The Illegitimate Billionaire

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

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.

The Illegitimate Billionaire

Barbara Dunlop

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

For Shaina, Jacob, Karl and Heidi

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Extract

About the Publisher

One

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.