Книга - The Illegitimate Billionaire

The Illegitimate Billionaire
Barbara Dunlop


His convenient wife is nothing like he expected…If black sheep billionaire Deacon marries Callie, his father has promised him legitimacy and acceptance. But Callie isn’t the gold-digger Deacon was promised, and now his heart’s on the line.







His orders are simple—marry his half brother’s gold-digging widow and bring her children into the fold.

But his convenient wife is nothing like he expected...

If black-sheep billionaire Deacon marries Callie, his father has promised him legitimacy...and acceptance. But Callie is not the gold digger Deacon was promised. She makes him burn with need...and rethink his selfish motives. Is deceiving Callie and her sons a price he’s willing to pay for his father’s love?


New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author BARBARA DUNLOP has written more than forty novels for Mills & Boon, including the acclaimed Chicago Sons series for Mills & Boon Desire. Her sexy, lighthearted stories regularly hit bestseller lists. Barbara is a threetime finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award.


Also by Barbara Dunlop (#u253bce8b-faff-51f1-9bf3-042387de194a)

Sex, Lies and the CEO

Seduced by the CEO

A Bargain with the Boss

His Stolen Bride

From Temptation to Twins

Twelve Nights of Temptation His

Temptation, Her Secret

The Illigitimate Billionaire

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


The Illegitimate Billionaire

Barbara Dunlop






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07640-1

THE ILLEGITIMATE BILLIONAIRE

© 2018 Barbara Dunlop

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Shaina, Jacob, Karl and Heidi


Contents

Cover (#ua5b19fa4-8086-52c5-a6ef-2319489d9c44)

Back Cover Text (#u3a21a683-021a-5a79-8bcd-30f89318b7aa)

About the Author (#u102f5568-fc30-5288-a908-d1d9565518ce)

Booklist (#ud4e0f830-d0e8-59f6-b15f-4c0e67e7334e)

Title Page (#u4ede9b77-eefa-506b-9028-f00e1d95738f)

Copyright (#ufe43f758-8c24-5fdc-a8df-0fca4e7da3d6)

Dedication (#u37c12bcf-c9c4-53e9-9af6-da6a250ca409)

One (#uaaed3157-67b5-5926-b7db-37e69fb18aa2)

Two (#uf3d67e03-94a1-5c7a-8238-87b23252ebf0)

Three (#u1311673b-202d-59e9-af7a-9eac6cc6033f)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


One (#u253bce8b-faff-51f1-9bf3-042387de194a)

In an absurdly masculine room, deep in the halls of Clarkson Castle, Deacon Holt carefully neutralized his expression. He wouldn’t give Tyrell Clarkson the satisfaction of seeing anger, envy or any other emotion.

“Drink?” Tyrell asked, making a half turn toward Deacon from the inlayed walnut bar. He held up a cut-crystal decanter that Deacon could only guess held decades-old single malt.

Tyrell was well-known in Hale Harbor, Virginia, for indulging in the finer things.

“No,” Deacon answered. He had no idea why he’d been summoned today, after being shunned his entire life, but he was positive this wasn’t a social occasion.

Tyrell shrugged and poured two glasses anyway. He cut partway across the library and bent at the waist to set the glasses on opposite sides of a dark wood coffee table.

“In case you change your mind,” he said and gestured to one of two brown leather armchairs flanking the table.

Deacon preferred to stand. He wanted to be on alert for whatever was coming.

“Sit,” Tyrell said and folded himself into the opposite chair.

Though he was in his late fifties, Tyrell was obviously in good shape. He had a full head of hair, and his wrinkles were few, giving his face character. By any objective measure, he was a good-looking man.

Tyrell was rich. He was clever. He was powerful.

He was also detestable.

“What do you want?” Deacon asked.

The rest of Hale Harbor might jump to Tyrell’s commands, but not Deacon.

“A conversation.”

“Why?”

Tyrell lifted his glass and turned it in the light that beamed down from the ceiling fixtures. He gazed at the amber liquid. “Glen Klavitt, 1965.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“You’re supposed to be curious. When was the last time you tasted fifty-year-old single malt?”

“I forget.” Deacon wasn’t rising to the bait, even though they both knew he wasn’t in a tax bracket that would allow him to casually spend whatever 1965 Glen Klavitt cost. Not that he’d be foolish enough to blow his money on it anyway.

“Sit down, boy.”

“I’m not your dog.”

One of Tyrell’s brows went up.

Deacon expected Tyrell to react with anger. He mentally braced himself for the onslaught, realizing he’d been looking forward to a fight from the moment he walked through the oversize castle doors.

“But you are my son.” Tyrell’s words, though softly spoken, fell like cannonballs into the cavernous room.

Deacon held still, half expecting eight generations of Clarksons to rise from their graves and rattle the crested shields hanging on the stone walls.

He tried to gauge Tyrell’s expression, but it was inscrutable.

“Do you need a kidney?” he asked, voicing the first theory that came into his mind.

Tyrell’s mask cracked, and he almost smiled. “I’m in perfect health.”

Deacon didn’t want to be curious about anything to do with the Clarkson family. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk out the door. Whatever was going on here, he wanted no part of it.

Tyrell had two healthy, living legitimate sons, Aaron and Beau. He didn’t need to reach out to Deacon for anything—at least, not for anything that was honorable.

“Will you relax?” Tyrell asked, gesturing to the empty chair with his glass.

“No.”

“Stubborn—”

“Like father, like son?” Deacon asked mildly.

Tyrell laughed.

It was the last thing Deacon had expected.

“I don’t know why I thought this would be easy,” Tyrell said. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

“I stopped caring about you a long time ago.”

“Yet, here you are.”

Deacon knew Tyrell had him there. Despite his anger, despite his hatred, despite the twenty-nine years of resentment, Deacon had come the first time Tyrell called. Deacon told himself he was here for a confrontation with the man who had impregnated and then abandoned his mother. But the truth was he’d also been curious. He was still curious.

He sat down.

“That’s better,” Tyrell said.

“What do you want?”

“Do I have to want something?”

“No. But you do.”

“You’re not stupid. I’ll grant you that.”

Deacon wasn’t sure if Tyrell expected a thank you for the backhanded compliment. If he did, he was going to be disappointed.

“Why am I here?” Deacon pressed.

“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.

“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.

She went immediately on edge. “Is everything okay?”

Following the unexpected death of her husband six months ago, Callie’s optimism had taken a hit. She realized her years with Frederick had made her complacent. She’d forgotten life mostly dished out pain and disappointment. She intended to be braced for it from here on in.

