There was no easy way out.

Telling him about the pregnancy would clearly lead to him knowing about Emmylou Brown, and that would lead to absolute heartbreak.

But not telling him just wasn’t right.

That’s how she found herself in the San Antonio parking structure of his office building.

Emmy knew he’d be here…. The question was, would she get out of the car when he arrived?

He emerged from the elevator.

Do it now, she thought, forcing herself to step outside to intercept him.

“Deston.”

Dear Reader,

Spring might be just around the corner, but it’s not too late to curl up by the fire with this month’s lineup of six heartwarming stories. Start off with Three Down the Aisle, the first book in bestselling author Sherryl Woods’s new miniseries, THE ROSE COTTAGE SISTERS. When a woman returns to her childhood haven, the last thing she expects is to fall in love! And make sure to come back in April for the next book in this delightful new series.

Will a sexy single dad find All He Ever Wanted in a search-and-rescue worker who saves his son? Find out in Allison Leigh’s latest book in our MONTANA MAVERICKS: GOLD RUSH GROOMS miniseries. The Fortunes of Texas are back, and you can read the first three stories in the brand-new miniseries THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS: REUNION, only in Silhouette Special Edition. The continuity launches with Her Good Fortune by Marie Ferrarella. Can a straitlaced CEO make it work with a feisty country girl who’s taken the big city by storm? Next, don’t miss the latest book in Susan Mallery’s DESERT ROGUES ongoing miniseries, The Sheik & the Bride Who Said No. When two former lovers reunite, passion flares again. But can they forgive each other for past mistakes? Be sure to read the next book in Judy Duarte’s miniseries, BAYSIDE BACHELORS. A fireman discovers his ex-lover’s child is Their Secret Son, but can they be a family once again? And pick up Crystal Green’s The Millionaire’s Secret Baby. When a ranch chef lands her childhood crush—and tycoon—can she keep her identity hidden, or will he discover her secrets?

Enjoy, and be sure to come back next month for six compelling new novels, from Silhouette Special Edition.

All the best,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

The Millionaire’s Secret Baby
Crystal Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the energetic, enthusiastic, and consistently inspirational

people of www.eHarlequin.com! From the Daily Online

Serial to the Teahouse to the Bat Cave to the Hollywood

Boards: You all give me a great reason to write. Special

thanks to Beverly “Gazpacho” for Emmy’s Scalloped

Tomatoes with Pearl Onions recipe. There will be

many happy tummies because of you!

CRYSTAL GREEN

lives in San Diego, California, where she writes for Silhouette Special Edition, Silhouette Bombshell and Harlequin Blaze. When she isn’t penning romances, she loves to read, overanalyze movies, pet her parents’ Maltese dog, fence, do yoga and fantasize about being a really good cook.

Whenever possible, Crystal loves to travel. Her favorite souvenirs include journals—the pages reflecting everything from taking tea in London’s Leicester Square to wandering the neon-lit streets of Tokyo.

She’d love to hear from her readers at: 8895 Towne Centre Drive, Suite 105-178, San Diego, CA 92122-5542.

And don’t forget to visit her Web site at http://www.crystal-green.com!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“You’re going to get burned, darlin’.”

At first, Emmylou Brown thought the voice—a rough drawl scratching along the low, smooth edges of Texas Hill Country—was just part of the blank sleep she’d drifted into.

Disoriented, she opened her eyes and stared at the endless blue sky. The limestone ridge overlooking the swimming hole abraded her bare back, and her head swam from the heat of the sun.

The voice continued, tinged with wry amusement. “You might want to turn over. The weather’s got some scorch to it.”

Okay, this was no figment of her imagination.

She settled herself up on her elbows, glanced in the direction of the voice. Caught her breath.

The man sat on top of a chestnut quarterhorse, forearm propped on his saddle horn as he inspected her lazily. Scuffed boots with the heels hinged in stirrups, faded jeans stretching the length of his legs, a denim shirt covering wide shoulders and a powerful chest, a Stetson tipped over his cocked brow. Pure cowboy.

Except Emmy knew better.

She gulped, unable to say a word, a ridiculous attraction from years past freezing her in place.

Deston Rhodes.

Did he know who she was, even though they hadn’t been on the ranch at the same time in twelve years?

Her stomach somersaulted, scrambling itself into a mishmash of jubilation. His attention warmed her through and through. She’d fantasized about him since childhood: Deston, sweeping her into his arms like she was a blessed princess, him murmuring, “I always did have my eye on you, Emmylou.”

But as he grinned at her, she realized what he must really be seeing.

A pint-sized twenty-four-year-old waif in frayed jean shorts, the ones she’d torn the legs off of when they’d become too holey to wear in public. A girl wearing a too-tight, worn hankie top purchased from a last-chance sale in a San Antonio mall seven years ago—before she’d left Wycliffe, Texas, to expand her culinary horizons.

She sat up, crossing her arms over her clothes. But she couldn’t hold back a vulnerably hopeful smile. The boss’s son had finally taken note of her, had finally seen past her dull sheen of poverty. Hallelujah!

