“What are you planning, Dad?”
“I did a little digging after we got off the phone. It seems that all the stock was left to Jameson Gregory Randolph III. While Tag’s blood might be Randolph blood, his legal name isn’t. Stock has to be transferred to a living heir or recipient. If Tag hasn’t made some other legal arrangements to take over Jameson Junior’s holdings as Tag Barton, he might not have a leg to stand on.”
“So he’d have nothing, then?”
My father’s smile is smug and mean as hell. “Not a damn thing except a job at a vineyard, which he’ll lose, and whatever meager savings he’s managed to amass on his own.”
I should be thrilled at the prospect of Tag being destitute after what he’s put me through, after what he attempted to do to me and my family. So why am I not? Why do I feel like this is taking things too far? He had no such qualms when he lied to me to get what he wanted. Why should I have any qualms about hurting him?
It does bring rise to one confusing question, though. “Dad, if Tag has controlling interest and all the wealth that goes along with being the sole heir of Jameson Randolph, why would he marry me for Chiara? Why would he even want it when he’s already got so much money? He could buy ten vineyards.”
“Because he’s a greedy, soulless bastard, just like his father.”
That’s a pat enough answer, but I’m not buying it. It makes no sense that Tag would go to such extremes for a modest vineyard. On top of that, the Tag who I came to know and fall in love with was anything but greedy. Of course, I obviously had no idea who he really was, so what the hell do I know?
That brings me back to the present, to my current predicament.
“Well, whatever happens from here on, I’m out. I just want the divorce and Chiara. The rest is between you two.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever even visit my family’s vineyard again, but this is more about the principle of the thing. One day I may change my mind. One day, when all of this is behind me and my heart is hopefully healed, I might want to revisit the place that I’ve loved for so much of my life.
But right now, I can’t see that day arriving. I can’t imagine how I’ll be able to look at Chiara the same way again. I can’t imagine how I’ll be able to go there without seeing his face, feeling his touch. I also can’t imagine how I’ll ever get over falling in love with Tag Barton.
What began as a hideaway became my burial ground. And the man who felt like my biggest blessing had now become my biggest curse.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tag
One of the benefits of being the surprise heir to a Fortune 500 company is the breadth of resources available. Money can buy the best when it comes to that. I had to make but a single call and fifteen minutes later I had Weatherly’s well-hidden address on my phone. Information has always been valuable—in life, in the Army, in personal affairs. Never has it been so welcomed, though. I feel relief, as though I’m back in control, knowing that Weatherly can’t escape me. Can’t hide from me. If I couldn’t find her, couldn’t get to her . . . that would be a problem.
I slow to a stop in front of the beautifully landscaped high-end patio homes. They look like Craftsman bungalows in an exotic rainforest or something. The surroundings are exquisite and lush, totally befitting of a woman like Weatherly. I can picture her here just as clearly as I can picture her covered in mud, lying beneath me between the rows of grapevines at Chiara. I’ll probably never be able to get that out of my mind—her creamy skin covered with my muddy handprints, her delectable body coming to life at my touch.
I get out and walk purposefully to the door that should belong to Weatherly. I’m not letting her go so easily. Whatever it is that her father is up to, she needs to know that I’m not going away without a fight.
I ring the doorbell and knock twice on the door, anxious to get this straightened out and head back home. I couldn’t be more surprised when William O’Neal answers the door, thunder on his face.
“What the hell are you doing here, Randolph?” he spits venomously.
For the first time, my pulse stutters. He just called me Randolph.
He knows. And if he knows, Weatherly knows.
Shit!
That’s what this is all about.
TWENTY-NINE
Weatherly
I watch Tag’s face as my father’s words sink in. I see the guilt wash in like a pale, frothy wave. If there was ever a teeny tiny part of me that thought maybe he had intentions of coming clean eventually, that teeny tiny part just died a teeny tiny, miserable death. It’s clear that Tag didn’t want me to know.