“Nothing too worrisome,” he said, handing Hannah a ten-dollar bill. He smiled again as he spoke to her. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, Hank,” Hannah said.

He looked at Callie again. “Will you join me?”

“Sure.” She untied her hunter green apron and slipped it over her head.

Beneath, she was wearing a white blouse and a pair of pressed khaki slacks. Her hair was up in a casual twist, and her earrings were small diamond studs that Frederick had given her for her birthday last year. She wore them every day. And as she walked around the end of the display case, she twisted her engagement ring and her wedding band round her finger.

She feared Hank was here with bad news about her deck permit.

He had offered to talk to the board personally to advocate for its quick approval. She’d turned down the offer, but now she wondered if that had been a mistake. Maybe she should have let him help.

Frederick had always advised her to keep the local politicians on their side. You might not love them, he’d said. You might not even like them. But it costs nothing to be congenial, and you never know which way the wind will blow.

If Downright Sweet didn’t get the permit to renovate the deck, they couldn’t replace the support beams, meaning they’d have to close the deck down while they came up with a new plan. It was May, the beginning of tourist season, and she was counting on running at full capacity by the end of June.

They took an empty table next to the window.

“Is this about the permit?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

Callie’s heart sank. “It’s been denied.”

Hank organized his napkin and fork. “Not yet. But Lawrence Dennison is hesitating.”

“Why?”

The bakery, along with all of the buildings in the historic district, was subject to stringent renovation conditions. There were bylaws to protect the character of the area. But Downright Sweet’s plans had taken that into account. The deck would be larger, but it would be in keeping with the existing architecture.

“Lawrence is Lawrence,” Hank said with a shrug. “He remembers the 1950s fondly.”

“I can’t believe he keeps getting re-elected.”

While she spoke, Callie’s mind pinged to potential solutions. She could shrink the size of the deck, maybe do only the structural renovations and keep the cosmetics exactly as they were. But it would be a shame to spend all that money and not improve the functionality. And to do a modified application, she’d have to start the process over again, losing time, and she’d definitely have to close the deck for the entire summer season.

“His pet project is the City Beautification Committee,” Hank said, a meaningful look in his eyes.

Callie squinted, trying to read his expression. “And?”

“And, if somebody was to...say...join that committee and show a particular interest in city beautification, Lawrence might feel kindly toward that person.” Hank took a forkful of the whipped cream and slid it into his mouth.

Callie found the suggestion unsavory. “You want me to bribe Lawrence to get my permit.”

Hank gave an amused smile. “Joining a committee is not a bribe.”

“It might not be money.”

Hank reached out and covered her hand with his.

It was a startlingly familiar gesture. Her first instinct was to pull back. But Frederick’s words echoed in her mind. It costs you nothing to be congenial.

“Do you have something against city beautification?” Hank asked.

“Of course I don’t.” Who could have anything against city beautification? “But I’m busy, the boys, the bakery, taking care of the house.”

When they’d first moved to Charleston, she and Frederick had bought a roomy, restored antebellum house. It was beautiful, but the upkeep was daunting.

The bakery door opened again, and a tall figure caught Callie’s attention. The man glanced around the room, seeming to methodically take in every aspect.

For some reason, he was fleetingly familiar, though she was sure she hadn’t met him before. He looked to be a little over six feet, with thick dark hair, blue eyes and a strong chin. His bearing was confident as he took a step forward.

“It wouldn’t be much work.” Hank’s words forced her attention back to their conversation. “I’m the chair of the committee, and I promise not to assign you anything onerous. We meet once a week. There are six members. Depending on the topic, there’s usually some public interest, so citizens attend, as well. It’s all very civilized and low-key.”

Once a week didn’t sound like much, but it meant skipping story time with the boys that night, getting a babysitter, doubling up on housework on another evening.

“It’s not a bribe,” Hank repeated, giving her hand a light squeeze. “It’ll demonstrate your commitment to the city, your participation in the community and that you care about the culture and flavor of the historic district.”

“I do care about the culture and flavor of the historic district. I live here, and I work here.”

“I know.” He gave her hand a firmer squeeze. “So join the committee. Join in a little. Make Lawrence happy, improve your city and unblock the permit for your deck.”

When he put it that way, other than the babysitting challenge, there seemed little wrong with the plan. It felt opportunistic, but she wouldn’t call it unethical.

Hank leaned in and lowered his tone. “With Frederick gone, I’m sure you want Downright Sweet to be as successful as possible.”

“I do.”

Callie had grown up severely impoverished, never knowing from week to week how her dysfunctional family would afford food, never mind clothes and electricity. Frederick had pulled her out of all that. He’d been a wonderfully sweet man, vital and full of life. The wheelchair had never held him back.

He’d had enough of a nest egg to buy both their house and Downright Sweet here in Charleston. The business had no capital debt, but it was still a struggle to keep operating costs manageable.

A shadow crossed the table, and a deep male voice interrupted. “Excuse me?”

Callie glanced up, startled to see the tall stranger. She looked into his blue eyes and felt a strange pressure build against her chest.

“Are you Callie Clarkson?” he asked. “The bakery owner?”

“Yes.” She slipped her hand from beneath Hank’s, wondering if the man was a lifestyle reporter or maybe a restaurant critic.

He held out his hand to shake hers.

She took it, and felt a surge of comfort and strength. He was gentle. He didn’t squeeze her hand. But his palm was solid, slightly rough, not too warm, not cool, but an identical temperature to her own.

“Deacon Holt,” he said.

Hank pulled back his chair and came to his feet, putting on his practiced political smile. “I’m Mayor Watkins. Are you new to Charleston?”

“A tourist,” Deacon Holt said, without breaking his eye contact with Callie.

She knew she should look away, but there was something in the depths of his eyes that was oddly comforting.

“Well, welcome,” Hank said in a hearty voice. “I hope you’ve checked out the Visitor Centre on Meeting Street.”

“Not yet,” Deacon said, slowly moving his attention to Hank.

“They’ll have everything you need—hotels, dining, shopping and, of course, the sights.”

“I’ve already found dining,” Deacon said.

Callie felt a smile twitch her lips.

“Well, then I hope you have an enjoyable stay.”

Deacon didn’t seem fazed by Hank’s dismissive tone. He looked back to Callie. “What do you recommend?”

“Everything’s good.”

He grinned at her answer, and the feeling of familiarity increased. “That was diplomatic.”

Hank cleared his throat. It was obvious he wanted to get back to their conversation, to hear Callie’s decision.