It was almost too much to wish for.

His horse shifted, and Deston moved with the disruption, his thigh muscles flexing as he controlled the animal without much effort.

“They told me you were somewhere on the property, and it’d be polite to reintroduce myself,” he said. “I’m Deston. The grown-up version, that is.”

So he did recognize her.

He waited, obviously expecting her to return the greeting.

But she was still tongue-tied. The Deston Rhodes was talking to Emmy as if they’d been pals, as if she wasn’t the daughter of the late Nigel Brown, Mr. Rhodes’s personal butler, or as if she wasn’t the girl who’d take over for her mother, Francesca, in the kitchens someday.

Odd. Life on Oakvale Ranch usually didn’t work this way. The upstairs people didn’t consort with the ones downstairs, especially if they were the daughter of a man who had lost his family’s nest egg in bad investments. A good man who'd left a wife and child to keep on struggling in debt, even after his death.

Oh, my.

Deston's gaze was coasting over her body, and the hairs on Emmy’s limbs tingled with the thrill of it.

Was he checking her out?

She needed to act as if this were an everyday occurrence.

Coolly tilting her head toward the sun, she said, “It’s good to see you again, Deston.”

“Likewise.” He paused, burning her with his direct stare, his topsy-turvy charm. “You know, I’m trying to think of why I ever called you Lemon Face.”

Emmy’s wishful thinking burst. He’d had a secret nickname for her and it was… “Lemon Face?”

“Don’t look so thunderstruck. Don’t you remember? I used to tease you about, well, everything, and you’d make this awful expression. Like you were sucking on lemons.”

Wait. Deston had never teased Emmylou Brown. Ever.

They’d never even exchanged a word. She’d been just one of many servants’ children, and he’d been a future millionaire in the making. Heck, she’d never even made eye contact with him, afraid of what she’d find embedded in his gaze: derision, distance, emptiness.

All the hope, all the happiness of finally being acknowledged by her childhood crush abandoned her in one big sigh.

He thought she was someone else. Some lucky socially-equal playmate from days gone by.

Of course, that’s it. You’re nothing but a convenience to all the Rhodes family. They don’t even know you exist except for your cooking.

But she knew better. She could be so much more than that. Someday.

Emmy closed her eyes, blocking him out. For a second there she’d preened under his girl-you-grew-up-good gaze. She’d been someone who mattered to him.

Well, it was time to set him straight, to go back to reality. She prepared to tell him who she was, to watch as disinterest stiffened his spine to a more Rhodes-like posture of entitlement. Wasn’t it unfortunate that she couldn’t be his old friend, the woman who’d caught his eye? A person who’d probably never had to hide hole-gouged sneakers under a school desk in utter shame. A girl who’d probably never had a teacher try to slip her lunch money because she’d “forgotten” it three days in a row—when, actually, Emmy had stuffed the dollars her mama had given her back into her parents’ stash, knowing it’d do more help there than in her stomach.

Even now she appreciated the irony. A cook’s daughter, going without a meal.

When she opened her eyes again, he was still watching her, and Emmy almost melted all over the rock.

“Damn,” he said. “You went and got prettier on me. You’re sure not the Lemon Face I recall.”

She sure wasn’t.

With a this-could-have-been-so-beautiful grin, she turned over on the rock, away from him, resting her chin on her fist. “I’m not the girl you think I am.”

She heard him chuckle, slide off his mount, rustle around as he secured the horse to a tree. “All right. So maybe you’ve grown out of the nickname. Hell, a lot of things have changed since we were kids.”

Well, that hadn’t worked. She was talking literally, and he wasn’t.

His boots crunched over the fallen oak leaves, the birds cutting off their warbling as he passed them. “My parents said you’re leaving the ranch today. I’m sorry I haven’t been to many dinners in the big house or barbecues on the back lawn. Business swallowed me right up. But you understand, I’m sure, being a Stanhope.”

Stanhope? The name sounded vaguely familiar, probably because it denoted one of a thousand guests who’d stayed at the ranch. Emmy spared him a glance from her prone position, her heart clenching.

The man of her youthful dreams, framed by a thicket of juniper and a passel of butterflies dancing around a tuft of hackberry. A knotted rope that the servant kids had used long ago to swing into the spring-fed pond dangled in front of him, and he reached out for it, fisting the hemp. The tendons in his forearm strained, leading up to the bunched muscles disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. With the other hand, he whipped off his Stetson, revealing brown hair, green eyes. A football-hero grin.

“At least you recognized the old swimming hole,” he said.

Would he be standing here, shooting the breeze, flirting, by gosh, if he knew she was below him?

No. The senior Mr. Rhodes would never stand for it. And neither would her self-confidence, actually.

But this was a moment she’d always fantasized about. Could she get away with just talking with him, living a dream for a harmless few minutes?

She swallowed. What the heck. She’d never get this chance again.

“I thought this place might offer some peace and quiet.” Was that her with the siren voice? It was so easy to be someone other than Emmy. “But then you appeared.”

Deston pretended to stumble back, hand over his heart. “Hey, if I’m infringing on your good time, I’ll get going. But at least I got you to turn over before your front was fried to a crisp.”

