The Virgin and the Beast (Stud Ranch 1)

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 lead 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.”

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nbsp; “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—