The Millionaire's Secret Baby

Too late. He gently tugged, bringing her into the water, catching her before she went all the way under, holding her body flush against his.

Neither of them moved, not for a long moment. It was as if she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing—the cotton puckered to her breasts, outlining every curve as well as the hardened buds in the center of them. Beads of moisture trickled from her collarbone onto his thumbs.

The contact warmed his blood. It’d been so long since he’d held a woman like this—so innocently, but with a flame of expectation licking the surface of his skin. Something untouched, deeply hidden, stirred inside, competing with the hunger, wanting to be fulfilled, too.

Hell, no. Juliet had killed that part of him when she’d died. She’d turned out to be someone he hadn’t known at all, and the betrayal had altered him forever.

In order to sweep that yearning back into its dark place, he purposely allowed Lila to slide down the length of his body, slowly, water making their skin slick, heated.

There. Lust, pure and simple. Uncomplicated by emotions.

One of her legs tentatively wrapped around him as they came face to face, those breasts rubbing against his upper chest, tearing him apart from the inside out as that unnamable something refused to die. God, he didn’t want to face it again.

Both of them were breathing raggedly as he hesitated. He was an experienced guy, at least as far as sex was concerned. He knew what came next. So why wasn’t he doing it?

Another moment passed, filled with the song of birds, the flutter of a dragonfly’s wings as it beat past them, the smell of juniper, grass and…her. A mixture of cinnamon, sweet spices.

This was wrong to lead her on when he couldn’t promise anything more than an afternoon of canoodling. He had too much work to worry about and, in one week, he’d even be relocating to New York to oversee business there.

Lila Stanhope seemed too nice for that kind of love-’em-and-leave-’em charade. Too innocent to deal with his demons. She was the daughter of a corporate associate. A business deal. A commitment.

He loosened his hold on her, but his hunger for more tenderness didn’t abate. It merely rested. Waited.

She paused, as if mortified by his silent retreat. Then she braced against his chest, lightly pushing away, creating further distance between them with a deft backstroke.

“That was mighty assertive of you,” she said.

He liked her sense of humor. From the moment she’d told him to fetch her water bottle, he’d been drawn to her spirit. “It runs in the family.”

“Right. The Rhodes clan. Vicious oil tycoons. Claw-wielding corporate devils.”

“Not straight out of the gate. Edward the First, Great-great-great Granddad, was quite the gentleman.”

“Do tell.” She’d backed against a limestone cliff face to hold her up. The wet ends of her hair left dark trails near the snail fossils etched into the surface.

“You want a history lesson?” he asked, relieved by the possibility of small talk.

She raised her eyebrow and nodded. He’d bet that she was doing everything possible to cool the tension between them. But he couldn’t forget the feel of her leg clenching him against her, the sight of her breasts.

Might as well humor her before she went running to daddy about the big bad wolf in the woods, just like she used to.

“All right then. Edward the First was a third son of a duke, so of course he had no hope over in grand ol’ England. He ended up over here in Texas, right before the War Between the States, and managed to finagle some land. He did a pretty decent job of raising cattle. But when the Great Depression rolled around and William Rhodes had the honor of taking over the family business, they had to entertain ‘dudes’ to keep the ranch solvent. We got rid of the city folk about fifty years ago though. No more need for them.”

“Aren’t we high and mighty?” She was too damned cute with her brow arched like that.

“Why’re you offended? I’ll bet you could outclass any dude by being able to distinguish one end of a horse from the other. Or maybe you just have a yen for hay rides and sing-alongs.”

“My sentimental side does cry out for a good square dance every so often, I have to admit.” She paused. “So your fortune wasn’t made off dudes.”

He’d sidestroked away from her. “Right. Back in the day, we invested in land north of here, and we struck oil. Millions were made, and that’s when the family started acquiring businesses.”

“And more businesses. And…”

They both laughed knowingly, and he shook his head. “If I’d known you were so sociable, I’d have straightaway locked my office up tight and hurried back to Wycliffe to meet you again.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “You’ve got the markings of a workaholic. See, you’re even thinking about your next takeover right now. The Stanhopes, right? It’s in your eyes.”

“What?”

“There’s a distance about you.” She glanced away. “But what do I know?”

