“I’ll take her. You go clean up, Alex.” Still chuckling, Delilah dabbed at the baby’s chin with a corner of her blanket. “Big Jake—my husband—used to say all babies did was eat, sleep and emit noxious substances from both ends.”
Julie’s grudging admiration for this display of grandmotherly devotion didn’t last long. Only until Alex returned with a wet splotch on his shirt and the butler following on his heels.
“Brunch is served, Madam.”
“All right.”
“Here,” the nanny said, holding out her arms for the now sleepy infant. “I’ll take her upstairs.”
Delilah dropped a kiss on the baby’s head before relinquishing her, then led the way into a dining table decked in creamy linen, fresh flowers and Baccarat crystal. As soon as they were all seated, she resumed her attack with no holds barred.
“I understand your mother died of ovarian cancer,” she said to Julie as she handed the son seated to her left a platter of delicately fluted quiches.
“Back off,” Alex warned while Julie’s hands fisted in her lap.
“I don’t see any reason to beat around the bush,” Delilah returned in response to his growled warning. “Julie may claim she’s not Molly’s mother but until we know for sure I see no reason to…”
“Back off, I said.”
The sapphires flashed blue fire as Delilah faced down her son. Or tried to. You could almost hear the thunderbolts booming through the air as two iron wills clashed.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” Blake said in a quiet, steady voice that suggested he’d spent a good part of his life defusing situations like this one. “Molly’s unexpected arrival has thrown us all off stride.”
Julie’s shrug fell into the “if you say so” category. Why hadn’t Alex made it clear she played no role in this Dalton family drama? Why didn’t she? Feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, she worked her way through a generous wedge of mushroom and goat cheese quiche, baby asparagus drizzled with hollandaise sauce and a fresh fruit compote.
Thankfully, Alex insisted on departing right after brunch. His mother protested but he stood firm in his intent to provide Julie some insight into Dalton International’s operations. Delilah yielded, although the look she gave her son suggested she wasn’t done with him—or Julie—yet.
Blake opted to stay and discuss some legal issue with his parent. Molly, they discovered during a quick trip to the nursery, had fallen asleep. She lay on her stomach with her bottom poking up. When Alex stroked the baby’s back with a gentle hand, Julie got that funny ache again but couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief after the mansion’s massive front door closed behind them.
“Well,” she murmured, sinking into the Jag’s passenger seat, “that was interesting.”
Alex grimaced and slid behind the wheel. “That’s one way to describe my mother.”
She angled to face him. “All right, Dalton, clue me in. Why didn’t you tell Madam that I provided proof Molly isn’t my baby? Why leave things hanging?”
“I didn’t intend to,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “Then it hit me. She’s far more likely to keep her claws sheathed if she thinks there’s a chance, however slim, that you are, in fact, Molly’s mother. And that, Ms. Bartlett, gives us the rest of the week to pursue our own agendas.”
An agenda that included an inside look at the mega-corporation that might fold Agro-Air into many layers of operations. Julie was still trying to convince herself that was her main reason for staying the rest of the week when Alex put the car in gear and swept down the curved drive.
Six
Dalton International’s scope of operations left Julie swinging between awe, excitement and doubt. The corporation was so humongous and so diversified she worried that a small-time outfit like Agro-Air would get lost in the shuffle.
Still, she couldn’t help but be impressed by Alex’s detailed knowledge of every facet of DI’s operations. Even more by his hands-on management style. She saw that up close and personal when the chiefs of DI’s major divisions convened at a high-tech nerve center and gave her an overview of their areas of responsibility. Manufacturing, subsidiary operations, marketing, sales, distribution…each director presented their latest stats and initiatives. She noted with interest how frequently they turned to Alex for confirmation, validation or encouragement.
But it wasn’t until he drove Julie out to DI’s sprawling manufacturing plant on the outskirts of the city that she understood how close he was to the grass-roots of the business his parents had launched almost forty years ago.
The plant foreman met them at the entrance to the facility. He was dressed in sharply pressed coveralls and stood at least six-five. “I’m Hector Alvarez, Ms. Bartlett. Glad to hear you and Agro-Air may be joining the DI family.”
“Thanks, and please, call me Julie.”
“I understand you just had a bucketful of marketing and sales stats thrown at you. Now I’ll show you what generates a good portion of them. Here, you need to put these on.”
She took a set of ear protectors and one of the yellow hard hats he carried with him. He gave similar gear to Alex. Then the three of them entered what looked like a mile-long building and stood for a moment on a platform overlooking a vast assembly floor.
The noise hit like a sledgehammer. Even with ear protectors, it seemed to come at her from all directions. Computer-aided precision saws screeched through metal, fitters riveted joints, welders in protective suits sent sparks hissing into the air. Her nostrils twitched with the sting of acetylene and the distinctive tang of acid etching steel.
Gesturing, Alvarez nudged her toward an enclosed balcony overhanging the assembly floor. Inside the noise level dropped from a roar to a rumble. Following the example of Alex and the foreman, Julie removed her ear protectors and looked around with wide-eyed interest. Although the rows of cubicles were populated by individuals in jeans and tank tops or work shirts with sleeves rolled up, the equipment they worked on was clearly the best money could buy. Just the 26-inch high definition monitors on the workstations were enough to make Julie drool. The computers feeding them were all state-of-the-art.