She’d made a decision, but it could wait two minutes for whatever Deacon Holt wanted. On the chance he could offer free publicity, she was going to make him feel more than welcome.

“The sourdough is terrific,” she said. “Any sandwich made with that. If you have a sweet tooth, I’d try a cupcake. The buttercream frosting is to die for.”

“Buttercream frosting it is,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Callie?” Hank prompted as Deacon walked away.

“My answer is yes,” she said.

Hank beamed. He really did have an extraordinary smile. He took her hand in both of his. “I’m so pleased.”

“When’s the next meeting?”

“Thursday. Six thirty.”

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

Deacon had been surprised to find Callie in an intimate discussion with Mayor Hank Watkins. Deacon had only been in town a couple of days, but he’d already learned all about the Watkins family. They were the Clarksons of Charleston—all the power, the prestige and the local money.

He’d also been surprised, even more surprised, that Callie was poised, polished and so stunningly beautiful in person. He hadn’t expected that of Frederick’s wife. Frederick hadn’t exactly been suave with the opposite sex.

Deacon had gone to a different high school than Aaron, Beau and Frederick. Deacon had been at PS-752. His three half brothers had gone to Greenland Academy. But there had been enough cross-pollination through sporting events and in social circles, that he’d known the basics of each of them.

He and Beau were the same age. Aaron was a year older, and Frederick was two years younger. Aaron was blond, Beau dark like Deacon and Frederick had ended up with ginger hair and freckles. He was thinner than his brothers and shorter, and always seemed to live in Aaron’s intellectual shadow, as well as Beau’s athletic one.

Even in the best circumstances, Deacon couldn’t see a woman like Callie falling for a man like Frederick. He supposed it could have been the money. It was often the money. Heck, it was usually the money.

For some reason, Deacon didn’t want to think that of Callie. But he’d be a fool if he didn’t consider the possibility.

After first meeting her yesterday, he’d waited overnight, waited through the morning, and now he was eating lunch at Downright Sweet for a second time. He was looking for more information, particularly for information on her relationship with Mayor Hank Watkins.

From what Deacon could see, Callie was way out of Hank’s league. But Hank obviously thought he had a shot. She must have given him encouragement of some kind.

Fact was, Hank had money just like Frederick. There was a chance Callie’s charming personality was an act, hiding a shrewd woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

She was behind the counter now, serving customers and looking as enchanting as yesterday. Her dark blond hair was in a jaunty ponytail. Thick lashes framed her blue-green eyes, and her cheeks were flushed with heat and exertion. Her apparent work ethic didn’t dovetail with a gold digger. Then again, most people had contradictions in their personalities. And he hadn’t even begun to get to know her.

She’d been right about the sourdough bread. It was beyond delicious. Yesterday he’d gone with black forest ham. Today he was trying sliced turkey and tomato. He hadn’t decided on dessert yet. There were too many choices.

His gaze moved from the tarts to the cupcakes to the pastries and cookies. He was tempted by the peanut butter white chocolate. Then again, he could practically taste the strawberry cream tarts. Maybe he’d have two desserts. Maybe he’d have to run ten miles before he went to bed tonight.

He was just about to bite into the second half of his sandwich, when the café door opened. Two young boys rushed inside, followed by a perky teenage girl in a T-shirt, shorts and white runners.

Deacon set down his sandwich and watched the boys with amazement. There was no question that they were Callie’s two sons. The four-year-old was a mini version of Aaron, while the eighteen-month-old looked exactly like Beau.

“Mommy, mommy,” the younger one called out. He trotted through the maze of tables, while his brother followed at a more measured pace.

Callie smiled at her toddler. “Hello, my little darling.”

“We were going to stop for ice cream on Parker Street,” the teenage girl said.

She looked to be about sixteen. Her blond hair had a flashy blue streak in it that swooped across her forehead. “But the lineup was nearly an hour long, so they decided to bring all the kids back to the preschool early.”

“Did you have fun at the waterpark?” Callie asked.

“Sprinkley,” said the compact Beau.

“I went down the big slide.” Little Aaron made a long swooping motion with his hand.

“Ethan squirted everything that moved.” The teenager ruffled Little Beau’s dark head. “He has good aim.”

“Squirted James head,” Ethan sang out with pride. He turned his thumb and index finger into a gun and pointed at his brother.

Deacon watched the interplay with amazement.

“I was already wet,” James said philosophically.

“I’m glad you had fun,” Callie said.

“Can we have cookies?” James asked.

“Since you skipped the ice cream, you can each have one.”

“I want peanut butter,” James said.

“Color candies,” Ethan sang out.

“What about you, Pam?” Callie asked the teenager.

“I’m fine.”

“We just took some oatmeal monster cookies out of the oven.”

Pam laughed. “You talked me into it.”

She ushered the boys to a table by the wall.

Deacon rose and crossed to the counter.

“Those are your sons?” he asked Callie.

The question obviously took her by surprise. “Yes, they are.”

“They seem terrific.”

Her expression stayed guarded. “Thank you.”

“Did I hear you say you had warm monster cookies?” Deacon asked.

“Fresh from the oven,” she said, putting on a professional smile.

“I’ll take one.”

“Coming up.” She pressed some keys on her cash register.

He held up his credit card. “Your advice was good yesterday.”

She looked puzzled.

“You suggested the sourdough bread. You were right.”

“I’m glad to hear you enjoyed it.” She pointed to the small terminal, and he swiped his credit card over the window.

“I’m back today for more.”

“That’s what we like to hear.”

The machine beeped its acceptance of his payment, while another staff member set his cookie plate on the counter.

He knew his time was almost up.

“I was wondering,” he said to Callie.

Her pretty brows went up in a question.

“Would you join me for coffee?”

The question clearly unnerved her. She touched her wedding ring, and her gaze darted to her sons.

“I don’t mean right now,” he clarified. “Maybe later?”

Her forehead creased.

“Or tomorrow,” he hastily put in, sensing her imminent refusal.

“It’s really nice of you to offer,” she said.

“I hear a but in there.”

Was she dating the Mayor? She’d certainly say no to coffee with Deacon if she were dating the Mayor.

“The but is that I’m really, really busy.”

“I understand,” he said, pocketing his card.

Being busy was probably just an excuse. It likely had more to do with Mayor Watkins. But pushing her wasn’t going to get Deacon anywhere—better to regroup.

Not that he’d made a decision to romance her. He was still assessing the situation.

He wasn’t about to take advantage of an innocent woman. But if she was gaming the rich Mayor now, she might have been gaming Frederick before him. And that changed the equation entirely.

