His Illegitimate Heir (5 page)

And that was what made him sound like his brother Chadwick.

Oh, her father was going to have a field day with this. And then he was going to be mad at her that she hadn't warned him in advance. To say that Carl Johnson was heavily invested in her career would be like saying that NASA sometimes thought about Mars. He constantly worried that she was on the verge of losing her job—a sentiment that had only gotten stronger over the last year. Her dad was protective of his little girl, which was both sweet and irritating.

What was she going to tell her father? She hadn't told him about her confrontational first meeting with Richards—or the second one, for that matter. But she was pretty sure she would be on the news tonight, one face in a human backdrop behind Zeb Richards as he completely blew up everything people thought they knew about the Beaumont family and the brewery.

Well, there was only one thing to do. As soon as Daniel Lee gave her phone back, she had to text her dad.

Oh, the reporters were shouting again. Richards picked up his tablet to walk off the platform. Daniel motioned to the people in front of her as they were beginning to walk back up the front steps. The press conference was apparently over. Thank God for that.

Richards appeared to be ignoring the reporters but that only made the reporters shout louder. He'd almost made it to the door when Natalie Baker—the beautiful blonde woman who trafficked in local Denver gossip on her show,
A Good Morning with Natalie Baker
—physically blocked Zeb's way with her body. And her breasts. They were really nice ones, the kind that Casey had never had and never would.

Natalie Baker all but purred a question at Richards. “Are there more like you?” she asked, her gaze sweeping to include Daniel in the question.

It must've been the breasts, because for the first time, Richards went off script. “I've located one more brother, but he's not part of this venture. Now if you'll excuse me.”

Baker looked thrilled and the rest of the crowd started shouting questions again.
That was a dumb thing to do
, Casey thought. Now everyone would have to know who the third one was and why he wasn't on the stage with Richards and Lee.

Men.
A nice rack and they lost their little minds.

She didn't get a chance to talk to Richards again. And even if she had, what would she have said?
Nice press conference that I didn't pay attention to?
No, even she knew that was not the way to go about things.

Besides, she had her own brand of damage control to deal with. She needed to text her dad, warning him that the company would be in the news again but he shouldn't panic—her boss had faith in her. Then she had to go back and warn her crew. No, it was probably too late for that. She had to reassure them that they were going to keep making beer. Then she had to start the hiring process for some new employees and she had to make sure that tank fifteen was actually working properly today...

And she had to get ready for Tuesday. She was having lunch and beer with the boss.

Which boss would show up?

Five

F
rankly, he could use a beer.

“Did you contact CJ?” Daniel asked. “He needs to be warned.”

Here, in the privacy of his own office with no one but Daniel around, Zeb allowed himself to lean forward and pinch the bridge of his nose. Make that several beers.

“I did. He didn't seem concerned. As long as we keep his name and whereabouts out of it, he thinks he's unfindable.”

Daniel snorted. “You found him.”

“A fact of which I reminded him.” Zeb knew that CJ's refusal to be a part of Zeb's vision for the brothers wasn't personal. Still, it bugged him. “I think it's safe to say that he's a little more laid-back than we are.”

That made Daniel grin. “He'll come around. Eventually. Has there been any other...contact?”

“No.” It wasn't that he expected the acknowledged members of the Beaumont family to storm the brewery gates and engage in a battle for the heart and soul of the family business. But while the rest of the world was engaged in furious rounds of questions and speculation, there had been radio silence from the Beaumonts themselves. Not even a
No comment
. Just...nothing.

Not that Zeb expected any of them to fall over themselves to welcome him and Daniel into the family. He didn't.

He checked his watch.

“Do you have a hot date?” Daniel asked in an offhand way.

“I'm having lunch with the brewmaster, Casey Johnson.”

That got Daniel's attention. He sat up straighter. “And?”

And she asked me if I was like my father or my brother and I didn't have an answer.

But that wasn't what he said. In fact, he didn't say anything. Yes, he and Daniel were in this together, and yes, they were technically brothers. But there were some things he still didn't want to share. Daniel was too smart and he knew how to bend the truth to suit his purposes.

Zeb had no desire to be bent to anyone's purposes but his own. “We're going over the product line. It's hard to believe that a woman so young is the brewmaster in charge of all of our beer and I want to make sure she knows her stuff.”

His phone rang. He winced inwardly—it was his mother. “I've got to take this. We'll talk later?”

Daniel nodded. “One last thing. I had four resignations in the marketing department.”

Casey had not been wrong about that, either. She had a certain brashness to her, but she knew this business. “Hire whoever you want,” Zeb said as he answered the call. “Hello, Mom.”

“I shouldn't have to call you,” his mother said, the steel in her voice sounding extra sharp today.

How much beer could one man reasonably drink at work? Zeb was going to have to test that limit today, because if there was one thing he didn't want to deal with right now, it was his mother.

