The Backdoor Billionaire's Bride

by Roz Lee

  She grabbed a square of waxed paper and reached into the display case. “I couldn’t make it to the funeral—didn’t have anyone to mind the shop. I sent some pastries up to the house, though.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Mr. Hanson passed three years back, and our Bobby and his family moved to Dallas. I’m thinking of closing up and moving, too. I miss my grandkids something awful.”

  Bobby graduated a year behind Ford, as he recalled. “Why’d Bobby move?”

  “Not much need for electricians around here.” Mrs. Hanson talked while she bagged his food. “He got a degree in electrical engineering and went to work for Matthews Electric.” Ford recognized the name. They operated out of a big warehouse about a mile from Adams Manufacturing.

  Pausing with her hand in the cooler, she asked, “Regular or diet?”

  “Diet.”

  “He looked for work around here after Matthews closed, but—”

  “Matthews Electric closed?” They’d been the second-largest employer in Butte Plains in their day.

  “Been nearly two years, I guess.” She pushed buttons on the ancient cash register. “A lot of people left town, looking for work. ’Course your father took on as many as he could, but he didn’t have much use for electricians and such.”

  That explained the heavy payroll numbers he’d noticed a few years back in the records. The numbers had evened out as, he supposed, most of those people found other jobs or moved away. Like Bobby Hanson. “Are those turkey and cheese?” he asked, pointing at the display again.

  “Yes, and I’ve got one pepperoni left.”

  “Give me one of the turkey ones, too. And another diet soda.” Talk of his failing company reminded him Becky Jean had arrived shortly after he had, which meant she probably hadn’t had lunch either. If she didn’t want a croissant pocket, he’d eat it himself.

  Butte Plains had always seemed so stable. Staid and dull, but stable. He’d never thought of it declining the way it obviously had. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to turn it around, but the idea of the idyllic, yeah, it had been a great place to grow up, town disappearing made him sad. It must be doubly hard for someone who lived here to watch it happen.

  He knocked on Becky Jean’s office door, trying the handle before she had a chance to answer. Pissed off as she’d been, at least she hadn’t locked him out. Stepping inside, he took it as a good sign she didn’t attack him with a letter opener. Instead, she turned hopeful eyes his way. He set a firm look on his face and shook his head. “No go. No hidden accounts. No safety-deposit box full of cash.” He held up the bakery bag. “However, Mrs. Hanson had some stuffed croissants left. Ham or turkey?”

  She pushed some papers to the side. “Turkey.”

  He tossed one of the parchment wrapped delicacies her way, unwrapping the other for himself. “Diet okay?” He set a bottle on her desk blotter. “Did you know Matthews Electric went out of business?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said around a mouthful of pastry. “Along with Roma’s Pizza, the skating rink, the bowling alley, and the Majestic.”

  “Shit. The Majestic?” He’d taken his first date there to see The Matrix. The outing had been his first and only date with Katelyn Roberts. The girl had zero appreciation for good films.

  “Among others. Those are the ones I can think of off the top of my head.” They ate in silence for a while. “Remember Herschel’s Appliances on Main?” she asked.

  Ford nodded. “Closed?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. He’d seen the empty retail space earlier.

  “Walter Construction?” She took a bite of her stuffed croissant.

  “Closed?”

  Becky Jean took a sip from her soft drink then swallowed. “Yep. You remember Scooter’s Plumbing, don’t you? They had those trucks with the cartoon characters on them?”

  “They’re closed, too?” Fuck. “What hasn’t closed? That might be a shorter list.”

  “Hanson’s Bakery is still open.” She glanced at the grease-stained bag on her desk with the familiar logo printed on it.

  “I hate to tell you, but she’s thinking about closing. Wants to move closer to Bobby. Apparently, he has a wife and kids now. Did you know about that?”

  “He married Chrissy Matthews.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Didn’t her dad own Matthews Electric?”

  “Yep. Didn’t make any difference. There wasn’t enough business around these parts to keep the doors open, so he was left without a job, just like everyone else.” She wadded up her empty wrapper and tossed it in the bag. “I’m sorry to hear about Hanson’s. I’m going to miss that place.”

  “Me, too.” What was he saying? Unless she closed up in the next few weeks, he wouldn’t be around to miss the woman’s tasty concoctions.

  Becky Jean finished off her soda, collected all their trash, and tucked it into the wastebasket behind her desk. She rocked back in her chair with a sigh. “So, what’s next?”

  “Damn if I know.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can’t think right now. I arranged to move enough funds out of my personal savings to cover this week’s payroll. Tomorrow, I’ll call my wealth manager and see about converting some investments into cash. I’ll need to see all the accounts receivable and a summary of what we owe—taxes, utilities—anything else you can think of.”

  “You look beat. Why don’t you go home, try to get some rest?”

  He stood and made his way to the door. He couldn’t ever remember being this tired. “See you tomorrow?”

  “I come in at eight.”

