“Because I want to keep this under the radar for now. I don’t want any red flags raised. My father won’t be pleased once he learns what I’m doing. About a year ago, my sister Rachel discovered that our father—the man we’ve always known as Gerald Robinson—was actually named Jerome Fortune. At first, he denied it outright. Now, he just refuses to explain what it all means. Why...when...he changed his name. His entire identity.” His face was grim. “According to the records, Jerome Fortune died in a boating accident. God only knows what else my father’s lied about over the years.”
“Like having another family?”
“Or two or five. Maybe he’s been a regular Johnny Appleseed, spreading his seed all over the world.”
She thought about the slight, ninety-year-old hostess of the party the other night. “And Kate Fortune knows him?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But there was a boatload of legitimate Fortune family members there that night. We should have been part of that.”
She couldn’t hide her confusion. “Because of that offer she made? About choosing someone to run part of Fortune Cosmetics?”
“I don’t give a damn about Fortune Cosmetics,” he said flatly. “I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need. I care about the truth. Whatever the reason he put behind the name change, my father is still a Fortune. That makes all of us Fortunes, too. And if there are other sons and daughters of his, I’m damn sure going to find out.”
She looked around the posh study. From the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with what were probably rare first editions, to the million-dollar view out the terraced window. “If you do find any, aren’t you worried about them wanting a piece of all this? What if they make a claim on your inheritance? On the Robinson name?”
His eyes darkened for a moment. “That’s why I want to approach this from a different angle. I don’t want to attract the liars and cheats who’ll be the first in line if word about what I’m doing gets out. I’m not in the mood to deal with gold diggers. Not again. But everyone has a right to know his or her roots. Don’t you agree?”
She nodded slowly, uncomfortably curious about the gold diggers with whom he’d already dealt. “I do agree, but I’m not sure how I’m qualified to help you in your search.”
“You’re intelligent. You’re quick on your feet. You’re discreet, and there’s something about you that makes people want to confide in you. Look how I just did.”
She let out a nervous, breathless laugh. “You got all that out of teaching me to mix a Manhattan?”
“I’ve done some research, too, Ella Thomas.” He clasped his hands on top of his desk and leaned forward. “You’re at the top of your class. You’ve never turned down an assignment from Spare Parts.”
“Because I can’t afford to.”
“You were the only one in the room the other night who wasn’t listening agog to every single word that Kate Fortune and I exchanged. And I want you.”
Before she could get dizzy over that, she reminded herself sternly that he was only referring to hiring her for this unusual quest of his.
“You’re putting yourself through college, right?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Then help me track down my family, and I’ll make sure you have enough money to pay not only for the rest of your education, but pay off the student loans you already have, as well.”
Ella’s eyes went wide as she stared back at Ben and he could already taste success.
“I’m not a charity case.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he said truthfully.
“If my detective skills turn out to be as bad as my bartending skills, you can fire me.”
“Your bartending skills were fine.”
“And I reserve the right to quit, too, if...um...I decide the job doesn’t suit.”
“Why wouldn’t it suit?”
Her dark lashes fell and her auburn head dipped a little. She had her hair in a ponytail again. And even though there was nothing particularly attractive about the loosely fitted white shirt she wore tucked into a plain blue skirt, he had to remind himself again that she was off-limits. He’d put her there, square and fair, by the very act of employing her, even if it was through a temporary agency.
Ben never mixed business with pleasure. Ever. Especially with someone as young and seemingly wholesome as Ella Thomas. She was white picket fences and babies and happily-ever-afters. And he was anything but.
His mood effectively darkened, he pushed out of his chair again and paced across to the window. He didn’t see the view. In his head, he was picturing Henry. The two-year-old boy who, for the better part of the past year, Ben had let himself believe he’d fathered. Finding out that he hadn’t during the same time he’d learned his father wasn’t who he said he was had been sour icing on a bitter cake.
He pinched the bridge of his nose until Henry’s image in his mind faded. “Do we have an agreement or not, Ella?” He turned on his heel to face her.
“I guess you’re not interested in reviewing my résumé.” She sat forward and retrieved the sheet of ivory paper she’d set on his desk.
He doubted there was anything on it that he hadn’t already discovered for himself. He shook his head.
“And if I decline your generous offer?”
“Then I’ll figure something else out.” He wouldn’t want another prospect from Spare Parts, at any rate. His only interest in the temporary agency was the fact that Ella worked for them.
She pulled a manila folder out of her purse and tucked the résumé neatly inside it. Then she stood and seemed to brace herself before she approached him, her hand outstretched. “We have an agreement.”
He’d just as soon not touch her, because even though he’d put her out of his reach, he’d still spent too much time over the past few days thinking about touching her all over. But he shook her hand briefly. “You’ll work here,” he said. “Ordinarily, I’m not here during the day, so that—” he gestured at his desk and the computer there “—will be all yours. You can park under—”
“Mrs. Stone told me,” she interrupted quickly. “I don’t have a car.”
“I’ll arrange one for you.”
She looked pained. “I’m fine with the bus. And on nice days, I like to ride my bike, anyway.”
He wanted to pinch his nose again, because he didn’t want to be having lascivious thoughts about college girls who rode bicycles. Instead, he headed toward the stairs. He’d been prepared to have her start immediately, but he obviously needed another night to get his head on straight. “Suit yourself. You can have weekends off. I’ve already put together my notes and a list of women with whom my father might have been involved.” A task that had almost been enough to keep him occupied once he’d learned the truth about Henry. “You can start on that tomorrow, if you’re ready.”
“Okay.” Her footsteps sounded light on the stairs behind him.
“It’s a long list,” he added grimly.
Her steps slowed. “I’m sorry.”
He’d reached the second floor, where the kitchen and formal dining