Crystal Green - The Millionaire's Secret Baby

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 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.

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.