“I’m going to walk you through our design, test, production scheduling and quality control units,” Hector advised. “Then we’ll go down on the floor and follow a product from initial cut to final assembly. Sound okay to you?”
Julie nodded, although Hector glanced from her to Alex for the real go-ahead. He gave it, and they began the tour.
Despite the carefully scripted agenda, they almost didn’t make it past the first stop. To Julie’s surprise and delight, Alex had already detailed a team of two engineers to look at Agro-Air’s aerial spray system. One of the engineers was a lean, ropy Oklahoma native. The other, a recent UCLA grad with a double major in mechanical and polymer engineering, introduced herself as Lisa Wu and was clearly thrilled to have the lead on this, her first project for Dalton International.
“Alex said to take your spray system apart piece by piece and look for possible design improvements that might increase spread ratios. Dean and I are just getting started, but I think you might be interested in what we’ve done so far regarding nozzles.”
A click of a mouse filled the monitor on her work station with a dazzling color array.
“Since the system has to deliver a variety of products from pest control to fertilizers, we looked at several variations. These…” she said, aiming the pointer at the top row of gleaming, stainless steel nozzles, “…incorporate the latest USDA Agricultural Research Service’s spray drift reduction technology. The ARS used their High Speed Wind Tunnel Facility to measure droplet size at different airspeeds, spray pressures and orientation with a Sympatec Helos laser diffraction instrument.”
“Hey, I read about that test!” Julie leaned in closer to squint at the display. “Didn’t the ARS verify that some of the tested nozzles can reduce drift by seventy to eighty percent?”
“They did.” Lisa beamed her approval. “And we th
ink we can adapt one of those nozzles to the system you’re currently using with only minor modifications.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding! Here, take a look at our initial drawings.”
She dragged up another desk chair. When Julie dropped into it eagerly, Alex and Hector Alvarez exchanged wry glances. The project’s second engineer merely grinned.
Julie was bubbling with enthusiasm when she and Alex exited the facility three hours later.
“That was amazing!” She raked her fingers through hair pancaked by heat and the hard hat. “And this is just one of your production facilities.”
“It’s the largest, although our operation in Mexico runs a close second.”
Yet he’d known the names, family situations and skill sets of a good portion of the several hundred employees working here. Julie was impressed. More than impressed. Alex Dalton was as technologically savvy as he was gorgeous. A fatal combination, she admitted as she settled gingerly on the hot leather of the Jag’s passenger seat. She wouldn’t be the first woman to succumb to his mix of sex and smarts. She’d seen the evidence of that in all those photos of elegantly gowned females gazing adoringly up at him.
Suppressing a grimace, she glanced down at her trusty black slacks and now wrinkled blouse. Elegant she wasn’t. But for the rest of this week, at least, she had Alex’s full attention. Along with Molly. And his mother.
She hid another grimace. Delilah had insisted they come for dinner tomorrow night. A family cookout, she’d promised. Very informal. Julie looked forward to it with as much enthusiasm as a spinal tap.
At least she had a whole twenty-four hours to psych herself up for the next clash with the redoubtable DD. And she had this evening. With just Alex. The thrill that raced through her at the thought should have warned her. Should have set off those internal alarms again. It didn’t, however, and later she could only blame what happened on the high she was riding from her visit to DI’s production facility…and the call Alex took on the way home.
His cell phone pinged just as they passed the I-40 exit for Garth Brook’s hometown of Yukon. He palmed the phone, glanced at the caller ID and sent her an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. I need to take this.”
It was probably one of his plant managers with some critical production issue, she guessed, or DI’s contracts division in the final, crisis throes of a multi-million dollar bid. Judging by Alex’s end of the conversation, however, the call concerned a new construction project.
“No, we want to keep it to a single level.” He listened a moment, frowning, then shook his head. “Sorry, Dave, I’m having a hard time visualizing it. Hang on.”
He aimed another smile Julie’s way. “Do you mind if we take a short detour? My architect’s on site and wants to show me a possible modification to the building plans.”
“No problem.”
He went back on the phone with a promise to be there in twenty. When he’d disconnected, curiosity got the better of her.
“What are you building?”
“A house. Or more hopefully, a home. I don’t want to raise Molly in a downtown high-rise. Providing, of course, she’s actually my daughter. If not, Blake will take it from here.”
Julie blinked, wondering why the heck his future plans came as such a surprise. Maybe because she’d been so focused on the here and now. So caught up in the question of Molly’s birth that she never thought beyond it. She’d just sort of assumed Delilah would continue her role as Molly’s guardian and/or nurturer. The realization that Alex fully intended to take over child-rearing responsibilities shifted her mental composite of this busy executive. She was still trying to adjust to the altered Alex when they pulled up to a gated community on the north side of town. The brass sign beside the gate welcomed them to Cottonwood Creek.
