Читать книгу Taming The Tycoon - Kathryn Taylor, Kathryn Taylor - Страница 8

One

“What do you mean, I have a sister?” Ian Bradford came to his feet and leveled a stony glare at the middle-aged attorney seated behind the mahogany desk. “There has to be a mistake.”

Richard Jenkins had been the family lawyer for more years than Ian could remember. His dealings with the man had been more cordial and more frequent than his dealings with his father.

“There’s no mistake, Ian Here’s a copy of the birth certificate.”

He grabbed the official document with the raised seal. His father’s heart attack hadn’t been as big of a shock as this latest revelation. “Two years old?”

“Nearly three,” Jenkins mumbled.

“What the hell’s the difference? He was well into his sixties.”

Jenkins puffed up indignantly. “You don’t give up sex after forty.”

Ian let out a bitter laugh. “My old man sure didn’t.”

Wesley Bradford had been in the throes of a mid-life crisis for the past thirty years, but he had always prided himself on the fact that, after his divorce, no other woman had been able to land him.

“It says here that the mother was only twenty-five. Tiffany Moore. What kind of name is that? It sounds like a lamp.” Ian grunted in disgust. “Twenty-five? Well, he did like them young.”

“Your father had a lot of charisma.”

“My father had a lot of money. That was the extent of his charm. Take it from someone who knew him better than most.”

Ian glanced at the document again. If his father had been so proud of his daughter, why had he not allowed her to bear his name? A woman could claim any man as the father on a birth certificate. Especially when a share in a successful company was involved. This unknown child and her scheming mother deserved no part of that company.

“We’ll see about this,” Ian snarled. “You better believe I’ll demand a blood test.”

Jenkins shook his head. “Don’t you think Wesley insisted on that before he agreed to pay child support? The results are in the file.”

“And the child’s mother? Where is she living now?”

“She died six months ago in a car accident. Your sister lives with her aunt in some small town in upstate New York.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Call her what you want. Chelsea Moore is Wesley’s daughter, and according to the terms of the will she owns half of Westervelt Properties.”

Ian groaned. His father had picked a cruel way to acknowledge his paternal obligations to both his offspring. Why didn’t he leave his bastard his money? Ian neither wanted nor needed that. He was glad now that his grandfather hadn’t come with him today. The bequests would only rub salt in an old wound. No doubt, Wesley couldn’t resist one more twist of the knife, even from the grave.

Ian had waited twenty years to fulfill the promise he had made when he was little more than a child. No one would take this from him now. No one.

“If I contest the will?”

“You don’t have grounds.” Jenkins furrowed his eyebrows in consternation, then broke out in a sly grin. “You could sue for the administrative rights of your sister’s inheritance. A judge might look more favorably on a sibling bond than that of an unmarried aunt. Especially when you’re more familiar with the company.”

“Do it.”

“Whoa, Ian. That’s not my field. I’ll have to work with someone on this one.”

“Fine. Have your secretary draw up the necessary papers for me to sign today.” Ian leaned back, allowing himself to relax for the first time since reading his father’s will. “What do you know about this aunt?”

“She’ll be here in a half an hour. You can judge for yourself. I wanted to meet with you first because I know your feelings about your father’s company.”

“My grandfather’s company,” Ian corrected.

“Wesley bought—”

Ian’s fist came down on the table. “He swindled it.”

Absently, Jenkins fidgeted with his tie. He could defend his client until hell froze over, but both he and Ian knew the truth.

While Ian’s mother recuperated from cancer surgery in a hospital, Wesley had used the power of attorney rights she’d granted him to transfer her shares of Westervelt Properties to himself. Adding them to his own shares, he controlled fifty-one percent of the company, which he’d used to force Ian’s grandfather out as president.

Jenkins drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Why don’t you meet with the woman and see if you can come to some sort of terms before beginning a legal battle that could drag on for a couple of years?”

“What good would that do?”

“The way it stands now, the child’s shares are to be held in a trust to be administered by her guardian. Maybe she’ll find it a lesser risk to sell the shares and hold the trust in cash.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

The lawyer shook his head sorrowfully. “Then control that Bradford temper of yours. I know that Wesley never treated you or your mother fairly...”

He waved his hand to cut Jenkins off. Ian wouldn’t accept sympathy from a man who had helped his father cheat his grandparents out of their family business. “Spare me the sermon. Give me what you’ve got on the aunt. I like to know what I’m up against before I go into a meeting.”

