Crystal Green - The Millionaire's Secret Baby

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.