The Billionaire’s Fated Family (Deals and Daddies #3)

Chapter 1

CALVIN

“Are you waiting for the perfect candidate to pop out of that map?” Ollie, my head assistant, raises his eyebrow.

Usually, I would laugh or throw a joke back at him, but I’m not in the mood. It’s been weeks of searching for the perfect archaeologist—at this point, any archaeologist—to head up the excavation team in Jumayah, and I’m no closer to finding someone than I was three weeks ago.

Maybe I’m even further away.

Standing from where I’ve been hunched over the map of the Jumayan desert, I roll my neck, trying to work out the kinks that seem to be always there. “It doesn’t make sense. This project is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Who wouldn’t want to take it?”

Ollie gives me what’s almost a sympathetic look. “Calvin, I mean this with the utmost of kindness… It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you.”

“And any archaeologist who has a passion for the Middle East,” I point out.

“But they’re all busy.” He sighs and plops onto my office’s couch, scrolling away on his tablet. “I’ve asked everyone who has the expertise to head the project.”

“And they’ve all gotten back to you?”

“Nearly everyone.” He adjusts his glasses. “There’s a Georgia Halford.”

“Georgia Halford?” I’ve never heard the name, but I’m not that surprised.

It’s only recently that I’ve jumped into the world of ancient sites.

Everything else I’ve done in work involves stocks, real estate, chain businesses.

Buying the site that’s purported to have housed an ancient temple was an impulsive act.

When the opportunity came up, it felt like a sign from my grandmother, three years in the grave and born in Jumayah.

Or maybe it was just me being delusional. Either way, I purchased the plot—and not for a price to sneeze at. Now there’s only one thing to do: get together an excavation. Discover what’s really there.

“Mm-hmm.” Ollie nods, pulling something up on his tablet. “She’s a professor of Middle Eastern archaeology here in New York. Well… was. She left the job about a year ago. Didn’t take another position… Her LinkedIn says that she’s doing private coaching now.”

“Why didn’t she write you back?” I ask, taking a seat next to him on the couch.

His lips twist and he shakes his head. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”

I stare out the window at the morning light glinting off New York’s skyscrapers. Professor of Middle Eastern archaeology… Currently without a position… I’m dangling the golden carrot of her profession right in front of her!

“Was there some sort of drama?” I turn back to Ollie with a frown. “Some scandal that’s keeping her away?”

“Her reputation seems to be impeccable. Look at this talk she gave. It’s been viewed almost a million times.”

He turns the tablet to face me. On it plays a video of a woman in her mid-thirties standing on a stage. The first thing that strikes me is how pretty she is. Curly brown hair, big chocolate eyes. Dimples that somehow look both cute and sexy on her.

The second thing is the passion in her voice and gestures. She’s talking about an Egyptian prince’s tomb, her eyes sparkling and a huge smile on her face. She’s the kind of person who could talk about toilet paper and make it interesting. No surprise that the video has so many views.

“You said you emailed her?” I ask, unable to take my gaze off the screen.

“Yes. I’m working on finding a phone number.”

“Good. Send it to me when you do. I’ll call her personally.”

Ollie makes a note of it. “Anything else?”

I get up and walk to my desk, which is usually perfectly organized, nothing but my computer, my notepad, and a pen on it.

Lately, though, I’ve been so distracted and unsettled that I don’t even recognize the desk.

Books on Jumayah are stacked at its corner, and there are several paper coffee cups. Did I leave those there?

I rub my eyes. How late did I stay here last night? How have the hours just been slipping away?

Ollie wants to know if there’s anything else, and yes, I know there is. There’s always so much to be done. Meetings to schedule. Interviews to prep for. The real estate conglomerate doesn’t run itself, and for years I’ve been impeccable with my processes. But lately…

Lately I’ve been falling apart, and the most unexpected part of it all is that I don’t give a damn.

“Remind me what’s on the schedule for today,” I say.

“A meeting with HR in thirty minutes, then you’ve scheduled four hours to work on your book. After that it’s a late lunch with the new ad agency, then a workout with your trainer, followed by drinks with Ed Harty.”

“Harty?” I’m fingering the spine of one of the books, gazing at the architecture on its cover, the spires rising towards the sky.

“Er, the new board member.”

“Oh. Right.”

Ollie clears his throat. “Calvin, are you all right?”

I force a smile and look up at him. “Perfectly fine, but I’ll be even better when you get me Georgia Halford on the line.”

Suspicion glimmers in his eyes, but even though in general we’re brutally honest with each other, I’m still his boss. He’ll only push so far.

“That’s all for now,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

There’s another slight hesitation, but then he leaves, the frosted door closing behind him with a soft click.

Sighing, I sit down at my desk. It’s not lost on me that perhaps I should give up this project entirely. It’s unlikely I’ll even make any money from it. If the ancient temple was on this site, then we should (hopefully) unearth some artifacts that the museums will be interested in.

But who am I kidding? It was never about the money.

It was about something else. About feeling alive.

About doing something that my grandmother would find exciting.

She always told me stories about her childhood in Jumayah, and she made it sound like it was the most magical place to grow up. When she—

The door suddenly opens and my father strides in, followed closely by my secretary, who looks apologetic.

“Calvin,” my father barks.