“I’m much obliged.” See, this was no big deal, having a normal conversation with a demigod.

“Don’t mention it.” He stepped out of the shade, into the sunlight, nearer to her. “Anything else I can do?”

“You can fetch my water.” What a fun turnabout. A Rhodes serving her. This had to be the first sign of the world’s demise.

He shrugged, came closer, grabbed the bottle and held it out.

Emmy hitched in a breath. She’d never seen him this close before. Sure, she and her friends—other kids whose parents served on the ranch—had peeked through bushes at the Rhodes boys: Harry, with his untamable cowlick, Deston, with his shirttail always trailing out of his pants until Mrs. Rhodes would tuck it back in and shake her head at his carelessness. The girls would giggle to each other, every one taking a turn at imagining ways that Harry or Deston would propose to them.

In a jet to Monte Carlo? On a ballroom floor? On a yacht?

They’d played their hide-and-sigh games until Harry and Deston had each gone off to prep school. Then college. Mama had told Emmy that Deston had come back to San Antonio a few years ago to become a businessman just like his father.

But, by then, Emmy had gone off to complete her own destiny, reluctantly using the gift of her parents’ life savings in order to train for the job she’d always been expected to assume.

But now, Deston was right here, so close she could lift her hand and touch the long spiky strands of his hair. So close she could smell a hint of sage on his tanned skin, see it in the green of his eyes. There was a slight dimple in his strong chin, too, and a touch of stubble slinking along his jawline.

“Thanks,” she ribbeted, doing her best impression of a toad. Grabbing the water, she fiddled with the top, hating that he made her feel as if she was always craning her neck to catch sight of him. A boy on a pedestal.

Now a man.

Oh, yeah. All man.

He crouched next to her, setting his Stetson on the limestone, waiting.

What should she do? Emmy wasn’t exactly a world-class flirt, especially after what had happened in Italy…. Not that it mattered now. Nope. It was just that she’d heard about all Deston’s brief romances from the servants, who’d caught her up on every detail the minute she’d walked through the downstairs door.

Talk to him, she thought. Chat, just chat.

“So,” she said, buying time. How did his friend act? Did he even know, not having seen her for years, either?

He grinned, his gaze brushing over Emmy’s short, layered hair, over the curve of her back. Goose pimples winged over her skin.

“I’ve kept up on your life,” she said. Good, that much was true. She’d stick to basic gossip, keeping the situation as innocuous as possible. “You were such a football star in school. Quarterback, right?”

He lifted up a hand in resignation, glanced away. “That’s over and done with.”

“Why didn’t you keep at it? You were supposed to be pretty good.” He’d been the best. She knew because she and her friends, Carlota and Felicia, had faithfully followed the papers, the gossip.

“I always knew I was meant to run Rhodes Industries one day,” Deston said. He grabbed a twig from the ground, bent it, straightened it. “But my family gets a lot of mileage out of the whole Longhorn quarterback mystique.”

“It does add prestige to your business image, doesn’t it?”

He snapped the twig, tossed it away. Stood to his full height. His body cast a shadow over Emmy, all harnessed strength and dark memory.

“Isn’t that why your father wanted to spend time here on the ranch?” he asked. “Because he wanted to talk statistics and relive a few glorified touchdowns?”

Her Papa? Nigel Brown, bless him, was thirteen years gone. And he’d be miffed by his daughter wanting to be anyone other than what she was born for.

She opened her mouth to correct Deston’s assumptions, but he was talking again.

“That’s how Edward Rhodes the Third draws them in, with promises of pigskin glamour and riches beyond imagination.”

A threat of bitterness laced his words. She knew about Mr. Rhodes, how strict he was about running the ranch, the staff, the polished reputation of a millionaire family.

She couldn’t see Deston’s face, thanks to the sun’s angle. Good thing, because once she revealed she wasn’t from the Stanhope family, she didn’t want to see his reaction.

There was a loud thrashing from across the swimming hole, and they both glanced over to see what had caused the racket.

A white-tailed deer had emerged from the foliage, gracefully walking along the water’s edge.

“Look,” Emmy said, momentarily lost in the sight. It’d been a long time since she’d been in Hill Country, and she’d missed it terribly.

The animal sensed them, stiffened, then burst away in a flash of legs and brown hide.

Deston leaned down, casually plucked at the knot that held together the back of Emmy’s hankie top, then stood again. “Come on, let’s make the most of your last day here, Lila.”

He started to unbutton his shirt.

Lila. “Hey, I—” Her mouth clamped shut.

He’d whipped off the material, revealing tanned skin, work-honed muscles, abs that you could grate cheese on. When he undid the fly of his jeans, Emmy averted her eyes.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Heavy denim thumped in front of her, bodiless.

Oh, mercy. He was—as her mama might say—nudo, wasn’t he?

Unable to help herself, Emmy peeked out of the corner of her gaze. She caught a glimpse of white boxers. Phew. Or maybe not. No, definitely phew. The last thing she needed was to be out in the middle of the boonies with a buck-naked boss’s son. She’d get Mama fired in a second flat after what had happened a few years ago between Harry Rhodes and the maid, and, Lord knew, Mama needed every penny….

