The Backdoor Billionaire's Bride Read online

  I could look for a job in marketing.

  Yeah, and start at the bottom with all the kids with their shiny new degrees and probably a couple of summer internships under their belt.

  As much as she wanted to blame Ford for her predicament, she couldn’t. He’d done what she had wanted to do—he’d made a life for himself outside of Butte Plains, and she understood why he would want to get back to it. Maybe if the factory had been in good financial shape, she could have talked him into letting her run the place, but, under the present circumstances, he had no choice but to shut down. If she were in his shoes, she’d do the same thing. But understanding the situation didn’t stop her from wishing for a way to keep the place open. She would survive, even if it meant moving to a big city, but concern plagued her about the other employees.

  Manufacturing jobs were drying up across the country as businesses outsourced production to China and Mexico. Most of their workers had lived in Butte Plains all their lives. They had extended families to consider, too. She couldn’t help but think about the head of their shipping department, Todd Carver. His elderly mother lived with him, and she knew for a fact his neighbors helped keep an eye on her while he worked. Moving would be a major upheaval for Todd and his mother.

  The more she thought about it, the more determined she became to convince Ford to keep the plant open as long as possible. There had to be some way.

  Practicing her impassioned plea in her head, she wished the birds pecking at the birdfeeder a good day and went inside to get dressed.

  ~~~

  Her new boss pulled into the parking lot as Becky got out of her car. She chalked his punctuality up to his desire to put Butte Plains in his rearview mirror as soon as possible. Waiting beside her car for him to join her, she thought about the man who had starred in her dreams last night. Sometimes he’d been the sexy seducer, making her body sing, then he’d be the monster raining terror on her quiet little world.

  If she were to draw the man of her dreams, he’d be Ford Adams. She’d always been drawn to tall, dark, testosterone-overloaded men. If he had an ounce of compassion in his bones for his new employees, she might consider acting on her attraction, but he didn’t, so she wouldn’t. Then there was the part about him being her boss. She’d checked for a wedding ring, and his father would have mentioned his son becoming engaged. So, unless he had a girlfriend back home….

  The expiration date on their professional relationship couldn’t have been stamped in more indelible ink, so there wouldn’t be any real harm in sleeping with him. It wasn’t like he could promote her from unemployed to employed. Only her scruples stood in the way of a fling with the sexiest man in Butte Plains.

  She didn’t do flings. She’d had a brief relationship with a guy she’d met in the library her sophomore year of college. The chemistry between them had been off the charts, but David had been immature, skipping classes in order to party. He’d flunked out of school the spring semester and moved home to Colorado. Last she’d heard, he’d become a ski instructor at one of the smaller resorts in the winter, living off his parents the rest of the year.

  Her scruples were there for a reason—to protect her from doing stupid things.

  Damn scruples.

  “Good morning.” She shaded her eyes from the morning sun with a hand to her brow.

  “I don’t know what’s good about it.”

  She opened her mouth to say it was a good day because she’d woken up on this side of the grass—an old joke her grandfather on her mother’s side had been fond of—but thought better of it before the words passed her lips.

  Unlocking the door, she ushered Ford in ahead of her. She punched in the alarm code then flicked on the overhead lights. “Someone’s grumpy this morning.” He had a right to be. He’d buried his father yesterday, and today he had to begin the steps to shut down the business his ancestors had built. Nothing to be happy about in either of those things.

  “Didn’t sleep well.” He stalked off in the direction of his new office.

  His grumbled remark gave her the opening she’d been hoping for. She caught up with him as he sat down at his desk. “Did you come up with any ideas to keep the plant open? You know, a lot of good people are going to lose their livelihoods. Families are going to suffer. People are going to have to move to find other employment. Kids are going to have to change schools. And—”

  “Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes! Volcanos! The dead rising from the grave! Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together… mass hysteria!” He powered up the computer while he ranted. “I get it, Becky Jean. I really do, but I’m fresh out of ideas.”

  She shook with the need to pummel him. How dare he make fun of the situation? She clenched her fists at her sides and unclenched her jaw. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Ghostbusters! You might think this is all a joke, Mr. I’ve-got-plenty-of-money, but I can assure you, the people who depend on their jobs here will not think closing the plant is funny.”

  Slamming her office door didn’t bring the satisfaction she’d anticipated. Becky crumpled into her desk chair and lowered her forehead to her arms folded on the desktop. She didn’t know what came over her, but when he’d begun quoting from one of her favorite movies, applying a scene she’d always thought hilarious to the present situation, she’d lost it. Every bit of civility she possessed flew right out the window.

  So, so stupid.

  She revisited the last few minutes, wondering how she could have prevented the scene from happening. Things had started out on an even keel. A pleasant good morning from her. A not-so-welcoming reply from him, making his mood apparent.

  She’d goaded him. Poked the bear, and the beast had lashed out.

  Great. Just great.

  She owed Ford an apology. Just, not yet. Her outburst couldn’t have improved his mood, and it hadn’t improved hers, so waiting awhile—a year or so—would be a good idea. Give them both time to cool off.

