Fortune's Secret Heir Page 3

  Kate lifted a brow. “For most of my life, people have been trying to get a piece of my wealth by fair means or foul.”

  His jaw tightened. “Gerald Robinson. Robinson Computers. Robinson Tech. Names mean anything to you?”

  She gave him an impatient look. “Everyone in the free world has heard of them. What’s that to do with—”

  “I’m Ben Robinson. I’m COO of Robinson Tech and Gerald Robinson is my father. And he is Jerome Fortune.”

  “Jerome died in a boating accident.”

  “And I’m telling you he didn’t. After leaving the Fortune family—” or getting kicked out, which Ben considered likely, knowing Gerald the way he did “—my father obviously reinvented himself. Rather well,” he added ironically. “Gerald Robinson is a creative visionary who went on to make his own fortune. No pun intended. What possible reason would we have for lying about anything to you?”

  “If it isn’t money, then what do you want?”

  Henry.

  The name flashed through his mind like quicksilver, too smooth and too rapid to stop.

  “Respect. Acknowledgment.” His lips twisted.

  “If what you say is...accurate—”

  Her hesitation made Ben wonder what word she’d originally thought to use. True?

  “—then why doesn’t your father contact me directly? A man of his standing? He certainly could have done so without need of a simple party invitation.”

  “There was nothing simple about your party invitation.”

  She inclined her head a few inches, ceding the point. “Why wait all this time to reach out? If he’s really Jerome Fortune, why leave his family to grieve his death in the first place?” She folded her arms, giving him a chilly, expectant smile.

  If he’d had an answer for her, he’d have given it.

  But the truth was, he’d only recently learned that “Gerald Robinson” had never really existed. Not since his little sister, Rachel, confronted Gerald with her discovery of his true identity. And for reasons known only to their father, he was insistent on leaving the past buried.

  Ben was sick to death of people lying to him, and in this one thing, he would get the truth out. Even if he had to drag the Robinsons into the light kicking and screaming.

  “You and I actually do have something in common,” he finally said to Kate instead of answering. “We believe in family.”

  She pursed her lips, studying him. “I’m not going to say I believe you. But I’m curious enough to want to meet your father for myself.”

  “I can arrange that.” His father would have a fit, but Ben would handle it. He’d lie, if he had to, to get Gerald to the meeting.

  And that thought just showed again how like his old man he really was.

  “Come to the Robinson estate next week.” He realized he sounded as autocratic as her. “After your events this weekend have concluded, of course.”

  Her arms were still crossed and she tapped one finger against her silver sleeve. Then she finally inclined her head. “Make the arrangements. I won’t tell you how to get the information to me. Clearly you already know how to reach me.” She opened the door beside them and cool night air rushed in. “Now, I’ll just say good-night, Mr. Robinson. Because, as you know, I have guests waiting.”

  Summarily dismissing him, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  Ben figured it was only a matter of time before the security guards came to check that he’d exited. But having gotten what he’d come for, he had no reason to stay.

  He went out the door and it closed automatically behind him. When he tested it out of curiosity, it was locked.

  “Crazy old bat,” he muttered under his breath.

  But he didn’t really believe it.

  Kate Fortune was many things. Of that he was certain.

  But crazy wasn’t one of them.

  He looked around, getting his bearings before setting off to his left. It was dark, only a few lights situated here and there to show off some landscape feature. But he soon made his way around the side of the enormous house and to the front, which was not just well lit, but magnificently so. He stopped at the valet and handed over his ticket to a skinny kid in black shirt and trousers.

  He tried to imagine Ella dashing off the way this kid was to retrieve his car, parked somewhere on the vast property. He couldn’t quite picture it.

  But in his head, he could picture her quite clearly.

  Not the red hair. That just reminded him of Stephanie. But the faint gap in her toothy smile and the clear light shining from her pretty eyes.

  That was all Ella.

  A moment later, when the valet returned with his Porsche, Ben got in and drove away.

  * * *

  Ella Thomas checked the address she’d been given by the temp agency against the small black address printed on the side of the tall building. She hadn’t made a mistake.

  She moistened her lips and stepped back a few paces on the sidewalk to look up again at the narrow, four-story building sandwiched between one of Austin’s newer skyscrapers and a decades-old deli. Aside from the doorbell next to the paneled door and a pair of chairs she could see on the narrow, second-floor balcony, there was nothing about the building’s exterior to indicate it was a home. The door was a solid slab of dark gray and there were two oversized, frosted windows, through which she could see nothing.

  Rosa at the agency had told Ella the personal-assistant job was for a well-to-do, reclusive client. And if things worked out, it could translate into a long-term position.

  And that would definitely suit Ella.

  Working for the temp agency provided a lot of variety to Ella’s days—she’d done everything from dog-walking to bookkeeping—but a more predictable stream of income would definitely be welcome. When she’d first started with the temp agency four years ago, she’d needed the flexibility in her schedule to help her mother care for her brother. But Rory had been doing so well over the past few years that her mother had been able to go back to work full-time. Elaine kept telling Ella it was time to focus more on herself and her goals. Finish her degree. Get a steadier job.

