Little Secrets--His Pregnant Secretary

by Joanne Rock

  “Fine.” A series of electronic chimes sounded on the other end of the call. “But when Bentley finds your brother, you’re getting on a plane and meeting Malcolm.”

  He’d been expecting this, of course, but didn’t appreciate being dictated to.

  “Or Malcolm can get on a plane and meet all of us at once.” Jager made the counteroffer mostly because he didn’t like caving on this point. But he knew Delia wanted him to make peace with his family.

  “Not happening,” Cam said flatly. “It’s not his fault Liam is a tool.”

  That shocked a laugh out of Jager. Not enough to concede the point, however.

  “We can revisit the subject after your investigator finds my brother. There’s no use planning for an event that could be totally hypothetical anyhow. And I’m not going to see any of you unless I’ve got Damon back.” It would take something major to get him to change his mind. He fisted his hand against the lounger cushion, then pounded it twice.

  “Very well. I’m texting you Bentley’s contact information. He has reason to believe Damon’s in Baja.” Even as Cameron said the words, Jager heard the message notification chime in his ear.

  The words confirmed what Jager had already feared. Damon had circled back to North America without telling anyone.

  “He’s trying to find the men he believes kidnapped his wife.” A cold pit widened in his stomach.

  Though he and Damon hadn’t always seen eye to eye, Damon remained his younger brother. And, to an extent, his responsibility. He’d understood that even before their mother died of breast cancer when Jager was a senior in high school. With no father in the picture, it had always been Jager’s job to make sure his siblings were safe.

  “Or else he believes Caroline is still alive,” Cameron offered, “and he wants to find her.”

  The words chilled him. Mostly because he feared that wasn’t possible. He’d seen for himself how in love Caroline had been with his brother. He couldn’t imagine her leaving of her own free will.

  “For Damon’s sake, I hope the latter is true.” He needed some shred of positive news. “I’m going to phone Bentley now.”

  “Jager?” Cam said in a rush. “One more thing?”

  He waited.

  “You remember the terms of Malcolm’s will? That we can only claim a share of his legacy if we’ve been married for twelve months?”

  Jager’s gaze shifted back to the cottage where Delia must be sleeping by now. He felt a pang of guilt that she’d taken the pregnancy test alone, that he hadn’t been with her. What would she think about his wedding proposal if she discovered that marriage fulfilled one of the stipulations Malcolm McNeill had outlined for his heirs? Would she be so enthusiastic about a McNeill family union then, if she discovered another “business reason” for marriage?

  “We don’t want your company.” He was more interested in profiting from his own projects—work he’d invested in personally.

  “Right.” Cameron huffed out a long sigh. “Between me and you, I’m grateful about that, so thanks. But our grandfather is a stubborn individual and he is determined to make us all fall in line.”

  “You’re welcome to be his puppet. But not me.” He was already grappling with feeling a lack of control where Delia was concerned. He wasn’t about to relinquish more power over his own life to Malcolm McNeill.

  “So consider a cash settlement,” Cam suggested. “Meet Malcolm, shake his hand, let him feel like you’re going to be a part of the family. But if you don’t want the company, let my brothers and me buy you out.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The net worth of McNeill Resorts was staggering to contemplate. Far more than they’d make on the sale of Transparent, Damon’s software company.

  “Dead serious. Don’t rob us of the business that has his name on it. The business we’ve all worked our asses off to further because it means something to him.”

  That Cameron would even suggest such an offer brought home how much he wanted to keep his grandfather’s company intact. Interesting, because all three of the New York McNeill brothers were wealthy in their own right, with diverse business interests. Quinn, the oldest, was a hedge fund manager. He was made of money. So good with it, he earned millions showing other people what to invest in.

  “I’ll talk to my brothers,” Jager finally conceded, levering himself off the chaise, needing to make his next call. “No promises though.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  Disconnecting the call, Jager checked his texts and found the contact information for the investigator Cameron had mentioned. As much as he hated asking for help to find Damon, Jager couldn’t deny that he’d benefit from assistance after spending six weeks to find out something that this investigator had apparently known about for over a month. If he’d just given in and taken Cam up on the offer for help back when he showed up at the gate that night, maybe Jager would already have Damon back home.

  It seemed stubbornness ran in the family, if what Cameron said about their grandfather was true.

  For the first time since learning about his half-siblings, Jager thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to at least meet them. Especially now that he was having a child of his own. Jager’s father might be a two-timing failure as a role model, but that didn’t necessarily mean Malcolm would be a negative influence on his heirs.

  In less than nine months, Jager would need to make the decision. But first, his main concern was protecting Delia.

  A job which would be easier as soon as she was his wife.

  Six

  With the top down on Jager’s sporty convertible roadster, the warm December sun shining on them as they headed south the next day, Delia could almost forget they were driving toward her hometown.