“You just gonna sit there?” Deston asked.

Emmy nodded, staring straight ahead. Should she concentrate on her book now? Like Water for Chocolate, something she’d read and used for recipes a million times before.

“Suit yourself.” He whisked by her, body arching into the pond like a switchblade cocked open.

Deston obviously knew the depths of the swimming hole from his youth. When the servant kids had played here, they’d vacated the hole at the first sign of a Rhodes.

Emmy had never seen him swim, never seen him knife upward in a spray of droplets. The water sprinkled onto her arms, and she leaned backward.

“Hey!”

He laughed, clearly having the time of his life, slinging the hair out of his eyes with one whip of his head, pushing into a backstroke as he aimed another burst of water at her.

“Come in,” he yelled, turning over and swimming away.

Moisture sluiced off the sinew of his back, trickling over the smooth taper of muscle flowing into waist. His boxers were plastered to the rounds of his backside, hugging the indentation right below his hips. She could imagine fitting her palm there, tracing the ridges of him.

Emmy watched him move effortlessly, athletically, parting the water before him. Diving beneath the surface, he disappeared.

She inhaled, spellbound, while fingering a fringe on her old, ugly shorts.

He’d asked her to come in. With him. Her. Emmylou Brown, a girl who was no more important than a piece of furniture in the Rhodes sitting room.

But what if she could be more than that?

Years ago, with Paolo, she’d asked the same question, and the answer had cut the heart right out of her.

This time though, what if she really could pretend she wasn’t poor-girl Emmy? What if she could convince Deston she was an equal before he could guess who she really was?

Emmy bit her lip. And what if she could do it by being Lila Stanhope, even for an hour?

She crept closer to the edge of the stone slab, wondering if she’d be brave enough to dive in.

Underwater. Peace.

That’s all Deston wanted. The silence you could hear below the pond’s surface, where nothing existed but the present, the sunlight waving through the water.

He held his breath, lungs near to bursting, then with a thrust of energy, surged upward, breaking toward the sky.

The first thing he saw was Lila, one of his father’s ranch guests. He faintly remembered her as a kid, but something had happened on the trip from the blurry Lemon Face of his recollection to today’s woman. Now, she had a smile that lit up from the inside, brightening her dark cocoa eyes, her dusky skin. Even her hair was a point of light, short, shaped into bouncy layers. It looked like ginger to him. Ginger with vanilla streaks flowing over the strands near her face.

Damn, he hadn’t remembered Lila Stanhope being such a beaut, just a girl with stringy brown hair and a nondescript stare. If he’d known that she’d turn out so gorgeous, he might have agreed right off the bat to what his father had been nagging him to do for a week now.

If you act sweet on her, Mr. Rhodes had said in his lecture voice, business with the Stanhopes will go much smoother.

Deston was a sight too old for lectures. At the age of twenty-nine, he was ready to think for himself. Had been for years. And he’d come to the conclusion—all on his own, if that could be believed—that courting Lila Stanhope in the name of corporate interests was not his style.

His father’s eye had once again turned to the Stanhopes. That’s why Deston hadn’t seen Lila lately. Because Mr. Rhodes had lost interest in Stanhope Steel.

Until now.

Deston would do anything for his family. Work long hours, forgo a personal life in the process. Anything, except go against his own instincts.

Instincts. Bothersome jabs of fear that had everything to do with Juliet Templeton—the woman he’d loved and lost so tragically—and nothing to do with logic. His “instincts” kept him sane, and they were telling him to steer clear of Lila Stanhope.

She was perched on the stone slab, hovering above the water, looking as high-strung as that deer they’d seen flit through here.

Instincts. But why couldn’t he just enjoy her smile for the time being?

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

She answered with one of those sunburst flashes. He’d never seen a person light up that way, especially the socialites he was normally with.

“You can swim, right?” He glided nearer to her.

“I don’t know if I want to get my hair wet.”

“Priss.”

“Excuse me?”

Now he’d done it. She settled her petite body onto the rock’s edge, sent him a dignified glance. In spite of her clothes, retro hippie wear, he decided, she carried herself as if she was wearing silk and diamonds.

“I get it,” he said, treading water. “You’re going to punish me.”

“By…?”

“By judging me from on top of your mountain. Cut a guy a break. I came out here to get away from wheeling and dealing.”

“I see. You just wanted to clear your brain.” She tilted her head, and something lethal kurplunked into his gut.

“I’m not cooperating very well, am I?” she asked.

He ignored his common sense, moved closer, to just below the rock. “I promise I won’t splash you anymore.”

She swung her shapely legs, leaning forward to see him, small, firm breasts pressed against the near see-through material of her summer top. If he looked hard enough, he could see the faint darkness of her nipples, the way they beaded against the cotton. He yearned for just a touch of them.

Grasping her slim ankle, he commanded, “Breathe.”

