The Millionaire's Secret Baby

There was no easy way out.

Telling him about the pregnancy would clearly lead to him knowing about Emmylou Brown, and that would lead to absolute heartbreak.

But not telling him just wasn’t right.

That’s how she found herself in the San Antonio parking structure of his office building.

Emmy knew he’d be here…. The question was, would she get out of the car when he arrived?

He emerged from the elevator.

Do it now, she thought, forcing herself to step outside to intercept him.

“Deston.”

Dear Reader,

Spring might be just around the corner, but it’s not too late to curl up by the fire with this month’s lineup of six heartwarming stories. Start off with Three Down the Aisle, the first book in bestselling author Sherryl Woods’s new miniseries, THE ROSE COTTAGE SISTERS. When a woman returns to her childhood haven, the last thing she expects is to fall in love! And make sure to come back in April for the next book in this delightful new series.

Will a sexy single dad find All He Ever Wanted in a search-and-rescue worker who saves his son? Find out in Allison Leigh’s latest book in our MONTANA MAVERICKS: GOLD RUSH GROOMS miniseries. The Fortunes of Texas are back, and you can read the first three stories in the brand-new miniseries THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS: REUNION, only in Silhouette Special Edition. The continuity launches with Her Good Fortune by Marie Ferrarella. Can a straitlaced CEO make it work with a feisty country girl who’s taken the big city by storm? Next, don’t miss the latest book in Susan Mallery’s DESERT ROGUES ongoing miniseries, The Sheik & the Bride Who Said No. When two former lovers reunite, passion flares again. But can they forgive each other for past mistakes? Be sure to read the next book in Judy Duarte’s miniseries, BAYSIDE BACHELORS. A fireman discovers his ex-lover’s child is Their Secret Son, but can they be a family once again? And pick up Crystal Green’s The Millionaire’s Secret Baby. When a ranch chef lands her childhood crush—and tycoon—can she keep her identity hidden, or will he discover her secrets?

Enjoy, and be sure to come back next month for six compelling new novels, from Silhouette Special Edition.

All the best,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

The Millionaire’s Secret Baby

Crystal Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the energetic, enthusiastic, and consistently inspirational

people of www.eHarlequin.com! From the Daily Online

Serial to the Teahouse to the Bat Cave to the Hollywood

Boards: You all give me a great reason to write. Special

thanks to Beverly “Gazpacho” for Emmy’s Scalloped

Tomatoes with Pearl Onions recipe. There will be

many happy tummies because of you!

CRYSTAL GREEN

lives in San Diego, California, where she writes for Silhouette Special Edition, Silhouette Bombshell and Harlequin Blaze. When she isn’t penning romances, she loves to read, overanalyze movies, pet her parents’ Maltese dog, fence, do yoga and fantasize about being a really good cook.

Whenever possible, Crystal loves to travel. Her favorite souvenirs include journals—the pages reflecting everything from taking tea in London’s Leicester Square to wandering the neon-lit streets of Tokyo.

She’d love to hear from her readers at: 8895 Towne Centre Drive, Suite 105-178, San Diego, CA 92122-5542.

And don’t forget to visit her Web site at http://www.crystal-green.com!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“You’re going to get burned, darlin’.”

At first, Emmylou Brown thought the voice—a rough drawl scratching along the low, smooth edges of Texas Hill Country—was just part of the blank sleep she’d drifted into.

Disoriented, she opened her eyes and stared at the endless blue sky. The limestone ridge overlooking the swimming hole abraded her bare back, and her head swam from the heat of the sun.

The voice continued, tinged with wry amusement. “You might want to turn over. The weather’s got some scorch to it.”

Okay, this was no figment of her imagination.

She settled herself up on her elbows, glanced in the direction of the voice. Caught her breath.

The man sat on top of a chestnut quarterhorse, forearm propped on his saddle horn as he inspected her lazily. Scuffed boots with the heels hinged in stirrups, faded jeans stretching the length of his legs, a denim shirt covering wide shoulders and a powerful chest, a Stetson tipped over his cocked brow. Pure cowboy.

