Page 2 of Daddy's Rules

Chapter One

Jordan

Two weeks earlier

I step into Dad’s office. The house is too quiet and still, but Dad’s office is the worst. It reminds me he’s gone. I feel a lump in my throat even though he was never much of a father to me. When he was home and I was there to visit, both of which were rare, he was always on the phone, typing madly on his laptop, or pacing with a scotch in his hand learning his lines.

I used to watch him, in awe of his energy. Even in his late sixties, he had more energy than I do in my late twenties. The empty office makes my stomach ache. Not only at the loss of the Hollywood legend, and my father, but at the last conversation we’d had. His words echo in my mind.

“Jordan, you’ve got to grow up. It’s time you start making something of yourself. You can’t live off my hard work all your life. I won’t be around forever and the way you spend money...”

I swallow the hurt the memory brings and walk to his leather chair, putting my hand on the smooth surface. He didn’t mention the money I made as a child star in a popular sitcom and two blockbuster movies. Maybe because he forced the roles on me, but more likely because my mother took off with the money when I was twelve.

He was right about one thing though. He wasn’t around forever. I feel my legs give way and I sink to the carpet near his chair. In my blurred vision I can see the cubby beneath the desk and remember hiding under it with my dolls while he worked. One of my stepmothers or my nanny would be searching for me, but I just wanted to be near my dad even if he didn’t notice I was there. I only got to stay with him a few times a year because he was usually on set somewhere too far for me to visit and when I was older and my mom was gone, he put me in boarding school.

He’d provided for me though, spoiled me with material things. I can’t survive without him now because he gave me everything I ever wanted. Especially after my mom ditched and he became my only parent. Everything but him.

“Jordan?”

It’s Owen’s voice at the office door. My heart thumps.

Owen... my dad’s lawyer and friend. He’s much younger than my dad was but still a lot older than me; almost twenty years older.

And I’ve been in love with him from the moment we met—a few months before my nineteenth birthday when I stayed at my father’s place the summer before university.

“I’m in here.”

I peek through the desk at him and see his tall sexy form. His serious brow makes my chest flutter, and his stern blue eyes beneath turn my limbs to jelly. His lean, but muscular body walks boldly toward the desk.

“Jordan?” He shakes his head but it seems to be in amusement. “Are you under the desk?” He’s brilliant and well-spoken, and I could converse with him for hours. I’d always been drawn to his patient kindness and firm demeanor, but once I was out of university, my thoughts turned from innocent to erotic and when he scowled at my attention-seeking antics and told my father I needed a firmer hand, my fantasies went to a whole new level. I’ve imagined him lecturing me in his smooth voice and drawing me over his lap for a spanking. A sensual shiver shoots through my body and I’m glad to be unseen beneath the desk.

I always craved boundaries and pushed limits. I wanted real attention. I wanted someone to stop me from my behavior. I wanted to know someone cared about me enough to want what was best for me. My father only brushed off what I did. But Owen... Owen never let me get away with my immature decisions.

I take a deep breath and crawl out from the desk, looking up at him.

“Hi.”

Owen gives me a small concerned smile, which only makes my eyes well with tears. He walks to me and sinks into a squat. When he touches me, tucking my hair gently behind my ear, electric tingles scatter through me. The familiar masculine scent of sandalwood and musk makes me feel safe and secure. My belly flutters when he cups my face and I blink back the tears.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, but this isn’t the time to be playing under your father’s desk.” He cocks his brow in humor and his warm voice makes a lump rise in my throat. No one understands my pain or what I need like Owen.

I nod, suck in a breath, and wipe my face. I don’t have to worry about makeup because for once I didn’t bother. Instead, I’d wrapped a pashmina shawl around my head and shoulders, wore huge sunglasses, exited through the maintenance entrance of my building, and went through the back door of my father’s. The media knows today is the reading of the will so the vultures are scavenging for the perfect sound bite. Today more than any other day, I wanted to be invisible.

He helps me to stand and I look up, staring a little too long at Owen’s face. His dark hair is interwoven with a tinge of silver at the sides and the crinkles around his eyes indicate both an easy humor and a wisdom that comes from experience. My gaze roams his body, over his muscled physique, broad shoulders, and crisp suit. Today he wears dark gray with a gorgeous silk striped tie, something designer that brings out the blue of his eyes.

Lawyer to the stars, he always looks spectacular. Although he’s overshadowed by the famous people he represents, it’s still important to him to look good. Today he’ll be reading my father’s will.

“I knew I’d find you here, and I wanted to talk to you before the reading.” He smooths his large hand down my arm. A tremor runs through me. “It’s about the will.”

I hold my breath.

“I don’t want you to be shocked,” he says.

“Okay,” I say in an exhale and wait for him to explain, but Denzi Marlow and my previous stepmother, Lucinda, breeze into the room arm in arm interrupting us, their bright chatter and expensive perfume preceding them. It seems Father’s lovers have formed a bond. I want to puke. The smiles on their faces prove they never loved my father for more than his fame and fortune. Yet they’d always had his attention.

“Aw, my sweet Jordan.” Lucinda drops Denzi’s arm and comes to me, all false sympathy painted on her actress’s face. “Honey, you can’t wear this.” She plucks at my baggy tee and then looks scandalized at the lack of proper polish on my bare toes. God, who cares if my toenails aren’t painted?

I look at Denzi’s Jimmy Choos, gather a breath, and look away. Whatever.

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