Ian thumbed through the folder of his father’s personal papers. The compilation of material Wesley had gathered about his former mistress and her mother was a testament to his devious and distrustful nature. Not that he’d been completely wrong. Both women had attached themselves to wealthy older men. Unfortunately for Ian, his father apparently had seen no need to have the sister investigated, as well.

Shannon Moore checked the address on the envelope. Richard Jenkins, Esquire. Suite 218. She wasn’t sure why she had come. Certainly the lawyer could have forwarded a copy of the will. After all, Wesley Bradford had never acknowledged his daughter while he was alive. And he had been more than willing to terminate child support payments after Tiffany’s untimely death. Although the decision to refuse the money had been Shannon’s, if the man had cared a wit, he would have put up a fight for his child.

After smoothing her linen skirt over her hips, she opened the outer door and stepped inside the plush offices.

A receptionist glanced up from her desk. “Miss Moore?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Jenkins is expecting you.” She lifted the phone and announced Shannon’s arrival. “First door on the right.”

Shannon nodded and walked down the corridor. A man met her in the hall and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Moore. I’m Richard Jenkins.”

She smiled and allowed him to guide her into the conference room.

Inside, a second man rose from his seat at the table and nodded in her direction. “Miss Moore.”

His silk suit and gold watch spoke of wealth, but the calloused hand he offered told of a man who had earned his money with hard work. He eased back into the leather chair and raised his lips in an arrogant grin. Ice blue eyes appraised her, unsettling her in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Blatantly sexual with a hint of danger, he was everything she avoided in a man.

“This is Ian Bradford,” Jenkins said, sounding as uncomfortable as she felt.

So, he was Wesley Bradford’s son. In appearance, the two looked nothing alike, but she would guess he had inherited his father’s ruthless streak. If she had known she was walking into an ambush, she would have come prepared.

She tipped her head in his direction. “Mr. Bradford. I’m sorry about your father.”

He answered with a curt nod and a stone-cold glare.

Mr. Jenkins pointed to a chair. “Have a seat and we can get started.”

She slid into the chair. “Should I have brought my attorney with me?”

Ian leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. Well-defined muscles tested the stitching of his designer suit. “Is there a reason you think you need one?”

Shannon met his unwavering gaze and refused to back down. She was long past the days of allowing herself to be intimidated by any man. If her thirty-two years of life had taught her anything, it was that most men knew how to exploit weakness to their advantage. “I’m not sure yet. You two arranged this little meeting. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I assure you there is nothing out of order going on here,” Jenkins interjected, as if trying to ease the tension.

Ian raked a hand though his silky brown hair. “I do believe Ms. Moore is suspicious of us. Why is that?”

“Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment until I hear what you have to say.”

Jenkins pushed a large folder across the table. “I have highlighted the portion of the will that pertains to your ward, Chelsea Moore. If you’ll just skip to page six...”

“Oh, let her read all of it, Richard. We wouldn’t want her to miss any of the illustrious Bradford secrets.”

Shannon slipped on her glasses and began reading the rather lengthy document. She noted that Ian was not given a copy so she had to assume he had already read the will. She skimmed over the instructions for the funeral arrangements and picked up with the bequests. By page two, she understood why the will made Mr. Jenkins uneasy and Ian Bradford downright bitter.

Wesley Bradford had left every one of his former mistresses a cash endowment. Including her sister and the two even younger ladies that he had carried on with afterward, the count was eighteen women. Her assessment of the man from their one and only meeting had been correct. He had been a cold, unfeeling bastard.

Shannon raised her eyes to glance at Ian’s cynical smirk. Like father, like son. She shivered. “I think I’ll just take this home and read it later.”

“You’re here now. I’d prefer you stay. There is something I’d like to discuss with you.” Ian leaned forward in the chair, completely blocking her view of the attorney.

Jenkins rose and pulled nervously at the cuffs of his jacket. “I’ll go get us some coffee.”

Shannon nodded and scanned her eyes over the highlighted paragraph. She tried to keep her face expressionless as she read the part about Chelsea’s fifty percent interest in Westervelt Properties. Her niece probably wouldn’t have to worry about her college education. Unless the inheritance was what Ian Bradford wanted to discuss.

“I assume you plan to contest the will,” she said dryly.

“I can’t, as Mr. Jenkins will undoubtedly confirm when he returns. However, I’d be interested in purchasing the shares belonging to your ward.”

