After the Dawn (8 page)

“Ms. Collins and I would like to tour the plant and get an overview of productivity and projections,” Dillon requested.

Crowley's questioning gaze swung to Samantha.

“Please,” she said sweetly, and smiled. “I know you're busy, but we'd really appreciate it.”

The plant manager's expression went from puzzled to rapt in seconds. “Anything, Ms. Collins. All you have to do is ask.”

Dillon had the strange urge to shake Crowley and tell him to back off when he kept staring at Samantha. “Now would be a good time,” he said tightly.

The man jerked, flushed. “This way.”

Dillon glanced at Samantha before following. Of course she was frowning at him, but she hadn't minded old Frank eating her up with his eyes. Dillon's problem was that he wanted to do some nibbling of his own.

During the tour, Samantha stuck to Dillon's heels like a burr. He'd lost count of the number of times she had bumped into him or brushed against him. Each time she did, his brain and blood headed south. It was all he could do to concentrate on what Crowley was saying.

He'd turned to glare at her once, only to find her busy scribbling on the pad she carried. She was trying, he'd give her that, but she was also wreaking havoc on him. Perhaps Abe was getting back at Dillon after all.

*   *   *

Samantha learned a lot during the tour and thought it had gone well despite Dillon's abruptness with the plant manager and all the speculative looks from the employees. Some actually stopped working—until Mr. Crowley stared them down. Dillon didn't seem to notice.

Since she had been on the floor before and they hadn't paid much attention to her, she knew they were looking at Dillon. All the stares annoyed her.

He was just a man. Granted, a prime specimen with hard muscles and a sexy mouth, but still just a man. The reasons for the frank looks were probably varied. It could be the rumor that Dillon was her grandfather's illegitimate son or speculation over whether he'd done all the crazy things gossip said he had. Then, too, he'd probably had a run-in with a few of the men, dated more than a few of the women. It could have been because he was wealthy or someone had remembered he used to work there. The list was a long one.

Samantha had tried to keep up with Dillon's long-legged stride, take notes, and pretend she knew what she was looking at. She'd kept bumping into him, and each time her body would heat. He affected her as no man ever had.

Once they were finished and she had thanked the plant manager, she wanted to ask Dillon what he thought, to keep her mind off his tempting body and on the business at hand. But he didn't look as if he were in the mood for talking. The man's eyes could speak volumes. Then, too, discussing the company in the hallway wasn't a good idea.

They were almost back to her office when Evan stepped out of her grandfather's—Evan's new office. He stiffened.

Samantha groaned inwardly and shot a look at Dillon. He had that hard expression on his face that didn't bode well for her uncle. She didn't even think of trying to interfere. She needed Dillon, and they both knew it.

“I want you to move out of Abe's office by eight in the morning,” Dillon said without preamble. “Sam and I will be taking over the larger space.”

“You can't do that,” Evan snapped.

“Wanna bet?” Dillon stepped into her uncle's space. “We can do this easy or hard. Makes no difference to me.” Not giving her irate uncle a chance to say anything further, Dillon stepped around him and went into her office.

She didn't like the way Evan was glaring at her. He'd find an opportunity to make Samantha pay. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, and hurried after Dillon.

Inside her office, she said, “That wasn't the way to handle things. There is no reason to make an enemy out of Uncle Evan.”

Dillon's dark brows lifted. “He's already our enemy, and if you think otherwise, you're living in la-la-land.”

Her chin lifted. “There's no reason to be condescending.”

“You haven't seen anything yet.” He crossed to the door. “You better get used to it, if you want my help. I've found that the straightforward approach is best. If you have problems with that, keep it to yourself.”

“Now, look here. You can't talk to me that way.”

“I just did. Take the rose-colored blinders off, Sam. This is the real world, where the weak get stepped on.” He opened the door. “I'll see you in the morning at eight sharp.”

Dillon closed the door, then headed for the parking lot. He might have an explosive situation on his hands—if he let it happen.

