Kathryn Taylor - Taming The Tycoon

“We’ll see about this,” Ian snarled. “You better believe I’ll demand a blood test.”

Jenkins shook his head. “Don’t you think Wesley insisted on that before he agreed to pay child support? The results are in the file.”

“And the child’s mother? Where is she living now?”

“She died six months ago in a car accident. Your sister lives with her aunt in some small town in upstate New York.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Call her what you want. Chelsea Moore is Wesley’s daughter, and according to the terms of the will she owns half of Westervelt Properties.”

Ian groaned. His father had picked a cruel way to acknowledge his paternal obligations to both his offspring. Why didn’t he leave his bastard his money? Ian neither wanted nor needed that. He was glad now that his grandfather hadn’t come with him today. The bequests would only rub salt in an old wound. No doubt, Wesley couldn’t resist one more twist of the knife, even from the grave.

Ian had waited twenty years to fulfill the promise he had made when he was little more than a child. No one would take this from him now. No one.

“If I contest the will?”

“You don’t have grounds.” Jenkins furrowed his eyebrows in consternation, then broke out in a sly grin. “You could sue for the administrative rights of your sister’s inheritance. A judge might look more favorably on a sibling bond than that of an unmarried aunt. Especially when you’re more familiar with the company.”

“Do it.”

“Whoa, Ian. That’s not my field. I’ll have to work with someone on this one.”

“Fine. Have your secretary draw up the necessary papers for me to sign today.” Ian leaned back, allowing himself to relax for the first time since reading his father’s will. “What do you know about this aunt?”

“She’ll be here in a half an hour. You can judge for yourself. I wanted to meet with you first because I know your feelings about your father’s company.”

“My grandfather’s company,” Ian corrected.

“Wesley bought—”

Ian’s fist came down on the table. “He swindled it.”

Absently, Jenkins fidgeted with his tie. He could defend his client until hell froze over, but both he and Ian knew the truth.

While Ian’s mother recuperated from cancer surgery in a hospital, Wesley had used the power of attorney rights she’d granted him to transfer her shares of Westervelt Properties to himself. Adding them to his own shares, he controlled fifty-one percent of the company, which he’d used to force Ian’s grandfather out as president.

Jenkins drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Why don’t you meet with the woman and see if you can come to some sort of terms before beginning a legal battle that could drag on for a couple of years?”

“What good would that do?”

“The way it stands now, the child’s shares are to be held in a trust to be administered by her guardian. Maybe she’ll find it a lesser risk to sell the shares and hold the trust in cash.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

The lawyer shook his head sorrowfully. “Then control that Bradford temper of yours. I know that Wesley never treated you or your mother fairly...”

He waved his hand to cut Jenkins off. Ian wouldn’t accept sympathy from a man who had helped his father cheat his grandparents out of their family business. “Spare me the sermon. Give me what you’ve got on the aunt. I like to know what I’m up against before I go into a meeting.”

Ian thumbed through the folder of his father’s personal papers. The compilation of material Wesley had gathered about his former mistress and her mother was a testament to his devious and distrustful nature. Not that he’d been completely wrong. Both women had attached themselves to wealthy older men. Unfortunately for Ian, his father apparently had seen no need to have the sister investigated, as well.

Shannon Moore checked the address on the envelope. Richard Jenkins, Esquire. Suite 218. She wasn’t sure why she had come. Certainly the lawyer could have forwarded a copy of the will. After all, Wesley Bradford had never acknowledged his daughter while he was alive. And he had been more than willing to terminate child support payments after Tiffany’s untimely death. Although the decision to refuse the money had been Shannon’s, if the man had cared a wit, he would have put up a fight for his child.

After smoothing her linen skirt over her hips, she opened the outer door and stepped inside the plush offices.

A receptionist glanced up from her desk. “Miss Moore?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Jenkins is expecting you.” She lifted the phone and announced Shannon’s arrival. “First door on the right.”

Shannon nodded and walked down the corridor. A man met her in the hall and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Moore. I’m Richard Jenkins.”

She smiled and allowed him to guide her into the conference room.

Inside, a second man rose from his seat at the table and nodded in her direction. “Miss Moore.”

His silk suit and gold watch spoke of wealth, but the calloused hand he offered told of a man who had earned his money with hard work. He eased back into the leather chair and raised his lips in an arrogant grin. Ice blue eyes appraised her, unsettling her in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Blatantly sexual with a hint of danger, he was everything she avoided in a man.

“This is Ian Bradford,” Jenkins said, sounding as uncomfortable as she felt.

So, he was Wesley Bradford’s son. In appearance, the two looked nothing alike, but she would guess he had inherited his father’s ruthless streak. If she had known she was walking into an ambush, she would have come prepared.

She tipped her head in his direction. “Mr. Bradford. I’m sorry about your father.”

He answered with a curt nod and a stone-cold glare.

Mr. Jenkins pointed to a chair. “Have a seat and we can get started.”

She slid into the chair. “Should I have brought my attorney with me?”

Ian leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. Well-defined muscles tested the stitching of his designer suit. “Is there a reason you think you need one?”

Shannon met his unwavering gaze and refused to back down. She was long past the days of allowing herself to be intimidated by any man. If her thirty-two years of life had taught her anything, it was that most men knew how to exploit weakness to their advantage. “I’m not sure yet. You two arranged this little meeting. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I assure you there is nothing out of order going on here,” Jenkins interjected, as if trying to ease the tension.

Ian raked a hand though his silky brown hair. “I do believe Ms. Moore is suspicious of us. Why is that?”

“Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment until I hear what you have to say.”

Jenkins pushed a large folder across the table. “I have highlighted the portion of the will that pertains to your ward, Chelsea Moore. If you’ll just skip to page six...”

“Oh, let her read all of it, Richard. We wouldn’t want her to miss any of the illustrious Bradford secrets.”

Shannon slipped on her glasses and began reading the rather lengthy document. She noted that Ian was not given a copy so she had to assume he had already read the will. She skimmed over the instructions for the funeral arrangements and picked up with the bequests. By page two, she understood why the will made Mr. Jenkins uneasy and Ian Bradford downright bitter.

Wesley Bradford had left every one of his former mistresses a cash endowment. Including her sister and the two even younger ladies that he had carried on with afterward, the count was eighteen women. Her assessment of the man from their one and only meeting had been correct. He had been a cold, unfeeling bastard.