“My niece,” she countered angrily. “Who also happens to be your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister. My father, unfortunately, had a daughter,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Shannon thought of the solemn child who had come to live with her six months ago. Poor Chelsea didn’t have much of a family to look up to. Her mother had used her as a meal ticket. She would never know her father. Even Shannon, who did her best to provide a loving environment, had to admit she lacked maternal instincts. Add to that menagerie a brother who refused to acknowledge her and Chelsea didn’t have the makings of a happy life ahead.

Ian watched her, the rigid set of his jaw and his narrowed eyes barely concealing his irritation. He twisted his hands together in a gesture of impatience. “Well?”

“You want me to give you an answer right now?”

“You won’t get a better offer.”

“I’m not even sure what the company entails. You expect me to make a decision on Chelsea’s behalf, with absolutely no information and only your altruistic and unbiased promise that I’m being offered a fair deal? Do I appear to be stupid, Mr. Bradford?”

“Not at all, Ms. Moore. I’m sure you’re very smart.” His compliment sounded more like an accusation.

“Then don’t play me for a fool.”

“I was merely presenting you with the opportunity to hold the child’s inheritance in cash. After all, a lot of things can happen before she turns eighteen. Profitable companies have been known to fold for no apparent reason.”

Was he threatening her or only trying to frighten her into making an immediate decision? “How old are you, Mr. Bradford?”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Thirtythree. What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re a little old to be playing If-I-can’t-haveit-all-no-one-can.” She collected the papers from the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I have nothing more to say to you.”

Ian came to his feet at the same time as Shannon. “Well, I do.”

“Speak through your lawyer in the future. Your communication skills are lacking.”

“Meaning?”

“First of all, if you think you can scare me with your intimidation tactics, you’ve miscalculated.”

“And?” His insolent half grin sent a heated jolt of resentment surging through her. She fought a losing battle to maintain self-control.

“When you want something from someone, it’s advantageous to try being nice instead of insulting your victim.”

“Is that something you learned while growing up in the slums?”

Shannon drew in a deep breath. Obviously, he’d had her background investigated. Did he think that because her family had spent a couple of years financially strapped while her mother went back to school, she would jump at any offer of money? The inheritance didn’t even belong to her.

“This is getting us nowhere. Let me know when you’ve got something worthwhile to say.” She tucked the manila folder under her arm and left the office.

Ian watched her retreat with more interest than was healthy in his present situation. Her long, shapely legs and slim hips moved in a graceful stride despite her evident ire. Once she disappeared from sight, he lowered himself into the chair again. Reining in his disappointment was easier than bringing his hormone level back to normal.

Shannon Moore was one interesting contradiction. A controlled business facade hid the street fighter beneath. Her auburn, collar-length hair framed an oval face and a fringe of bangs drew attention to a pair of huge brown eyes that turned golden with anger.

“What did you say to her, Ian?” Jenkins asked as he came into the conference room. “She stormed out of here at gale force.”

“I made her an offer She wanted some time to think it over.” No doubt she was on the way to her attorney’s office right this moment. He shrugged. She was only a guardian of the trust. Once she learned that she had no say in the running of the company, his offer would start to look good to her.

“She’s nothing like her sister, I can say that for her.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Jenkins grinned. “Sure you would. Tiffany Moore. She was the one who showed up at your second cousin’s wedding in the leopard bodysuit. Remember?”

Ian recalled the flashy, brassy blonde with the piercing laughter who had made several passes at him. To say his father’s date elicited more stares than the pregnant bride in the white wedding dress was an understatement. “You have to be joking. She was Shannon’s sister?”

While his father’s investigation into his mistress’s background had turned up Shannon’s childhood, as well, Ian had no idea how Shannon supported herself now. By her cool, articulate manner, he would guess she had risen above her humble beginnings. She had acquired the social skills and polish her younger sister lacked.

“We have a few things to discuss, Ian.”

He returned his attention to his father’s lawyer. “Get things started. If she hasn’t gotten back to you in a month, file the petition with the courts.”

“All right. Now, on to a different matter. Wesley paid child support to the mother. Am I to assume with both parties deceased, the arrangement is now terminated?”

Ian gave the question serious thought. He saw no purpose in antagonizing the woman until he knew precisely what she wanted. “No. Send the money to Shannon until she makes up her mind about the company.”

Jenkins cocked one eyebrow. “Shannon?”

“Miss Moore.”