“Maybe another time,” he said to her.

“Are you staying long in Charleston?” she asked.

“I haven’t decided.” He gave her an intimate smile. “It depends on how well I like it.”

Her cheeks flushed.

He lifted the plate with his cookie. “Thanks for this.”

“Any time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She didn’t seem to know how to respond.

He backed off. He’d ask around town. Maybe he’d get lucky and someone would know if Hank Watkins was in a relationship with Callie.


Two (#u253bce8b-faff-51f1-9bf3-042387de194a)

In the small office in the back of the bakery, Callie’s gaze rested on the framed photo of Frederick and the boys. She was struck by how much the boys had grown since Frederick passed away. She lifted the picture into better lighting.

It was the last one taken of her sons with their father. It was on their road trip last September. They’d traveled north along the coast, all the way to Virginia Beach.

Frederick had loved driving holidays. She suspected that sitting in a car made him forget about his disability and feel just like everyone else.

James was patient with the long rides, but Ethan was less than enthusiastic about spending so much time in his car seat. Frederick had done his best to entertain Ethan, who had just turned one that trip, while Callie had done the driving. It seemed like such a long time ago.

In November, Frederick had come down with a cold, just a routine cold that James had picked up in preschool. It settled in Frederick’s chest, which was normal for him. He insisted it was nothing to worry about, since both James and then Ethan had run fevers with the bug, coughed a few nights and then recovered.

But in the morning, Frederick’s fever had spiked alarmingly. Callie had rushed him to the hospital, where he lost consciousness and was diagnosed with pneumonia. They started antibiotics immediately. But his lungs had been severely bruised in his fall as a young teenager, and the scarring had left them weak.

He never woke up, and she’d said a final goodbye to him within hours.

Now she looked at the photo, Ethan grinning on Frederick’s lap, James standing with his head on Frederick’s shoulder. James still remembered Daddy, but Ethan only knew him from photos and video clips. Both boys had changed so much, grown so strong, learned so much. Frederick would be proud of them both.

“Callie?” Hannah poked her head through the open doorway.

“Is it getting busy out there?” Callie set the picture back down.

It was nearing the lunch hour. Pam had the boys until two today. With Frederick gone, Callie had modified her schedule. Pam was a godsend of a babysitter, and Hannah kept the bakery running like a well-oiled machine when Callie had to be at home.

“The lineup’s growing,” Hannah said. “The Spring Berry Cheesecake is still really moving.”

Callie was happy with the news. They’d created the recipe and introduced the new item just this month. It was gratifying to hear it was a success.

“I’m on my way.” Callie rose and followed Hannah through the kitchen to the café.

The lineup was halfway across the seating area. A few tables had just been vacated. Callie moved quickly to clear them and make room for more customers to sit down.

As she freshened the last of three tables, she was surprised to spot Deacon Holt sitting in one of the window booths. It had been a week since he was last in the café, and she’d assumed his vacation had ended and he’d left town.

Since she never expected to see him again, she’d allowed herself to fantasize the past few nights. Her fantasies ranged from hand-holding in the park to kissing under the stars to more, much more. She felt her face warm thinking about it. She knew he couldn’t read her mind, but looking at him now felt oddly intimate.

He spotted her. “Hello, Callie.”

She shook off her discomfort and went to his table. “Hello, Deacon.”

His smile went broad at her use of his name.

“I thought you would have left town by now,” she said.

“Still here in Charleston.”

She glanced at his sandwich plate. “And back for more sourdough?”

“I couldn’t stay away.” His tone sounded flirtatious, and she raised her gaze. “I was hoping you’d reconsider my invitation.”

She wished she didn’t feel the same way. She knew she had to fight it. It would be unseemly to rush out and date this soon after her husband’s death.

It wasn’t that Frederick had been the love of her life. They were dear friends, companions, parents together. Frederick had rescued her from hopeless poverty, and she’d given him the family he desired.

“I wish I could,” she said honestly.

“Something is stopping you?” His tone was gentle, even concerned.

“A full and busy life.” She wasn’t about to get into details.

“Someone else?” he asked.

She drew back in surprise. “What?”

“Are you dating someone else?”

“I don’t date.” She glanced over her shoulder to check the lineup, feeling suddenly guilty for standing and talking while Hannah and the others were so busy.

“Everyone dates,” Deacon said.

“No, they don’t. Case in point, me.” Why was she still here? Why was she indulging herself in something that couldn’t happen?

“Maybe not in the formal sense, but the opposite sex is always checking each other out.”

“I’m not checking you out,” she lied.

There was a gentle amusement in his blue eyes. “Well, I am most definitely checking you out.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s not something I can control. But to be clear, I’m only suggesting coffee and conversation.”

She gestured to the lineup. “I have to get back to work.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t go out with you. I don’t have time.” The excuse was perfectly true. Between the bakery and her sons, she had no time for a social life.

“Okay.” He gave up easily.

She didn’t regret saying no. She wouldn’t allow herself to regret it.

She gave him a nod and firmly turned herself around, heading behind the counter.

“What was that?” Hannah asked in an undertone.

“Just a customer.” Callie wished she didn’t feel overheated. Then again, she was in a bakery, and it was May. It would be odd if she didn’t feel overheated.

“He was in last week.”

“He was,” Callie acknowledged.

Hannah finished ringing up a cheesecake order and handed a customer some change.

Callie took a clean plate from the stack and loaded it up with a slice of Spring Berry Cheesecake, a drizzle of chocolate sauce and a generous dollop of whipped cream. She set it on top of the case, then assembled another identical one.

“What did he say?” Hannah asked.

“Nothing,” Callie answered.

“That was an awfully long nothing.”

“He asked me to coffee,” Callie admitted.

“That’s fantastic.”

“I said no.”

A new customer stepped up. “Two pecan tarts and a dozen peanut butter cookies. Can you make the cookies to go?”

“Cookies to go,” Hannah called over her shoulder.

Callie plated the tarts. “Whipped cream?” she asked the man.

“Only on one.”

She decorated the tart, while another staff member bagged the cookies.

The staff worked efficiently until the lineup disappeared.

Hannah followed Callie into the back, where cinnamon twists were cooling on racks, and the bakers were rolling out pastry.

“Why would you say no?” Hannah asked her.

Callie knew exactly what Hannah was talking about. “I’m not going to date a tourist. I’m not going to date anyone. I don’t have time, and it’s only been six months.”

“It’s been a lot more than six months.”

“Nobody knows that.” Callie and Frederick had never let on that their marriage was anything other than normal.

