The Millionaire's Secret Baby

“Your mother would be devastated.” Mr. Rhodes stuck a Cuban cigar into his mouth, flared up a match and lit it. After a few experimental inhalations, he said, “She’s over the moon to have you home.”

Deston nodded, leaning against the door frame that led out of the room. “It’s been a while.”

“You should come back here more.”

“There’s always a lot of work to be done in San Antonio. You know that better than anyone.”

Was now the right time to say something about what he’d found yesterday? What he suspected his dad of doing with the Stanhope account?

His father’s gaze speared into him, as if he knew. “Out with it, Deston.”

He locked gazes with him. A pair of some unfortunate bovine’s long horns hovered over Mr. Rhodes, lending him an aggressive air.

“I found records. Numbers. Payments going to people who work for the Stanhopes in different facilities.”

His father leaned back in his chair. “That’s got your goat?”

“What’s the purpose, Dad? I’d like to be in on it, seeing as I’m a CEO.”

“It’s my area, son. You concern yourself with our New York responsibilities, and I’ll take care of this part of the country.”

Frustration simmered in Deston’s veins, veiling his sight with a red glow. What was his father doing? Was he sending Deston to New York to hide something?

“It’s just odd,” Deston said, “that recent mishaps have lowered the value of several Stanhope properties.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

Deston stiffened to a defensive stance. “You’re going to treat the Stanhopes better than the last ones, right?”

“If you’re referring to Endor Incorporated, we both know that was unfortunate.”

A competing company had pulled out of the bidding process, leaving Endor in a weakened state of negotiation, vulnerable to the takeover from Rhodes Industries. Deston had his suspicions about the reasons the other corporation had backed off.

But he didn’t want to believe any of them.

A muttered curse escaped Deston, causing Mr. Rhodes to laugh.

“Aren’t you full of spit and fire?” he asked. “Good. I need you to be my soldier. Harry’s got the head for numbers, but no guts. You…”

“Don’t depend on it.”

“I’d like to.” Mr. Rhodes concentrated on snubbing out his cigar in an ashtray. “I sure would’ve liked you to have met Lila Stanhope.”

Deston smothered the spark that jumped to life in his chest. Lila. After she’d gone, he’d spent the next hour swimming off pent-up lust.

Fighting off his longing for more.

Would she be there tonight?

He smashed out his own cigar. “I don’t need your matchmaking skills to keep me amused.”

“Don’t tell me. Work keeps you busy.” He stood, patted his ample belly.

Had that been a note of melancholy in his tone? “Someone has to keep Rhodes Industries honest.”

His father didn’t say a word, just lasered a glare of reproach at his son. Maybe there was even contained respect there, too.

Then he glanced at the Wall of Shame. “No one gets to the top without stepping on a few bodies. That’s what it means to be a Rhodes.”

Hellfire, if he launched into the “Family and Texas” lecture again, Deston was going to throw rotten tomatoes at him. From day one, the credo had been drilled into him. Family sticks together with an adhesive called pride. And Texas? Hell, every citizen of the greatest state in creation was born with the we’re-the-best gene.

That made the Rhodes family doubly arrogant. Juliet had been turned on by the idea of it, but her feelings for him hadn’t been strong enough to make her commit to him, to make her be the woman Deston had needed in his life.

And when he’d given her no other choice, he’d lost her. For good.

Deston restlessly moved toward the door. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be hitting the roads to search out the sleaziest honky-tonk I can find.”

He left the statement hanging, wondering whether his father was in the mood to challenge him or in one of those my-son’s-a-star-football-player streaks of indulgence. You never knew with Edward Rhodes.

Not that his blessing mattered.

“Use your head,” was all his father said, and as far as Deston was concerned, the statement could be interpreted either way.

But as he left the cigar lounge, he didn’t head out of the house. Instead, his steps took him to an almost-hidden door off the foyer which led to elevators that traveled to a place he’d rarely gone before.

The kitchens.