He wouldn't. In his careless youth, he might have laughed at the risks and taken the plunge. Older, and he hoped wiser, he considered the odds and the morning after. He never wanted dawn to break and find himself conflicted.

He'd intentionally called Samantha “Sam” because he'd noticed once again how beautiful she was, how lost she'd looked. It was all he could do not to reach out and pull her into his arms, reassure her that everything was going to be all right. Who would have thought he'd be attracted to the vulnerable, lost type?

He'd seen that look on her face twice before. When her parents were killed in that plane crash, he'd heard she'd been inconsolable. Who could blame her? Before then, he hadn't considered death. He'd seen her a couple of weeks later in town with her cousins. Shelby, as usual, tried to come on to him. Samantha's gaze had locked with his. He'd never seen such grief and misery. Her eyes had looked lost, and he'd felt bad for her. He'd offered his condolences.

The next time was the night of her prom, the day Abe fired him. She'd offered her body and backed it up with a kiss that rang all of his bells. He hadn't seen her again until the day of Abe's funeral.

He might have looked out for her then, but he wasn't some black knight on a white charger. Wrong woman. Wrong time.

If she wanted a blazing hot affair, he was her man, but he had a feeling she'd want much more. Plus, his mother liked her. Sam might want to be tied down to Collins for five years, but once it was back to making a profit, he was out of there and back to his carefree life.

*   *   *

Samantha counted to ten and then counted again. She would have liked to kick Dillon in his prime butt. He couldn't even be bothered to say her name. If she didn't need him—

The door to her office burst open. Evan's gaze searched the room. “Where's Dillon?”

Samantha almost rolled her eyes. His bravado didn't fool her. He could have easily taken Dillon on in the hallway earlier or at the reading of the will. He'd backed down each time.

Her uncle might try to intimidate her—but not Dillon. He was half afraid of Dillon. So was she, but for an entirely different reason.

“He left, but he's coming back in the morning. It's probably best you move back to this office this afternoon,” she told him.

“I see you've made your choice. I thought you might come to your senses,” he practically snarled. “Neither you nor Dillon knows how to run this company.”

Fear crept over her. She had only one answer. “Grandfather had faith in us.”

“He was senile, and you and that no-good Dillon are taking advantage of it. You'll run Collins into the ground,” her uncle ranted.

She wouldn't let him see her fear that he was right. “I'm sorry you feel that way.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” he mimicked. “You're going to be chewed up and spit out. The bad thing is that you're going to take this company and me down with you.”

“Dillon—”

“Was fired because of his big mouth and little sense. He could give a rat's ass about Collins. He certainly doesn't need the money. Just because Daddy had remorse he didn't marry his mistress is no reason to pull the company down.”

Samantha flinched. Her stomach dipped. “We don't know he is Grandfather's son.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Get your head out of the clouds. Why else would he will a multimillion-dollar company to him?”

Samantha didn't have a comeback. She'd asked herself the same thing. She'd just always hoped the rumors were untrue. She didn't want to be attracted to her half uncle or burn in hell because she couldn't control her wayward thoughts. Her stomach clenched again.

Evan's eyes narrowed. “Don't tell me you're stupid enough to be attracted to him?”

“I'm not,” she blurted, then rushed on to say, “He can help Collins. If anyone knows motors and cars, it's Dillon.”

“Knowing cars and running a company with two hundred employees are miles apart—but you're going to find that out.” Evan went to the door. “I'm going home while I have one to go to.”

Samantha sank heavily into her seat. She hadn't thought it would be this difficult.

Cleary, neither Dillon nor her uncle had any faith in her ability. Both thought she was a pushover. The sad thing was, she wasn't sure they were wrong.

 

Four

Samantha didn't want to go home, but unfortunately there was no place else to go. She'd put her furniture in the guest cottage, but the electricity wouldn't be turned on until next week. The plant closed at five. At a quarter to six, hers was the last car to leave. She waved to the attendant at the gate as she drove past. He gave her a curt nod. The poor man was probably anxious to get home and was annoyed at her for keeping him so late. Feeling melancholy, she pulled onto the highway.