Hannah’s voice went singsong. “I’m just saying, what’s wrong with a little flirting, a little kissing, a little...whatever with a handsome stranger?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Because the answer you wish you could give is opposite to the answer you want to give,” Hannah said with authority.

“That didn’t even make any sense.”

“Your hormones want one thing, but your brain is fighting it.”

“I have two sons, a bakery and city beautification to think about.”

“Callie, you’re a healthy and vibrant young woman who’s never—”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

Hannah knew Frederick hadn’t been able to engage in intercourse. James and Ethan were conceived through in vitro fertilization.

“You’re going to have to take the plunge someday.”

“Sex is not the only kind of intimacy.”

“I get that,” Hannah said, backing off.

“It doesn’t sound like you get that.”

“I’m not trying to push you.”

Callie let out a laugh at the absurdity of Hannah’s last statement.

“I’m only saying...you know...don’t write off a guy like that too quickly. Think about it.”

Callie had thought about it. She was still thinking about it. That was her biggest problem. She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.

* * *

Deacon recognized a losing strategy when he was engaged in one. Callie wasn’t going to date him. It was probably because of the Mayor, but it could be something else. In any event, if he wanted to get closer to her and find out, he had to change tactics.

He spent another week in town, researching Callie and Hank Watkins. People considered them both pillars of the community. They hung with the same crowd, attended the same functions. People mostly thought the Mayor was a good catch, and a few seemed to have speculated on the two of them as a couple.

When Deacon learned Callie was on the City Beautification Committee, he jumped on the opportunity and showed up at a meeting. He sat in the back, obscured by the shape of the room. But he was close enough to watch her interactions with Hank.

Hank whispered in her ear at one point, and she smiled in return. He touched her arm, and she didn’t pull away. He filled her water glass and offered her a pen. She took the pen and drank the water.

Watching her cozy up to the wealthy, powerful, but much older, Hank Watkins renewed Deacon’s suspicion she’d married Frederick for his money. It also confirmed that Deacon had competition.

He realized he didn’t have the Watkins name and power, and he sure couldn’t tell her he was a Clarkson. But he’d achieved a reasonable level of success in life, and he could make himself sound better than he was—richer and more powerful.

But he was going to take a more subtle approach this time, let her come to him. At the end of the meeting, when coffee and cookies were served over friendly chitchat, he struck up a conversation with a few Charleston citizens. He stood where he was sure he’d be in Callie’s line of sight.

“Deacon?” Her tentative voice behind him said the approach had worked.

He turned, feigning surprise. “Callie. It’s great to see you again.” He cheerfully excused himself from the others.

“Exactly how long is your vacation?” she asked, brow furrowed as they moved a few steps away.

He feigned a guilty expression. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”

She waited.

He’d rehearsed his lines. “I’m more than just an ordinary tourist.”

She looked apprehensive. “Who are you?”

“I’m thinking of relocating to Charleston.”

The words seemed to put her off guard. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“It’s complicated. There were things to check out, arrangements to make. I didn’t want people to know I was considering the city.”

“Considering it for what?” Now she seemed annoyed and distinctly suspicious.

He realized he was messing this up. “I’m a partner in a national transportation company.”

The claim was an exaggeration, but not a huge one. He was a minor partner, and they were more regional than national. But it was true enough to get by.

“We’re based out of Virginia,” he continued. “But we’re looking to expand. We’d need a lot of land, commercial industrial land. If the real estate community knew we were in the market, well, funny things happen to prices when a large corporation expresses an interest.”

He stuck as close as he could to the truth. Mobi Transport was always looking to expand. It could as easily expand into Charleston as anywhere else. And local land prices did get jacked up when the real estate community knew a big corporation was in the market.

“You’re saying dishonesty was in your best interest.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I wouldn’t call it dishonesty.”

“You’re keeping Charleston citizens in the dark about the value of their property.”

“I’m keeping the value realistic.”

“By lying about your intentions.”

“I’m not—”

“That’s how market forces work, Deacon. When something is in demand, it becomes more valuable.”

He was surprised the conversation had taken this turn.

At the same time, he was curious about her immediate leap to skepticism. Honest people were trusting. Devious people looked for deceit in others.

“I don’t want to have to pick another city,” he told her. “I like Charleston. If land costs too much here, we’ll choose another city where it costs less.”

She gave a little shrug, as if the easiest solution in the world was at hand. “Just tell the people that’s the case.”

“That’s one way to approach it.”

“It’s the honest way to approach it.”

“Are you an honesty-is-the-best-policy type?” He watched her reaction.

She hesitated, her expression flinching ever so slightly. “It is the best policy.”

She hadn’t exactly answered, but he didn’t press.

“Check out the Mobi Transportation website. See if you think it would be good for Charleston.”

The Mobi website was slick and professional. It was designed to encourage sales by making the company look bigger than it was.

“We do long-haul trucking. We have six terminals across the northeast.”

Her expression relaxed a little. “That sounds...interesting.”

“In the internet age, goods transportation is primed for expansion. There’s a whole lot of opportunity in the sector.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hank Watkins making his was toward them.

Deacon gestured to the refreshment table on the other side of the room. “Would you like a coffee? A cookie? They’re okay, but not as good as yours.”

“Flattery, Deacon?”

“The truth, Callie.” He didn’t have to exaggerate there. “Your cookies are the best I’ve ever tasted. How long have you been a baker?”

She made a move toward the refreshment table. “I worked in a café from the time I was fourteen.”

He fell into step beside her. “That young?”

“We didn’t have much money when I was growing up. I did whatever it took. I lied about my age. I bused tables at first, but then I was promoted to waitress.”

He was starting to form a picture of her. She was a survivor. He could relate to that.

“Did you grow up here in Charleston? Decaf?” He reached for the labeled pot.

“Decaf would be best.”

He poured them each a cup.

“It was a small town in Tennessee, Grainwall.” She flinched almost imperceptibly as she said the town’s name.

He kept watch on Hank’s progress. “You didn’t like it there?”

“Nobody likes it there. My husband, Frederick, and I chose Charleston because it was so beautiful.” A look of sadness passed over her face.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

Deacon was genuinely sorry about Frederick’s death. Frederick had seemed like the nicest of the entire Clarkson clan. He was certainly the most honorable. Neither of his brothers seemed to ever stand up to their father, who—if employees of the company were to be believed—was an ill-tempered, self-centered control freak.

“Thank you,” Callie said, her expression pinched. “We miss him. He was a wonderful man.”

Deacon silently acknowledged that she played the delicate widow very well.