Except Emmy knew better.

She gulped, unable to say a word, a ridiculous attraction from years past freezing her in place.

Deston Rhodes.

Did he know who she was, even though they hadn’t been on the ranch at the same time in twelve years?

Her stomach somersaulted, scrambling itself into a mishmash of jubilation. His attention warmed her through and through. She’d fantasized about him since childhood: Deston, sweeping her into his arms like she was a blessed princess, him murmuring, “I always did have my eye on you, Emmylou.”

But as he grinned at her, she realized what he must really be seeing.

A pint-sized twenty-four-year-old waif in frayed jean shorts, the ones she’d torn the legs off of when they’d become too holey to wear in public. A girl wearing a too-tight, worn hankie top purchased from a last-chance sale in a San Antonio mall seven years ago—before she’d left Wycliffe, Texas, to expand her culinary horizons.

She sat up, crossing her arms over her clothes. But she couldn’t hold back a vulnerably hopeful smile. The boss’s son had finally taken note of her, had finally seen past her dull sheen of poverty. Hallelujah!

It was almost too much to wish for.

His horse shifted, and Deston moved with the disruption, his thigh muscles flexing as he controlled the animal without much effort.

“They told me you were somewhere on the property, and it’d be polite to reintroduce myself,” he said. “I’m Deston. The grown-up version, that is.”

So he did recognize her.

He waited, obviously expecting her to return the greeting.

But she was still tongue-tied. The Deston Rhodes was talking to Emmy as if they’d been pals, as if she wasn’t the daughter of the late Nigel Brown, Mr. Rhodes’s personal butler, or as if she wasn’t the girl who’d take over for her mother, Francesca, in the kitchens someday.

Odd. Life on Oakvale Ranch usually didn’t work this way. The upstairs people didn’t consort with the ones downstairs, especially if they were the daughter of a man who had lost his family’s nest egg in bad investments. A good man who'd left a wife and child to keep on struggling in debt, even after his death.

Oh, my.

Deston's gaze was coasting over her body, and the hairs on Emmy’s limbs tingled with the thrill of it.

Was he checking her out?

She needed to act as if this were an everyday occurrence.

Coolly tilting her head toward the sun, she said, “It’s good to see you again, Deston.”

“Likewise.” He paused, burning her with his direct stare, his topsy-turvy charm. “You know, I’m trying to think of why I ever called you Lemon Face.”

Emmy’s wishful thinking burst. He’d had a secret nickname for her and it was… “Lemon Face?”

“Don’t look so thunderstruck. Don’t you remember? I used to tease you about, well, everything, and you’d make this awful expression. Like you were sucking on lemons.”

Wait. Deston had never teased Emmylou Brown. Ever.

They’d never even exchanged a word. She’d been just one of many servants’ children, and he’d been a future millionaire in the making. Heck, she’d never even made eye contact with him, afraid of what she’d find embedded in his gaze: derision, distance, emptiness.

All the hope, all the happiness of finally being acknowledged by her childhood crush abandoned her in one big sigh.

He thought she was someone else. Some lucky socially-equal playmate from days gone by.

Of course, that’s it. You’re nothing but a convenience to all the Rhodes family. They don’t even know you exist except for your cooking.

But she knew better. She could be so much more than that. Someday.

Emmy closed her eyes, blocking him out. For a second there she’d preened under his girl-you-grew-up-good gaze. She’d been someone who mattered to him.

Well, it was time to set him straight, to go back to reality. She prepared to tell him who she was, to watch as disinterest stiffened his spine to a more Rhodes-like posture of entitlement. Wasn’t it unfortunate that she couldn’t be his old friend, the woman who’d caught his eye? A person who’d probably never had to hide hole-gouged sneakers under a school desk in utter shame. A girl who’d probably never had a teacher try to slip her lunch money because she’d “forgotten” it three days in a row—when, actually, Emmy had stuffed the dollars her mama had given her back into her parents’ stash, knowing it’d do more help there than in her stomach.

Even now she appreciated the irony. A cook’s daughter, going without a meal.

When she opened her eyes again, he was still watching her, and Emmy almost melted all over the rock.