She’d reared backward, eyes widening. “Don’t you d—”

Too late. He gently tugged, bringing her into the water, catching her before she went all the way under, holding her body flush against his.

Neither of them moved, not for a long moment. It was as if she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing—the cotton puckered to her breasts, outlining every curve as well as the hardened buds in the center of them. Beads of moisture trickled from her collarbone onto his thumbs.

The contact warmed his blood. It’d been so long since he’d held a woman like this—so innocently, but with a flame of expectation licking the surface of his skin. Something untouched, deeply hidden, stirred inside, competing with the hunger, wanting to be fulfilled, too.

Hell, no. Juliet had killed that part of him when she’d died. She’d turned out to be someone he hadn’t known at all, and the betrayal had altered him forever.

In order to sweep that yearning back into its dark place, he purposely allowed Lila to slide down the length of his body, slowly, water making their skin slick, heated.

There. Lust, pure and simple. Uncomplicated by emotions.

One of her legs tentatively wrapped around him as they came face to face, those breasts rubbing against his upper chest, tearing him apart from the inside out as that unnamable something refused to die. God, he didn’t want to face it again.

Both of them were breathing raggedly as he hesitated. He was an experienced guy, at least as far as sex was concerned. He knew what came next. So why wasn’t he doing it?

Another moment passed, filled with the song of birds, the flutter of a dragonfly’s wings as it beat past them, the smell of juniper, grass and…her. A mixture of cinnamon, sweet spices.

This was wrong to lead her on when he couldn’t promise anything more than an afternoon of canoodling. He had too much work to worry about and, in one week, he’d even be relocating to New York to oversee business there.

Lila Stanhope seemed too nice for that kind of love-’em-and-leave-’em charade. Too innocent to deal with his demons. She was the daughter of a corporate associate. A business deal. A commitment.

He loosened his hold on her, but his hunger for more tenderness didn’t abate. It merely rested. Waited.

She paused, as if mortified by his silent retreat. Then she braced against his chest, lightly pushing away, creating further distance between them with a deft backstroke.

“That was mighty assertive of you,” she said.

He liked her sense of humor. From the moment she’d told him to fetch her water bottle, he’d been drawn to her spirit. “It runs in the family.”

“Right. The Rhodes clan. Vicious oil tycoons. Claw-wielding corporate devils.”

“Not straight out of the gate. Edward the First, Great-great-great Granddad, was quite the gentleman.”

“Do tell.” She’d backed against a limestone cliff face to hold her up. The wet ends of her hair left dark trails near the snail fossils etched into the surface.

“You want a history lesson?” he asked, relieved by the possibility of small talk.

She raised her eyebrow and nodded. He’d bet that she was doing everything possible to cool the tension between them. But he couldn’t forget the feel of her leg clenching him against her, the sight of her breasts.

Might as well humor her before she went running to daddy about the big bad wolf in the woods, just like she used to.

“All right then. Edward the First was a third son of a duke, so of course he had no hope over in grand ol’ England. He ended up over here in Texas, right before the War Between the States, and managed to finagle some land. He did a pretty decent job of raising cattle. But when the Great Depression rolled around and William Rhodes had the honor of taking over the family business, they had to entertain ‘dudes’ to keep the ranch solvent. We got rid of the city folk about fifty years ago though. No more need for them.”

“Aren’t we high and mighty?” She was too damned cute with her brow arched like that.

“Why’re you offended? I’ll bet you could outclass any dude by being able to distinguish one end of a horse from the other. Or maybe you just have a yen for hay rides and sing-alongs.”

“My sentimental side does cry out for a good square dance every so often, I have to admit.” She paused. “So your fortune wasn’t made off dudes.”

He’d sidestroked away from her. “Right. Back in the day, we invested in land north of here, and we struck oil. Millions were made, and that’s when the family started acquiring businesses.”

“And more businesses. And…”

They both laughed knowingly, and he shook his head. “If I’d known you were so sociable, I’d have straightaway locked my office up tight and hurried back to Wycliffe to meet you again.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “You’ve got the markings of a workaholic. See, you’re even thinking about your next takeover right now. The Stanhopes, right? It’s in your eyes.”

“What?”

“There’s a distance about you.” She glanced away. “But what do I know?”

She’d seen it. His worst fear, hiding, dodging.

Maybe he was becoming as ruthless as his father.

Deston’s hands clenched at the water.

He wouldn’t ever be like Edward Rhodes the Third: a hard man mired in family tradition. A man who would stop at nothing to get ahead.

Even his marriage had been nothing more than another merger, and Deston could see how the arrangement ate away at the old guy.

Lila started paddling toward her rock, glancing over her shoulder, pausing before getting out. Modest?

Her shyness prodded him, made him way too damned impetuous—just like he’d been with Juliet Templeton.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said. A tight laugh followed. “It’s one way to get me out of the office.”

Lila merely stared at him, brown eyes saucer-like.

“Lila?”

She blinked. After a few seconds, she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“That’s right. Your family’s leaving. But you could stay behind.”

With a flutter of speed, she climbed out of the swimming hole. Then, with her back to him, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body.