  ~~~

  Ford stared at the empty doorway. His ears still rang from her tirade, and his brain remained fixated on the image of her ass, walking out the door.

  “Down, boy,” he cautioned his cock. “Can’t have her.”

  He’d lain awake most of the night, contemplating his next moves, trying to come up with another solution to his problem besides shutting down operation of the factory. After finally drifting off to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, he’d dreamed of making love to Becky Jean and woken with a boner he’d had no choice but to take care of in the only way available to him.

  He hated to start the day jacking off, but the hand job and a cold shower made it possible for him to function. He’d been celibate too long, and he’d had a thing for Becky Jean in high school, even if had only lasted a day or two.

  Well, a week. It had taken him a week to shift his lust to Cindy Price. She’d offered to give him a hand job behind the castle on the seventh green at Put Around Mini-golf. He’d taken her up on the offer and escorted her to prom in payment. They’d called it even after getting it on in the backseat of the limo on the way home. Last he’d heard, Cindy had gone to junior college in the next county and married some cowboy she’d met when the rodeo came to town.

  Ford shook his head to clear it. He owed Becky Jean an apology. He’d let yesterday’s revelations overwhelm him, and in so doing, he’d forgotten how this would affect her. No matter what happened, he had a job to go back to, but she wouldn’t. She’d thought highly of his father, her tears at the funeral were proof enough, and even though her job was just as temporary as everyone else’s, she seemed more worried about the other employees than about herself. She had a college degree, and she seemed reliable enough. She’d find employment somewhere. Most likely she’d have to leave Butte Plains. She’d blame him, but hell, none of this was his fault.

  He’d do the best he could for her, and for all of them. But he wouldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.

  He picked up the phone, intending to call the office next
door to remind Becky of the reports he needed. When his door opened and she stepped inside carrying an armload of folders, he set the receiver back in its cradle. “Ms. Parker.”

  “Mr. Adams.” She placed the folders on his desk and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I was out of line earlier.” Backing toward the door, she continued, “Those are the reports you wanted. They’re on the server, but I thought you might need them printed out for… the bank?”

  He offered her a weak smile, accepting her apology and her peace offering. “Thank you.” He thumbed through the stack, opening the one marked Accounts Payable. “This will be very helpful.”

  “I don’t know what this month’s utilities will be, but I included copies of our bills for the last three months to give you an idea.”

  “Becky. I owe you an apology, too. Quoting a silly comedy, under the present circumstances, wasn’t appropriate. My only excuse is I’m under a lot of stress. The words just came out. I’m sorry.”

  “It was my fault. I pushed your buttons. I understand you’re focused on the immediate need to shut down, but I wanted you to see the broad picture, too. I was insensitive. You’re dealing with the loss of your father—now, all this.”

  “We’re both under a lot of stress. This can’t be easy on you, either. I appreciate your concern for the workers, and believe me, if I could do anything to prevent this from happening, I would.” He shook his head. “I lay awake last night trying to come up with options.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  Becky Jean bit her bottom lip, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Fuck. Time to get her out of there before he did something stupid like try to console her. Recalling the dream he’d had once he’d fallen asleep last night, touching her wouldn’t be a good idea, not even to offer comfort. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for these.” He tapped the stack of folders. “I’ll look them over before I have to leave.”

  She nodded again. “The reading of the will at two o’clock?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” He’d gotten a phone call this morning from his father’s attorney notifying him of the reading.

  “Mr. Trumble called a few minutes ago. He said I should be there.”

  “Why?” He couldn’t imagine why she’d be invited. Wills were private, to be shared only with the interested parties.

  “He didn’t say, and I was too shocked to ask. Maybe it has something to do with the running of the company. It’s the only thing I could think of.”

  Ford shrugged. “Could be. And since you’re the office manager….” He didn’t believe her excuse for a second. A cold sliver of unease slid along his spine.

  She shifted her feet, her gaze landing everywhere but on him. “Umm.” She bit her lip again, and a sudden and unwanted urge to taste her lips hit him. Ford mentally pushed the thought away.

  “Something else, Becky Jean?”

  “Yes, sir. Everyone else is here—all the office staff.”

  He sat back. He knew exactly what she wanted. Nothing good could come of telling the employees how temporary their jobs were. “There’s no need in stirring the hornet’s nest just yet, do you think? Let’s keep this to ourselves until we have a plan—a day or two at most. No use in everyone panicking before we have something concrete to tell them.”

  “You’re right, of course. A couple of days won’t make any difference in the grand scheme of things.”

  “My thoughts, exactly.” Only a day or two could make all the difference—he should know. Look at all that had happened to him in the last few days. He’d gone from a successful business man in his own right to a puppy kicker and dream destroyer in the blink of an eye.