  She slicked on lip balm from her purse to keep from fidgeting as she was hit with a small attack of nerves. She’d avoided her father’s fishing village for almost two years, preferring to coax him into Le François to visit her so she didn’t need to run into people from her hometown. So many of her former neighbors had been at her failed wedding, witnessing the most humiliating day of her life. Understandably, going back home made her nervous. But she took comfort from the scent of the rich leather bucket seats and the smooth purr of the new Mercedes’s engine. A local dealer had been all too glad to deliver a vehicle to Jager this morning, encouraging him to take the polar-white luxury car for a “test spin” for a week or two.

  The privileged life her former boss led was going to be the kind of life that belonged to her child as well. But not to her. Delia had been lured in by the comforts of excess once. She wouldn’t be wooed with superficial things again.

  She chucked the lip balm back into her handbag as the vehicle slowed.

  “That smells amazing,” Jager observed as they stopped at a four-way intersection. “What is it?”

  He peered over at her from the driver’s seat, his blue gaze moving to her newly-shiny lips. It took all her willpower not to lick them. She felt incredibly aware of him today and she wasn’t sure if it had to do with pregnancy hormones or the fact that she hadn’t spent much time with him since their single combustible encounter in his office. She knew him differently now, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to look at him again without heat creeping all over her skin.

  She straightened in her seat, hoping none of what she was thinking showed on her face.

  “It’s a new addition to the McNeill Meadows gift shop.” She hadn’t mentioned the product line to him, hoping to see the homemade beauty and bath items start turning a solid profit first. “I’ve been using the flower petals from the gardens, and beeswax from our beekeeper to make locally sourced lip balms and sugar scrubs. This one is called Coming Up Roses.”

  His gaze lingered on her mouth. Her heart skipped a beat or twelve.

  “May I see?”
he asked. With no one else at the intersection, he didn’t seem in any hurry to put the car back in gear.

  She did lick her lips then. “Um. There’s no color or anything. It’s just a balm.” Still, she tilted toward him slightly so he could have a better look. The consistency of the product was really nice and she was proud of it.

  “I meant the packaging.” A grin twitched behind those words. “Although it looks very appealing on you.”

  “Oh.” She leaned down to dig through her purse, wishing he didn’t make her feel so fluttery inside. How was she going to forge a balanced, even relationship with him when she felt like a swooning teen around this man? “Here you go.”

  Passing him the tin, she tried to focus, bracing herself for the questions he might ask. But he seemed distracted today. Worried, perhaps. She wasn’t sure if it was about the baby news or about his brother, but she understood he was coping with a lot right now. Businesswise, he was brokering a deal for the sale of Transparent, and that alone had to be stressful when it involved so much money.

  “This was a great idea,” he said finally, handing her back the tin before another car arrived across from them at the intersection. Jager took his foot off the brake and they continued their trip. “I like the way you kept the farm-to-table sensibility with local ingredients.”

  “And,” she couldn’t resist adding, “I’m creating a mini exhibit in the gift area about the plantation history of the McNeill home. I think visitors will be interested that we’re using our own sugarcane in the lip and body scrubs.”

  “We are?”

  “I sent you some paperwork on it last spring,” she reminded him, beginning to see familiar sights out the window as her village neared. “We made an arrangement with a small refinery in Florida, but the end product is very much locally sourced.”

  The private marina where her wedding would have been held was ahead on the right. She hadn’t seen it since that day she’d stolen a Jet Ski that—thankfully—Jager had returned to the owner on her behalf. It had taken her a full year to repay him for the damages to the watercraft. Her nerves knotted tighter.

  “Delia?” Jager said a moment later, making her wonder if she’d missed something he’d said.

  “Hmm?” She pulled her gaze off the rocky coastline and back to the too-appealing father of her child.

  She had to keep reminding herself of the fact since it still didn’t feel real that she was carrying a McNeill heir.

  “Are you nervous about seeing your father? Returning home?”

  “Is it that obvious?” Her voice was a fraction of its usual volume. She cleared her throat. “I suppose it must be. And I’m not sure what has me more keyed up—telling my father I’m expecting, or seeing that marina where I stole a Jet Ski to escape from my ex.”

  “Would you like me to take a detour?” Jager flicked on the directional. “We can head inland for the last mile or two.”

  “No.” She reached for him, laying a hand on his arm to stop him. “That’s definitely not necessary. It’s bad enough I was too insecure to handle things differently two years ago. I won’t resort to running away anymore.”

  Resolutely, she looked out the driver’s-side window, where the first boats of the marina were coming into view, bobbing in the crystalline blue water. The scent of the sea drifted through the convertible. Her hand fell away from his strong forearm.

  If she touched him too long, she might not be able to stop.

  “You didn’t run away,” he replied, his jaw flexing as he flicked his gaze out the side window for a moment before returning his attention to the road. “You escaped a bad situation. Big difference.”