What did Lila like to eat? Would food matter if she showed up tonight?

The service hall got darker as he traveled its length. More foreign. A different world altogether.

He ran into a maid first. When she saw him, she jumped back, dropped the towels she was carrying.

“Mr. Rhodes!” she said, then glanced at the floor.

He hated when they did that. He shifted lower, trying to catch her eye. When that failed, he thought maybe he could say her name to snag her attention. Unfortunately, he was ashamed to admit that he didn’t know her name. Didn’t know her face.

Truthfully, he didn’t know any of them.

Even when he was a kid, the line between the family and the help had been firmly drawn. Once, when he was five, he’d sneaked down to the kitchens, just to grab a snack. The cook— Mrs. Brown?—had given him a biscotti. He still remembered how crunchy and flaky it’d been. But the efficient Mrs. Wagner had caught him down there and had informed his mother.

His brother had told him the cook had been given a “talking to” about spoiling Deston. And Deston himself had been locked in his room for three hours, just to drum the lesson into his skull.

You’re a privileged one.

He didn’t belong downstairs. Encouraging friendly relations with the help was the sign of a loose household, and the Rhodes clan ran life with an iron fist.

The maid had already scuttled away, so Deston glanced around, finding no one else.

What the hell. Maybe it was time to set things straight around here. Maybe it was time to break the Rhodes mold—both in business and in household.

His parents couldn’t lock him in his room now.

Besides, Lila needed something to eat, and he didn’t have time to hunt down the proper liaison to get some food around here. It was ridiculous to have to pick up a phone to dial Mrs. Wagner and order the cook to prepare a simple meal.

He’d do it himself.

Deston pressed the button on the wall and waited for the elevator to take him down to the kitchens.

Lila. He hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Hated that he couldn’t wait to see her again.

Chapter Three

In the massive, stainless-steel-and-stucco kitchens, Emmy and Francesca Brown were wrapping up their discussion of tomorrow’s dinner menu, surrounded by the lingering aroma of the wood-burning oven.

“So there we have it,” Francesca said, massaging her hands. Blue veins stood against her browned skin like a string of twilight-smeared hills cresting the land.

Arthritis. It was forcing her out of the job, away from her passion.

Without another thought, Emmy took hold of a hand, rubbed it between her palms. “We start with a Vera Cruz maize tamale for an appetizer, then a salad and shaved fennel/onion bruschetta. Then we’ve got our moho-bone-in rib-eye steak, which Mr. Rhodes will love because it’s beef—”

“He does love his meat.” Mama agreed.

“—assorted vegetables— I’ll check the garden—and a pumpkin-espresso crème brûlée for dessert.” Emmy nursed her mother’s other hand without pause. “I can start gathering ingredients, and… What is it, Mama?”

Francesca Brown’s eyes were tearing as she watched her daughter minister to her. “Your father would bust his buttons, Emmylou.”

Would he? Even after this afternoon? “Well, you-all invested enough money in me, right?”

“Cara, it’s not merely your job I’m talking about.” Mama gave a weak, strained pat to Emmy’s arm. “I know being an only child was hard on you, if only because Nigel made no secret about wanting a son to carry on his line of work. Butler to the master of the household.”

“Everyone has something that makes them feel special,” Emmy said. “Some ride bulls in the rodeo because they’re good at it. Some become professional singers because of the applause. Papa had his work to make him feel that way.”

“And so do we.”

Mama closed her brown eyes, and Emmy knew it was from pain, the frustration of advancing age and a particularly bad arthritis day catching up to her.

Robbing her.

She wished she had desire enough to carry on in her Mama’s name. But she’d always wanted more. Had almost gotten it, too, with Paolo. And she wasn’t talking about superiority. She longed for respect. Being treasured for what she had to offer the world.

Shaking off the thoughts, Emmy said, “Why don’t you go to your room? We’ve cleaned already. Fritz and I will prep for tomorrow. You rest.”