“But I'm glad you did,” he replied easily. “How's the salon?”

“Humph.” Emily Richards ran a chain of successful hair salons in Georgia. Thanks to his careful management, Doo-Wop and Pop! had gone from being six chairs in a strip-mall storefront to fifteen locations scattered throughout Georgia and a small but successful line of hair weaves and braid accessories targeted toward the affluent African American buyer.

Zeb had done that for his mother. He'd taken her from lower middle class, where the two of them got by on $30,000 a year, to upper class. Doo-Wop and Pop! had made Emily Richards rich and was on track to make even more profit this year.

But that
humph
told Zeb everything he needed to know. It didn't matter that he had taken his mother's idea and turned it into a hugely successful woman-owned business. All that really mattered to Emily Richards was getting revenge on the man she claimed had ruined her life.

A fact she drove home with her next statement. “Well? Did you finally take what's yours?”

It always came back to the brewery. And the way she said
finally
grated on his nerves like a steel file. Still, she was his mother. “It's really mine, Mom.”

Those words should have filled him with satisfaction. He had done what he had set out to do. The Beaumont Brewery was his now.

So why did he feel so odd?

He shook it off. It had been an exceptionally long weekend, after all. As expected, his press conference had created not just waves but tsunamis that had to be dealt with. His one mistake—revealing that there was a third Beaumont bastard, unnamed and unknown—had threatened to undermine his triumphant ascension to power.

“They'll come for you,” his mother intoned ominously. “Those Beaumonts can't let it rest. You watch your back.”

Not for the first time, Zeb wondered if his mother was a touch paranoid. He understood now what he hadn't when he was little—that his father had bought her silence. But more and more, she acted like his siblings would go to extreme measures to enforce that silence.

His father, maybe. But none of the research he'd done on any of his siblings had turned up any proclivities for violence.

Still, he knew he couldn't convince his mother. So he let it go.

There was a knock on the door and before he could say anything, it popped open. In walked Jamal, boxes stacked in his hands. When he saw that Zeb was on the phone, he nodded his head in greeting and moved quietly to the conference table. There he began unpacking lunch.

“I will,” Zeb promised his mother. And it wasn't even one of those little white lies he told her to keep her happy. He had stirred up several hornets' nests over the last few days. It only made good sense to watch his back.

“They deserve to pay for what they did to me. And you,” she added as an afterthought.

But wasn't that the thing? None of the Beaumonts who were living today had ever done anything to Zeb. They'd just...ignored him.

“I've got to go, Mom. I have a meeting that starts in a few minutes.” He didn't miss the way his Southern accent was stronger. Hearing it roll off Mom's tongue made his show up in force.

“Humph,” she repeated. “Love you, baby boy.”

“Love you, too, Mom.” He hung up.

“Let me guess,” Jamal said as he spread out the four-course meal he had prepared. “She's still not happy.”

“Let it go, man.” But something about the conversation with his mother was bugging him.

For a long time, his mother had spoken of what the Beaumonts owed
him
. They had taken what rightfully belonged to him and it was his duty to get it back. And if they wouldn't give it to him legitimately, he would just have to take it by force.

But that was all she'd ever told him about the Beaumont family. She'd never told him anything about his father or his father's family. She'd told him practically nothing about her time in Denver—he wasn't all that sure what she had done for Hardwick back in the '70s. Every time he asked, she refused to answer and instead launched into another rant about how they'd cut him out of what was rightfully his.

He had so many questions and not enough answers. He was missing something and he knew it. It was a feeling he did not enjoy, because in his business, answers made money.

His intercom buzzed. “Mr. Richards, Ms. Johnson is here.”

Jamal shot him a funny look. “I thought you said you were having lunch with your brewmaster.”

Before Zeb could explain, the door opened and Casey walked in. “Good morning. I spoke with the cook in the cafeteria. She said she hadn't been asked to prepare any— Oh. Hello,” she said cautiously when she caught sight of Jamal plating up what smelled like his famous salt-crusted beef tenderloin.

Zeb noted with amusement that today she was back in the unisex lab coat with Beaumont Brewery embroidered on the lapel—but she wasn't bright red or sweating buckets. Her hair was still in a ponytail, though. She was, on the whole, one of the least feminine women he'd ever met. He couldn't even begin to imagine her in a dress but somehow that made her all the more intriguing.

No, he was not going to be intrigued by her. Especially not with Jamal watching. “Ms. Johnson, this is Jamal—”

“Jamal Hitchens?”

Now it was Jamal's turn to take a step back and look at Casey with caution. “Yeah... You recognize me?” He shot a funny look over to Zeb, but he just shrugged.

He was learning what Zeb had already figured out. There was no way to predict what Casey Johnson would do or say.

