Her Little Secret, His Hidden Heir Read online

  “And I’ll want to know as soon as you do,” he went on, stopping her a second time.

  Her heart lurched in her chest. “Know what?” she asked, forcing the words past her tight, dry throat.

  “Whether or not we’ll be presenting our son with a little brother or sister nine months from now.”

  Marc wasn’t at The Sugar Shack when she and Aunt Helen arrived with Danny in tow at five o’clock the next morning. Vanessa wasn’t surprised, since he’d said he would meet her there at eight, and frankly, she could use the short reprieve.

  It might only be three hours, but it was three hours without having to see or deal with Marc. And after last night, she needed them. Desperately.

  While she and Aunt Helen bustled around readying the bakery for the breakfast opening, she tried her best to put him and the myriad of issues between them out of her mind. Not for the first time…not even for the five hundred and first time…she wondered how she’d managed to get herself into such an incredible mess.

  It felt as though her life had turned into some kind of daytime soap opera, and the worst part was that she knew those things were never-ending. They just went on forever, with more and more dramatic cliff-hangers cropping up to throw the main characters into a tizzy.

  Well, she didn’t need any more tizzies. And she sure as heck didn’t need any more drama. If she could have, she’d have canceled her own personal variation of As the World Spins Out of Control.

  Unfortunately, those few hours of blessed freedom sped by much too quickly. Before she knew it, Summerville’s early risers were filing in for a morning coffee and croissant on their way to work, or to sit and enjoy a more leisurely sticky bun with a cup of hot tea. Even before the clock struck eight o’clock, her eyes were practically glued to the front door, waiting for Marc to arrive.

  But the clock did strike eight and he didn’t appear. Then it struck ten after, twenty after, quarter to nine, and he was still nowhere in sight.

  She should have been relieved, but instead, Vanessa found herself beginning to worry. It wasn’t like Marc to be late for anything, especially after making such a production of warning her of where he would be when—and where he fully expected her to be to meet him.

  She rang up an order for four coffees and a box of mixed Danish pastries with one eye on the time, trying to decide if she should bask in her apparent—and most likely fleeting—freedom, or call the Harbor Inn to check on him.

  By nine-thirty, she’d not only decided to call the hotel, but if he wasn’t there, intended to drive over herself to search his room, and call the police, if necessary. But before she could untie her apron and ask Aunt Helen to cover the front counter for her, the bell above the door rang and Marc strolled in, a charming smile on his face.

  As hard as she tried not to notice, he looked magnificent. In place of his usual suit and tie, he wore tan slacks and a light blue chambray shirt. The shirt’s collar was open, cuffs rolled up to midforearm.

  Anyone else might see Marc and think he was just a run-of-the-mill guy, out and about on a beautiful summer day. But Vanessa knew better. If one looked closer, one would notice the solid gold Rolex, the seven-hundred-dollar Ferragamo loafers and the air of absolute power and confidence that surrounded him.

  This was Marc’s casual appearance, but as wise men knew, appearances could be extremely deceptive.

  He walked through the maze of small round tables as though he owned the place, his smile turning more and more predatory the closer he came to the tall glass display case that separated them.

  “Good morning,” he greeted, sounding much too chipper for her peace of mind.

  “Morning,” she returned with much less enthusiasm. “You’re late. I thought you said you’d be here at eight.”

  One solid shoulder rose and fell in a casual shrug. “I had some errands to run.”

  She raised a brow, but didn’t ask because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

  She glanced around, judging the number of customers at the tables and the few people who were milling in front of the display case, trying to decide which sweet was most worth ruining their diets.

  With a quick nod, she moved toward the kitchen and dipped her head through the swinging double doors. “Aunt Helen, could you work the register for a second? I need to speak with Marc.”

  Aunt Helen finished what she was doing and came out, wiping her hands on the front of her apron while Vanessa removed hers and hung it on a small hook on the far wall. Her aunt cast Marc a cautious, almost disparaging glance, but held her tongue, thank goodness.

  Vanessa hadn’t told Aunt Helen what happened with Marc the night before. She’d given a brief recap of dinner, acting as though all they’d discussed was the bakery and a potential business agreement, and that everything had remained very professional. But she hadn’t mentioned word one about following him up to his hotel room or letting things get out of control. And she certainly hadn’t shared the fact that her hormones had so overwhelmed her common sense that she’d allowed Marc to make love to her without any form of doctor-recommended birth control.

  Knowing the whole story would only have increased Aunt Helen’s animosity toward Marc. There was a time, not so long ago, when Vanessa welcomed her aunt’s protectiveness and having someone to talk to about everything she’d been through both before and during the divorce.

  But things had changed now. Not necessarily for the better, but in ways she couldn’t avoid. Marc knew about Danny, was determined to be a part of his son’s life, and that meant he was going to be a part of hers. For better or worse, she had to find a way to make peace with her ex-husband, if only to keep the next eighteen years of her life from being a living hell.

  In order to do that, and also keep the peace with her aunt, she had to avoid bad-mouthing Marc. She probably shouldn’t have done so in the first place, but she’d been so hurt, so miserable, that she’d had to talk to someone, and Aunt Helen’s had been the perfect shoulder to cry on.