She’d seen it. His worst fear, hiding, dodging.

Maybe he was becoming as ruthless as his father.

Deston’s hands clenched at the water.

He wouldn’t ever be like Edward Rhodes the Third: a hard man mired in family tradition. A man who would stop at nothing to get ahead.

Even his marriage had been nothing more than another merger, and Deston could see how the arrangement ate away at the old guy.

Lila started paddling toward her rock, glancing over her shoulder, pausing before getting out. Modest?

Her shyness prodded him, made him way too damned impetuous—just like he’d been with Juliet Templeton.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said. A tight laugh followed. “It’s one way to get me out of the office.”

Lila merely stared at him, brown eyes saucer-like.

“Lila?”

She blinked. After a few seconds, she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“That’s right. Your family’s leaving. But you could stay behind.”

With a flutter of speed, she climbed out of the swimming hole. Then, with her back to him, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body.

Her absence already needled him, twisting in his belly. But why should he care?

“There’s a gazebo about a half mile from the big house. I’ll have the cooks whip up something for us tonight. At, say, eight?”

She stopped all movement, then retrieved her book and water bottle. “I—”

“—will be there,” he finished for her. What the hell? As long as both of them understood that this would be a fling—he couldn’t tolerate anything more—no harm would be done.

Lila was fumbling into a pair of threadbare Keds, ignoring him.

“I’m going to wait for you,” he said, intrigued by her coyness.

She stepped toward the trees, toward the path back to the main residence area. “Don’t wait for me.”

“I will.”

She shook her head. “Are you really that arrogant?”

“That’s how I do business.”

“I’m not business.” She opened her mouth again, then shut it. With a dismissive gesture, she traipsed into the woods, leaving him alone.

But that was nothing new.

Deston looked in her direction for a few seconds more, then submerged his body underwater again, giving himself to the silence.

Chapter Two

Even now, safely inside her quarters one hour later, Emmy’s pulse was still thudding in her ears.

She donned the white baseball cap she usually wore in the kitchen, then blew out an anxious breath. What had she been thinking, leading Deston on like that? There’d been more than one chance to tell him who she was, but she hadn’t taken it. She’d been too caught up in all the fantastic possibilities, all the flattery and dreams come true. What girl wouldn’t love the opportunity to linger—even briefly—under the attentions of the perfect man?

Not that it mattered anymore. The afternoon had almost burned itself out. She was back to her normal life, and Deston would go back to his after she didn’t show up for dinner tonight. After all, how serious could he be about the entire scenario?

Even now she couldn’t believe it’d happened.

Emmy found herself smiling like a fool. She’d captured one beautiful moment in time with him, and now she could preserve it, press it between the pages of all her silly romantic wishes.

Really, she hadn’t felt so darn giddy since Italy, when she’d first met Paolo while taking a sunset walk along the village streets of Tocchi. But the happiness hadn’t lasted. Neither had the illusion of being something more than a menial cook, born to serve.

Par for the course. She didn’t wear this “Lila” deception well. It felt like a Halloween costume that was one size too small, cutting off her common sense and dignity.

Dignity? Her giddiness faded. Right. If Emmy had any dignity whatsoever, she’d use the lot of it telling Mama she’d serve in the Rhodes’s kitchens only until all their loans were finally paid off. Then she’d move on, away from this life. Away from Deston.

Unfortunately, her own outstanding debts included Mama’s life savings, which meant Emmy owed her more than just dollar bills. She hadn’t wanted to dig into the “school money” her parents had managed to cultivate, but Mama had insisted, saying that it’s what Papa would’ve expected.

For her to serve the Rhodes household to the best of her ability. Certainly, there was something to be said about pride in doing your best work, but Emmy wanted to do it in a restaurant of her own. She could just imagine it: Francesca’s. Named after Mama. Serving Tuscan-inspired food and spirits.

Another fantasy. Another dream to keep her going.

How could she break Mama’s heart by leaving the ranch? By rebelling against a life her family had chosen back in the 1800s when Winston Brown had served Edward Rhodes the First when they’d forged a dynasty here in Texas?

As she left her room and walked the long path to the kitchens, Emmy knew that she’d been born to follow in the footsteps of her legacy. And she’d make the best of it, doing Mama proud, living up to her dad’s memory, paying her dues as well as Papa’s medical bills and remaining debts.

