Single Dad's Hostage: A Fake Marriage Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Dean

  Camille

  Bonus Content

  Reid

  Sandra

  Sneak Peak: Single Dad Next Door

  Liam

  Aubrey

  Also By Penelope Bloom

  Single Dad’s Hostage

  A Fake Marriage Romance

  Penelope Bloom

  Contents

  1. Dean

  2. Camille

  3. Dean

  4. Camille

  5. Dean

  6. Camille

  7. Dean

  8. Camille

  9. Dean

  10. Camille

  11. Dean

  12. Camille

  13. Dean

  14. Camille

  15. Dean

  16. Camille

  17. Dean

  18. Camille

  19. Dean

  Epilogue

  Bonus Content

  Prologue

  20. Reid

  21. Sandra

  22. Reid

  23. Sandra

  24. Reid

  25. Sandra

  26. Reid

  27. Sandra

  28. Reid

  29. Sandra

  30. Reid

  31. Sandra

  32. Reid

  33. Sandra

  34. Reid

  35. Sandra

  36. Reid

  37. Sandra

  38. Reid

  39. Sandra

  40. Reid

  41. Sandra

  Epilogue

  42. Sneak Peak: Single Dad Next Door

  Prologue

  43. Liam

  44. Aubrey

  45. Liam

  46. Aubrey

  47. Liam

  48. Aubrey

  Also By Penelope Bloom

  1

  Dean

  I throw back the bourbon, not even feeling the burn. Jerry’s bar always plays the music too loud, and tonight it’s only intensifying the pounding headache I have. I know Jen is at home with my idiot brothers, so I shouldn’t stick around much longer, but right now I’m not in the state of mind to be around my daughter. She doesn’t need to see me when my mood is this black.

  Fifteen fucking years building my company and I walked away.

  It had to be done, but I lost a piece of myself when I gave it up. All the time and energy I put into my company and I just handed it over to Peterson--here you go, bud, go easy on her, she’s worth a few billion.

  I shake my head, draining the last of my bourbon.

  I’m not feeling sorry for myself though. No, it’s not self-pity or sorrow that brought me here. At least, not because my company is gone. I’m just pissed at myself for taking so long to see what was right in front of me, what I should’ve seen from the start. Hell, I should’ve probably left the day my little sister, Jessica, died. Maybe I kept at it to distract myself from the pain. Maybe. Fuck if I know.

  “Another, Mr. Sharp?” asks Jerry. He wears a white towel over his shoulder and motions the bottle of bourbon toward my glass.

  Jerry’s is a local place and aside from an occasional brawl or sporting event, it’s a relatively tame spot. Tame and normal. At a place like this, I can forget about the billions of dollars to my name and the life that comes with it. When I come here I can slow down. I can fucking breathe. I can imagine a life where there are still challenges and things out of my reach. I spent my whole life overcoming every last thing that stood between me and the top, and at some point there were no more obstacles. I had everything a man could strive for--more money than God, a company that could practically run itself, a beautiful daughter, and an empty bed.

  I shake my head, turning toward the sound of raised voices to my left.

  “Let me go,” demands a woman with dazzling hair like pure gold. Every strand catches the dim light and casts it off in an almost metallic shimmer. The light in the bar is low, but she’s a head turner--no, a fucking neck breaker. She has a long dancer’s neck and the dress she wears hugs her full ass and the swell of her tits like a glove. When she yanks her arm away from the guy trying to grab her arm, I get a glimpse of her face. High cheekbones. Long, dark eyelashes and a man could get lost in those large eyes full of fire and… something else. Her full lips quiver and she rounds on him. “I said let go,” she snaps.

  I’m standing between them before I realize I’ve decided to act, muscles tensed and arm outstretched toward the man. He’s shorter than me, but has enough muscle to stretch the flannel button down he wears. He looks like the kind of guy you might see hauling bricks or riding a motorcycle--hard eyes, a small, cruel mouth, and short black hair.

  A small crowd of half-drunken onlookers is forming, but no one else seems to be willing to step in and protect this woman.

  The guy she’s with shoves my chest, but I plant my feet firmly, refusing to budge. “Fuck off,” I say. “She asked you to let her go.”

  I’m still between the two of them, and his attention is focused straight through me, laser hot on the woman with the golden hair. Protective instincts explode inside me with frightening power, making me wonder how far I’ll go to protect this woman. Too far.

  “Don’t,” she says, gripping my shoulder from where she stands behind me. “He’s--”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls, trying to reach past me for her.

  I’ve never been much for hesitation or thoughtful deliberation. And I don’t hesitate now. Not for a second.

  I throw a wicked hook that snaps his head to the side like a kid’s toy. He staggers back, reaching to touch his jaw and aiming a look of pure, dripping hatred at me.

  The knuckles on my right hand pulse with the memory of impact. I’ll be happy to make more memories with this asshole, too, if he hasn’t learned his lesson.

  He wipes a trickle of blood from his mouth and sniffs. “That was a mistake,” he says, rushing forward. The woman still shields herself behind me, so I decide to end this quickly before she can get hurt.