  A steady job wouldn’t have put you in the same room as Ben Robinson.

  She shook off the silly thought and swiped her damp palms down the sides of her navy blue skirt. She’d paired it with her usual white blouse, but had left the blazer that matched it at home. She figured an interview for a personal assistant didn’t necessitate the whole aspiring-accountant ensemble.

  Straightening her shoulders, she stepped across the sidewalk and pushed her finger against the buzzer next to the door. The only thing she could hear was the traffic on the busy street behind her. She could only assume that the doorbell was working. At least she hoped.

  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been sent out for a job such as this that didn’t pan out past the interview stage.

  But a moment later, the door swung open to reveal a dour-faced woman with gray hair.

  Ella smiled brightly. “I’m Ella Thomas. I was sent by Spare Parts Temporary Agency.”

  The woman stepped back, opening the door wider. “You’re late.”

  Dismayed, Ella quickly glanced at her watch that told her she was right on time. But she didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot, either. “I’m so sorry. My watch must have stopped,” she lied, considering the second hand was ticking right along as usual.

  “The Mister likes people to be prompt.”

  The client was a man? “I agree wholeheartedly.” The woman had turned and Ella could either stand in the doorway or follow.

  She followed, quickly closing the door behind her. The second she did, all sounds of the traffic outside disappeared.

  “He’s waiting for you in his study.”

  Trying not to gap
e at her surroundings, Ella followed the woman out of a foyer that was bigger than Ella’s bedroom and around a slanted wall of smoky glass that would have obscured the luxurious living area on the other side from outside view, even if the frosted windows hadn’t. She didn’t know where to look first. At the amazing collection of art hanging on the roughly textured ivory walls, the stylishly modern furnishings, or the metal staircase hugging one wall that the woman had begun ascending. To Ella, it looked like the stairs were suspended in midair.

  Failing miserably on the gaping score, she quickened her step and was glad to realize that while it appeared the steps had no banister, there was one of nearly invisible glass.

  “Mister has parking below the building. If you have a car, he’ll give you the code to enter.” The woman—Ella had no clue if she was a housekeeper or even “Mister’s” wife—had reached the top of the stairs and paused long enough for Ella to catch up, before walking past a dining room table that sat ten and heading up another staircase. It was a twin to the first one directly below it; only this time, there were solid walls on both sides.

  “I don’t have a car,” Ella admitted. “I got here by the bus.”

  The woman gave her a deadpan stare over her shoulder. “No doubt the reason you are late.”

  Ella’s smile slipped a hair, though she managed to keep it in place. “I’ll take an earlier bus next time.” If there was a next time. Despite the woman’s apparent assumption that Ella would get the job, she wasn’t going to count her chickens just yet.

  Seeming satisfied, though, the other woman nodded her gray head and continued up the stairs. At the top, she turned to her left and gestured toward an opened doorway Ella could see at the far end of the floor. This floor was more casual, but no less luxuriously appointed than the main floor. There was still an eye-popping collection of paintings hanging on the walls—everything from landscapes and seascapes to still life—but the leather furniture looked more comfortable and lived-in.

  “Mister’s study?”

  The woman nodded and immediately began descending the stairs once more.

  Feeling a fresh surge of nervousness, Ella moistened her lips and crossed the thick area rug that covered a good portion of the gleaming wood floor. She stopped in the wide doorway, prepared to knock on the thick doorjamb.

  But there was no need.

  “Mister” had already spotted her.

  “Come on in, Ella,” Ben Robinson greeted from behind the desk situated opposite the doorway.

  “You!” Had she thought about him so often over the past three days—since that party—that she’d imagined him now?

  “Yes, me.” He lifted a hand, indicating the leather barrel chair in front of the massive desk. “Have a seat.”

  The strap of her purse slipped off her shoulder and she grabbed her bag before it fell...and was reminded of the copy of her résumé she’d brought.

  Shaking off her sense of surrealism, she entered the study, awkwardly pulling the sheet out of the protective folder she’d crammed inside her purse. The only items on top of his desk were a computer monitor and a small lamp. She set the résumé between them, then twisted her purse strap between her fists and sat in the chair.

  He didn’t so much as glance at the paper. Instead, he continued watching her with the same blue-eyed intensity that had so unnerved her at the party three nights ago.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said for lack of anything better.

  He had an ancient-looking clock hanging on the wall behind him. It reflected the same time as her watch. “You’re not late.”

  “The woman who let me in—” definitely not his wife “—said I was late.”

  “Mrs. Stone.”

  Appropriate, Ella thought.

  “My housekeeper. She thinks everyone is late unless they arrive fifteen minutes early.”

  He was still watching her steadily and she had to work hard not to squirm. Instead, she crossed her ankles demurely and twisted the purse strap even tighter. “That explains it, then,” she murmured, feeling inane. “I, um, I suppose I’m the last person you expected to see from Spare Parts.”