I sit straighter. “Did we have a meeting?” I ask, suspecting I already know the answer.

From behind my father’s back, Danielle shoots me a pained look. I don’t need her to tell me in words that she tried to stop him from coming in here. Trying to stop Tyson Aarons is like trying to stop a bulldozer; you either get out of the way or you get crushed.

“Danielle, get us some coffee, please,” I tell her with a smile.

She nods and scurries out of the room, no doubt happy to be away from my father. Lucky.

“What can I do for you?” I ask him.

“You never followed up with me about the laundromats.”

Shoot. That’s right. We’ve been in talks to acquire a national chain of laundromats, and I guess I dropped the ball on that. “I didn’t?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Don’t play games with me.” His voice is sharp, and I can feel my jaw tightening in response. “I left you three messages.”

He’s right, of course. I’ve been ignoring them, along with most other things that don’t involve Jumayah. The laundromats seem so… trivial. Boring. A transaction that will make us both richer—but what’s the point? I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes.

“I apologize,” I say, though the words taste hollow. “I’ve been distracted with a new project.”

“What new project?” His eyes narrow.

I shouldn’t tell him. I know I shouldn’t. But part of me—the part that still wants his approval after all these years—can’t help itself.

“I purchased an excavation site in Jumayah. There’s evidence of an ancient temple there, and I’m putting together a team to—”

“Jumayah?” He cuts me off with a bark of laughter that has no humor in it. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Calvin.” He says my name like I’m a child who’s just admitted to breaking a vase. “That’s your grandmother’s nonsense talking. She filled your head with fairy tales, and now you’re throwing money away on some fantasy.”

My hands clench into fists under the desk. “It’s not a fantasy. The site is legitimate. I have historical documentation—”

“I don’t care if you have a signed letter from Cleopatra herself.” He leans forward, planting his palms on my desk. “This is exactly the kind of distraction that will ruin you. You have responsibilities. Real responsibilities. Not some vanity project in the desert.”

“It’s not a vanity project.”

“Then what is it?” He straightens, crossing his arms. “What possible business sense does this make? What’s your ROI? Your exit strategy?”

“Not everything is about ROI,” I hear myself say, and I’m surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

“Everything in business is about ROI.” His face is reddening now, the way it always does when he’s losing his temper. “I raised you better than this. I groomed you to take over this empire, not to waste your time playing Indiana Jones in some third-world country.”

The words hit like a slap, but instead of making me shrink back, they ignite something in my chest. Rage. Pure, white-hot rage.

“You didn’t raise me,” I say quietly. “You trained me. Like an investment. Like a stock you were grooming to perform.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“And maybe that’s exactly why I need to do this.” I stand up, facing him across the desk. “Maybe I need to do something that matters to me, not just to the bottom line.”

“Something that matters?” He shakes his head, disgust clear on his face. “Your grandmother’s stories matter? Some rocks in the sand matter? Grow up, Calvin. This is the real world.”

“Get out of my office.”

The words surprise us both. For a moment, neither of us moves.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said get out. I’ll handle the laundromat deal. You’ll have your ROI. But the Jumayah project is mine, and I don’t need your approval for it.”

For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then he turns on his heel and storms out, slamming the door hard enough that the books on my desk jump.

I sink back into my chair, my heart pounding.

Danielle appears a moment later with the coffee, taking one look at my face and the empty room. “Should I…”

“Just leave it, please. Thank you.”

She sets down the tray and slips out quietly.

I turn back to the window, back to the glittering skyline that suddenly feels suffocating. My father’s words echo in my head: vanity project, fairy tales, distraction.

But all they do is make me more certain, and so I pull out my phone and dial Ollie.

“Yes?” He answers on the first ring.

“Did you find Georgia Halford’s number yet?”

“Just sent it to you.”

My phone buzzes with a text. I pull up the contact, staring at the number for only a moment before taking action. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m calling her now.”

I hang up and press the number Ollie sent. It rings once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

And… voicemail. A generic automated message, nothing personal.

I hang up without leaving a message and immediately dial again.

Same result.

“Dammit,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the desk.

My father’s dismissive laughter still echoes in my ears. The way he called my grandmother’s stories nonsense. The way he reduced everything I care about to a “distraction.”

I can’t wait any longer. I’ve been patient, sent emails, made inquiries through proper channels. But this project—this connection to my grandmother, to something that actually matters—it’s slipping through my fingers while I play by the rules.

I pick up my phone again and pull up my calendar, scanning through the next few days. Then I grab my phone once more, my finger reflexively finding the contact at the top.

“Ollie,” I say into the phone, before he can get a peep out. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the week.”

“The rest of the week? Calvin, you have—”

“I don’t care what I have. Clear it. Delegate it. Cancel it. Whatever needs to happen.”

There’s a pause. “What are you going to do?”

I stare at Georgia Halford’s contact information on my screen, at the map of Jumayah spread across my desk.

“Whatever it takes,” I say. “I’m moving this project forward. Now.”

After I hang up, I sit there for another moment, feeling something I haven’t felt in years. It’s not the methodical certainty I usually operate with. It’s not the cold calculation my father instilled in me.

It’s excitement. Real, burning excitement.

The kind felt by a man who is beginning to feel alive again.