“I met him at the Fork ’n’ Spoon,” she said.

“You worked somewhere called the Fork ’n’ Spoon?”

“It was aptly named, since we provided both forks and spoons.” She gave an engaging smile. “It was mostly burgers and chili—not the best clientele. I don’t know how Frederick found it, but he kept coming back.”

Deacon wasn’t surprised that Frederick kept coming back, and it sure wouldn’t have been for the burgers. Callie was enough to draw any man back again and again. Like Hank, who was slowly getting closer.

“He said he liked the chili.” Callie held her coffee mug in both hands, but didn’t take a drink.

“Was it good?”

She laughed lightly. “I’ve seen it bring down a man twice Frederick’s size. He may have been in a wheelchair, but he had the stomach of an ox.”

Deacon decided to let the wheelchair comment slide. “So you moved to Charleston together?”

“That’s when we opened the bakery. We had no idea what we were doing. But Frederick had a little bit of money.”

A little bit? Deacon couldn’t help but be curious about her definition of a lot of money.

“I knew something about the café business,” she continued. “And I wanted to work somewhere nice, somewhere pleasant, somewhere that customers were happy. Desserts seemed like a good idea. When Hannah came on board, we managed to make it come together.”

Hank was closing in, only one persistent senior citizen holding him back. Deacon glanced at his watch, wondering how he might get Callie outside.

She followed suit and glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a babysitter waiting.”

Perfect.

She set down her cup and started for the door, and he went along.

“You’re interested in city beautification?” he asked as they walked.

“I am now.”

He held open the door, taking note of Hank’s frustrated expression. “Well, that answer has me intrigued.”

“I...” She looked flustered.

He couldn’t imagine what would fluster her about city beautification. Had she joined the committee to get close to Hank?

“I thought...I should...get engaged and support my community.”

Well, that was the worst lie Deacon had ever heard. She was all but begging him to call her on it.

“Will you tell me the real story?” he asked, assuming that’s what she expected him to do.

Her face flushed under the community center’s porch lights. “It’s embarrassing.”

“We all do embarrassing things. I promise, I’ll understand.”

Deacon was ready for her to walk to the parking lot. Instead, she turned the opposite way down the sidewalk. That worked for him.

She took an exaggerated breath, as if she was about to own up to grand larceny. “I joined the committee to butter up Lawrence Dennison.”

The unexpected answer threw Deacon. “Isn’t Lawrence pushing eighty?”

“Downright Sweet is in the historic district. My deck needs repairs, or I’ll have to close it down. I can’t do the repairs without the permit. Lawrence is holding up the permit. And the beautification committee is Lawrence’s pet project. I’m buttering him up by joining the committee.”

Deacon was impressed. By guiltily confessing to such a trivial lie, she looked like the most honest woman in the world.

If Deacon didn’t believe she was using the story to manipulate him, it would have been enchanting.

* * *

For the next three days, Callie glanced up every time a customer walked through the bakery door. She thought Deacon might stop by Friday. He’d walked her all the way to her door Thursday evening.

He hadn’t judged her for joining the committee. He’d understood. He’d even told her his own story about planning a lavish party when a particular state politician was in town, with the aim of getting an introduction to him in order to help Mobi Transportation expand. He couldn’t say for sure if it had worked, but he’d definitely put out the effort.

They’d laughed and talked for ten blocks. She would have invited him in, but she had to tuck the boys into bed. She’d found herself hoping he’d kiss her. But he didn’t.

Then she’d fully expected him to show up at Downright Sweet and ask her out again. He didn’t do that either.

By Monday, she feared he’d left town. Maybe the right land wasn’t available. Or maybe taxes were too high. There were a hundred reasons why he could have decided against Charleston.

“Callie?” Hannah came out of the kitchen with a phone in her hand. “It’s for you. Lawrence Dennison.”

Callie didn’t know whether to be optimistic or worried. Was Lawrence calling to thank her for joining the committee, or had he seen right through her ruse?

“Does he sound annoyed?” she asked Hannah.

“Not that I could tell.”

“Happy?”

“No. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Callie took the phone. She steeled herself. “Hello?”

“Hello, Callie.” Lawrence sounded happy—maybe too happy.

“Hello, Councilman Dennison.”

“Please, please, call me Lawrence.”

She couldn’t help but think the invitation was a good sign, but she didn’t want to hope. “All right. Lawrence.”

“I’m calling to thank you personally.”

She felt a wave of relief. “For joining the committee.”

“For the donation.”

“The donation?”

Hannah, who was watching, cocked her head in curiosity.

“Two-thousand dollars was very generous of you.”

Two-thousand dollars? Had Callie accidentally signed something, or agreed to something? She couldn’t afford to donate two-thousand dollars. “I—”

Lawrence didn’t seem to hear her. “The beautification committee will definitely put the money to good use.”

“Lawrence, I think there’s been—”

“And on your building permit, I’ve reviewed the architectural drawings, and I’m optimistic it can be approved this week.”

“Approved?”

She knew she should protest. She hadn’t made any donation. And if she had, would it have been a bribe?

Hannah’s brown eyes went wide as she whispered. “The permit?”

Callie wanted to nod, but she was afraid to jinx it. Could this really be happening?

“You should hear something by Wednesday. If the office doesn’t call, feel free to contact me directly.”

Hannah touched her arm, pointing to the bakery door.

Callie turned to see Deacon walk in. He looked tall, handsome and crisply cool in a pair of designer jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open.

“I...uh...” Her gaze met Deacon’s secretive, self-satisfied smirk, and she immediately knew what had happened. “Thank you, Lawrence.”

“My pleasure. Goodbye, Callie.”

“Goodbye.” Without taking her gaze off Deacon, she handed the phone to Hannah. “I have to talk to Deacon.”

“Are we getting our building permit?”

“Looks like we are.” Callie wasn’t sure how to feel about that: happy, guilty, annoyed, grateful?

What kind of man would do that for her?

While she wondered, he came to a stop on the other side of the display case. “Hello, Callie.”

“Can we talk?” she asked.

“Sure.” He glanced around at the customers. “Can you get away for a few minutes?”

“Yes.” She untied her apron and lifted it over her head.

He gave an admiring glance at her white, short-sleeved blouse and fitted black skirt. The interest in his eyes sent a pleasant sizzle down her spine. He had a casual, earthy sexuality that reached out to her.

She had to remind herself she was...at least possibly...annoyed with him.

A good person would be annoyed with him.

Wouldn’t they?