Her absence already needled him, twisting in his belly. But why should he care?

“There’s a gazebo about a half mile from the big house. I’ll have the cooks whip up something for us tonight. At, say, eight?”

She stopped all movement, then retrieved her book and water bottle. “I—”

“—will be there,” he finished for her. What the hell? As long as both of them understood that this would be a fling—he couldn’t tolerate anything more—no harm would be done.

Lila was fumbling into a pair of threadbare Keds, ignoring him.

“I’m going to wait for you,” he said, intrigued by her coyness.

She stepped toward the trees, toward the path back to the main residence area. “Don’t wait for me.”

“I will.”

She shook her head. “Are you really that arrogant?”

“That’s how I do business.”

“I’m not business.” She opened her mouth again, then shut it. With a dismissive gesture, she traipsed into the woods, leaving him alone.

But that was nothing new.

Deston looked in her direction for a few seconds more, then submerged his body underwater again, giving himself to the silence.

Chapter Two

Even now, safely inside her quarters one hour later, Emmy’s pulse was still thudding in her ears.

She donned the white baseball cap she usually wore in the kitchen, then blew out an anxious breath. What had she been thinking, leading Deston on like that? There’d been more than one chance to tell him who she was, but she hadn’t taken it. She’d been too caught up in all the fantastic possibilities, all the flattery and dreams come true. What girl wouldn’t love the opportunity to linger—even briefly—under the attentions of the perfect man?

Not that it mattered anymore. The afternoon had almost burned itself out. She was back to her normal life, and Deston would go back to his after she didn’t show up for dinner tonight. After all, how serious could he be about the entire scenario?

Even now she couldn’t believe it’d happened.

Emmy found herself smiling like a fool. She’d captured one beautiful moment in time with him, and now she could preserve it, press it between the pages of all her silly romantic wishes.

Really, she hadn’t felt so darn giddy since Italy, when she’d first met Paolo while taking a sunset walk along the village streets of Tocchi. But the happiness hadn’t lasted. Neither had the illusion of being something more than a menial cook, born to serve.

Par for the course. She didn’t wear this “Lila” deception well. It felt like a Halloween costume that was one size too small, cutting off her common sense and dignity.

Dignity? Her giddiness faded. Right. If Emmy had any dignity whatsoever, she’d use the lot of it telling Mama she’d serve in the Rhodes’s kitchens only until all their loans were finally paid off. Then she’d move on, away from this life. Away from Deston.

Unfortunately, her own outstanding debts included Mama’s life savings, which meant Emmy owed her more than just dollar bills. She hadn’t wanted to dig into the “school money” her parents had managed to cultivate, but Mama had insisted, saying that it’s what Papa would’ve expected.

For her to serve the Rhodes household to the best of her ability. Certainly, there was something to be said about pride in doing your best work, but Emmy wanted to do it in a restaurant of her own. She could just imagine it: Francesca’s. Named after Mama. Serving Tuscan-inspired food and spirits.

Another fantasy. Another dream to keep her going.

How could she break Mama’s heart by leaving the ranch? By rebelling against a life her family had chosen back in the 1800s when Winston Brown had served Edward Rhodes the First when they’d forged a dynasty here in Texas?

As she left her room and walked the long path to the kitchens, Emmy knew that she’d been born to follow in the footsteps of her legacy. And she’d make the best of it, doing Mama proud, living up to her dad’s memory, paying her dues as well as Papa’s medical bills and remaining debts.

Bills the Rhodeses had never known about.

The big house—a mansion, to be honest—topped a slight hill overlooking the Medina River in the near distance, the flat grasslands with their scattered oaks and juniper, the steep slopes and canyons. Most of the servants who worked in the house stayed “underground,” downstairs, but Emmy was lucky enough to enjoy a cottage located in back of the mansion. It had belonged to her parents, and since Mama was near retirement, she’d allowed Emmy to take it over. A gift to the new cook.

She took a slight detour and wound her way through one of the flower-garden paths. It was something she hadn’t done since six years ago, before she’d left for Tocchi, Italy, at age eighteen, where a distant cousin had taken her under her wing to mentor her in cooking. There, she’d worked in their family trattoria for a few years; that is, until she’d met Paolo. After she’d pieced herself back together sufficiently, she’d gone to New York, taken advantage of financial aid and earned a Culinary Arts Diploma at the Institute of Culinary Education.

But now she was home again.

“Que tal, baby?” asked a chipper voice.

Emmy smiled at her new visitors. Carlota Verde sashayed into the rose garden, accompanied by her best friend, Felicia Markowski. Both of them worked as maids in the big house. Both of them had grown up with Emmy, too. All of them had nursed crushes on Deston. “The D-Liteful Fan Club” they’d called themselves, scribbling rhyming poetry in their shared diaries, writing letters about ranch life and rumors about the boys once Emmy had left them. They’d also banded together at school to ignore the popular girls with the tight designer jeans and Miss Texas smiles.

Felicia surveyed Emmy, the maid’s blond ponytail shimmering in the sun. “Look at her. Em, you got some real sun today.”

