The Millionaire's Secret Baby. Crystal Green

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?

      “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