“I’ll finish here.” Mama’s eyes—so much like Emmy’s own—opened again. She flicked the backs of her fingers under her chin: Italian for “I’m not interested.”

Then, with effort, she tried to tuck a gray lock back into the hairnet holding the chignon she favored. Most of her hair was a rich mahogany hue, but silver had crept in, bit by bit.

Emmy reached out. “Why don’t you…”

“No one orders a mama around her kitchen.”

It was agonizing to watch her move. She all but creaked as she forced her hands to grab a cloth, to wipe down an expansive counter.

Stubborn woman.

Emmy took the rag from her. “You and Papa. I swear. He wouldn’t slow down, either. You know what that got him? Sick. And it got you a bunch of medical bills that insurance didn’t cover.”

“Ah, the British and their stoic resignation. How I miss it.” Mama eyed the rag but didn’t try to grab it from her daughter. “Sometimes I wonder if you shouldn’t have been raised with more of your papa’s English calm and less of my village’s fire. You All-American melting pots don’t respect your elders like we did.”

Emmy patted Mama’s cheek. “I missed you, even if you’re still too hard-headed to let the Rhodes know about all of Papa’s debts.”

“Not a word, Emmylou—”

A dish broke in the hallway, near the elevator.

Mama mock-growled then aimed her voice in that direction. “Fritz, if that’s the Delft china, I’ll sauté you in olive oil.”

The assistant’s flustered words stumbled over apologies until a more masculine voice overrode him.

“My fault,” said a deep, unFritz-like drawl. “Is there a broom around here?”

Emmy’s joints froze. She’d heard that voice before. This afternoon.

At the swimming hole.

“I’m…going to the gardens,” Emmy said, surprised she had enough breath to form a sentence. Her heartbeat nickered and stomped through her limbs, stalling movement until she finally darted away.

“Emmy!” she heard her mama say. “Go in the morning. Emmy?”

Deston. What was he doing down here? Rhodes boys weren’t allowed in the kitchens. Everyone knew that.

Except him, obviously.

And wouldn’t you know it? He was by the elevators. But she could take the stairs and escape, couldn’t she?

She heard Fritz scuttling through the kitchens, probably in search of that broom, then the clinking sound of broken china being swept across the floor.

Deston’s voice again. Nearer.

Emmy crouched into the pantry, close enough to catch his words, far enough so that she wouldn’t have to face him.

“Mrs. Brown,” he said. She could imagine him dressed for dinner, maybe in a business suit with his jacket draped over those expansive shoulders. The Rhodes clan had a dress code, and everyone obeyed it.

“Mr. Rhodes.” Mama laughed. Her smile was most likely shining throughout the room. “I haven’t seen you since you were, oh, so high.”

“Can’t say I’ve been around much.” Was his hair tussled from this afternoon’s swim? Or had he combed it back into that spiky excuse for a hairdo? “How’s the family?”

“Fine, thank you, sir. My Emmylou’s back from her studies. She’ll be taking over as soon as I can bring myself to let her.”

“Emmylou.” From the way he said it, she knew he had no idea who she was.

Good.

And bad.

Her mama obviously caught the hint, too. “What brings you to the kitchens? Was dinner satisfactory?”

“It was exceptional. I don’t mean to upset the norm,” he said, no doubt flashing that charming grin, “but I couldn’t find Mrs. Wagner, and I’m short on time for the request I’m about to make.”

“Yes, sir?”

Emmy’s pulse thudded, consuming her, making it hard to hear. She clutched the edge of a shelf to keep her balance.

“Would it be possible to round up a meal for two? Nothing fancy, because I know whatever you have will be more than adequate.”

She held her breath, but the pressure was likely to make her head explode. Was this Lila’s meal? Her meal?

“Consider it done,” Mama said.

“If you have anything left from tonight’s dinner, that would do nicely.”

Leftovers? She was a leftover kind of girl? Well.

Or maybe he was staring at her mother’s hands, knowing the care and pain that went into every meal, wanting to save her the extra work.