“Damn,” he said. “You went and got prettier on me. You’re sure not the Lemon Face I recall.”

She sure wasn’t.

With a this-could-have-been-so-beautiful grin, she turned over on the rock, away from him, resting her chin on her fist. “I’m not the girl you think I am.”

She heard him chuckle, slide off his mount, rustle around as he secured the horse to a tree. “All right. So maybe you’ve grown out of the nickname. Hell, a lot of things have changed since we were kids.”

Well, that hadn’t worked. She was talking literally, and he wasn’t.

His boots crunched over the fallen oak leaves, the birds cutting off their warbling as he passed them. “My parents said you’re leaving the ranch today. I’m sorry I haven’t been to many dinners in the big house or barbecues on the back lawn. Business swallowed me right up. But you understand, I’m sure, being a Stanhope.”

Stanhope? The name sounded vaguely familiar, probably because it denoted one of a thousand guests who’d stayed at the ranch. Emmy spared him a glance from her prone position, her heart clenching.

The man of her youthful dreams, framed by a thicket of juniper and a passel of butterflies dancing around a tuft of hackberry. A knotted rope that the servant kids had used long ago to swing into the spring-fed pond dangled in front of him, and he reached out for it, fisting the hemp. The tendons in his forearm strained, leading up to the bunched muscles disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. With the other hand, he whipped off his Stetson, revealing brown hair, green eyes. A football-hero grin.

“At least you recognized the old swimming hole,” he said.

Would he be standing here, shooting the breeze, flirting, by gosh, if he knew she was below him?

No. The senior Mr. Rhodes would never stand for it. And neither would her self-confidence, actually.

But this was a moment she’d always fantasized about. Could she get away with just talking with him, living a dream for a harmless few minutes?

She swallowed. What the heck. She’d never get this chance again.

“I thought this place might offer some peace and quiet.” Was that her with the siren voice? It was so easy to be someone other than Emmy. “But then you appeared.”

Deston pretended to stumble back, hand over his heart. “Hey, if I’m infringing on your good time, I’ll get going. But at least I got you to turn over before your front was fried to a crisp.”

“I’m much obliged.” See, this was no big deal, having a normal conversation with a demigod.

“Don’t mention it.” He stepped out of the shade, into the sunlight, nearer to her. “Anything else I can do?”

“You can fetch my water.” What a fun turnabout. A Rhodes serving her. This had to be the first sign of the world’s demise.

He shrugged, came closer, grabbed the bottle and held it out.

Emmy hitched in a breath. She’d never seen him this close before. Sure, she and her friends—other kids whose parents served on the ranch—had peeked through bushes at the Rhodes boys: Harry, with his untamable cowlick, Deston, with his shirttail always trailing out of his pants until Mrs. Rhodes would tuck it back in and shake her head at his carelessness. The girls would giggle to each other, every one taking a turn at imagining ways that Harry or Deston would propose to them.

In a jet to Monte Carlo? On a ballroom floor? On a yacht?

They’d played their hide-and-sigh games until Harry and Deston had each gone off to prep school. Then college. Mama had told Emmy that Deston had come back to San Antonio a few years ago to become a businessman just like his father.

But, by then, Emmy had gone off to complete her own destiny, reluctantly using the gift of her parents’ life savings in order to train for the job she’d always been expected to assume.

But now, Deston was right here, so close she could lift her hand and touch the long spiky strands of his hair. So close she could smell a hint of sage on his tanned skin, see it in the green of his eyes. There was a slight dimple in his strong chin, too, and a touch of stubble slinking along his jawline.

“Thanks,” she ribbeted, doing her best impression of a toad. Grabbing the water, she fiddled with the top, hating that he made her feel as if she was always craning her neck to catch sight of him. A boy on a pedestal.

Now a man.

Oh, yeah. All man.

He crouched next to her, setting his Stetson on the limestone, waiting.

What should she do? Emmy wasn’t exactly a world-class flirt, especially after what had happened in Italy…. Not that it mattered now. Nope. It was just that she’d heard about all Deston’s brief romances from the servants, who’d caught her up on every detail the minute she’d walked through the downstairs door.