Alex clicked the gates open and drove into an obviously well-planned development. The homes were mostly native stone and brick…and nowhere near as huge as Delilah’s Nichols Hills mansion. Scattered skateboards and basketball goals suggested this was a family-oriented enclave, with wide sidewalks for kids to skate or bike on safely. That impression was confirmed when they passed a clubhouse with tennis courts, a full basketball court and a sparkling swimming pool filled with laughing, splashing kids.
Julie had loved growing up on a farm. Her parents had worked hard. Had worked her hard from the time she was old enough to pull part of the load. She’d never minded being an only child because she kept so busy and had so many friends at school. But this… Her gaze roamed the houses set on either side of wide, tree-shaded streets. This would be an ideal place to raise children. It was protected, but not isolated. Close to schools, churches, malls. Populated by families with young, growing broods.
Julie’s glance slid to the man beside her. Damned if he hadn’t messed up her mental composite of him yet again. Alex Dalton could have afforded any home in any part of town. Bought an estate to rival his mother’s. Built on an exclusive, members-only golf course. Instead, he’d chosen to make a home for his daughter here, where she’d have plenty of friends to play with. If she was his daughter. It wasn’t looking likely at this point. Alex had indicated Julie was the last possible on his list. The uncertainty had to be eating at both him and Blake.
She shifted her gaze back to the wide, tree-lined street. She could make a home for a child here, she thought on an unexpected stab of envy. The little jab surprised her as much as the thought. Her biological clock hadn’t started to annoy her yet. She’d been too busy, too caught up in her flying. But seeing this… Thinking of Alex living here with Molly…
“Here we are.”
He pulled into a cul-de-sac containing one of the few empty lots left in the development. A pickup was parked at the curb with two men conferring over a set of plans rolled out across the hood. They looked up and greeted Alex with obvious relief.
“Thanks for swinging by.”
“Not a problem,” he responded. “Julie, meet Bob Dyer, my builder, and Dave Hanscom, the architect who’s trying to design and site a one-level house on a lot that drops some fifteen degrees.”
“That’s the problem in a nutshell,” the architect concurred with a wry grin. “We planned to sink steel beams to reinforce the slope we’ll have to build up. Now I’m thinking we might want to use that space for a safe room instead of positioning it here, in the center of the house where I’d originally put it.”
“Safe” meaning a reinforced concrete storm shelter, Julie knew. Born and bred here in the heart of Tornado Alley, she wouldn’t build a house for herself without a safe room or storm cellar.
While the men conferred, she wandered down toward the creek lined with the trees that gave the development its name. Silvery green and pretty with their dark, twisted trunks, cottonwoods could be pesky as hell when they produced their fluffy white seeds that floated through the air like snowballs and clogged air-conditioning filters. They liked water, though, which is why they grew so thick along creek banks. And why so many of the pioneers crossing the Great Plains on the Santa Fe or Oregon Trails had desperately scanned the horizon for these signposts to water and firewood and shade. This particular creek was hardly more than a trickle now, but Alex would have to watch Molly to make sure she didn’t tumble in once she started walking.
“I thought about that,” he acknowledged when she mentioned it to him. “I started to build on a dry lot, but I figure that if Molly’s anything like me, she’ll find ways to get in trouble no matter where we live.”
“You did that a lot, huh?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Blake, too?”
“He was the good twin,” Alex replied cheerfully. “Still is, for that matter. Although Saint Blake can surprise even me occasionally. Next time he downs a few drinks and loosens up a little, ask him about Singapore.”
The pure devil in his blue eyes made her laugh. “I will.”
It wasn’t until they were on the way back to his car that r
eality hit. She wouldn’t be around long enough to wait for Blake to loosen up. Singapore would most likely remain an untold tale. That fact took some of the shine from what had otherwise been a terrific afternoon.
It also, Julie realized later, contributed to the idiocy that followed.
She knew as soon as Alex asked where she’d like to go for dinner that she was treading dangerous ground. Her impressions of this man had undergone so many rapid-fire changes she hadn’t had time to sort through them. The hunger was still there, though, compounding exponentially with every smile, every casual touch.
She’d wanted him before.
She ached for him now.
“It’s been a busy day,” she said, taking the coward’s way out. “All I’m up for tonight is a long, cool shower and a chance to review the notes Lisa Wu gave me.”
“You haven’t eaten since brunch,” he countered. “Aren’t you hungry?”
She wasn’t about to touch that one. “The DI guest quarters come well stocked. I saw some microwave popcorn in the cupboard. It’s my second favorite food group.”
“After?”
“First place is a tie between pizza and Tex-Mex.”
“So you’re a carb addict.”
“By choice as much as by necessity,” she admitted without the least remorse. “Not many of the places I flew in and out of these past few years dished up Dover sole or carrots au gratin.”
“That covers food preferences. What about music?”
“My top three are all female jazz greats. Allison, Etta and Ella. You?”
“Garth, Toby and Bartok.”
“Bartok?” She screwed up her nose. “The classical composer who did all that atonal stuff?”
“He’s an acquired taste. Favorite authors?”
The Paternity Proposition Page 7