  “There’s no good excuse for larceny.” The guilt over doing something so foolish still gnawed at her on occasion, but her actions that day hadn’t just been in response to her fiancé’s deception. “Although I might have been able to face my wedding guests that day if I hadn’t also learned that my father knew about Brandon’s involvement with the investment company.”

  They cruised past the permanent archway installed on the pier where people traveled from all over the world to say their vows. Today, in fact, a Christmas bride carrying a bouquet of red roses stood beside her tuxedoed groom, a blanket of poinsettias draping the arch. A small crowd filled the pier to watch, just the way Delia’s guests had gathered two years ago.

  “Your father knew?” Jager asked, his tone incredulous. He didn’t even seem to notice the wedding in progress. “Didn’t he care that jackass fiancé of yours was going to try to steal away your inheritance?”

  That’s exactly how she’d felt at the time, but her father had been unperturbed when she approached him in tears.

  “Dad said the land was always meant for me, so if I wanted to sell it to developers, that was my business.” It had been the way he’d said it that had hurt the most, with a shrug as if it didn’t matter to him either way.

  It had confirmed for Delia what she’d feared since childhood—that her father watched over her out of a sense of duty, never a sense of love. Pascal Rickard was a hard man, and she’d told herself for years he was simply too stoic to show his softer emotions. On her disastrous wedding day, she’d been confronted with evidence that he really didn’t care all that much, and it had been a hurt deeper than anything Brandon Nelson could have ever doled out.

  “You never told me.” Jager gripped the stick shift tightly as he slowed down the vehicle. “All this time I thought it was a broken heart that brought you to my island that day.”

  He’d been like a mirage in the desert that day, a too-good-to-be-true vision of masculinity and caring as he helped her out from under the broken Jet Ski. She’d thrown herself into his open arms like he was an old friend and not a total stranger. Funny how she’d worked for two years to erase the horrible first impression she’d made, only to fall right back into those strong arms at his slightest invitation.

  “It was a broken heart.” She breathed in the scent of spices and fish as they neared the village market near the water. “But Brandon only accounted for part of it.”

  When Jager didn’t respond, she tried to gauge his expression. He turned down the side road that led to her father’s property, a tiny white-and-blue fish shack on the corner open for business. A few tourists lined up for whatever they were frying up today, the picnic tables out front already filled.

  Tourist season started in December, and even the small fishing villages like this one benefited from the extra traffic.

  “No wonder you haven’t wanted to return here,” Jager muttered darkly. “He would have let you walk right into marriage with a guy who wanted to steal your birthright.”

  True. But over time, Delia had come to see her father’s point of view. He’d assumed that Delia was forsaking the land for the comforts of marriage to a local businessman with more financial means than she’d had growing up. And, sometimes, she feared that he’d understood her more than she understood herself, since walking away from Brandon hadn’t been nearly as difficult as it should have been. How much had she loved her former fiancé in the first place?

  Clearly, her judgment in men could not be trusted.

  “Do you remember which one it is?” She pointed to the bright red house on stilts. “It’s over there.”

  Nodding, Jager pulled off the main street onto the pitted driveway that led to her father’s cabin, the simple home where she’d been raised. All around them, she knew, were other families who’d wanted desperately to sell their properties to the development group that had planned to put in an airstrip for a luxury resort. Her father had been the lone holdout.

  For as long as he could pay the taxes. Because even though that old deal was no longer on the table, the plans were a matter of public record. Any other developer could swoop in and re-create the plan if they were able to obtain the necessary parcels of land to make it happ
en.

  Tension seized up her shoulders as Jager stopped the car and came around to open her door. It was easier to simply send checks home than to face her father again after all this time. But today, for her child’s sake, she needed answers that only Pascal Rickard could provide.

  So for just a moment, she took comfort from Jager’s hand around hers as he helped her from the Mercedes. She lingered for a moment as they stood close together, her sundress blowing lightly against his legs and winding around him the way the rest of her wanted to. She breathed in the scent of his aftershave—woodsy and familiar—before forcing herself to step away.

  She’d allowed too many men access to her heart, and the price for her lack of judgment had been high—broken relationships and too much hurt. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with Jager. As the father of her child, he was someone she needed to remain friends with. Only friends.

  Forever.

  * * *

  Jager could practically see the mental suit of armor Delia put on as they entered her father’s house. Hell, he’d done the same thing long ago himself, back when his family had still been living in the United States and he’d been young enough to care what his father thought of him.

  Delia’s careful mask of indifference reminded him of things from his own past he didn’t want to recall.

  So while she made awkward small talk with the serious, graying fisherman, Jager focused on his own agenda for the day. He needed to find out as many details as possible about the cause of her mother’s death. Once he had ferreted out all the information, he would consult physicians independently.

  Because while Delia had made a doctor’s appointment for that afternoon, he didn’t trust the local obstetrician to be on the forefront of prenatal and preventative healthcare. The one benefit he could see of a trip to New York—and to the home of the McNeill patriarch—was to ensure Delia had the best possible doctors for this baby.