Winding her way through the dining tables, she followed him to the door. Her gaze moved involuntarily from his broad shoulders, down the taper of his back, to his attractive rear. He had to be in incredible shape. A good person wouldn’t be watching his rear end either.

She wanted to be a good person.

“It’s a hot one,” he said as they exited to the sidewalk.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she blurted out.

“I don’t know,” he said easily. “What are we talking about?”

“The donation.”

It was clear from his expression that he immediately understood. “Ahhh.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

“Yes. It was me. Can I hold your hand?”

“What?” Her brain stumbled on the question.

“Your hand. I’d like to hold your hand while we walk.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“We’re talking about you letting Lawrence think I made a big donation to the beautification committee.”

“We can’t do that while I’m holding you hand?”

“Deacon.”

“What?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he took her hand as they walked beneath the arching oak trees.

She knew she should pull away, but she didn’t seem to have it in her. “Lawrence just called me,” she persisted.

“Good.” They took a few more steps. “Right?”

It was definitely good holding hands. In fact, it was great holding hands. His was strong. It felt manly. It was a manly hand, and she liked that.

“Callie?”

“Huh?”

“What did Lawrence say?”

“Oh.” She put her focus back on track. “He said my permit will be approved on Wednesday.”

Deacon squeezed her hand, lifting it to his lips to give it a kiss. “That’s fantastic!”

She let his action sink in for a moment.

He’d kissed her.

It was on the hand, sure. But he’d kissed her, and she’d liked it. Her lips tingled as she thought about the kiss. They were jealous of her hand.

She ordered herself to get a grip. She got a grip, tamping down her wayward reaction.

“You bribed him,” she said, making sure she sounded disapproving.

“That wasn’t a bribe. It was inspiration.”

“It was money.”

“A bribe would be if you called him up and said ‘I’ll give you two-thousand dollars if you approve my permit.’”

“I didn’t do that.” Her brained clicked through the implications. “Did I break the law?”

He chuckled. “You’re too much.” Then he lifted her hand to kiss it again.

He held it still against his lips. He stopped walking, and she stopped too.

He turned to gaze into her eyes. She felt a wash of helpless desire warm her body and flush her skin.

He wrapped his free hand around her upper arm, urging her gently backward into a narrow, cobblestone alley.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered. “I want to kiss you.”

She didn’t even think to refuse. “Yes.”


Three (#u253bce8b-faff-51f1-9bf3-042387de194a)

Deacon’s anticipation of the kiss went way beyond the role he was playing. He truly wanted to kiss Callie senseless. But he forced himself to take it slow.

He brushed the back of his hand over her cheek, marveling at the softness of her creamy skin. “You’re beautiful.”

Her red lips parted, softening, while her blue-green eyes went opaque. She looked slightly tremulous, compellingly innocent. Even as he questioned her authenticity, he reacted to the sensual image with a rush of passion and an overwhelming surge of possessiveness.

He leaned down and brought his lips to hers.

She tasted like honey. Her lips were tender and malleable. She returned his kiss, and a tidal wave of desire hijacked his senses.

He spread his fingers into her hair, releasing its lavender scent into the summer breeze. He placed his palm on the small of her back, drawing her close, reveling in the touch of her soft, toned body. She molded against him.

Her head tipped to the side, and he deepened the kiss. She welcomed his tongue, answering it with her own. He could feel his arousal build. He was dimly aware they were on the street, barely masked by the stone buildings on either side. He could feel himself stop caring.

But then her palms went to his chest, and she gave the lightest of pushes.

He immediately broke the kiss and backed off. His breathing was deep and ragged, and his head was swirling with a cocktail of hormones and emotions. What on earth had just happened?

“I’m sorry,” she said, with a tremble to her tone.

He took another half step back and blew out a breath, struggling to get his bearings. “I’m the one who’s sorry. That was my fault.”

“It’s just...” She glanced to the sidewalk behind him.

“Anybody could have seen us.” He finished her thought.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

He couldn’t help but wonder if she meant it was complicated because of her feelings for Mayor Watkins or because of Frederick’s recent passing. She still wore her wedding ring.

“I understand,” Deacon said. Whether it was Hank or Frederick, Deacon’s job right now was the same, behave like a perfect gentleman. “I wasn’t trying to rush you or push you. I’d be happy just to take you out for coffee.”

A man’s voice sounded behind Deacon. “Callie?”

Concern crossed her face.

Deacon turned to see Hank Watkins on the sidewalk behind them.

“Hello, Hank,” she said, shifting from behind Deacon, putting some more space between the two of them. “You remember Deacon Holt?”

Hank’s attention shifted to Deacon for a brief second, just long enough to be dismissive.

“I was looking for you at the bakery,” Hank said to her.

“Oh?” Guilt was pretty clear in her voice.

Deacon would bet she was either dating Hank, or at least stringing him along.

He decided to test his theory by shifting closer to her. “I don’t know if Callie mentioned it, but my company, Mobi Transportation, is looking to open a new terminal in North Carolina.”

As Mayor, the prospect should have pleased Hank. But as Callie’s boyfriend, it would annoy him.

It annoyed him.

“I see,” Hank said, jaw tightening and eyes going hard. “Am I to understand you’re considering Charleston?”

“He wanted to keep it quiet,” Callie said in a rush, putting the space back between her and Deacon. It sounded suspiciously like she was making an excuse for keeping the information from Hank. “For business purposes,” she finished.

“Callie has been very kind in helping me understand the city,” Deacon said.

Hank’s nostrils flared.

“Did you need to talk about something?” she asked Hank.

Hank refocused his attention on her, and his expression smoothed out. “I spoke with Lawrence this morning. I understand it’s good news all around.”

“You mean the permit?”

“I mean the donation. Well played, Callie.”

“It wasn’t—”

“She was just telling me about the positive outcome,” Deacon put in.

Hank’s gaze hardened on Deacon. “She was, was she?”

“I agree with you,” Deacon told Hank, pretending to be oblivious to the undercurrents. “The donation was a good move. The permit should be in place this week, and she can get moving on the renovations.”

“She doesn’t need your support,” Hank said.

“I’m standing right here,” Callie said.

“Forgive me.” His tone dripping with remorse, Hank stepped forward and took her hands.

Deacon wanted to rip her from Hank’s hold. He waited for her to break it, but she didn’t.

Part of Deacon wanted to repeat his invitation for coffee, nail it down here and now. But the smarter part of him wanted to keep Hank in the dark about his intentions. If Hank knew Deacon was interested in Callie, he’d block him from every angle. Better to make a strategic temporary retreat and let Hank feel overconfident.