  Becky Jean backed out of his office. He braced for another slammed door. Hearing nothing, he relaxed. If he planned to get this thing done, he needed her on his side, or at least not fighting him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ford saw his mother off with a kiss to her tear-stained cheek. Aunt Florence would see her safely home. They all needed time to process what had just occurred in Mr. Trumble’s office. He couldn’t imagine what his father had been thinking when he’d drafted his will, but he damn sure needed to find out. Turning to his car and the woman waiting next to it, he clenched his jaw to prevent making rash statements he’d hear repeated back in court proceedings later on. Who was Becky Jean Parker to his father? Ken Adams wouldn’t have done what he’d done for just anybody. Several possibilities ran through his head—none of them acceptable or fathomable. His father wasn’t that kind of man. He just wasn’t.

  Calling on his best manners, he held the passenger door while Becky Jean slid into the passenger seat. She remained quiet on the ride across town, giving him time to run through his options. The will stipulated the factory had to remain operating for one year before it could be sold. They’d need money to make payroll, purchase supplies, pay utilities and taxes. He had some savings, but not enough to last an entire year unless they scaled staff and production back to the barest minimum. The will hadn’t said anything about what capacity the factory had to run—just that it had to run.

  Becky Jean would be pissed about laying off employees, but unless she paid the extra wages herself then the cuts would be made. The way things stood, her salary would be coming out of his pocket which, in his mind, meant she had zero say in who he fired in order to keep her ass out of bankruptcy. Which brought him back to how he was going to come up with the necessary funds.

  If push came to shove, he could sell his house in New York. Since he’d restored the historic home, he’d been approached more than once with offers. He’d bought it because it reminded him of the house he’d grown up in, only in need of repair. Half a million dollars later, the property had turned into a showplace. Letting go of it would hurt, but he could always buy another house. Thoughts of selling brought him around to the house in Butte Plains he owned 50 percent of—the one his mother lived in. He couldn’t sell it out from under her, but he could mortgage it. He’d have to tell his mother the precarious nature of her financial situation in order to get her signature on a mortgage, but it might not come to that. For the moment, he’d prefer to keep her out of the loop. Mired in grief, he didn’t need to distress her more with things she couldn’t do anything about. There had to be another way. He’d start with trying to find a way to turn a profit.

  “When we get back, get me a sample of every item we currently have in production, and every item we have produced in the past… say ten years. No. Make it twenty-five years.”

  “What for?”

  “We have to keep the factory operating for the next twelve months. In order to do that, we need to turn a profit, even if it’s only a dollar. Maybe if I see what we’ve got to offer, I can come up with a way to make us profitable.” He nearly bit his tongue off on the word us, but until a court decided differently, he had to include Becky Jean in the equation.

  “Tell what’s her name in receivables to get on the phone. We need to collect every outstanding invoice owed us. Start with the most recent and work back from there.”

  “Her name is Angela.”

  He’d met the rest of the office workers before he and Becky Jean left for the reading of the will but couldn’t remember their names. “Doesn’t matter what her name is. What matters is cash flow. We need income. Anything over six months old, tell her to discount it by 10 percent if they pay in the next ten days.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks to Dad draining every account he had, our payables are in decent shape. We can’t afford to piss off our suppliers. No supplies equals no production. No production equals no income.”

  “I get it.”

  He ignored her snide remark. He didn’t have time to soothe hurt feelings, not if he meant to prevent this Titanic from sinking and taking them all down with it. “Just get me those product samples, ASAP.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Ford braked hard at the stop sign, taking his anger at her snippy tone out on the b
rake pedal. Eyes focused straight ahead, he unclenched his jaw enough to speak. “Unless you have come up with a way to get us out of this mess then I’d appreciate you not getting your panties in a wad over the direction I’m taking. At least I’m doing something.” He might be high-handed, but he didn’t see he had any other choice but to take charge. He let up on the brake then applied slow, steady pressure to the accelerator pedal when he’d much rather smash it to the floor and drive until Butte Plains, Adams Manufacturing, and Texas disappeared in his rearview mirror, becoming nothing but an unpleasant memory.

  Becky shifted in her seat. Her heated gaze seared like the West Texas sun on an August day. “You make it sound like I’m not doing anything,” she huffed. “I’ve done everything you asked so far, haven’t I? And, in case it hasn’t occurred to you, I can’t afford for this company to go under. It was one thing to lose my job when it closed. As part owner, if it closes now, I’ll lose everything. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the place running for the next year. I don’t see as I have any choice.”

  No, she didn’t, and neither did he. They were partners in this mess until a court decided otherwise, and the legal process could easily take more than the year they needed to stay in business. Like it or not, he needed her help for the next twelve months.

  “Glad to hear you’re onboard.” He actually liked the way she’d found her spine. He’d been worried about her—the quiet, devastated woman she’d become following the bombshell bequeath wasn’t the Becky Jean he’d come to know. “Do we have a marketing person?”

  The shift in the conversation caught her off guard. She faced forward again, though the vacant look from before had vanished. “No. I’ve sort of been doing the job—what little there is to do.”

  “Congratulations, Ms. Parker. You’ve just been promoted to marketing director. I’d give you a raise if I could.”