  I step into his charge, taking his momentum and laying him out on his back hard enough to make the glasses on nearby tables clatter. He gasps, sucking in strained breaths.

  “Stay down,” I advise.

  He’s stupid though, and he starts rolling to his side, trying to get up.

  “Stop!” pleads the woman.

  I think she’s telling him to stop trying to get up, and pull my arm back to hit him again, but small hands grip me by the elbow.

  “Please, stop,” she says, moving past me to help the man up, who’s wiping at the blood pooling below the new cut I gave him on his cheek. “Sean, are you okay?”

  He lets her help him to his feet and then shakes her off as if he didn’t need her help. “Get the fuck off me,” he shouts at her. He grips her by the cheeks with one hand, smooshing her lips together as he pulls her close to whisper in her face. “Think you can embarrass me? Wait until we get home. Just fucking wait,” he hisses before clutching the back of her neck and leading her outside.

  There’s a hushed silence after he leaves. It lingers a few seconds before the din of conversations resume and the clink of glasses drowns it out. Not their problem. Not anymore. Show’s over, folks, time to move on with your days.

  Not this time. Not for me.

  I storm outside, watching them get into a beat up red truck. I get in my Bentley and turn the engine on, gripping the steering wheel as I try to work through the decision forming in my mind. The taste of bourbon is still on my lips, but any buzz I had was wa
shed away by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Without another thought, I pull out of the parking lot and follow them. I know Jen is still waiting for me at home, but my brothers are visiting for the week and I’m sure they’re enjoying the quality time with her, anyway.

  It’s only about ten minutes before the red pickup pulls into a motel parking lot. I watch the man get out of the vehicle as I pull into a parking space a discreet distance away. The woman tries to get out before he can reach her, but the man catches her by the scruff of the neck, practically throwing her toward what I assume is their room. They argue about something, mouths moving quickly and hands gesturing wildly.

  The man’s arm flashes out and the woman is knocked to the ground by the force of the slap.

  I grip the steering wheel like I’m trying to break the fucking thing in half, and if I had any doubts about what I’m going to do, they just went up in smoke.

  2

  Camille

  I sink down to the sidewalk outside the motel, face throbbing, but I barely notice. As messed up as it is, I hardly ever notice the physical pain anymore. I guess that part of it can get numb pretty fast. I wish wish my emotions would follow suit. I stand up, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to prepare myself to go inside where I know he’ll be waiting to finish what he started.

  Walk away. Leave him, urges a voice in my mind, but I stopped listening to that voice a long time ago, somewhere between the first time he hit me and today, whenever it was that he broke me.

  I won’t walk away. I’ll go inside, he’ll hit me again, and some stupid, absolutely insane part of me will become obsessed with making him forgive me, because I’ll convince myself it was my fault. I’ll want nothing more than to make things right between us again, and I’ll feel sick and dirty the whole time... until he eventually decides to hit me again. The cycle. Two years of this, and nothing has changed, except every time I feel more numb, more broken, more hopeless.

  “Camille,” calls a voice from inside the cracked door. “Don’t fucking make me come out there to collect you. It’ll only be worse. You know that.”

  I gather what’s left of my courage, body shaking. How many times have I tried to break things off with him? How many times have I told him it’s over and he hasn’t let it be. God. I’ve lost count, haven’t I? I’m trapped in this. If I leave, I think he might actually kill me. If I stay, he might kill me too.

  A car door slams in the distance, but the sound doesn’t really register. My hand is on the doorknob. My heart pounds. My breath catches. No tears come from my eyes anymore, and if a stranger were to look at me now, I’d probably look calm and composed to them, although I’m sure the burning patch on my cheek is an angry, bright red by now.

  I start to pull the knob when a hand clamps down on my shoulder like iron. Obey. It’s an old instinct. An instinct I’ve had to develop quickly to survive with Sean. Faster than thought, my body responds to strength like a deer in the headlights. Don’t provoke the anger.

  But when I turn my head, I see the man from the bar. The gorgeous stranger. He wears a dark suit that looks expensive and worth every penny. His shirt is charcoal gray, and his tie is black. There’s power in his forest green eyes, but not the kind I’m used to. It’s not a cruel, oppressive power. It’s confident, purposeful, and intelligent. The expression he wears is of determined concern, not a desire to hurt me.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  “I can’t,” I say, voice so quiet it might be mistaken for the breeze.

  “I’m not asking,” he says, taking my arm and pushing me firmly but gently away from the door, toward his car.

  “He’ll kill me,” I whisper.

  He pauses, taking me by the shoulders and looking into my eyes. “He’s done hurting you. He’s fucking done.”

  An unexpected tear rolls down my cheek and I shake my head, frowning down at the small wet circle that forms on the front of my dress as it falls. I want to believe him so badly it hurts. The words sink into me, clinging on for dear life in my broken heart. I know if he’s lying to me, I’ll never be whole again. “I can't,” I say again softly.

  He pushes against my back again, trying to urge me forward, but I can’t make my legs move. The hold Sean has on me is too strong, too ingrained. I try to turn back toward the motel, but the man picks me up as effortlessly as if I were a child, walking me to his car.

