The Millionaire's Secret Baby. Crystal Green

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      “She’s right.” Carlota held up a finger. “Number one: He’s never here. Well, every once in a while when big Mr. Rhodes requests his presence for a deal, but rarely. Deston lives in San Antonio, in his office. They say that his daddy is sending him to New York soon, too.”

      Emmy folded her arms over her stomach. “He is?”

      “To oversee business there. You have a short window to further this opportunity, Em.”

      “Not an option.” Emmy shook her head. He was leaving, right when she’d caught his eye? Not that it was relevant, but it was her typical luck with men. And maybe it was for the best, considering her track record.

      “And number two…?” Felicia asked.

      “When is the last time you saw anyone in the family besides Mrs. Rhodes in the kitchens? Or in the laundry? Or anywhere downstairs? That’s why they have Hendrich and Hausfrau Dominatrix,” Carlota said, referring to the head butler who’d taken the place of Emmy’s father after his death, as well as head of household. For reasons known only to them, the maids called her the Hausfrau Dominatrix rather than her real name, Mrs. Wagner.

      “So,” Emmy said, somewhat entertained and flattered by their enthusiasm, “if I told you that Deston sort of asked me out, you all would tell me I should go?”

      “Emmy? Do you know what this means?” Felicia gave a hop of excitement. “You’ve done it. You’ve reached the dream of every girl who grew up staring at Deston with hearts in her eyes, every girl who ever cheered him from the stands. You’re a chosen one!”

      Emmy narrowed her eyes, though she smiled, as well. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

      “More details,” Carlota said, still analyzing the situation. “Fill us in on everything.”

      It was almost as if someone had taken a little mini Emmy skillet and placed it on a stove, lighting the burner to full flame. The heat came in waves over her body, making her weak, strong, weak.

      “He swam in his boxers, and then asked me to dinner. That’s all,” Emmy said, reluctant to reveal the most intimate details. Something lost and vulnerable told her to keep the skin-on-skin part of it to herself. It was her secret moment, kept in the memory box of her heart, because it’d never happen again.

      “Oh,” Carlota said, closing her eyes, “I can bet he looked muy guapo.” She flapped her hand for emphasis.

      They all paused for a moment, allowing Emmy to relive the sight. His cut-muscled torso, tanned and gleaming in the sun. Water darkening his hair, sliding in drops down his full lips, chiseled jaw, neck.

      Carlota sighed. “And he thinks you’re Lila Stanhope?”

      “Yes, he does. I never managed to correct his assumption. I thought it wouldn’t go any further than the swimming hole.”

      And I didn’t want to see his disappointment.

      “Well,” Carlota said, “at least you had a good view of Deston in his boxers. That’ll last you for years. And if you go to dinner tonight…”

      “You’re not serious.”

      “Em—”

      “No,” she repeated. “Enough is enough. Dinner’s absolutely out of the question.”

      Felicia held up three fingers, silencing the debate. “There’s a number three, you know.”

      “What?” Carlota said.

      “The third reason Emmy doesn’t have to worry about Deston discovering who she is.” She held up her hands, palms facing the sky. Elementary, my dear girlfriends. “We packed up the Stanhopes this morning. They left about a half hour ago.”

      Carlota got a scary gleam in her dark eyes. “So with a little adjusting, you can be Lila tonight.”

      “You all are crazy.” Emmy started to walk away. “Mama’s expecting me in the kitchen.”

      “Why not do it?” Felicia asked.

      “This is ludicrous.”

      “Hey.” Carlota’s no-nonsense tone stopped Emmy in her tracks. “Think of how he looked at you.”

      That did it.

      His gaze had meant everything because, in his eyes, she’d felt beautiful. Felt as if she’d walked into a ball wearing a dress that whispered against her skin like stardust. Felt as if she’d been living in a fantasy.

      But those never lasted long enough, did they?

      Felicia took Emmy by the shoulders. “Did you feel like you were one of them?” Her them was more rose-tinged than Carlota’s rendition of the word.

      Emmy swallowed away the lump in her throat. One of them. “I guess I did.”

      “Then go to dinner,” Felicia continued. “You can say that you, Lila, wanted to see him one last time and will join your family tomorrow. Then, in one week, he’ll be across the country without ever knowing. No harm done.”

      “What if he searches her out?”

      Carlota waved away the question. “I don’t think he will. Remember, he’ll be gone in one week. Besides, everyone knows that Deston isn’t the committing type. He’s married to the office. After tonight, you make it clear that it’s over. It’s just a dinner, after all.”

      Emmy’s heartbeat tripped at the thought of it. This was wrong to even consider.

      Yet, what if Felicia and Carlota were right? Emmylou Brown didn’t have enough romantic oomph to interest a man long-term anyway, so leaving the romance behind after a limited time wouldn’t be a problem. That’s how it’d been with Paolo, with every minor boyfriend since.

      “He’ll never know,” Carlota said, wiggling her brows.

      “And if you don’t do it, you’ll be saying, ‘I wonder,’ for the rest of your life,” Felicia added.

      They watched her, waiting for an answer, but Emmy had no idea what to say.

      Should she go with the flow, treat herself to one night of fun and hope that Deston wouldn’t visit the kitchens for the next week?

      Or should she play by the rules, stay in her place, live downstairs for the rest of her life?

      Confused, she lifted her hand in farewell to her friends. “Mama’s waiting. I’ll see you all later.”

      Emmy could feel their eyes on her as she walked to the kitchens.

      To where she belonged.

      In the cigar lounge, where Deston had wandered after not eating more than two bites of a tempting dinner, he found himself staring at the wall again.

      The Wall of Fame.

      Or, as he liked to call it, The Wall of Shame.

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