  Marc came up behind her, laying a hand gently on her elbow. As soon as she was sure Helen was settled behind the counter, she let him lead her across the bakery and through the shared entrance that led to the empty space next door.

  She thought they were simply going to use the area to talk privately, and her stomach was nearly in knots wondering what sort of shoe or bomb or anvil he would drop on her this time. But rather than stopping in the center of the empty space, he kept walking, pulling her with him to the front of the building and the glass door that opened out onto the sidewalk.

  “Do you have a key for this?” he asked, pointing to the door’s lock.

  “Yes. The landlord knows I’m interested in renting the space and occasionally lets me use it for small bits of storage. Plus, I can let other potential renters in if he isn’t available.”

  “Good,” he replied, his warm hand still cupping her elbow more intimately than she would have liked. “I’m going to need it.”

  She blinked. “Why?”

  “To let those guys in,” he answered, cocking his head in the direction of the glass and the street beyond. “Unless you want them traipsing through your bakery and dragging all their dirty, heavy equipment with them.”

  Following his gaze, she blinked again, only then noticing that the sidewalk outside the empty storefront was littered with men in jeans and work shirts unloading toolboxes, sawhorses, lumber and various cutting implements from the row of pickup trucks parked at the curb.

  “Who are they?” she asked in dismay.

  “Your construction crew.”

  She met Marc’s gaze and must have looked as confused as she felt because he quickly elaborated.

  “They’re here to clean the place up and start putting in your shelving and countertops.”

  “What? Why?”

  Her ex-husband’s expression went from being amused at her utter shock to exasperated at her apparent denseness. “It’s all part of the
expansion plan, remember? We’ve got to get this section of the building renovated for The Sugar Shack’s mail-order distribution and that Cookie of the Month thing you have in mind.”

  Her gaze swung from Marc to the workers outside, to Marc, to the workers… She now knew exactly how wild animals felt when caught in the middle of the highway by bright, oncoming headlights.

  “I don’t understand,” she said with a slow shake of her head. “I didn’t hire them. They can’t start working here because I haven’t rented the space yet. I don’t have the money.”

  Marc gave a perturbed sigh. “Why do you think I’m here, Vanessa? Aside from wanting to spend time with Danny. Don’t you remember what we discussed last night?”

  She remembered last night. Vividly. And she remembered his parting shot that he hadn’t used a condom, she hadn’t been on the pill and she might very well be pregnant with his child. Again. The rest was a bit more of a blur, especially at this particular moment.

  One of the workers came to the door. Marc made a motion with his hand, indicating that he needed a minute or two more, and the man nodded, returning to his truck.

  “Look, it’s taken care of, okay?” Marc told her. “I talked to the building’s owner about the modifications we want to make. The space will be rented in your name, and part of the agreement will include permission to make any changes we see fit to better our business. Brian is putting together the paperwork and will deliver the contracts today. I’ll have him get me a copy of the key from the landlord, but for now I need the one you have.”

  “But…” She was starting to sound like a broken record. “If Brian hasn’t talked to Mr. Parsons yet, how do you know he’ll agree to let us—me—rent this space?”

  His mossy green eyes sparkled with self-assurance. “Vanessa,” he said slowly, as though speaking to a small child or particularly slow adult. “It’s taken care of. The building is for rent, I told Brian to rent it. What more do you need to know?”

  She was finally catching on. Or rather, finally fully absorbing the situation and Marc’s deep-rooted resolve to stay in town.

  “Let me guess. ‘Money is no object,’” she mimicked, adopting a low, masculine voice that was clearly supposed to be his. “You told Brian what you wanted—with no limit on how much you were willing to spend—and are leaving him to do whatever he has to for you to get your own way.”

  Releasing her elbow, he propped his hands on his hips, letting out a frustrated breath. “What’s wrong with that?” he wanted to know.

  She wished she could say nothing. She wished she didn’t mind that he was using his wealth and prestige to assist her in her business and help to make the bakery an even bigger success.

  There had even been a time when that sort of power and cocky confidence would have impressed her. Now, though, it only made her nervous.

  “I don’t want to be indebted to you, Marc,” she told him softly, honestly. “I don’t want to owe you anything, or know that The Sugar Shack has only expanded, is only successful, because you rode into town and saved the day with the Keller family fortune.”

  “Why does it matter where the capital comes from, Vanessa? The important thing is that you’re getting your additional space and branching out into mail order.”

  Shaking her head, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and took a step back. “You don’t understand. It does matter, because if you come in waving your checkbook around and running roughshod over me and everyone else in this town, then it’s not my business anymore. It’s just another insignificant acquisition for Keller Corp’s multimillion-dollar holdings.”

  Widening his stance, he copied her defensive position of arms over chest. “Don’t give me that. You asked Brian Blake to look for an investor you could work with. Preferably a silent one who would be willing to flush copious amounts of money into the bakery, but not have much say on how it was run or what you did with the cash. For the most part, that’s exactly what I’m doing. So your problem isn’t that I’m ‘waving my checkbook around,’ as you so eloquently put it. Your problem is that it’s my checkbook.”