  Noticing he’d left the lights on in his father’s office, he reached for the switch. “Damn. Forgot to turn off the computer.” Visions of an electric bill he couldn’t pay danced before his eyes. He’d just powered down the system when he glanced up to see Becky Jean standing in the doorway.

  “I didn’t see your car out front when I came in. How did you get here?”

  “Walked.” Christ. Why did she have to be so damn beautiful? He caught himself looking at her left hand. No ring. No husband. No fiancé. Not my business. Which reminded him he needed to call Ronnie and tell her he wouldn’t be back in time for the museum opening she had her heart set on attending. Maybe Scott would accompany her. He made a mental note to ask his best friend if he could fill in for him.

  “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  He vaguely remembered she lived on the opposite side of town from his parents. “It’s out of your way. I can walk.”

  She headed toward the front of the building. He followed, admiring the way her ass swayed from side to side with each step she took. “Nope. Remember the Wilsons? They moved to Florida. I rent their house.”

  He knew the house she spoke of. It sat at the base of the hill his parent’s house occupied. “They moved to Florida? When did this happen?”

  “About the time you graduated from college, I guess. Bobby Hanson rented it for a while.”

  “Then he lost his job and moved to Dallas.”

  “Yep. I moved in when the Hansons moved out.”

  For a town that never seemed to change, it seemed everything had changed. With opened eyes, he noticed what he hadn’t seen before. Businesses boarded up, weed-covered parking lots, broken out windows, and For Sale signs in front of empty houses were like pickets on an ancient fence—close together and falling down.

  “I’m staying in the gatehouse,” he said as the car wound up the long drive.

  “Why?”

  He glanced at the woman driving. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, I brought work along.” Or he hoped he had. The 3D printer he’d had shipped should have been delivered today. He’d planned to use the time away from the office to work on some ideas of his own. With everything going on, he doubted he’d have time. Getting his mother out of the financial pit she didn’t know she was in would take all his time in the foreseeable future.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I d
esign things for people.”

  “What kind of things?” She stopped in front of the gatehouse, put the car in park, and turned to face him.

  “People come up with ideas, things they want to build but don’t have a clue how to go about it, or don’t have the resources to create a prototype. I work with them, take their concepts, and turn them into reality.” He liked what he did—he’d actually made a shit-ton of money at his job. But it kept him so busy he rarely had time to do what he wanted—to develop ideas of his own. A few days with nothing to do but help his mother put her life in order and sift through offers to purchase the company had sounded perfect.

  “You can make a living doing that?”

  He smiled. “I’ve made more than a living at it. Lots of times, inventors don’t have capital to pay upfront for my services, so I take a percentage of sales once the product goes to market. If the item sells well, it can be extremely lucrative.”

  “Wow. I went into the wrong line of work.”

  “Office managers don’t usually bring down the big bucks.” She certainly hadn’t. He’d noted her salary in the payroll records.

  She shrugged. “My degree is in marketing, but my dad got sick and had to leave his job. So when I graduated, I stayed home to help out. Your father promoted me from line supervisor to office manager. The boost in salary allowed me to help my parents. I’ve been there ever since.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  Her shoulders sank, and he knew before she said the words. She’d lost her father, too.

  “He passed away last year. His life insurance paid off the house. Mom still has her part-time job at the nursing home. It’s enough for her to live on.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It gets easier,” she said, though her body language said she was lying through her teeth.

  He tried to recall her parents, but if he’d ever met them…. Not a single memory surfaced. “I doubt that,” he said, turning to look out the passenger-side window. A large cardboard box sat on the front step—the perfect excuse to end what had become an awkward conversation. “Looks like my package arrived.” He reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Not a problem.” She cranked the engine before he had both feet on the ground.

  “See you in the morning,” he said as he closed the door. She made a neat three-point turn and disappeared around the curve in the drive. He made a mental note to stay away from the subject of her father’s passing. There had to be a story there, he was sure of it, but he had enough problems of his own to solve without borrowing more.

  After lugging the printer into the house, he placed a call to his office in New York. Scott’s disappointment rang through the line when Ford informed him he needed to stay in Texas for a month or more. Fortunately, his friend understood obligation to family and agreed to take his sister to the museum opening in Ford’s place.

  Ronnie had been less pleased to hear his news than her brother. Who would escort her here or there? Fuck if he knew. He had real problems to deal with. Ford didn’t tell either of the siblings the extent of his financial troubles. Scott would have understood, but Ronnie wouldn’t. He often wondered how the two could be related. Scott had no intention of relying on his trust funds for the rest of his life. He had talent and drive, where his sister simply… didn’t. Scott possessed enough tact not to ask questions, and Ronnie appeared too busy worrying about her social calendar to think to ask him why. Soon, the whole world would know why he’d stayed in Texas, but he hoped by then he’d have better news to impart.