“Be careful, Ian, or you might find yourself falling victim to the same weakness you despised in your father.”

Ian’s lips curved up in a sardonic smile. “There are two big differences. I’m not married and I stick to women born in the same decade as me.”

He closed the file and exhaled a groan. He would not allow the minor development of his attraction to Shannon steer him from his course of action. Westervelt Properties would be returned to his grandfather, no matter what he had to do to fulfill that promise.

Shannon tossed the folder and her keys on the hall table. The one-hour train ride from New York City had given her time to regroup before trying to deal with an energetic child. After checking her mail, she walked across the small front lawn to the house next door. A row of red tulips in the window box signaled the true arrival of spring. The aroma of baking bread lingered as she stepped into the kitchen.

“Oh, Betty Crocker. Where are you?”

“Just a sec.” A moment later Wendy Sommers strolled into the room. A mop of brown curls bounced to the spring in her step. “How was the meeting?”

Shannon rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension at the base of her neck. “More interesting than I had expected.”

Her friend held up a cup. “Coffee?”

“Please.” She dropped into a chair and rested her arms on the glass tabletop. “Chelsea’s brother was there.”

“And?” Wendy prodded.

“When I met Wesley Bradford, I thought no one could be more overbearing. Apparently arrogance is a dominant gene. He passed it on to Ian.”

“Ian seems to have made quite an impression on you.”

Shannon grimaced at Wendy’s inquisitive tone. He’d made an impression, all right. One she didn’t want to admit to, even to herself. “How was Chelsea?”

“She was great. But she missed her auntie Shane.”

“Did she?” she asked a bit uncertainly.

When Shannon had found herself the guardian of a toddler, she panicked. What she knew about children would fit on the head of a pin. To give Chelsea some semblance of a normal life she had returned to the small suburban town where she had spent her teenage years, armed with a library of parenting books.

Finding a high school classmate as her neighbor had eased her return. Wendy’s outgoing nature and blind acceptance of others’ imperfections gave Shannon her first real friend.

“What’s my little princess up to?” Shannon asked.

“She’s watching ‘Sesame Street’ with Anna.” Wendy placed a tray on the table and took a seat. “So tell me more about Mr. Bradford. If he’s Chelsea’s brother, does that make you his aunt?”

“Very funny. Actually, I was a little disappointed. I thought... well, never mind what I thought.” Taking a deep breath, Shannon pushed the troubling concerns from her mind. “He’s made it clear he plans to uphold that Bradford family tradition of ignoring Chelsea’s existence.”

Wendy stared thoughtfully, then let out a small giggle. “Why, Shannon Moore, you’re nothing more than a closet optimist. You figured he would learn about his sister and he’d be bursting with sibling love and pride.”

Hearing her delusional fantasies described like that, Shannon realized how naive she was. She took a sip of coffee and leaned back in the chair with a wistful sigh. “Maybe I did. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it. I have a reputation to maintain in this town as a high-powered, no-nonsense barracuda.”

“But a barracuda who shows us how to invest our money. And we love you for it. Not to mention that you keep a lot of us employed.”

“Because I can’t do anything pertaining to house maintenance by myself.” Shannon blessed the education and the business connections that allowed her to continue serving her clients and still be at home for Chelsea. Otherwise the upkeep on a house would have been beyond her means. “And this mothering thing is a whole lot tougher than Donna Reed and June Cleaver made it out to be.”

“Suzy Homemaker, you ain’t,” Wendy agreed. “Give up those ridiculous books on raising children and follow your instincts. As long as love is there, you’ll do fine.”

Shannon sighed. Where her friend’s house smelled of potpourri and fresh-baked pies, she usually had to air out the odor of burned cookies. As for following her instincts, she had none. Her own parents’ self-serving emotional tugs-of-war had left her unprepared for the role of a supportive parent.

“I’m glad I wasn’t looking for a sympathetic shoulder.” She could only hope her friend was right and her love for the little girl who had taken up residence in her heart would be enough.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” Wendy asked.

“Please. I’ve had about as much of the truth as I can stand today.”

“Lord, Shannon. I’ve never known you to let any man rattle you. Even when we were back in high school.”

“I’m not rattled. I’m in complete control.”

If that were true, why had Ian been able to provoke her into losing her temper, something no man had ever done before? How had his stone-cold glare generated an unfamiliar heat in her? She couldn’t be attracted to the man.

Then why couldn’t she banish his image from her mind?