Talk to him, she thought. Chat, just chat.

“So,” she said, buying time. How did his friend act? Did he even know, not having seen her for years, either?

He grinned, his gaze brushing over Emmy’s short, layered hair, over the curve of her back. Goose pimples winged over her skin.

“I’ve kept up on your life,” she said. Good, that much was true. She’d stick to basic gossip, keeping the situation as innocuous as possible. “You were such a football star in school. Quarterback, right?”

He lifted up a hand in resignation, glanced away. “That’s over and done with.”

“Why didn’t you keep at it? You were supposed to be pretty good.” He’d been the best. She knew because she and her friends, Carlota and Felicia, had faithfully followed the papers, the gossip.

“I always knew I was meant to run Rhodes Industries one day,” Deston said. He grabbed a twig from the ground, bent it, straightened it. “But my family gets a lot of mileage out of the whole Longhorn quarterback mystique.”

“It does add prestige to your business image, doesn’t it?”

He snapped the twig, tossed it away. Stood to his full height. His body cast a shadow over Emmy, all harnessed strength and dark memory.

“Isn’t that why your father wanted to spend time here on the ranch?” he asked. “Because he wanted to talk statistics and relive a few glorified touchdowns?”

Her Papa? Nigel Brown, bless him, was thirteen years gone. And he’d be miffed by his daughter wanting to be anyone other than what she was born for.

She opened her mouth to correct Deston’s assumptions, but he was talking again.

“That’s how Edward Rhodes the Third draws them in, with promises of pigskin glamour and riches beyond imagination.”

A threat of bitterness laced his words. She knew about Mr. Rhodes, how strict he was about running the ranch, the staff, the polished reputation of a millionaire family.

She couldn’t see Deston’s face, thanks to the sun’s angle. Good thing, because once she revealed she wasn’t from the Stanhope family, she didn’t want to see his reaction.

There was a loud thrashing from across the swimming hole, and they both glanced over to see what had caused the racket.

A white-tailed deer had emerged from the foliage, gracefully walking along the water’s edge.

“Look,” Emmy said, momentarily lost in the sight. It’d been a long time since she’d been in Hill Country, and she’d missed it terribly.

The animal sensed them, stiffened, then burst away in a flash of legs and brown hide.

Deston leaned down, casually plucked at the knot that held together the back of Emmy’s hankie top, then stood again. “Come on, let’s make the most of your last day here, Lila.”

He started to unbutton his shirt.

Lila. “Hey, I—” Her mouth clamped shut.

He’d whipped off the material, revealing tanned skin, work-honed muscles, abs that you could grate cheese on. When he undid the fly of his jeans, Emmy averted her eyes.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Heavy denim thumped in front of her, bodiless.

Oh, mercy. He was—as her mama might say—nudo, wasn’t he?

Unable to help herself, Emmy peeked out of the corner of her gaze. She caught a glimpse of white boxers. Phew. Or maybe not. No, definitely phew. The last thing she needed was to be out in the middle of the boonies with a buck-naked boss’s son. She’d get Mama fired in a second flat after what had happened a few years ago between Harry Rhodes and the maid, and, Lord knew, Mama needed every penny….

“You just gonna sit there?” Deston asked.

Emmy nodded, staring straight ahead. Should she concentrate on her book now? Like Water for Chocolate, something she’d read and used for recipes a million times before.

“Suit yourself.” He whisked by her, body arching into the pond like a switchblade cocked open.

Deston obviously knew the depths of the swimming hole from his youth. When the servant kids had played here, they’d vacated the hole at the first sign of a Rhodes.

Emmy had never seen him swim, never seen him knife upward in a spray of droplets. The water sprinkled onto her arms, and she leaned backward.

“Hey!”

He laughed, clearly having the time of his life, slinging the hair out of his eyes with one whip of his head, pushing into a backstroke as he aimed another burst of water at her.

“Come in,” he yelled, turning over and swimming away.