Yeah. That was more like Deston. The one she’d worshipped from afar all those years ago.

Er, hours ago.

“Your girlfriend,” Mama said, “does she like crab cakes and beef in the potato jackets? The peas à la française and gratin of pasta…?”

Enough, Mama.

“She just might, Mrs. Brown.” He sounded as though he was enjoying himself.

“She’s bella, I’ll bet. Beautiful.”

Oh, boy.

There was a pause, and Emmy wondered if he was finding a way to describe what he’d seen in her. A girl with a tight, timeworn top and cut-off jeans. The girl Paolo had brought to a family dinner only to have his mother take her aside during cocktails on their crumbling balcony to say that her “type” wasn’t welcome in the Amati household.

Her type.

Emmy knew she wasn’t anything to shout about, but it would still hurt to hear it from Deston’s mouth.

Finally, he spoke, his voice lowered, almost strangled. “There’s not a word strong enough to describe her. Words don’t do her justice. Her smile…” He trailed off.

Emmy sank all the way to the floor, flattened, mind a whir of disbelief. They’d been at the same swimming hole today, right? This was the Deston she’d met? And he’d been looking at her smile? Her slightly crooked teeth?

“Good,” her mama said, clearly pleased that her employer was happy. “I’ll have it prepared in no time for you.”

“Much obliged.”

“Fritz will run it upstairs, sir.”

“I’d appreciate it if he could bring the food to the old gazebo. Would that be too much to ask?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown.” Booted footsteps retreated on the linoleum, but Emmy waited until she had herself under control. Relatively.

He was going out to that gazebo to wait for her, as promised. It’d be eight o’clock, and Deston Rhodes would be sitting by himself, a fine meal in front of him, waiting for a date who wouldn’t materialize.

He had been serious about being there.

Oh, this was worse than allowing him to think she was Lila. Wasn’t it?

Maybe she should at least go out there to tell him the truth, no matter how disgusted he’d be. She could tolerate feeling like a servant more than knowing he was going to be stood up by a woman who didn’t seem to care.

Because she did care.

She stood, holding on to the wall until her knees stopped shaking. It’d only be one night.

One harmless night of making him laugh as he had at the swimming hole. She craved the feel of that laugh. But then it would be over, and maybe she wouldn’t even have to reveal herself. Both of them could avoid embarrassment if she played her cards right.

Yet that’s what she’d said about Paolo, too, and look how that had ended up.

But Deston… Out there all alone… The food cooling, neglected… She could almost imagine him snuffing out the tabletop candle, lonely, ignored.

Maybe hiding in the kitchens for one week—if Deston could manage to stay out of them—would be a small price to pay for keeping him happy.

Because, after all, that’s why she was here. To make the Rhodes family happy.

It was as if Deston had hung the full moon in the blackened sky, along with the lit rusted lanterns that lined the pine gazebo.

Crickets and night creatures provided the music, and Mrs. Brown had supplied the food that he’d spread over the knobby oak table in the center of the structure. A bench encircled the perimeter, but Deston had liberated a couple of upholstered chairs from the storage room and into his truck, hauling them out here.

Now all he needed was Lila.

He checked his watch. Eight-fifteen. She was standing him up, wasn’t she?

Pacing, his boots marking each passing second, Deston punched a pole with the heel of his hand as he walked by. Dammit. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Juliet had been a free spirit, frequently scattering all his best-laid plans. She’d been too free; she’d drink an excess of champagne at family functions or forgo the designer dresses he bought for her in favor of what she called “hoochie rags.” After her accident, Deston had vowed never to be serious about a woman again. He couldn’t live through another tragedy like Juliet.

Love had torn him apart once, and all he wanted now was something simple. Easy.

But had he misread Lila’s signals, thinking she might want the same? Hadn’t she fitted herself against him, her brown eyes glazed with a yearning that echoed his own?

He leaned against the pole he’d punched, wondering how long he’d stay out here and court his cautious hope.

