The Illegitimate Billionaire. Barbara Dunlop
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his feelings. Tyrell couldn’t possibly think Deacon gave a damn about Tyrell’s happiness.
Tyrell seemed to gather himself, leaning forward, his chin jutting. “Down to brass tacks, then. Let’s see if you think this is funny. I’ll trade you what I want for what you want.”
The words unnerved Deacon. At the same time, they put him on alert. “You haven’t the first idea of what I want.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
“I’m completely sure about that.” Deacon had never even had a conversation with his father, never mind confided his hopes and dreams to him.
“I’ll acknowledge you as my son,” Tyrell said.
It was all Deacon could do not to laugh at the offer. “I could have proved our relationship through DNA years ago.”
“I mean, I’ll make you an heir.”
“Put me in your will?” Deacon wasn’t falling for a promise like that—a promise changeable with the stroke of a pen.
“No. Not when I die. Now. I’m offering you twenty-five percent of Hale Harbor Port. You’ll be equal partners with me, Aaron and Beau.”
Hale Harbor Port was a billion-dollar corporation that had been owned by succeeding generations of the Clarkson family since the 1700s. Deacon tried to wrap his head around the offer. He couldn’t.
His entire childhood he’d dreamed of being a part of the Clarkson family. He’d spun fantasies that Tyrell truly loved Deacon’s mother, that he secretly wanted Deacon in his life, that he would one day leave Margo and welcome Deacon and his mother into the castle.
But then Deacon’s mother had died when he was barely nineteen, and Tyrell didn’t so much as send condolences. Deacon accepted the reality that he meant nothing to Tyrell, and he stopped dreaming.
And now this offer came completely out of the blue. What could possibly be worth twenty-five percent of a billion dollars? Nothing legal, that was for sure.
“You want me to kidnap them?” Deacon asked.
Tyrell shook his head. “That would be too easy. Also temporary, because we’d be sure to get caught.”
“But you’re not morally opposed to it?” Maybe it should have surprised Deacon that Tyrell would consider committing a capital crime. It didn’t.
Tyrell drew in an impatient breath. “Give me credit for a little finesse.”
Deacon knew he should walk away from this conversation. “I don’t give you credit for anything.”
“But you’re still listening.”
“I’m curious, not tempted.”
Tyrell gave a smug smile, polishing off his drink. “Oh, you’re tempted all right.”
“Spit it out, or I’m leaving.” Deacon rose to his feet. He wasn’t going to play this game any longer.
“I want you to romance and marry Frederick’s widow and bring my grandsons home.” Tyrell watched intently for Deacon’s reaction.
Deacon didn’t have a reaction. He would have bet he hadn’t heard right, but Tyrell’s words were crystal clear.
“Why?” Deacon tried to fathom the complexity that had to lie behind the request.
Tyrell was reputed to be a master conspirator.
“Why would she marry me?” Deacon voiced his own thought process as he searched for more information. “And what does it gain you? Just offer her money to come home.”
“I can’t offer her money to come home. I can’t even risk contacting her. I’m positive Frederick poisoned her against the family. If I make that play and fail, it’s game over.”
“You have a whole lot of money to offer.”
However Frederick might have disparaged his family, surely most mortal women would be attracted to the family’s immense wealth.
“Frederick may have walked away from the company,” Tyrell said. “But he didn’t walk away from his trust fund. She doesn’t need money.”
Again, Deacon smiled. “Something you can’t buy. Must be frustrating.”
“She doesn’t know you,” Tyrell said.
“Does she know Aaron and Beau?” Deacon still wasn’t getting the play here. It had to be galling for Tyrell to approach Deacon for anything.
“Aaron’s already married,” Tyrell pointed out. “And Beau... I’m not naïve where it comes to my children, Deacon. Beau’s nobody’s idea of a good husband and father.”
Deacon didn’t disagree with that statement. Beau had always been the wild one, parties every weekend and a different girlfriend every month. His exploits had been splashed across local gossip columns dozens of times.
“You, on the other hand,” Tyrell continued. He gestured Deacon up and down with his empty glass. “I recognize you have a certain sophistication. Women seem to like you. Nice women seem to like you.”
Deacon couldn’t help but be amazed that Tyrell had paid any attention to him at all.
“You’re not publicly connected to the family,” Tyrell continued. “You can move in under the radar, romance her, marry her.”
“Then blindside her with the news about you?” Deacon had always questioned Tyrell’s morality, but this was beyond belief.
Tyrell rolled his eyes. “Ease her into it, boy.”
“No.” An ownership position in Hale Harbor Port might be Deacon’s lifelong dream, but he wasn’t going to use Frederick’s widow as a pawn.
Tyrell came to his feet. “You have a moral objection?”
“Yes. And you should, too.” Deacon peered into Tyrell’s eyes, searching for some semblance of a soul. “You do know that, right?”
“Go meet her,” Tyrell said.
Deacon started to refuse again, but Tyrell talked right over him. “Just meet her before you decide. If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it. But don’t give up hundreds of millions of dollars without looking at all the angles.”
“You’re the angles guy, not me.”
“You’re my son,” Tyrell repeated.
Deacon wanted to protest. He might be saddled with Tyrell’s DNA, but he wasn’t anything like him. He had a moral compass. He got it from his mother.
But he found himself hesitating.
In that second, it was clear he’d inherited some traits from his father. And they couldn’t be good traits. Because he was weighing the harm in meeting Frederick’s widow. Was there any harm in meeting her before refusing Tyrell’s offer?
* * *
It was on days like these that Callie Clarkson missed her husband the most. Frederick loved springtime, the scent of roses wafting in the bakery windows, mingling with the cinnamon and strawberries from the kitchen. Today the sun was shining in a soft blue sky, and tourists were streaming into Downright Sweet for a midmorning muffin or warm berry scone.
Their bakery, Downright Sweet, occupied both floors of a red brick house in the historic district of downtown Charleston. The first floor held the kitchen that they’d refurbished when they bought the place five years ago. It also held the front service counter and several tables, both inside and out on the porch. The second floor was a dining room with screened windows all the way around, plus a covered sundeck that overlooked the tree-lined, shade-dappled street.
The lunch crowd was diminishing, and Callie’s manager, Hannah Radcliff, breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“My