The Illegitimate Billionaire

“Why would she marry me?” Deacon voiced his own thought process as he searched for more information. “And what does it gain you? Just offer her money to come home.”

“I can’t offer her money to come home. I can’t even risk contacting her. I’m positive Frederick poisoned her against the family. If I make that play and fail, it’s game over.”

“You have a whole lot of money to offer.”

However Frederick might have disparaged his family, surely most mortal women would be attracted to the family’s immense wealth.

“Frederick may have walked away from the company,” Tyrell said. “But he didn’t walk away from his trust fund. She doesn’t need money.”

Again, Deacon smiled. “Something you can’t buy. Must be frustrating.”

“She doesn’t know you,” Tyrell said.

“Does she know Aaron and Beau?” Deacon still wasn’t getting the play here. It had to be galling for Tyrell to approach Deacon for anything.

“Aaron’s already married,” Tyrell pointed out. “And Beau... I’m not naïve where it comes to my children, Deacon. Beau’s nobody’s idea of a good husband and father.”

Deacon didn’t disagree with that statement. Beau had always been the wild one, parties every weekend and a different girlfriend every month. His exploits had been splashed across local gossip columns dozens of times.

“You, on the other hand,” Tyrell continued. He gestured Deacon up and down with his empty glass. “I recognize you have a certain sophistication. Women seem to like you. Nice women seem to like you.”

Deacon couldn’t help but be amazed that Tyrell had paid any attention to him at all.

“You’re not publicly connected to the family,” Tyrell continued. “You can move in under the radar, romance her, marry her.”

“Then blindside her with the news about you?” Deacon had always questioned Tyrell’s morality, but this was beyond belief.

Tyrell rolled his eyes. “Ease her into it, boy.”

“No.” An ownership position in Hale Harbor Port might be Deacon’s lifelong dream, but he wasn’t going to use Frederick’s widow as a pawn.

Tyrell came to his feet. “You have a moral objection?”

“Yes. And you should, too.” Deacon peered into Tyrell’s eyes, searching for some semblance of a soul. “You do know that, right?”

“Go meet her,” Tyrell said.

Deacon started to refuse again, but Tyrell talked right over him. “Just meet her before you decide. If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it. But don’t give up hundreds of millions of dollars without looking at all the angles.”

“You’re the angles guy, not me.”

“You’re my son,” Tyrell repeated.

Deacon wanted to protest. He might be saddled with Tyrell’s DNA, but he wasn’t anything like him. He had a moral compass. He got it from his mother.

But he found himself hesitating.

In that second, it was clear he’d inherited some traits from his father. And they couldn’t be good traits. Because he was weighing the harm in meeting Frederick’s widow. Was there any harm in meeting her before refusing Tyrell’s offer?

* * *

It was on days like these that Callie Clarkson missed her husband the most. Frederick loved springtime, the scent of roses wafting in the bakery windows, mingling with the cinnamon and strawberries from the kitchen. Today the sun was shining in a soft blue sky, and tourists were streaming into Downright Sweet for a midmorning muffin or warm berry scone.

Their bakery, Downright Sweet, occupied both floors of a red brick house in the historic district of downtown Charleston. The first floor held the kitchen that they’d refurbished when they bought the place five years ago. It also held the front service counter and several tables, both inside and out on the porch. The second floor was a dining room with screened windows all the way around, plus a covered sundeck that overlooked the tree-lined, shade-dappled street.

The lunch crowd was diminishing, and Callie’s manager, Hannah Radcliff, breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“My feet are killing me,” Hannah said.

She was in her early forties, with rounded curves from a self-described weakness for buttercream. Her voice was soft. Her eyes were mocha brown, and she had a perpetual smile on her very pretty face. Both of Callie’s sons, James and Ethan, loved her to death.

“Go take a break,” Callie said. “Nancy and I will be fine.”

“Rest your feet,” Nancy echoed from where she was wiping down the espresso machine. “I’ll do the tables.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Hannah said. “Wait. Hello.”

Callie followed the direction of Hannah’s gaze to see Mayor Watkins striding past the front window, toward the Downright Sweet entrance.

Nancy gave an amused laugh. She was a college student who had come back to her family in Charleston for the summer. She didn’t see the attraction of the Mayor.

Hank Watkins was single, slightly younger than Hannah and equally quick to smile. His dark hair was short at the sides, with a swoop across the top that didn’t particularly appeal to Callie. But he was attractive enough, in a distinguished way that was beneficial for a politician.

She’d describe him as burley, with a deep, booming voice. He was the son of one of Charleston’s most prominent families. They traced their ancestry all the way back to the Mayflower.

The classic little gold bell jingled as the door opened.

Callie stepped away from the cash register, busying herself with tidying the displays of cupcakes and giving Hannah a clear field.

“Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Hannah said.

“You know to call me Hank,” the Mayor answered.

“Hank,” Hannah said. “What can I get you?” She gestured to the glass case on her left. “A lemon puff pastry? Or coconut buttercream? The cupcakes are popular today.”

“What do you recommend?”

“You can’t go wrong with the pecan tart.”

“Done.”

“Whipped cream?” Hannah asked.

“Of course.” The Mayor pulled his wallet from his suit jacket pocket. “Callie?” He turned his attention to her.

“Whipped cream is always a nice addition,” Callie answered lightly. She kept her attention on the cupcakes, not wanting to intrude.

“I was hoping I could talk with you,” Hank said, his tone going more serious.