“I decided to take advantage of the time off before I take over in the kitchens.” Emmy’s skin doubled in heat output, and she knew the color of it went way beyond the burn of today’s swimming-hole nap.

“Em?” Carlota asked, bending down to catch her friend’s down-turned gaze.

Heck, the stone path had been fascinating. Why did Carlota have to go and ruin her view?

Big brown sloe eyes narrowed as Carlota led Emmy’s gaze upward once again. “Something’s already wrong because you’re wearing your oh-oh face.”

“Oh-oh as in Italy oh-oh?” Felicia asked.

“Kind of,” Emmy said. She frowned, mainly because she knew that if she didn’t come out with the truth now, Carlota was bound to “feel” it anyway. “But it’s nothing I can’t nip in the bud. Not like with Paolo.”

“Paolo,” they both said, shaking their heads. Felicia slid a compassionate baby-blue gaze over to Emmy. Carlota, well, she just looked as though she was about to throttle Emmy for losing her regained strength this soon.

“I don’t need a psychic vision to know where this is leading,” the brunette said.

And she wasn’t joking. Carlota was born with the gift of sight, much to her frequent regret. The girls had grown up with her eerie portents, her bad nighttime dreams.

Emmy shifted her stance, tucked her hands into the pockets of her white cargo pants. “I suppose I’ve got another oh-oh situation on the horizon. I ran into Deston today.”

“Deston Rhodes,” Felicia sighed, ever the romantic optimist.

Carlota shot her an amused look. “So? Tell us everything.”

They all drew closer together.

“I was at the old swimming hole, just minding my business, when he rode up on his horse.”

“Prince Phillip in Sleeping Beauty, finding the princess hidden in the woods. He was lovely,” Felicia said.

“He was a cartoon,” Carlota said. “Go on, Em.”

Emmy didn’t take their Deston-drooling very seriously. It’d been more of a bonding exercise for them anyway, until they started getting real boyfriends. She linked arms with Felicia, and the blonde grinned at her.

“He started chatting with me,” Emmy said, “as if he was a host at a dinner party making small talk, conducting business.”

“Of course,” Carlota said. “Even when he’s out of the office, he’s in it. At least, that’s what they say.”

“Right. But he sounded as if he knew me already. Called me ‘Lemon Face.’”

“So he was obviously romancing you,” Carlota said, laughing.

Emmy’s cheeks flared with embarrassment, remembrance: The brush of the slight hair on his chest as it whisked against her own skin. His choppy breaths warming her ear. A wish come true, swelled with dangerous hope.

Carlota’s mouth gaped. “He was romancing you. Is that why you’re so glum?”

“It doesn’t matter. He thinks I’m Lila. As in Stanhope.”

“Wait.” Carlota took a step back. “He thought you were one of our ranch guests?”

“Yeah. I guess she was a corporate kid who used to visit.”

“Right,” Carlota said, voice laced with wariness. “One of them.”

Her friend still felt the needles of their teasing, too. Could the three of them ever forget? Your mom scrubs toilets! they’d yell. Your dad waits on mine!

Emmy swallowed. “When Deston sees me around the ranch, he’s going to think I’m his childhood ‘Lemon Face’ and daughter of a bigwig. Just my luck, isn’t it?”

“He won’t see you around the ranch,” Felicia said.

Emmy stared at her friend.

“She’s right.” Carlota held up a finger. “Number one: He’s never here. Well, every once in a while when big Mr. Rhodes requests his presence for a deal, but rarely. Deston lives in San Antonio, in his office. They say that his daddy is sending him to New York soon, too.”

Emmy folded her arms over her stomach. “He is?”

“To oversee business there. You have a short window to further this opportunity, Em.”

“Not an option.” Emmy shook her head. He was leaving, right when she’d caught his eye? Not that it was relevant, but it was her typical luck with men. And maybe it was for the best, considering her track record.

“And number two…?” Felicia asked.

“When is the last time you saw anyone in the family besides Mrs. Rhodes in the kitchens? Or in the laundry? Or anywhere downstairs? That’s why they have Hendrich and Hausfrau Dominatrix,” Carlota said, referring to the head butler who’d taken the place of Emmy’s father after his death, as well as head of household. For reasons known only to them, the maids called her the Hausfrau Dominatrix rather than her real name, Mrs. Wagner.

“So,” Emmy said, somewhat entertained and flattered by their enthusiasm, “if I told you that Deston sort of asked me out, you all would tell me I should go?”

“Emmy? Do you know what this means?” Felicia gave a hop of excitement. “You’ve done it. You’ve reached the dream of every girl who grew up staring at Deston with hearts in her eyes, every girl who ever cheered him from the stands. You’re a chosen one!”

Emmy narrowed her eyes, though she smiled, as well. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“More details,” Carlota said, still analyzing the situation. “Fill us in on everything.”

It was almost as if someone had taken a little mini Emmy skillet and placed it on a stove, lighting the burner to full flame. The heat came in waves over her body, making her weak, strong, weak.