  The thought of the big, old building his great-grandfather had built no longer bearing the Adams’s name hit him hard. The feeling didn’t make any sense. He’d known all along he wouldn’t keep the company. Selling would be ideal, but that option no longer existed. He might be able to unload some of the machinery once they closed. He made a mental note to check into the possibility in the next few days. Maybe there was some kind of auction house he could contact to handle the sale for him. If not, the scrap value of the metal inside the plant had to be considerable. He could keep a few of the employees on to dismantle the equipment.

  He added call salvage yards to his mental to-do list. Surely, someone would haul the scrap off for a cut of the value. Then he could put the buildings up for sale, but given the number of empty storefronts in Butte Plains, his kids, if he ever had any, would still be paying taxes on the property long after he’d departed the planet. He made another mental note to see what the taxes actually were, and if he could get them reduced once the place fell into disuse.

  Before turning in for the night, he called his mom. He knew he’d been a shitty son, leaving her to deal with the swarm of mourners on her own, but of the two of them, his mother had the social skills to handle the situation. The daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the county, she’d been born to play hostess to throngs of people. She fussed over him, worrying as usual about her only child instead of focusing on herself then informed him she and her sister Florence would be fine alone in the house overnight. He wished her good night then slipped into bed.

  Instantly, an image of Becky Jean Parker flashed into his brain. He’d made the mistake of mentally undressing her earlier, and the image refused to go away. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her shapely body on display. Physically, the two couldn’t be more different. Ronnie liked to tell people her tall, lean form and small breasts attributed to her runner’s body, even though her idea of running meant hurrying to grab the last barstool in a crowded restaurant.

  Ford considered himself something of an artist. He created drawings and models in his mind and on paper then turned them into sculptures. Useful sculptures, but the point remained, his brain saw what his eyes couldn’t. He didn’t need to see Becky Jean undressed, his brain calculated the information his eyes collected and translated it into an image he knew would be pretty damn close to the actual thing.

  Given the proportions of the image, his body couldn’t help but respond. He’d have to be dead not to react to large breasts, a trim waist, and a heart-shaped ass. God, how he’d love to get his hands on her ass. His palms itched to feel her soft, pliant skin beneath his hands. He’d take his time, committing the details to memory then he’d part her— Shit!

  He could not be thinking about what he wanted to do to Becky Jean’s ass. He had other things he should be thinking about, like figuring out how to tell his mother she couldn’t afford the luxuries she took for granted.

  Helen Ford had come from money and married into money. The Ford family fortune had taken an unfortunate turn back in the 80s when her father and brothers had sunk, literally, everything they had into an offshore drilling rig. A good portion of their money, in the form of twisted metal, constituted a man-made reef at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. It had become quite the attraction in recent years for the scuba diving set. What money hadn’t sunk with the drilling platform had gone to clean up the oil spill, and to settle the resulting lawsuits. Only Ford’s trust fund, set up by his grandparents years ago, had escaped untouched. If it weren’t for the tax issues involved, he’d sign it over to his mother. The interest on the principle had paid his college tuition and given him a start in life, but he’d never relied on the money for his day-to-day living. Shortly after graduation, he and his roommate established their own business. In less than a year, he made enough to live on. The following year, he requested the interest on the principle be put back into the account instead of being paid out to him.

  He’d managed to accumulate considerable wealth on his own. He didn’t need his trust fund. He made another mental note to ask his wealth manager about the possibility of transferring the trust to his mother. But that would have to wait until the factory had been dealt with. No way would he let hungry creditors have access to his trust fund if he could help it. Nope. It would be just fine, right where it was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Becky had always wanted a house with a porch, and now she had t
hree outdoor living areas to choose from. The house she rented might not be the prettiest residence in Butte Plains, but it suited her perfectly. The wraparound porch began in the front, traversed the south side of the house, ending on the east side outside of the kitchen. She enjoyed nothing more than watching her backyard come alive each morning while she sipped her first cup of coffee. The birds and squirrels going about their business usually held her attention, but not today.

  She’d had a difficult time getting to sleep the night before, and when she’d finally succeeded, her dreams had bordered on nightmares. Her life was changing, and once again, she had no choice in the matter. She’d had no alternative but to help her parents and younger brother get through her father’s illness. The decision had been the right one at the time. Staying in Butte Plains after her father passed away had been easier than trying to start over. Too much time had passed since her college graduation to try for a job in her chosen profession—or so she told herself. Colin had graduated from high school and announced he wouldn’t be going to college. He’d packed his guitar and a duffel bag of clothes and hopped the first bus to Nashville, where he’d achieved his dream of being a musician, and more. He’d written a couple of hit songs for other artists and sang lead for a band that was building momentum daily.

  She didn’t begrudge him his success, but on days like today, she wished fate and circumstances hadn’t taken her choices away from her. If not for her father’s illness, she might have found a job in a big city, become something more than office manager for a failing company. Becky faced the harsh reality.

  In a few months, she would be out of a job, and nothing remained for her in Butte Plains. Her mom would be fine, but if she wanted, she could move, too. She wouldn’t have any trouble finding a job in a nursing home in a big city.

  What will I do? Office managers are a dime a dozen in big cities.