Page 1 of Daddy's Billionaire Broker

GRACE

The appetizers were set out, the cocktail mix was chilling, and I had rearranged the flowers twice. Smoothing my hair in the reflection of the microwave, I sighed. I just wanted to get this stupid thing over and done with so I could go back to my room and read for the rest of the night.

It was strange for my parents to make such a fuss over Dad's boss coming over for a drink. I supposed they were keeping things from me – yet again.

I'd always thought that Mom was a homemaker simply because she loved it and Dad made enough money that our family was fine with just one income. Then three months ago I found out that she had never planned on a career, because her parents always told her she would come into a sizable inheritance when she turned twenty-one, and wouldn't need to work.

I didn’t like to think that my mother had taken the easy way out. I preferred to dream of the day that I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.

Which was definitely going to involve a career of my own.

When the doorbell rang, Dad came racing out of his "office". It was his bedroom now, really: my parents were in the process of separating, but they were too nervous to tell me the truth for some reason.

Dropping a bit more ice into the cocktail pitcher and glancing at the clock, I hoped this drinks thing would take less than half an hour. I was in the middle of an amazing thriller and really wanted to get back to it.

After waiting a few moments for Dad to greet the stockbroker who was now apparently the most important man at Blue Street Brokerage, I wiped my hands and came out of the kitchen.

Then I stopped, as suddenly as if I'd run into a glass wall.

I'm not sure what I had been expecting, but it wasn't the man that Dad was showing into the living room.

Instead of some bland, anonymous businessman, I was instantly lost in deep, piercing brown eyes set in a face that looked like it had been sculpted by someone intent on creating a masterpiece. High cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, and unbelievable full lips that were turning up in a smirk as I realized I was staring at him.

"This is my daughter, Grace," Dad said, as I forced my feet forward.

"Jack Harrington."

Oh my. That rich, smooth voice did something strange to my insides.

Instead of a suit, he was wearing trim slacks that showed off his incredibly fit body, and a dark gray button-down shirt that stretched slightly across his broad chest. He was younger than Dad, maybe in his mid-thirties.

He extended his hand, and I shook it automatically. Did he hold my hand for longer than necessary, almost caressing my fingers? Or did I imagine it?

"I know that you have another event tonight, but hopefully we can tempt you with a few snacks," Dad was saying.

Jack sat on the couch beside the easy chair, making it clear that he wanted Dad to sit there. My only choice was to sit in the other easy chair that was a bit too far away to be social, or sit beside Jack.

Dad gave me a pointed look, so I sat on the couch, close enough to be polite.

Part of me wanted to jump into the man's lap and purr like a kitten, hoping that he would touch me again. The other half wanted to run away. I wasn't used to feeling this electrified around someone.

Jack Harrington wasn't exactly Dad's boss. He was the top broker at the firm, not the CEO. But the other top broker was retiring this week, making Jack a big deal, and Dad wanted to be sure that Jack knew him and liked him.

Personally, I thought that made Dad look like a weasley butt-kisser, but nobody ever asked for my opinion.

Dad poured cocktails, then started chatting, hell bent on imparting his life story to the poor man.

Jack began nibbling at the fancy snacks I'd prepared. I absolutely adored cooking mini-food, finger food, things that people found surprising. When Jack's eyebrows raised after the first bite of a raspberry walnut tartelette, I felt a rush of pride.

Upscale but fun party snacks were my secret superpower.

I sipped at my cocktail politely, waiting for the main event.

Right on cue, Mom swept into the room, practically twirling in her floaty dress that was cut a bit too short. She squeezed in between Jack and I, immediately getting in his space.

Then she and Dad started going on at length about the horrors of renovating our modest house. Somehow she made it sound as if she had bravely won a battle, and was a saint for not moving somewhere larger.

I moved over to the other easy chair to watch with amusement as Jack faked his way through the conversation.

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