His Illegitimate Heir by Sarah M. Anderson Page B

In walked Jamal, boxes stacked in his hands. When he saw that Zeb was on the phone, he nodded his head in greeting and moved quietly to the conference table. There he began unpacking lunch.
    â€œI will,” Zeb promised his mother. And it wasn’t even one of those little white lies he told her to keep her happy. He had stirred up several hornets’ nests over the last few days. It only made good sense to watch his back.
    â€œThey deserve to pay for what they did to me. And you,” she added as an afterthought.
    But wasn’t that the thing? None of the Beaumonts who were living today had ever done anything to Zeb. They’d just...ignored him.
    â€œI’ve got to go, Mom. I have a meeting that starts in a few minutes.” He didn’t miss the way his Southern accent was stronger. Hearing it roll off Mom’s tongue made his show up in force.
    â€œHumph,” she repeated. “Love you, baby boy.”
    â€œLove you, too, Mom.” He hung up.
    â€œLet me guess,” Jamal said as he spread out the four-course meal he had prepared. “She’s still not happy.”
    â€œLet it go, man.” But something about the conversation with his mother was bugging him.
    For a long time, his mother had spoken of what the Beaumonts owed him . They had taken what rightfully belonged to him and it was his duty to get it back. And if they wouldn’t give it to him legitimately, he would just have to take it by force.
    But that was all she’d ever told him about the Beaumont family. She’d never told him anything about his father or his father’s family. She’d told him practically nothing about her time in Denver—he wasn’t all that sure what she had done for Hardwick back in the ’70s. Every time he asked, she refused to answer and instead launched into another rant about how they’d cut him out of what was rightfully his.
    He had so many questions and not enough answers. He was missing something and he knew it. It was a feeling he did not enjoy, because in his business, answers made money.
    His intercom buzzed. “Mr. Richards, Ms. Johnson is here.”
    Jamal shot him a funny look. “I thought you said you were having lunch with your brewmaster.”
    Before Zeb could explain, the door opened and Casey walked in. “Good morning. I spoke with the cook in the cafeteria. She said she hadn’t been asked to prepare any— Oh. Hello,” she said cautiously when she caught sight of Jamal plating up what smelled like his famous salt-crusted beef tenderloin.
    Zeb noted with amusement that today she was back in the unisex lab coat with Beaumont Brewery embroidered on the lapel—but she wasn’t bright red or sweating buckets. Her hair was still in a ponytail, though. She was, on the whole, one of the least feminine women he’d ever met. He couldn’t even begin to imagine her in a dress but somehow that made her all the more intriguing.
    No, he was not going to be intrigued by her. Especially not with Jamal watching. “Ms. Johnson, this is Jamal—”
    â€œJamal Hitchens?”
    Now it was Jamal’s turn to take a step back and look at Casey with caution. “Yeah... You recognize me?” He shot a funny look over to Zeb, but he just shrugged.
    He was learning what Zeb had already figured out. There was no way to predict what Casey Johnson would do or say.
    â€œOf course I recognize you,” she gushed. “You played for the University of Georgia—you were in the running for the Heisman, weren’t you? I mean, until you blew your knees out. Sorry about that,” she added, wincing.
    Jamal was gaping down at her as if she’d peeled off her skin to reveal an alien in disguise. “You know who I am?”
    â€œMs. Johnson is a woman of many talents,” Zeb said, not even bothering to fight the grin. Jamal would’ve gone pro if it hadn’t been for his knees. But it was rare