  I can only watch, like this is all happening to someone else. My vision of the dimly lit parking lot bounces with every step he takes. Wet patches from last night’s rain glisten with the broken reflection of the motel’s blinking neon ‘vacancy’ sign. I see his car. It’s clean enough that I can see my reflection in the black doors. I can see the distant, haunted look on my face and it’s like looking at a stranger.

  He sets me in the passenger seat and reaches to buckle my seatbelt. I stare forward blankly, bracing myself against the storm of emotion threatening to overwhelm me.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  When I don’t respond, he turns the key and backs out of the parking lot. I watch the motel shrink in one of the side mirrors, and I know I haven’t seen the last of Sean. I know it like I know the sun will rise tomorrow. Sean is a constant in my life, and I can’t even imagine a future without his hold over me.

  “He’s not going to hurt you anymore,” says the man.

  “He will,” I say quietly.

  His hand grips my knee, and I flinch away from the touch. He pulls back at my reaction, frowning. “Maybe we should start with names,” he says. “I’m Dean.”

  “Camille,” I say. “Am I your hostage?”

  “Until I’m convinced he’s not going to hurt you and you’re not going to go running back to him, yeah, you’re my hostage.”

  I cross my arms, trying to summon up the willpower to hate this man. What gives him the right? “I didn’t ask to be saved,” I say.

  “If you asked, you wouldn’t be my hostage right now.”

  This man… I don’t care if he’s stunning. I don’t even care if that body of his probably looks even better without the suit. I’ve been dealing with my problems this long and the idea that someone can just walk into my life and rip me away from them is insulting. If it was that easy to fix, I would’ve done it a long time ago. Wouldn’t I?

  “I don’t need your help,” I say.

  “Agree to disagree.”

  I make an irritated sound. “And what happens if I try to run away? You going to shoot me?”

  He gives me a mysterious look. “You want to find out?”

  I sink back into my seat, glaring out the window. Maybe I will try him. He looks like a hard man, but he doesn’t look like the kind of man who would hurt me. I’ve been around enough cruel men to know one when I see it. His eyes aren’t cold like theirs. This is a man who hurts to protect, not to overpower or control. I just need to wait until he lets his guard down, then I’ll slip away.

  “There is one thing,” he says half an hour later as we pull up to a wrought-iron gate with a large, embellished ‘S’ designed into the metal. “You’re going to have to pretend to be my fiancée.”

  I stare at him, mouth hanging slightly open. “You can’t be serious.”

  He smirks so faintly I think I might be imagining it, and I hate how good it looks on him. He turns to me, green eyes somehow managing to sparkle in the near darkness of the car. “I’d say it’s a long story and refuse to explain, but it’s actually pretty simple. My daughter has never liked it when I bring women around. I may have told her I had a serious relationship going for the past few months so she didn’t think I was avoiding women on her behalf. I said the woman lived across the country and made excuses about why she couldn’t come see us here. And--”

  “You want me to pretend to be this woman?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “It’s not a request. Either you play nice, or I’ll lock you in the basement until I’ve had time to talk you out of going back to that asshole.”

  “Fu
ck you,” I say, reaching for the door handle.

  He clicks the locks and watches as I pull uselessly at the handle. “Let me go,” I say with forced calmness.

  He shakes his head. “Hostage, remember?” he says.

  “Let. Me. Go,” I say, breathing heavily.

  “I’d be a pretty shitty kidnapper if I just let my hostage go because she asked nicely, wouldn’t I?”

  “I want out of this fucking car!” I shout. A helpless, confused anger explodes within me. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m swinging my fists at him, trying to hurt him, trying to convince him to hear me.

  I mentally brace myself for the retaliation. I expect the shocking pain in my face or my back or the tight grip around my throat. I expect the angry words and threats, but instead he just catches my blows, and instead of shouting he only shushes me gently in a way that drains the anger from me like air from a balloon. He puts a strong hand on my back, pulling me close so my arms are pinned between us and I’m leaning over the stick shift of his car.

  He’s hugging me close while my tears stain his expensive suit, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay now. He’s done hurting you. It’s over.”

  My sobs grow more frantic, more out of control. “I’m so scared,” I whisper.

  “I’ll protect you now. I promise.”

  He holds me until my sobs fade a few minutes later.

  “If I let you go,” he says. “Are you going to try to hit me again? You’re stronger than you look, you know. That right hook hurt.”

  I laugh a little, sniffling. “I won’t hit you again. For now,” I add.

  “Good,” he says. “So what’s it going to be?” he asks, pulling through the gate and leading us down a winding driveway surrounded by perfectly trimmed bushes on either side. “Fake fiancée or the basement? Your call.”

  I swallow deliberately, looking at my hands twisting in my lap, trying and failing to wrap my head around the last half hour. How bad would it be to pretend? Would it be so bad to lie that I’m happy, to pretend that my life isn’t a shameful series of bad decisions and weaknesses? Maybe not. And whether I’m pissed at this man or not for sticking his nose in my business, I can’t deny there’s a comfort in his presence, like a warm fireplace on a cold night. If I get too close, maybe I’ll be burned, so why can’t I help inching closer? The thought of stepping back outside on my own grows more frightening by the minute.