  “Of course that’s my problem,” she snapped, his earlier frustrations rubbing off on her. “We’ve been down this road before, Marc. The money, the influence, expecting everyone and everything to fall into line simply because your name is Keller.”

  Uncrossing her arms, she raised her hands to cover her face for a minute, trying to collect her thoughts and her temper. Once she lowered them, her tone was more subdued.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I liked it for a while. I enjoyed the lifestyle being your wife afforded me. The parties, the wardrobe, never having to worry about making ends meet.”

  Oh, yes. After a lifetime of struggling, of working her fingers to the bone just to get by, marrying into money had been a welcome reprieve.

  “But you have no idea what it was like to be your wife and live under that roof without truly being a Keller.”

  His eyes narrowed, their green depths filling with genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? Of course, you were a true Keller. You were my wife.”

  “That’s sure not how it felt,” she admitted softly, remembering all the times his mother had made a point of reminding her that she was a Keller by marriage only, making her feel as though she had no business even crossing the threshold of Keller Manor without a mop and feather duster in her hands.

  “I’m sorry.” His arms slid from his chest and he started to reach for her, then seemed to think better of it and dropped his hands to his sides. “I never meant to make you feel like an outsider.”

  Guilt stabbed through her at the hurt look on his face. She opened her mouth to tell him that he hadn’t been nearly as big an offender as his mother, but a sharp rap on the glass cut her off, startling them both.

  The same worker as before, apparently the man in charge of the rest of the crew, made an impatient face and tapped his watch. Time, as they said, was money, and he obviously wasn’t making any standing around on the sidewalk. Of course, Vanessa was sure Marc was paying them well, and most likely by the hour, regardless of whether they were actively working or not.

  Marc lifted a hand, giving him the just a second gesture before turning back to her. “I’m going to need that key before these guys decide to sledgehammer their way in here.”

  She licked her lips and swallowed, reluctant to do his bidding. She and Marc had been on the verge of an honest-to-goodness adult conversation. One where she’d finally almost worked up the courage to tell him the truth behind why she’d gotten fed up and left in the first place. She’d tried so many times in the past to let him know how she was being treated, how much she felt like an outcast in what was supposed to be her own home, but she’d never quite been brave enough to blurt it out.

  Part of her had believed that if he loved her enough, if he understood her as much as a husband was supposed to understand his wife, then he would know what she was trying to say all the times she’d hinted at her growing unhappiness. Now, she realized that nobody should be expected to be a mind reader, especially someone of the male persuasion.

  If only she had been wise enough and gutsy enough to simply tell him what was going on. Things might have turned out so differently.

  But that was water under the bridge and any chance they might have had of wiping the slate clean this morning had disappeared with the carpenter’s untimely interruption.

  Licking her lips again, she inclined her head. “I’ll get the key,” she said, turning on her heel and hurrying away.

  Ten

  “I swear, that racket is enough to make me want to jump into this oven myself.”

  Vanessa raised her head from the perfect circles of pastry dough she was currently topping with raisin filling to watch Aunt Helen slide a tray of baklava into one of the industrial ovens and slam the door with a clang that only punctuated the loud, staccato sounds of construction coming from the other side of the bakery walls.

  It hadn’t been easy t
o put up with both the noise and the added traffic of having so many workers around. She’d made dozens of apologies to customers, as well as creating Please excuse our dust and Apologies for the excessive noise signs. Thankfully, no real dust or debris had made it into the actual bakery side of the building, but having the crew around all day every day didn’t make it easy for folks to come in and enjoy a quiet cup of tea and scones.

  “They’ll be finished soon,” she told her aunt, repeating the line the construction foreman had been giving her for the past week. She was familiar enough with this type of thing to know that “soon” was an extremely relative term, but given the fact that they really were making amazing progress, she thought the job would likely be done in just another week or two.

  “And you have to admit, it’s been nice of Marc to do all of this for us.”

  Aunt Helen gave a derisive snort. “Don’t fool yourself, dear. He isn’t doing it to be nice. He’s doing it for himself, and to keep you under his thumb, and you know it.”

  Vanessa didn’t respond, mostly because her aunt was right. Without a doubt, Marc wouldn’t still be in town if there wasn’t something in it for him.

  He wanted to be close to Danny and indeed spent almost every evening at Aunt Helen’s house with them. They ate dinner together. He helped feed Danny, gave him baths and put him to bed. At his insistence, she’d shown him how to change a diaper, and amazingly, he now did that almost as often as she did. They played on blankets on the floor, and took walks, and went to the park, even though Danny was too young to truly enjoy it.

  It all felt so normal, and Vanessa had to admit…nice.

  But just as Aunt Helen had reminded her, she couldn’t forget for a minute that there were strings attached to everything Marc did. He wanted to know his son, which was understandable and seemed innocent enough on the surface.

  Beyond that, though, she knew the entire situation was steeped in ulterior motives. Or at least the potential for ulterior motives.