Sadly, she'd broken ties with everyone in Elms Fork when she'd left for college. She didn't “friend” her classmates online or return for the tenth anniversary of her graduation. She'd blamed everyone connected with Collins Industry for her parents' death. The town and the people living there were an unwanted reminder.

Driving through the town on the bricked streets that still annoyed her no matter how historic, she noted that Elms Fork had changed very little over the years. The shell of the iron factory was a reminder that not all businesses had survived. The same went for the glass factory. Oil derricks dotted the landscape, but they no longer pumped oil.

The one constant in the past forty-one years was Collins Industry. From the taxes it paid to its charitable donations, the company had an indelible impact on the town and, as she'd told her uncle, its failure would touch many of the people living there.

And he didn't care.

She saw the top of her grandfather's house peeking over a strand of trees before she turned onto the long driveway. No matter what the will said, she'd always think of it as his. In the back, she parked in one of the seven bays. She sighed on seeing her uncle's and aunt's Jaguars. Her aunt's was red.

Her granddaddy's black truck sat next to her grandmother's big Mercedes. The cover had grayed over the years. She had to remember to order a cover for her grandfather's truck. Samantha supposed she now owned both. Just as he'd kept his wife's car, Samantha planned to keep his truck. However, she wasn't ready to drive either.

She had no idea what had happened to her parents' cars. She'd cried each time she saw them. One morning they were gone. Now, she wished she had been stronger.

Leaving the garage, she followed the bricked path to the back door. Regrets, she was learning, was something everyone had. The best you could probably do was move forward and try not to make more. When she opened the door, the aroma of food greeted her. Her stomach rumbled. She had skipped lunch because she hadn't been hungry. Worry could do that to you.

After washing up in the utility room, she started for the main dining room. She'd ignore her aunt and uncle as they did her and just eat.

Entering the dining room, she saw her uncle and aunt seated at a table that sat twelve. As usual, he was at the head and she at the foot. Her parents would have been sitting as close as possible. Sometimes she thought her aunt and uncle tolerated each other more than they loved each other.

They didn't wait for her to eat, and if she happened to be there, they made it uncomfortable being in the same room with them. Her aunt ignored her or shot her annoyed looks. Not a pleasant situation. Tonight she was too hungry to care.

Louise, the cook who had been in the employ of her grandfather for as long as Samantha could remember, was serving them. Samantha had gone to school with Louise's youngest daughter, Aretha. A few days after she arrived, Louise had proudly showed Samantha the picture of Aretha with her husband and their three children. They lived in Chicago.

Then and now, Samantha pushed aside the spurt of jealousy. She wanted children and a husband who was there each night to help tuck them in bed. At thirty with no prospects, she was unlikely to get either.

Louise turned from serving her aunt and went stock-still, bewilderment flittering across her face. “Samantha.”

“Hi, everyone. Whatever you cooked, Louise, it smells delicious.”

Louise's gaze jumped from her to her aunt, then back to her.
Not good,
Samantha thought.

“I didn't think you were dining with us, Samantha. I had Louise prepare only enough for Evan and myself. You know how I detest wasting food.” Her aunt picked up her wineglass. “I'm sure the cook can prepare you a sandwich.”

“I'm sorry, Samantha,” Louise rushed on to say, her hands gripping the gold-trimmed serving dish. “I can thaw out another pork chop. It won't be stuffed, but I can smother it for you and fix some rice.”

She'd choke before she'd let her aunt and uncle know how embarrassed she felt. “Thank you, Louise, but that won't be necessary. I just came to let you know I have plans for dinner.” Smiling, Samantha left the dining room and went back to the garage. Her uncle had a satisfied smirk on his face. He'd done that on purpose. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of creating a scene. She certainly wasn't going to put Louise in the middle.