Her gaze found Jager’s, searching for answers. The air sparked between them, making her realize how close she was standing to her boss. She was painfully aware of how handsome he was in a pair of khakis and a long-sleeved dark tee that showed off his toned body. She caught a hint of his aftershave: pine and musk. Her heartbeat quickened before she stepped back fast.
“Not going to happen, Cam.” Jager spoke softly, but there was an edge to his voice she couldn’t recall hearing before. Clearly, he knew the man. “You can tell your grandfather that your father made the best possible decision when he walked out on my mother. We’re better off without him.”
Delia backed up another step, processing. The men looked so much alike. The man at the gate wanted Jager and his brothers to join the fold and said his grandfather knew about them now.
The man was Jager’s brother. Just not the brother that Delia had assumed he was. This was a relation she’d never known about—a half brother.
“We have a lead on Damon,” the visitor countered in a more guarded tone. “My brother Ian knows an excellent private investigator—”
“Damon is not your concern,” Jager told him shortly, still studying Delia with that watchful gaze. “Goodbye.”
He lowered the phone and pressed the button to end the connection and shut down the security app. Sudden silence echoed in Jager’s office.
“You have more family than just Damon and Gabriel,” she observed, feeling shaken from the encounter. From the whole day that had left her exposed in more ways than one.
It seemed as if Jager had whole facets of his life that she knew nothing about. If he didn’t trust her with that information, how well did she even know him? Her former fiancé had left her more than a little wary of men who kept secrets.
“My father was a sporadic part of my childhood at best, and I haven’t seen him once since my thirteenth birthday.” Jager set her phone on the sofa table next to a platter of food covered with a silver dome.
She’d forgotten about the dinner, but the spices of island cooking—French Creole dishes that were Jager’s favorite—scented the air.
“He had other children?” She felt she was owed an answer because of their friendship but she also needed to know about this to do her job. “This can have an impact on all your businesses. You’ll want to protect yourself from outside legal claims.”
“And so we will.” His lips twisted in a wry expression. “But the Manhattan branch of the McNeill family is far wealthier than we can imagine thanks to their global resort empire, so they certainly don’t need to alienate their own relatives by forcing their way into our businesses.” He gestured to the sofa. “Please sit. We should eat before the meal is cold.”
“McNeill Resorts? Oh, wow.” The name was as familiar as Hilton. Ritz-Carlton. It was too much to process. She sank down onto the soft twill chair cushion.
Jager took the opportunity to lift the domes from the serving platters and pass her a plate and silverware. The scent of accras, the delectable fritters the McNeills’ chef made so well, tempted her, rousing an appetite after all.
“Yes. Wow.” His tone was biting. “I believe my half brothers expected Gabe and me to swoon when they informed us we were now welcome into the family.” He dished out a sampling of the gourmet offerings onto her plate—spiced chatrou, the small octopus that was a local delicacy, plus some grilled chicken in an aromatic coconut sauce.
His arm brushed hers. The intimacy of this private meal reminded her she needed to be careful around him. She needed this job desperately. Her father relied on her and good opportunities were difficult to come by locally for a woman with no college degree. She couldn’t afford to leave the island to find more options. Balancing her plate carefully, she shifted deeper against the seat cushion to try to insert some space between her and her tempting dining companion.
“Damon doesn’t know about them?” she asked, trying to focus her scattered thoughts on his last comment.
“Only in a peripheral way. We were aware of their existence for years, but they didn’t contact us until recently.” Jager filled his plate as well. “Cameron McNeill and his brother Ian flew out to Los Altos Hills last month to introduce themselves and make it clear their grandfather wants to unite the whole family. Including the bastard Martinique branch.”
Delia took her time responding, biting into the tender chicken and taking a sip from the water glass Jager passed her. She knew that he had no love for his father after the man disappeared from their lives—refusing to leave his wife for Jager’s mother—when Gabe, the youngest son, was just ten years old. Their father had only visited the boys a few times a year before that, making it impossible to build a relationship. They’d lived in California back then. But after the father quit coming to visit, their mother sold the house and used the proceeds to buy an old plantation home in Martinique, purposely making it difficult for the boys’ father to find them even if he’d wanted to. As far as Jager was concerned, however, his father had abandoned their family long before that time.
Jager had shared all that with Delia in the past, but the latest developments were news to her.
“It’s the right thing for your grandfather to do,” she said finally. “You, Damon and Gabe have as much claim to the McNeill empire as your father’s legitimate sons.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.” Jager scowled down at his plate.
“The business belongs to your grandfather.” She knew the rudimentary facts about the hotel giant. They owned enough properties throughout the Caribbean to warrant regular coverage in regional news publications. “Malcolm McNeill gets to choose how he wants to divide his legacy.” She waited a moment, and when he didn’t argue, she continued, “Have you met him?”
“Absolutely not. That’s what they want—for me to get on a plane and go to New York to meet the old man.” He speared a piece of white fish with his fork. “They claim Malcolm McNeill is in declining health, but if it’s true, they’re keeping a tight lock on the news since I haven’t seen a whisper of it in the business pages.”
Her jaw dropped. How could he be so stubborn?
“Jager, what if something happened to him and you never got to meet him?” She only had her father for family, so she couldn’t imagine what it might be like to have more siblings and family who wanted to be a part of her life. “They’re family.”
“By blood, maybe. But not by any definition that matters in my book.” Reaching for a bottle of chilled Viognier the server had left for them, Jager poured two glasses, passing her one before taking a sip of his own.
“And does Gabe feel the same way?” She had a hard time imagining the youngest McNeill digging his heels in so completely. Whereas Jager resolutely watched over his siblings like a de facto father, Gabe went his own way more often than not. He’d only invested in Transparent—Damon’s tech company—after considerable urging from his siblings. Gabe preferred to stick close to the hotel he owned on Martinique and was renovating the place by hand.
His older brothers had scoffed at the manual labor, but Delia noticed that Gabe was having a hard time finishing the hotel work because his craftsmanship skills had developed a following, making him in demand for other restoration projects around the Caribbean, all the way to Miami.
“Gabe is outvoted by Damon and me.” He took two more bites before he noticed she hadn’t responded. When he turned toward her, she glared at him.
“Meaning he disagrees?” she asked.
“Meaning Damon would feel the same way I do, so if Gabe chooses to disagree, he’s still outnumbered.”
Delia set her plate aside on the rattan chest, then put her wineglass beside it.
“Damon might have a very different opinion about family after losing someone,” she observed quietly.