Not the Boss's Baby

Author:Sarah M. Anderson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-07-31T14:00:00+00:00

Nine

Chadwick had never really believed the old cliché about being so mad one saw red. Turns out, he’d just never been mad enough, because right now, the world was drenched in red-hot anger.

“How could he?” he heard himself mutter. “How could he just buy a horse for that much money without even thinking about the consequences?”

“Because,” a soft, feminine voice said next to him, “he’s not you.”

The voice calmed him down, and some of the color bled back into the world. He realized Serena was standing next to him. They were in a nearly empty side gallery, in front of one of the Remington sculptures that made the backbreaking work of herding cattle look glorious.

She was right. Hardwick had never expected anything from Phillip. Never even noticed him, unless he did something outrageous.

Like buy a horse no one had ever heard of for seven million damn dollars.

“Remind me again why I work myself to death so that he can blow the family fortune on horses and women? So Frances can sink money into another venture that’s bound to fail before it gets off the ground? Is that all I’m good for? A never-ending supply of cash?”

Delicate fingers laced through his, holding him tightly. “Maybe,” Serena said, her voice gentle, “you don’t have to work yourself to death at all.”

He turned to her. She was staring at the statue as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

Phillip had done whatever the hell he wanted since he was a kid. It hadn’t mattered what his grades were, who his friends were, how many sports cars he had wrecked. Hardwick just hadn’t cared. He’d been too focused on Chadwick.

“I...” He swallowed. “I don’t know how else to run this company.” The admission was even harder than what he’d shared over dinner. “This is what I was raised to do.”

She tilted her head to one side, really studying the bronze. “Your father died while working, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Hardwick had keeled over at a board meeting, dead from the heart attack long before the ambulance had gotten there. Which was better, Chadwick had always figured, than him dying in the arms of a mistress.

She tilted her head in the other direction, not looking at him but still holding his hand. “I rather like you alive.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, like she really had to think about it. But then her thumb moved against the palm of his hand. “I do.”

Any remaining anger faded out of his vision as the room—the woman in it—came into sharp focus.

“You told me a few days ago,” she went on, her voice quiet in the gallery, “that you wanted to do something for yourself. Not for the family, not for the company. Then you spent God only knows how much on everything I’m wearing.” He saw the corner of her mouth curve up into a sly smile. “Except for a few zeros, this isn’t so different, is it?”

“I don’t need to spend money to be happy like he does.

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