled at myself for having them with me today. I sat back and waited for the interviewee to arrive.
My heart thudded and my hands were sweaty. I told myself I was being ridiculous, but could I help it? No. I felt somewhere between a voyeur and a man awaiting execution. Excited, aroused and terrified.
The door opened. Mrs. Douglas came in with the head of HR—a tall, severe looking woman named Mrs. Chalmer. The interviewee came in behind them both.
Wow.
That was my first thought.
The woman following Mrs. Douglas was not tall, but she carried herself with a posture that made her appear so. She had dark hair and dusky lips and huge eyes.
It was the eyes that got me. As she sat down, she glanced around the room, eyes settling on the mirror. Somehow, they looked into mine.
Caramel-brown, about two shades paler than her hair, they dazzled me. They gave an earnest prettiness to a face that would otherwise have been serenely lovely.
I was captivated.
Okay, not saying that the rest of her didn’t play a role. She had a stunning figure—curves, absolutely delicious ones—large bust, short but well-proportioned legs. And that poise would have made her beautiful no matter what she had looked like. She walked like a dancer.
I glanced at her CV, reminding myself. She was a dancer. That was one of the reasons I had picked her from all those who had applied to the vague-sounding job description. I needed someone used to acting.
I shook myself, forcing myself to pay attention to the interview.
“…and it says on your CV that you have acting experience.”
“Dancing experience,” her voice cut across Mrs. Chalmer. She had a nice accent. Refined, slightly clipped. I liked it.
“Oh,” Mrs. Chalmers sounded discomforted. I grinned. Sometimes I liked to make her fidget a bit too. She was desperately serious, a quality I at once admired and couldn’t resist teasing just a bit.
“I worked on Broadway,” the woman explained quietly. “So it’s a bit difficult to know what to classify it as. Dancing, mostly, with a slight frosting of acting on top.” She smiled confidently.
Smart answer. I was starting to like this woman.
“Oh,” Mrs. Chalmers said again. If I were Ms. Morris, that sound would have made me nervous. Apparently, the same couldn’t be said for her.
“I have my portfolio, if you’d like to see it?”
She sounded confident and hopeful. Whatever was in that portfolio, she was sure it was good. I would have asked to see it. It could help to get to know her better. Mrs. Chalmers coughed softly.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh?”
I wanted to laugh, but risked discovery. The poor woman looked so surprised, and a little put-out. I saw her nose wrinkle as she started speaking again, as if she had smelled something that disagreed with her.
“We have seen samples of your work online, Ms. Morris,” my HR specialist continued relentlessly over whatever Ms. Morris had been about to say. “W found it satisfactory, else you would not be here. Now, what is your reaction in a challenging situation?”
As the interview wore on, I tuned out the routine questions. Upon further reflection, I should have paid closer attention. But I couldn’t help it: I was mesmerized by the candidate. And considering what the job was, I could see my point.
She will look really presentable. Okay, more than presentable. Great. I wish I was better with sizing, then I could get something made up in advance for our first outing.
Because that was, after all, the central most important part of the plan. I must appear to have a wife. We would not actually marry, though the media would have their feast taking pictures of us doing everything but take actual vows. Those would be private. So we didn’t do them.
I smiled to myself. My PR people had been discreetly leaking the news to the public that I was dating again.
That way, Ms. Morris appearing on the scene will be no great surprise. And she has a background where it is just possible I would have met her at a premiere or something. Perfect.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a raised voice.
“…yes, Mrs. Chalmers. I accept that it is company policy. But I find that question offensive.”
My ears went up at once. She must have asked the important question: Any recent relationships?
“Ms. Morris,” the reply came back, with a layer of ice that would have been good in a drink, but not on a voice. “I hesitate to remind you—since it should be obvious—that we are at an interview. There is no need to raise your voice here.”
I saw Ms. Morris blink. I thought that had subdued her a moment, but it seemed she was just preparing for a fresh attack.
“Well, if this is an interview, I find that the policies of Sand Hotels are not in alignment with mine,” Ms. Morris said. “Good afternoon.”
Before I could comprehend what was going on, she was standing up, collecting her things and heading back out.
“Wait!”
My heart sank. I had just profoundly given myself away.
Mrs. Chalmers turned and looked at me, one perfect brow arched in query. She was inspecting me as if I might have lost my mind. I probably had. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted her to stay.
She looked at me. Caramel-brown eyes locked with mine.
“Excuse me,” she said in a voice that was quite small and proper. “Who are you?”
I felt a little light switch on inside me where before all had been dark. “Good afternoon,” I said, unable to keep a grin off my face. “I’m Beckett Sand.”
What are you going to make of that, Ms. Morris?
I tried not to smile as I waited for her answer.