“I have to be on a call in a few minutes,” Deacon told Callie.

“Sorry to have kept you.” She finally withdrew from Hank’s hand-hold.

“See you later,” Deacon told her in a breezy tone that masked his frustration.

He left them, taking swift, long strides along the sidewalk.

Half a block away, he pulled out his phone. He dialed Tyrell’s private number.

“Yes?” came Tyrell’s gruff answer.

“I’m in,” Deacon said.

There was a silent pause on the line. “You’ll romance Callie?”

“Draft the paperwork.” Deacon ended the call.

* * *

Callie wasn’t going to think of this as a date. It was true that coffee with Deacon had turned into dinner. But that was only a matter of convenience. It was easier for her to get away in the evening. Downright Sweet catered to the breakfast and lunch crowd, closing at six, after patrons picked up takeout on their way home.

She didn’t know where she and Deacon were going for dinner, so she’d gone neutral with a sleeveless midnight blue cocktail dress. Its scoop neckline sparkled with a spray of subtle crystals. The waist was fitted, and it flared slightly to mid-thigh.

She’d popped her little diamond studs into her ears, pairing them with a delicate gold diamond chip pendant. Her black, high-heeled sandals were classic and comfortable. Her makeup had turned out a little heavier than usual, and when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she realized there was a shine of anticipation in her eyes.

She spotted her wedding set in the mirror.

She lifted her hand, spreading her fingers and touching the solitaire diamond.

She was too jazzed tonight for something that wasn’t a date.

She closed her eyes. Then she pulled off the rings. Before she could change her mind, she opened her jewelry box and set them on the red velvet. She’d already kissed Deacon once. If she was going to do it again, she had to admit to herself that Frederick was in her past.

She smoothed her dress, taking a last look at herself in the mirror.

Then her phone rang, and she felt a sudden rush of anxiety. Was it Deacon? Had he changed his mind?

She was afraid to look at the number, afraid to see it was him.

“Hello?”

“Callie?” It was Pam.

Callie breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you running late?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Pam’s tone was high, her words rushed. “I mean, I’m not running at all.”

“Whoa. Slow down. Is everything okay?”

“I fell down the front stairs.”

There were voices in the background.

“Are you hurt?” Callie asked. “Who’s there with you?”

“I twisted my ankle. My mom’s taking me to the hospital for X-rays. It’s swelling up fast.”

“I’m so sorry.” Callie’s heart went out to Pam.

Pam was an avid cyclist and tennis player. A broken ankle would be devastating for her.

“I can’t babysit tonight,” Pam said.

“Don’t worry about it. Take care of yourself.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. Get to the doctor. Call me when you know something, okay? And if there’s anything I can do.”

“Ouch! Mom, I can’t bend that way.”

Callie cringed in sympathy.

“I better go,” Pam said.

“Good luck,” Callie called as Pam signed off.

“Mommy, Mommy,” James shouted up from the kitchen.

“I’m coming, honey.”

The front doorbell rang.

“Ethan squirted his juice box,” James cried out.

“Ethan,” Callie admonished her youngest son as she trotted down the stairs. “You know better than to squirt.”

“Purple,” Ethan said with an unrepentant grin.

“Do you want to use a sippy cup instead?”

Ethan’s smile disappeared, and he shook his head.

The doorbell rang again.

“Then don’t squeeze,” she told him firmly.

“Can we have macaroni?” James asked, opening the refrigerator door. “With orange cheese?”

“We’ll see,” Callie said, swooping the juice box out of Ethan’s hand to set it on the counter.

“Juice box!” Ethan cried, reaching up for it.

So much for her date. Or her non-date. Whatever it was, she was sorely disappointed to miss it.

“I have to get the door,” she told James.

“Juice box!” Ethan screeched.

“You’ll have to wait a minute,” she said to Ethan, walking quickly down the hallway to the entry foyer.

She drew open the door to find Deacon on the porch.

“Hi,” he said. Then his attention was immediately drawn to Ethan’s cries from the kitchen. “Is everything okay?”

“Juice box disaster,” she said, pulling the door wide and standing out of the way. “Come on in.”

He wore a white dress shirt, a steel blue blazer and dark jeans.

“You look fantastic,” he said, closing the door behind him.

She smiled, her heart warming at the compliment. She hated to tell him the night was over before it even got started.

“I’ll be right back.” She headed for the kitchen to quiet Ethan.

He’d come up with another plan of attack and was pushing a chair toward the counter.

She retrieved the juice box. “No more squirting?” she asked him in a grave voice.

“No squirt,” he agreed, abandoning the chair to trot over to her.

“I’m hungry,” James said.

“I know.” She rubbed her hand over his tousled hair. “Pam can’t come tonight.”

Ethan took a pause in his drinking. “Pam, Pam.”

“Pam hurt her ankle,” Callie told them both. “She has to go see a doctor.”

“Does she need a bandage?” James asked. “We have horsey bandages.”

“Yes, we do,” Callie agreed.

The boys were currently big into cartoon bandages. Since they got a lot of cuts and scrapes, it was helpful that they thought of the bandages as a treat.

“The doctor will probably give her a white bandage. It might be a big one.”

“Big owie?” Ethan asked.

“I hope not,” Callie said.

She was already thinking about tomorrow morning and what she could do about work. With Pam out of commission, she was going to have a problem.

Deacon’s voice joined the conversation. “Somebody has a big owie?”

Callie turned to see him in the kitchen doorway.

Both boys fell silent and stared at Deacon.

“I didn’t mean to abandon you,” she told Deacon.

“No problem.”

“James, Ethan, this is my friend Deacon Holt.”

“Hello,” James said.

Ethan stayed silent.

Deacon stepped into the kitchen and crouched on his haunches. “Hello, James. Hi, Ethan. You probably don’t remember, but I saw you at Downright Sweet last week. You were having cookies.”

“Color candies,” Ethan said.

“That’s exactly what you had.”

“I had peanut butter,” James said.

“I had a warm monster cookie,” Deacon said.

“Purple juice,” Ethan said, holding up his juice box as proof.

“I see that.” Deacon’s gaze took in the purple streak that ran across the white patterned linoleum.

“Oh, dang,” Callie said, remembering the spill. If she didn’t get it wiped up, it would stain.

She crossed to the sink and soaked a cloth with hot water.

“I’ll get that.” Deacon’s voice directly behind her made her jump.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She wasn’t about to let him scrub her floor.

“You look way too good to be cleaning floors.” He gently but firmly took the cloth from her hand.





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