Moisture sluiced off the sinew of his back, trickling over the smooth taper of muscle flowing into waist. His boxers were plastered to the rounds of his backside, hugging the indentation right below his hips. She could imagine fitting her palm there, tracing the ridges of him.

Emmy watched him move effortlessly, athletically, parting the water before him. Diving beneath the surface, he disappeared.

She inhaled, spellbound, while fingering a fringe on her old, ugly shorts.

He’d asked her to come in. With him. Her. Emmylou Brown, a girl who was no more important than a piece of furniture in the Rhodes sitting room.

But what if she could be more than that?

Years ago, with Paolo, she’d asked the same question, and the answer had cut the heart right out of her.

This time though, what if she really could pretend she wasn’t poor-girl Emmy? What if she could convince Deston she was an equal before he could guess who she really was?

Emmy bit her lip. And what if she could do it by being Lila Stanhope, even for an hour?

She crept closer to the edge of the stone slab, wondering if she’d be brave enough to dive in.

Underwater. Peace.

That’s all Deston wanted. The silence you could hear below the pond’s surface, where nothing existed but the present, the sunlight waving through the water.

He held his breath, lungs near to bursting, then with a thrust of energy, surged upward, breaking toward the sky.

The first thing he saw was Lila, one of his father’s ranch guests. He faintly remembered her as a kid, but something had happened on the trip from the blurry Lemon Face of his recollection to today’s woman. Now, she had a smile that lit up from the inside, brightening her dark cocoa eyes, her dusky skin. Even her hair was a point of light, short, shaped into bouncy layers. It looked like ginger to him. Ginger with vanilla streaks flowing over the strands near her face.

Damn, he hadn’t remembered Lila Stanhope being such a beaut, just a girl with stringy brown hair and a nondescript stare. If he’d known that she’d turn out so gorgeous, he might have agreed right off the bat to what his father had been nagging him to do for a week now.

If you act sweet on her, Mr. Rhodes had said in his lecture voice, business with the Stanhopes will go much smoother.

Deston was a sight too old for lectures. At the age of twenty-nine, he was ready to think for himself. Had been for years. And he’d come to the conclusion—all on his own, if that could be believed—that courting Lila Stanhope in the name of corporate interests was not his style.

His father’s eye had once again turned to the Stanhopes. That’s why Deston hadn’t seen Lila lately. Because Mr. Rhodes had lost interest in Stanhope Steel.

Until now.

Deston would do anything for his family. Work long hours, forgo a personal life in the process. Anything, except go against his own instincts.

Instincts. Bothersome jabs of fear that had everything to do with Juliet Templeton—the woman he’d loved and lost so tragically—and nothing to do with logic. His “instincts” kept him sane, and they were telling him to steer clear of Lila Stanhope.

She was perched on the stone slab, hovering above the water, looking as high-strung as that deer they’d seen flit through here.

Instincts. But why couldn’t he just enjoy her smile for the time being?

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

She answered with one of those sunburst flashes. He’d never seen a person light up that way, especially the socialites he was normally with.

“You can swim, right?” He glided nearer to her.

“I don’t know if I want to get my hair wet.”

“Priss.”

“Excuse me?”

Now he’d done it. She settled her petite body onto the rock’s edge, sent him a dignified glance. In spite of her clothes, retro hippie wear, he decided, she carried herself as if she was wearing silk and diamonds.

“I get it,” he said, treading water. “You’re going to punish me.”

“By…?”

“By judging me from on top of your mountain. Cut a guy a break. I came out here to get away from wheeling and dealing.”

“I see. You just wanted to clear your brain.” She tilted her head, and something lethal kurplunked into his gut.

“I’m not cooperating very well, am I?” she asked.

He ignored his common sense, moved closer, to just below the rock. “I promise I won’t splash you anymore.”

She swung her shapely legs, leaning forward to see him, small, firm breasts pressed against the near see-through material of her summer top. If he looked hard enough, he could see the faint darkness of her nipples, the way they beaded against the cotton. He yearned for just a touch of them.

Grasping her slim ankle, he commanded, “Breathe.”

She’d reared backward, eyes widening. “Don’t you d—”