Crystal Green - The Millionaire's Secret Baby

“Good,” her mama said, clearly pleased that her employer was happy. “I’ll have it prepared in no time for you.”

“Much obliged.”

“Fritz will run it upstairs, sir.”

“I’d appreciate it if he could bring the food to the old gazebo. Would that be too much to ask?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown.” Booted footsteps retreated on the linoleum, but Emmy waited until she had herself under control. Relatively.

He was going out to that gazebo to wait for her, as promised. It’d be eight o’clock, and Deston Rhodes would be sitting by himself, a fine meal in front of him, waiting for a date who wouldn’t materialize.

He had been serious about being there.

Oh, this was worse than allowing him to think she was Lila. Wasn’t it?

Maybe she should at least go out there to tell him the truth, no matter how disgusted he’d be. She could tolerate feeling like a servant more than knowing he was going to be stood up by a woman who didn’t seem to care.

Because she did care.

She stood, holding on to the wall until her knees stopped shaking. It’d only be one night.

One harmless night of making him laugh as he had at the swimming hole. She craved the feel of that laugh. But then it would be over, and maybe she wouldn’t even have to reveal herself. Both of them could avoid embarrassment if she played her cards right.

Yet that’s what she’d said about Paolo, too, and look how that had ended up.

But Deston… Out there all alone… The food cooling, neglected… She could almost imagine him snuffing out the tabletop candle, lonely, ignored.

Maybe hiding in the kitchens for one week—if Deston could manage to stay out of them—would be a small price to pay for keeping him happy.

Because, after all, that’s why she was here. To make the Rhodes family happy.

It was as if Deston had hung the full moon in the blackened sky, along with the lit rusted lanterns that lined the pine gazebo.

Crickets and night creatures provided the music, and Mrs. Brown had supplied the food that he’d spread over the knobby oak table in the center of the structure. A bench encircled the perimeter, but Deston had liberated a couple of upholstered chairs from the storage room and into his truck, hauling them out here.

Now all he needed was Lila.

He checked his watch. Eight-fifteen. She was standing him up, wasn’t she?

Pacing, his boots marking each passing second, Deston punched a pole with the heel of his hand as he walked by. Dammit. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Juliet had been a free spirit, frequently scattering all his best-laid plans. She’d been too free; she’d drink an excess of champagne at family functions or forgo the designer dresses he bought for her in favor of what she called “hoochie rags.” After her accident, Deston had vowed never to be serious about a woman again. He couldn’t live through another tragedy like Juliet.

Love had torn him apart once, and all he wanted now was something simple. Easy.

But had he misread Lila’s signals, thinking she might want the same? Hadn’t she fitted herself against him, her brown eyes glazed with a yearning that echoed his own?

He leaned against the pole he’d punched, wondering how long he’d stay out here and court his cautious hope.

For a moment, the crickets stopped their singing. The grass rustled with a heavier cadence, and waning heat hung in the stillness of the dark.

“Don’t be mad,” said her voice.

Deston’s veins tangled with the jump of his blood as he whipped around.

She wore a pink sundress, the skirt flowing around her ankles in the slight wind, the color bringing a glow to her sun-flushed olive skin. She’d tucked the front strands of her hair, the blond ones, behind her ears, emphasizing her heart-shaped face. A golden locket hung around her neck, catching the subdued light.

For a second, a greeting, a whiplash remark, caught in his throat and ached there. The tight heat slid down to his chest.

To his belly. Clutching. Conquering.

She moved closer, each step offering more details in the lantern light, revealing nuances like the subtle almond slant of her eyes.

“Deston?”

The fist of longing in his belly tore at him.

Another foot forward. “I didn’t know if I’d come tonight.”

“Well, you made me wonder for fifteen minutes.” There. Back in control, where he belonged.

“Right.” She smiled. It wasn’t the glimmering flash of high noon he’d seen at the pond, but a sad smile. “Quite a stickler for punctuality, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I’m a real taskmaster.” He extended a hand, palm up. “Why don’t you come up here?”

She hesitated. “I want you to understand something first. I’m here for one night, a dinner, and then no more. I go back to work after that.”

Mr. Stanhope was known for his demands on his children, so her statement didn’t surprise him. In fact, it bonded him to her in a small way. “Your dad sounds like a tough boss.”

“Yes,” she said, glancing away. “He is. But I love him more than anything.”

Usually Deston could have a woman in his arms within the first five minutes. Her reluctance frustrated him, intrigued him.

He beckoned with a finger, a tacit command. “You coming or not?”

From beneath her long lashes, she glanced up at him, then accepted his grip. At first touch, awareness exploded through him, rocking the foundations of his strength, its fire licking below his skin, threatening to burn out of reach. Her hand was so tiny in his, so slender. As he lifted her fingers, cupping them over the ridge of his index finger, he noticed that her nails were short, practical.

She must’ve seen the realization on his face, because she tugged her hand away. But he was too quick, clasping her fingers in his, using his thumb to rub her knuckles.

“Why are you afraid of me?” he asked.

“Afraid?” She laughed, but it was shaky, unsure. “I’m not afraid.”

He drew her hand closer to his mouth, rested his lips against her skin. Beneath a cover of sweet-scented lotion—apricots?—he caught the earthy aroma of chives, garlic, pepper. The mixture confused his senses, consuming him.

“You cook.”

She laughed again, tightening her hold on him. “I’m staying with a nearby friend, and we whipped something up for a midday snack.”

Suddenly, she pulled her grip out of his and sat in one of the chairs. Was she frowning?

“So,” she continued, stiffening in her seat, a smile wobbling on her face. “What’s for dinner?”

The gesture still wasn’t as bright as this afternoon. Not by a long shot.

“You planning to eat and run?” he asked, sitting opposite her.

“It depends on the company, I suppose.” With cheeky grace, she took her napkin, fanned it out, settled it over her lap.

He couldn’t help chuckling. “I’ll try to keep you entertained. Wouldn’t want you making that lemon face, now, would we?”

“Could you please not call me that?”

“Lemon Face? It’s got an endearing ring to it.”

“It’s…” She fidgeted with the stem of her wineglass. Was she nervous? “I’ve gone beyond such nicknames.”

“What should I call you then?”

You could have filled the resulting pause with a truckload of gravel.

She exhaled, shoulders sinking. Deston couldn’t identify her expression. Disappointment? Her own brand of frustration? Why?

“Hey, now,” he said. “I promise. No more Lemon Face.”

A smile fought its way onto her lips, suffusing the night with her glow. The smile.

Her teeth were slightly off-kilter, and a gentleness wrapped around his heart, squeezing it. He wondered why she’d never gotten braces, but didn’t want to chase away her happiness by asking. Instead, he said, “Sunny.”