  “I specifically asked for you.”

  She moved her lips, but nothing came out at first. She cleared her throat. “Well...here I am.” Warmth started climbing up her throat.

  His lips twitched a little. “Yes. Here you are.”

  She shifted, angling her ankles to the opposite side of the chair. “We barely said two words the other night. Why would you ask for me?”

  “More than two words, I think.” He turned his chair to one side, but angled his dark head, keeping his gaze on hers. “You told me you’d done all sorts of things for your temp agency. And I need someone who can do all sorts of things.”

  Ben Robinson was an intensely handsome man. She couldn’t be held responsible if her mind sort of short-circuited a little bit at that, could she?

  She swallowed hard. “Like what?” She made herself envision walking his dog—if he had one—or picking up his dry cleaning. Simple, prosaic tasks, that even six-foot-plus men with wavy black-brown hair and laser-blue eyes needed.

  “Being discreet, for starters.”

  Her mouth went dry all over again. “About?”

  “About what I want you to do for me.”

  She realized her fingertips were turning blue from the tourniquet her purse strap had become around her hand. “I think maybe you need to be more specific,” she said faintly.

  “What do you know about Kate Fortune?”

  “That she had to have dropped a fortune on that party the other night.” She surreptitiously unwound the purse strap and flexed her stiff fingers. “Why?”

  He turned his chair to face forward again. “You were there. You heard.”

  “I heard you say you were Benjamin Fortune.”

  “And?”

  And when she’d gotten home that night, she’d looked up both Ben Robinson and Benjamin Fortune online.

  She’d gotten a computer screen full of images of handsome Ben Robinson, either from the cover of some tech magazine or another, or from the gossip pages, of him escorting one beautiful woman after another to some fancy event. “And nothing.” Just because she’d wasted precious time fantasizing over those photographs when she should have been studying didn’t mean he had to know. “Benjamin Fortune was Kate Fortune’s husband and he died a long time ago.” The here-and-now Ben was clearly waiting for more, and she lifted a shoulder. “And I assume you’re related in some way,” she offered.

  His lips twisted, this time without amusement. “Yes. In some way, I and my seven siblings are.”

  “Seven!” She couldn’t help exclaiming a bit over that and quickly shook her head in apology. “Sorry.”

  “We are a large family,” he admitted. “And, I believe, we are just the tip of the Fortune iceberg.”

  She shifted again. “Mr. Robinson, I—”

  “That’s as bad as ‘sir.’ Ben.”

  She hesitated.

  “If I’m paying your salary, I can tell you to check the ‘Mister’ at the door with Mrs. Stone.”

  “And what on earth would I do to earn that salary?” She sounded as bewildered as she felt. “Mr....Ben.” His name felt oddly exciting on her lips. “I can’t imagine you’d go to a temporary agency like Spare Parts to hire an assistant when you have an entire human resources department at Robinson Computers at your disposal.”

  “Robinson Tech, now.”

  “Right,” she said faintly. The renaming of the company during the past year had seemed to be a major media event. Television commercials. Radio spots. Magazine ads. There had even been signs on the side of the city buses.

  “And I’m looking for a personal assistant.”

  “Whatever. I’m sure there’s a lin
e a block long of eager minds willing to pick up your dry cleaning just so they can say they work for a genius like you.”

  “My father’s the genius.” He rose from his chair, suddenly looking restless as he paced across the room to the tall window that overlooked the high-rises across the river. He peeled off the jacket of his charcoal suit and dropped it carelessly over the back of one of the four chairs that circled a small table.

  The white shirt he wore beneath fit his broad shoulders like it had been made for him.

  She dragged her eyes away, mentally rolling her eyes at herself. Well, duh. He undoubtedly had his shirts tailor-made.

  “I’ve also come to learn that my father has been less than honest with us.” He clasped his hand behind his neck, which pulled the fine white fabric taut against his long, tapered back.

  Safe in the knowledge that he was facing out the window and away from her, she puffed her cheeks and blew out a silent breath. The intense man gave the word gorgeous new meaning.

  “Not only has he kept the fact that he’s a Fortune a secret, but I believe he’s kept the results of his past indiscretions a secret, too.”

  He turned suddenly and she schooled her expression into what she hoped was polite interest.

  “That’s where you come in.” He prowled—there just was no other word for the way he moved—back to his desk, but he didn’t take the chair. Instead, he hitched his thigh over the front corner of the desk and leaned over his folded arms toward her. “If you’re willing, I want you to help me find them.”

  Dear heaven, he smelled amazing, too. “Find who?”

  “Any illegitimate brothers and sisters I might have out there. Half brothers and half sisters, I suppose I should say. Products of my father’s frequent and irredeemable infidelities.”

  His words were finally penetrating the fog caused by his sheer masculinity, and she sat up a little straighter. “I don’t understand what you think I can do,” she said. “I’ve done all sorts of things, Mr. Robinson, but I’m hardly equipped to find... I don’t know. Missing persons.”