The Millionaire's Secret Baby. Crystal Green
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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.
“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