Bills the Rhodeses had never known about.

The big house—a mansion, to be honest—topped a slight hill overlooking the Medina River in the near distance, the flat grasslands with their scattered oaks and juniper, the steep slopes and canyons. Most of the servants who worked in the house stayed “underground,” downstairs, but Emmy was lucky enough to enjoy a cottage located in back of the mansion. It had belonged to her parents, and since Mama was near retirement, she’d allowed Emmy to take it over. A gift to the new cook.

She took a slight detour and wound her way through one of the flower-garden paths. It was something she hadn’t done since six years ago, before she’d left for Tocchi, Italy, at age eighteen, where a distant cousin had taken her under her wing to mentor her in cooking. There, she’d worked in their family trattoria for a few years; that is, until she’d met Paolo. After she’d pieced herself back together sufficiently, she’d gone to New York, taken advantage of financial aid and earned a Culinary Arts Diploma at the Institute of Culinary Education.

But now she was home again.

“Que tal, baby?” asked a chipper voice.

Emmy smiled at her new visitors. Carlota Verde sashayed into the rose garden, accompanied by her best friend, Felicia Markowski. Both of them worked as maids in the big house. Both of them had grown up with Emmy, too. All of them had nursed crushes on Deston. “The D-Liteful Fan Club” they’d called themselves, scribbling rhyming poetry in their shared diaries, writing letters about ranch life and rumors about the boys once Emmy had left them. They’d also banded together at school to ignore the popular girls with the tight designer jeans and Miss Texas smiles.

Felicia surveyed Emmy, the maid’s blond ponytail shimmering in the sun. “Look at her. Em, you got some real sun today.”

“I decided to take advantage of the time off before I take over in the kitchens.” Emmy’s skin doubled in heat output, and she knew the color of it went way beyond the burn of today’s swimming-hole nap.

“Em?” Carlota asked, bending down to catch her friend’s down-turned gaze.

Heck, the stone path had been fascinating. Why did Carlota have to go and ruin her view?

Big brown sloe eyes narrowed as Carlota led Emmy’s gaze upward once again. “Something’s already wrong because you’re wearing your oh-oh face.”

“Oh-oh as in Italy oh-oh?” Felicia asked.

“Kind of,” Emmy said. She frowned, mainly because she knew that if she didn’t come out with the truth now, Carlota was bound to “feel” it anyway. “But it’s nothing I can’t nip in the bud. Not like with Paolo.”

“Paolo,” they both said, shaking their heads. Felicia slid a compassionate baby-blue gaze over to Emmy. Carlota, well, she just looked as though she was about to throttle Emmy for losing her regained strength this soon.

“I don’t need a psychic vision to know where this is leading,” the brunette said.

And she wasn’t joking. Carlota was born with the gift of sight, much to her frequent regret. The girls had grown up with her eerie portents, her bad nighttime dreams.

Emmy shifted her stance, tucked her hands into the pockets of her white cargo pants. “I suppose I’ve got another oh-oh situation on the horizon. I ran into Deston today.”

“Deston Rhodes,” Felicia sighed, ever the romantic optimist.

Carlota shot her an amused look. “So? Tell us everything.”

They all drew closer together.

“I was at the old swimming hole, just minding my business, when he rode up on his horse.”

“Prince Phillip in Sleeping Beauty, finding the princess hidden in the woods. He was lovely,” Felicia said.

“He was a cartoon,” Carlota said. “Go on, Em.”

Emmy didn’t take their Deston-drooling very seriously. It’d been more of a bonding exercise for them anyway, until they started getting real boyfriends. She linked arms with Felicia, and the blonde grinned at her.

“He started chatting with me,” Emmy said, “as if he was a host at a dinner party making small talk, conducting business.”

“Of course,” Carlota said. “Even when he’s out of the office, he’s in it. At least, that’s what they say.”

“Right. But he sounded as if he knew me already. Called me ‘Lemon Face.’”

“So he was obviously romancing you,” Carlota said, laughing.

Emmy’s cheeks flared with embarrassment, remembrance: The brush of the slight hair on his chest as it whisked against her own skin. His choppy breaths warming her ear. A wish come true, swelled with dangerous hope.