“He swam in his boxers, and then asked me to dinner. That’s all,” Emmy said, reluctant to reveal the most intimate details. Something lost and vulnerable told her to keep the skin-on-skin part of it to herself. It was her secret moment, kept in the memory box of her heart, because it’d never happen again.

“Oh,” Carlota said, closing her eyes, “I can bet he looked muy guapo.” She flapped her hand for emphasis.

They all paused for a moment, allowing Emmy to relive the sight. His cut-muscled torso, tanned and gleaming in the sun. Water darkening his hair, sliding in drops down his full lips, chiseled jaw, neck.

Carlota sighed. “And he thinks you’re Lila Stanhope?”

“Yes, he does. I never managed to correct his assumption. I thought it wouldn’t go any further than the swimming hole.”

And I didn’t want to see his disappointment.

“Well,” Carlota said, “at least you had a good view of Deston in his boxers. That’ll last you for years. And if you go to dinner tonight…”

“You’re not serious.”

“Em—”

“No,” she repeated. “Enough is enough. Dinner’s absolutely out of the question.”

Felicia held up three fingers, silencing the debate. “There’s a number three, you know.”

“What?” Carlota said.

“The third reason Emmy doesn’t have to worry about Deston discovering who she is.” She held up her hands, palms facing the sky. Elementary, my dear girlfriends. “We packed up the Stanhopes this morning. They left about a half hour ago.”

Carlota got a scary gleam in her dark eyes. “So with a little adjusting, you can be Lila tonight.”

“You all are crazy.” Emmy started to walk away. “Mama’s expecting me in the kitchen.”

“Why not do it?” Felicia asked.

“This is ludicrous.”

“Hey.” Carlota’s no-nonsense tone stopped Emmy in her tracks. “Think of how he looked at you.”

That did it.

His gaze had meant everything because, in his eyes, she’d felt beautiful. Felt as if she’d walked into a ball wearing a dress that whispered against her skin like stardust. Felt as if she’d been living in a fantasy.

But those never lasted long enough, did they?

Felicia took Emmy by the shoulders. “Did you feel like you were one of them?” Her them was more rose-tinged than Carlota’s rendition of the word.

Emmy swallowed away the lump in her throat. One of them. “I guess I did.”

“Then go to dinner,” Felicia continued. “You can say that you, Lila, wanted to see him one last time and will join your family tomorrow. Then, in one week, he’ll be across the country without ever knowing. No harm done.”

“What if he searches her out?”

Carlota waved away the question. “I don’t think he will. Remember, he’ll be gone in one week. Besides, everyone knows that Deston isn’t the committing type. He’s married to the office. After tonight, you make it clear that it’s over. It’s just a dinner, after all.”

Emmy’s heartbeat tripped at the thought of it. This was wrong to even consider.

Yet, what if Felicia and Carlota were right? Emmylou Brown didn’t have enough romantic oomph to interest a man long-term anyway, so leaving the romance behind after a limited time wouldn’t be a problem. That’s how it’d been with Paolo, with every minor boyfriend since.

“He’ll never know,” Carlota said, wiggling her brows.

“And if you don’t do it, you’ll be saying, ‘I wonder,’ for the rest of your life,” Felicia added.

They watched her, waiting for an answer, but Emmy had no idea what to say.

Should she go with the flow, treat herself to one night of fun and hope that Deston wouldn’t visit the kitchens for the next week?

Or should she play by the rules, stay in her place, live downstairs for the rest of her life?

Confused, she lifted her hand in farewell to her friends. “Mama’s waiting. I’ll see you all later.”

Emmy could feel their eyes on her as she walked to the kitchens.

To where she belonged.

In the cigar lounge, where Deston had wandered after not eating more than two bites of a tempting dinner, he found himself staring at the wall again.

The Wall of Fame.

Or, as he liked to call it, The Wall of Shame.

The oak paneling featured photographs from days gone by, generations of family accomplishments in black-and-white. Painful color.

Here was a shot of Edward the First posing next to the oil well, his mouth in a straight, proud line, his bearded chin lifted, peering down at the camera. Then there were more pictures showing important business acquisitions, significant connections. His granddad posing with Lyndon B. Johnson. His dad playing golf with Papa George Bush. Harry, his brother, stiffly placing his arm around the second President Bush.

And there was Deston. With a football.

The taste of brandied tobacco soured his mouth after he blew out the smoke, turning away from the wall to find his father watching him.

Stark white hair, a full beard, a rounded stomach stuffed full of Texas beef and the best whiskey available. And those penetrating green eyes. How could he forget those eyes? They’d followed him everywhere, from cradle to playing field, from his first acquisition to tonight’s silent meal.

They’d even watched him closely after Juliet Templeton had reduced his judgment to ash. After she’d proven to him that he wasn’t suited for relationships anyway.

“Your mother’s wondering why you didn’t eat much,” Edward the Third said.

“I’ll be going out.”

“To a roadhouse?”

Deston puffed on his cigar, took his time blowing out the steam. “Maybe.”

That’s where he could end up if Lila Stanhope didn’t meet him. He’d heard that her family had already left, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come back to the ranch.

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.

Chapter Three

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.

“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?

“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.”

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