“Of course I recognize you,” she gushed. “You played for the University of Georgia—you were in the running for the Heisman, weren't you? I mean, until you blew your knees out. Sorry about that,” she added, wincing.

Jamal was gaping down at her as if she'd peeled off her skin to reveal an alien in disguise. “You know who I am?”

“Ms. Johnson is a woman of many talents,” Zeb said, not even bothering to fight the grin. Jamal would've gone pro if it hadn't been for his knees. But it was rare that anyone remembered a distant runner-up for the Heisman who hadn't played ball in years. “I've learned it's best not to underestimate her. Ms. Johnson is my brewmaster.”

It was hard to get the drop on Jamal, but one small woman in a lab coat clearly had. “What are you doing here?” Casey sniffed the air. “God, that smells good.”

Honest to God, Jamal blushed. “Oh. Thank you.” He glanced nervously at Zeb.

“Jamal is my oldest friend,” Zeb explained. He almost added,
He's the closest thing I have to a brother
—but then he stopped himself. Even if it was true, the whole point of this endeavor with the Beaumont Brewery was to prove that he had a family whether they wanted him or not. “He is my right-hand man. One of his many talents is cooking. I asked him to prepare some of my favorites today to accompany our tasting.” He turned to Jamal, whose mouth was still flopped open in shock. “What did you bring?” Zeb prodded.

“What? Oh, right. The food.” It was so unusual to hear Jamal sound unsure of himself that Zeb had to stare. “It's a tasting menu,” he began, sounding embarrassed about it. It was rare that Jamal's past life in sports ever intersected with his current life. Actually, Zeb couldn't remember a time when someone who hadn't played football recognized him.

Jamal ran through the menu—in addition to the salt-crusted beef tenderloin, which had been paired with new potatoes, there was a spaghetti Bolognese, a vichyssoise soup and Jamal's famous fried chicken. Dessert was flourless chocolate cupcakes dusted with powdered sugar—Zeb's favorite.

Casey surveyed the feast before her, and Zeb got the feeling that she didn't approve. He couldn't say why he thought that, because she was perfectly polite to Jamal at all times. In fact, when he tried to leave, she insisted on getting a picture with him so she could send it to her father—apparently, her father was a huge sports fan and would also know who Jamal was.

So Zeb took the photo for her and then Jamal hurried away, somewhere between flattered and uncomfortable.

And then Zeb and Casey were alone.

She didn't move. “So Jamal Hitchens is an old friend of yours?”

“Yes.”

“And he's your...personal chef?”

Zeb settled into his seat at the head of the conference table. “Among other things, yes.” He didn't offer up any other information.

“You don't really strike me as a sports guy,” she replied.

“Come, now, Ms. Johnson. Surely you've researched me by now?”

Her cheeks colored again. He liked that delicate blush on her. He shouldn't, but he did. “I don't remember reading about you owning a sports franchise.”

Zeb lifted one shoulder. “Who knows. Maybe I'll buy a team and make Jamal the general manager. After all, what goes together better than sports and beer?”

She was still standing near the door, as if he were an alligator that looked hungry. Finally, she asked, “Have you decided, then?”

“About what?”

He saw her swallow, but it was the only betrayal of her nerves. Well, that and the fact that she wasn't smart-mouthing him. Actually, that she wasn't saying whatever came to mind was unusual.

“About what kind of Beaumont you're going to be.”

He involuntarily tensed and then let out a breath slowly. Like his father or his brother? He had no idea.

He wanted to ask what she knew—was it the same as the public image of the company? Or was there something else he didn't know? Maybe his father had secretly been the kindest man on earth. Or maybe Chadwick was just as bad as Hardwick had been. He didn't know.

What he did know was that the last time he'd seen her, he'd had the urge to kiss her. It'd been nerves, he'd decided. He'd been concerned about the press conference and Casey Johnson was the closest thing to a friendly face here—when she wasn't scowling at him. That was all that passing desire had been. Reassurance. Comfort.

He didn't feel comfortable now.

“I'm going to be a different kind of Beaumont,” he said confidently because it was the only true thing he
could
say. “I'm my own man.”

She thought this over. “And what kind of man is that?”

She had guts, he had to admit. Anyone else might have nodded and smiled and said,
Of course
. But not her. “The kind with strong opinions about beer.”

“Fair enough.” She headed for the bar.

Zeb watched her as she pulled on the tap with a smooth, practiced hand. He needed to stop being surprised at her competency. She was the brewmaster. Of course she knew how to pour beer. Tapping the keg was probably second nature to her. And there wasn't a doubt in his mind that she could also destroy him in a sports trivia contest.

But this was different from watching a bartender fill a pint glass. Watching her hands on the taps was far more interesting than it'd ever been before. She had long fingers and they wrapped around each handle with a firm, sure grip.