Carlota’s mouth gaped. “He was romancing you. Is that why you’re so glum?”

“It doesn’t matter. He thinks I’m Lila. As in Stanhope.”

“Wait.” Carlota took a step back. “He thought you were one of our ranch guests?”

“Yeah. I guess she was a corporate kid who used to visit.”

“Right,” Carlota said, voice laced with wariness. “One of them.”

Her friend still felt the needles of their teasing, too. Could the three of them ever forget? Your mom scrubs toilets! they’d yell. Your dad waits on mine!

Emmy swallowed. “When Deston sees me around the ranch, he’s going to think I’m his childhood ‘Lemon Face’ and daughter of a bigwig. Just my luck, isn’t it?”

“He won’t see you around the ranch,” Felicia said.

Emmy stared at her friend.

“She’s right.” Carlota held up a finger. “Number one: He’s never here. Well, every once in a while when big Mr. Rhodes requests his presence for a deal, but rarely. Deston lives in San Antonio, in his office. They say that his daddy is sending him to New York soon, too.”

Emmy folded her arms over her stomach. “He is?”

“To oversee business there. You have a short window to further this opportunity, Em.”

“Not an option.” Emmy shook her head. He was leaving, right when she’d caught his eye? Not that it was relevant, but it was her typical luck with men. And maybe it was for the best, considering her track record.

“And number two…?” Felicia asked.

“When is the last time you saw anyone in the family besides Mrs. Rhodes in the kitchens? Or in the laundry? Or anywhere downstairs? That’s why they have Hendrich and Hausfrau Dominatrix,” Carlota said, referring to the head butler who’d taken the place of Emmy’s father after his death, as well as head of household. For reasons known only to them, the maids called her the Hausfrau Dominatrix rather than her real name, Mrs. Wagner.

“So,” Emmy said, somewhat entertained and flattered by their enthusiasm, “if I told you that Deston sort of asked me out, you all would tell me I should go?”

“Emmy? Do you know what this means?” Felicia gave a hop of excitement. “You’ve done it. You’ve reached the dream of every girl who grew up staring at Deston with hearts in her eyes, every girl who ever cheered him from the stands. You’re a chosen one!”

Emmy narrowed her eyes, though she smiled, as well. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“More details,” Carlota said, still analyzing the situation. “Fill us in on everything.”

It was almost as if someone had taken a little mini Emmy skillet and placed it on a stove, lighting the burner to full flame. The heat came in waves over her body, making her weak, strong, weak.

“He swam in his boxers, and then asked me to dinner. That’s all,” Emmy said, reluctant to reveal the most intimate details. Something lost and vulnerable told her to keep the skin-on-skin part of it to herself. It was her secret moment, kept in the memory box of her heart, because it’d never happen again.

“Oh,” Carlota said, closing her eyes, “I can bet he looked muy guapo.” She flapped her hand for emphasis.

They all paused for a moment, allowing Emmy to relive the sight. His cut-muscled torso, tanned and gleaming in the sun. Water darkening his hair, sliding in drops down his full lips, chiseled jaw, neck.

Carlota sighed. “And he thinks you’re Lila Stanhope?”

“Yes, he does. I never managed to correct his assumption. I thought it wouldn’t go any further than the swimming hole.”

And I didn’t want to see his disappointment.

“Well,” Carlota said, “at least you had a good view of Deston in his boxers. That’ll last you for years. And if you go to dinner tonight…”

“You’re not serious.”

“Em—”

“No,” she repeated. “Enough is enough. Dinner’s absolutely out of the question.”

Felicia held up three fingers, silencing the debate. “There’s a number three, you know.”

“What?” Carlota said.

“The third reason Emmy doesn’t have to worry about Deston discovering who she is.” She held up her hands, palms facing the sky. Elementary, my dear girlfriends. “We packed up the Stanhopes this morning. They left about a half hour ago.”

Carlota got a scary gleam in her dark eyes. “So with a little adjusting, you can be Lila tonight.”

“You all are crazy.” Emmy started to walk away. “Mama’s expecting me in the kitchen.”

“Why not do it?” Felicia asked.

“This is ludicrous.”

“Hey.” Carlota’s no-nonsense tone stopped Emmy in her tracks. “Think of how he looked at you.”

