Crystal Green - The Millionaire's Secret Baby

“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?