For a moment, the crickets stopped their singing. The grass rustled with a heavier cadence, and waning heat hung in the stillness of the dark.

“Don’t be mad,” said her voice.

Deston’s veins tangled with the jump of his blood as he whipped around.

She wore a pink sundress, the skirt flowing around her ankles in the slight wind, the color bringing a glow to her sun-flushed olive skin. She’d tucked the front strands of her hair, the blond ones, behind her ears, emphasizing her heart-shaped face. A golden locket hung around her neck, catching the subdued light.

For a second, a greeting, a whiplash remark, caught in his throat and ached there. The tight heat slid down to his chest.

To his belly. Clutching. Conquering.

She moved closer, each step offering more details in the lantern light, revealing nuances like the subtle almond slant of her eyes.

“Deston?”

The fist of longing in his belly tore at him.

Another foot forward. “I didn’t know if I’d come tonight.”

“Well, you made me wonder for fifteen minutes.” There. Back in control, where he belonged.

“Right.” She smiled. It wasn’t the glimmering flash of high noon he’d seen at the pond, but a sad smile. “Quite a stickler for punctuality, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I’m a real taskmaster.” He extended a hand, palm up. “Why don’t you come up here?”

She hesitated. “I want you to understand something first. I’m here for one night, a dinner, and then no more. I go back to work after that.”

Mr. Stanhope was known for his demands on his children, so her statement didn’t surprise him. In fact, it bonded him to her in a small way. “Your dad sounds like a tough boss.”

“Yes,” she said, glancing away. “He is. But I love him more than anything.”

Usually Deston could have a woman in his arms within the first five minutes. Her reluctance frustrated him, intrigued him.

He beckoned with a finger, a tacit command. “You coming or not?”

From beneath her long lashes, she glanced up at him, then accepted his grip. At first touch, awareness exploded through him, rocking the foundations of his strength, its fire licking below his skin, threatening to burn out of reach. Her hand was so tiny in his, so slender. As he lifted her fingers, cupping them over the ridge of his index finger, he noticed that her nails were short, practical.

She must’ve seen the realization on his face, because she tugged her hand away. But he was too quick, clasping her fingers in his, using his thumb to rub her knuckles.

“Why are you afraid of me?” he asked.

“Afraid?” She laughed, but it was shaky, unsure. “I’m not afraid.”

He drew her hand closer to his mouth, rested his lips against her skin. Beneath a cover of sweet-scented lotion—apricots?—he caught the earthy aroma of chives, garlic, pepper. The mixture confused his senses, consuming him.

“You cook.”

She laughed again, tightening her hold on him. “I’m staying with a nearby friend, and we whipped something up for a midday snack.”

Suddenly, she pulled her grip out of his and sat in one of the chairs. Was she frowning?

“So,” she continued, stiffening in her seat, a smile wobbling on her face. “What’s for dinner?”

The gesture still wasn’t as bright as this afternoon. Not by a long shot.

“You planning to eat and run?” he asked, sitting opposite her.

“It depends on the company, I suppose.” With cheeky grace, she took her napkin, fanned it out, settled it over her lap.

He couldn’t help chuckling. “I’ll try to keep you entertained. Wouldn’t want you making that lemon face, now, would we?”

“Could you please not call me that?”

“Lemon Face? It’s got an endearing ring to it.”

“It’s…” She fidgeted with the stem of her wineglass. Was she nervous? “I’ve gone beyond such nicknames.”

“What should I call you then?”

You could have filled the resulting pause with a truckload of gravel.

She exhaled, shoulders sinking. Deston couldn’t identify her expression. Disappointment? Her own brand of frustration? Why?

“Hey, now,” he said. “I promise. No more Lemon Face.”

A smile fought its way onto her lips, suffusing the night with her glow. The smile.

Her teeth were slightly off-kilter, and a gentleness wrapped around his heart, squeezing it. He wondered why she’d never gotten braces, but didn’t want to chase away her happiness by asking. Instead, he said, “Sunny.”

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