That did it.

His gaze had meant everything because, in his eyes, she’d felt beautiful. Felt as if she’d walked into a ball wearing a dress that whispered against her skin like stardust. Felt as if she’d been living in a fantasy.

But those never lasted long enough, did they?

Felicia took Emmy by the shoulders. “Did you feel like you were one of them?” Her them was more rose-tinged than Carlota’s rendition of the word.

Emmy swallowed away the lump in her throat. One of them. “I guess I did.”

“Then go to dinner,” Felicia continued. “You can say that you, Lila, wanted to see him one last time and will join your family tomorrow. Then, in one week, he’ll be across the country without ever knowing. No harm done.”

“What if he searches her out?”

Carlota waved away the question. “I don’t think he will. Remember, he’ll be gone in one week. Besides, everyone knows that Deston isn’t the committing type. He’s married to the office. After tonight, you make it clear that it’s over. It’s just a dinner, after all.”

Emmy’s heartbeat tripped at the thought of it. This was wrong to even consider.

Yet, what if Felicia and Carlota were right? Emmylou Brown didn’t have enough romantic oomph to interest a man long-term anyway, so leaving the romance behind after a limited time wouldn’t be a problem. That’s how it’d been with Paolo, with every minor boyfriend since.

“He’ll never know,” Carlota said, wiggling her brows.

“And if you don’t do it, you’ll be saying, ‘I wonder,’ for the rest of your life,” Felicia added.

They watched her, waiting for an answer, but Emmy had no idea what to say.

Should she go with the flow, treat herself to one night of fun and hope that Deston wouldn’t visit the kitchens for the next week?

Or should she play by the rules, stay in her place, live downstairs for the rest of her life?

Confused, she lifted her hand in farewell to her friends. “Mama’s waiting. I’ll see you all later.”

Emmy could feel their eyes on her as she walked to the kitchens.

To where she belonged.

In the cigar lounge, where Deston had wandered after not eating more than two bites of a tempting dinner, he found himself staring at the wall again.

The Wall of Fame.

Or, as he liked to call it, The Wall of Shame.

The oak paneling featured photographs from days gone by, generations of family accomplishments in black-and-white. Painful color.

Here was a shot of Edward the First posing next to the oil well, his mouth in a straight, proud line, his bearded chin lifted, peering down at the camera. Then there were more pictures showing important business acquisitions, significant connections. His granddad posing with Lyndon B. Johnson. His dad playing golf with Papa George Bush. Harry, his brother, stiffly placing his arm around the second President Bush.

And there was Deston. With a football.

The taste of brandied tobacco soured his mouth after he blew out the smoke, turning away from the wall to find his father watching him.

Stark white hair, a full beard, a rounded stomach stuffed full of Texas beef and the best whiskey available. And those penetrating green eyes. How could he forget those eyes? They’d followed him everywhere, from cradle to playing field, from his first acquisition to tonight’s silent meal.

They’d even watched him closely after Juliet Templeton had reduced his judgment to ash. After she’d proven to him that he wasn’t suited for relationships anyway.

“Your mother’s wondering why you didn’t eat much,” Edward the Third said.

“I’ll be going out.”

“To a roadhouse?”

Deston puffed on his cigar, took his time blowing out the steam. “Maybe.”

That’s where he could end up if Lila Stanhope didn’t meet him. He’d heard that her family had already left, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come back to the ranch.

Cocky son of a gun. Deston half smiled. Lila hadn’t committed to a thing. Still, should he ask Mrs. Wagner to make arrangements with the cook? Something light and quick, since the cuisine wouldn’t be the first order of business…?

“I’ll see you in hell before you get caught yahooing in a local honky-tonk.” Mr. Rhodes settled himself into a leather chair. The room’s rustic trappings complemented the man: the tough copper accessories—empty serving trays, tubs filled with herbs, ashtrays; the rough-hewn, hand-carved pine furnishings; the original Remingtons hanging above the fireplace and above a mounted antique saddle.

He seemed so at home.

“Don’t worry,” Deston said, “I won’t tarnish the family name.”

That was his brother’s area of expertise, Deston realized, hating himself for thinking it—and for admiring Harry because he’d almost gotten away with it.