The Illegitimate Billionaire

“I assume you know about Frederick.”

“I do.”

Tyrell’s youngest son—and Deacon’s half brother, though they’d never been introduced—Frederick had died of pneumonia six months ago. Rumor had it that Frederick’s lungs had been seriously damaged as a child, when he’d been thrown from a horse. The fall had also broken his spine and confined him to a wheelchair.

“Did you know he lived in Charleston?” Tyrell asked.

Deacon hadn’t known where Frederick lived. He’d only known Frederick had left home after college and never returned. Everyone in Hale Harbor knew Frederick had a falling out with his father and walked out of the Clarkson family’s life. Deacon had silently admired Fredrick for doing it.

“Frederick has two sons,” Tyrell said. His gaze didn’t waver.

Deacon was surprised at that news. He wasn’t an expert on spinal cord injuries, but he wouldn’t have expected Frederick to father children. He supposed they could have been adopted.

He didn’t know what Tyrell anticipated as a response to that particular revelation. But Deacon didn’t have anything to say about Frederick’s sons.

“The oldest is four, the other eighteen months,” Tyrell said.

“Congratulations?” Deacon ventured.

“My only grandchildren, and I’ve never met them.”

“I don’t get where this is going.” Deacon had sure never met Tyrell’s grandsons.

The entire Clarkson family did their best to pretend Deacon didn’t exist. Aaron and Beau knew perfectly well who he was, though he’d never been sure about Tyrell’s wife, Margo. It was possible Tyrell had been successful in keeping Deacon a secret from her all these years—which begged the question of what Deacon was doing in the castle today. Surely Margo would be curious.

Tyrell took a healthy swallow of the scotch.

Deacon decided to try it. What the heck? It might be the one and only thing his father ever gave him.

He lifted the expensive tumbler to his lips and took an experimental sip. The whiskey was smooth, rich and peaty, not bad, but he’d sampled better. Then again, the company might be tainting the taste.

“I want to see my grandsons,” Tyrell said.

“So see them.”

“I can’t.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Frederick’s widow.”

It took Deacon a beat to comprehend what Tyrell meant. Then he grinned. Poetic justice had visited Tyrell. Deacon took another sip of the whiskey, silently toasting the widow. The scotch tasted better this time, really quite good.

“You find that amusing?” Tyrell’s words were terse.

“Someone keeping the powerful Tyrell Clarkson from something he wants? Yes, I find that amusing.” Deacon saw no point in shading his feelings. Tyrell couldn’t possibly think Deacon gave a damn about Tyrell’s happiness.

Tyrell seemed to gather himself, leaning forward, his chin jutting. “Down to brass tacks, then. Let’s see if you think this is funny. I’ll trade you what I want for what you want.”

The words unnerved Deacon. At the same time, they put him on alert. “You haven’t the first idea of what I want.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

“I’m completely sure about that.” Deacon had never even had a conversation with his father, never mind confided his hopes and dreams to him.

“I’ll acknowledge you as my son,” Tyrell said.

It was all Deacon could do not to laugh at the offer. “I could have proved our relationship through DNA years ago.”

“I mean, I’ll make you an heir.”

“Put me in your will?” Deacon wasn’t falling for a promise like that—a promise changeable with the stroke of a pen.

“No. Not when I die. Now. I’m offering you twenty-five percent of Hale Harbor Port. You’ll be equal partners with me, Aaron and Beau.”

Hale Harbor Port was a billion-dollar corporation that had been owned by succeeding generations of the Clarkson family since the 1700s. Deacon tried to wrap his head around the offer. He couldn’t.

His entire childhood he’d dreamed of being a part of the Clarkson family. He’d spun fantasies that Tyrell truly loved Deacon’s mother, that he secretly wanted Deacon in his life, that he would one day leave Margo and welcome Deacon and his mother into the castle.

But then Deacon’s mother had died when he was barely nineteen, and Tyrell didn’t so much as send condolences. Deacon accepted the reality that he meant nothing to Tyrell, and he stopped dreaming.

And now this offer came completely out of the blue. What could possibly be worth twenty-five percent of a billion dollars? Nothing legal, that was for sure.

“You want me to kidnap them?” Deacon asked.

Tyrell shook his head. “That would be too easy. Also temporary, because we’d be sure to get caught.”

“But you’re not morally opposed to it?” Maybe it should have surprised Deacon that Tyrell would consider committing a capital crime. It didn’t.

Tyrell drew in an impatient breath. “Give me credit for a little finesse.”

Deacon knew he should walk away from this conversation. “I don’t give you credit for anything.”

“But you’re still listening.”

“I’m curious, not tempted.”

Tyrell gave a smug smile, polishing off his drink. “Oh, you’re tempted all right.”

“Spit it out, or I’m leaving.” Deacon rose to his feet. He wasn’t going to play this game any longer.

“I want you to romance and marry Frederick’s widow and bring my grandsons home.” Tyrell watched intently for Deacon’s reaction.

Deacon didn’t have a reaction. He would have bet he hadn’t heard right, but Tyrell’s words were crystal clear.

“Why?” Deacon tried to fathom the complexity that had to lie behind the request.

Tyrell was reputed to be a master conspirator.