A Fortune's Children's Wedding

by Barbara Boswell

  “This has turned into something more than Brandon being your father, Angelica.” Flynt reached into his jacket pocket for the letter. His knuckles brushed her gun nestled in his pocket.

  “And not so incidentally, you shouldn’t keep a loaded gun in a house with kids. It’s a tragedy waiting to happen,” he admonished.

  “I know.” She surprised him by agreeing. “It’s Mama’s, and she wants it here. She says she keeps it hidden, that only I know where it is—”

  “We all saw you put the gun on the bookshelf, Angelica.”

  “That isn’t Mama’s hiding place. I just set it there when I knew that I wouldn’t have to use it.”

  “When you decided not to shoot me, after all.” Flynt almost smiled, then quickly sobered. “You don’t know how many times the old ‘gun is kept hidden’ statement has been made at the scene of an accidental shooting, Angelica.”

  “I—I know. And I worry that Casper might get hold of it.”

  “You should. And I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you that you have something else to worry about.” He removed the letter from its envelope and smoothed it out on the table in front of her. “Read this, Angelica.”

  She stared at the paper with its multicolored letters individually cut out from magazines and pasted together to form words. “It looks like a soap opera prop,” she said glibly. “Reads like one, too.”

  Flynt’s expression was grim. “Unfortunately it’s very real, Angelica.”

  She looked up from the crumpled note. “And what does it have to do with me?” Surely he didn’t expect her to be concerned about this kindergarten project gone awry?

  “That note was sent to Brandon Fortune, Angelica. You are the daughter mentioned in it.”

  “The daughter who’ll be killed if big bucks aren’t paid to the anonymous sender?” hooted Angelica. “And then poor Brandon Fortune will be framed for my murder?”

  “May I point out that this is a threat on your life? You’re certainly treating it cavalierly.”

  “You expect me to be scared? Brandon Fortune is the one who wrote—or should I say, cut and pasted—this note himself. It’s an idiotic attempt to extort money from his own family.”

  “Brandon had nothing to do with this note. Why would you think he did?” Flynt demanded, irked.

  Never mind that had been his first thought, too. Not to mention Sterling Foster’s, Gabe Devereax’s and various Fortunes’ initial impressions, as well. Except for Kate, of course. She had never doubted Brandon’s fervid claims of innocence.

  But now after profoundly doubting Brandon’s integrity, Flynt felt obliged to defend him.

  “Why wouldn’t I think it?” retorted Angelica. “From what I’ve heard from Mama, who zealously follows even quasi-celebrity news, Brandon Fortune always needs money. Some of his spending sprees have been well publicized. I remember Mama saying that he—” She broke off and stared blindly into space, her hands balled into fists.

  “So your mother has followed the travails of Brandon Fortune pretty closely?” Flynt picked up her train of thought. He shifted in his chair. It was hard and uncomfortable and he was tired of sitting in it.

  He stood up. Big mistake. From his standing position, he could look down the modest V-neck of her blue shirt. Flynt spied the shadowy hint of cleavage, and his mouth grew dry. Her small breasts were softly rounded beneath the ribbed knit material.

  Now he was hard and uncomfortable. His mind went completely blank.

  Unaware of his scrutiny, Angelica leaned back in her chair. “Mama tunes in to all those TV talk shows and reads the celebrity tabloids. She avidly followed the Monica Malone murder…I guess now I know why. Mama talked a lot about it at the time, but no more than any other sensational Hollywood story. And she’s followed them all.”

  “But you never had any hints, any suspicions at all that Brandon Fortune was your father?”

  “Not until you blurted it out this afternoon.” Angelica stood up and carried the empty iced tea glasses to the sink. “And right in front of Sarah and Casper, too. That was princely of you, Corrigan.”

  “I didn’t want it to be that way. You have to admit, I tried to give your mother a chance to tell—” Flynt shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m sorry, Angelica. I didn’t want to hurt you by springing the news on you like that. So, uh, what do you think about Brandon being your dad?”

  “I never particularly wanted any dad at all—and now I have Brandon Fortune.” Angelica groaned. “Mama occasionally would drop hints about who my father was. She said he was related to somebody famous. That would’ve been Monica Malone, of course. A few years ago she started adding that he had a rich famous family.”

  “And you started wondering if maybe you were a Kennedy?”

  “I never wondered because I didn’t care. It didn’t matter,” Angelica said firmly. “It still doesn’t.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute, Angelica.”

  Her response was stony silence.

  “Do you know who Sarah’s and Casper’s fathers are?” Flynt was unable to resist asking. He thought of the expression on the kids’ faces during the brief fatherhood discussion. Confused. Hopeful. It had been painful to see. “Because they obviously don’t.”

  “And you’re wondering who else is going to arrive at the door wanting to establish a relationship with their newly found offspring?” Angelica finished washing the glasses and reached for a dish towel to dry them.

  “The thought’s crossed my mind. From what I’ve seen around here today, you never know what or who will show up at this door.”

  “Don’t worry, I know who Danny’s, Sarah’s, and Casper’s fathers are, and it’s nobody rich or famous. None of them will ever come here. Each of those men are aware that mama had his child, but it doesn’t matter to them.”

  “All three guys know they have kids by Romina and don’t care?” Flynt frowned. “What sort of lowlife goes around fathering and abandoning children?”

  “A selfish, irresponsible lowlife, that’s who,” Angelica said bitterly.

  “And your mother managed to find three of them?” Flynt watched Angelica put the glasses away. Her movements were graceful, precise. “Romina has a real talent for picking men.”

  Angelica whirled to confront him. Though censure was missing from his tone, she expected to see it reflected on his face. She found him looking at her, his expression curious but not judgmental.

  “Mama has a talent for trusting the wrong men,” Angelica acknowledged with a wistful sigh. “I know this will probably sound like an over-used cliché, but my mother has a heart of gold and the men she’s chosen have pretty much smashed it. Finally, she was galvanized to help other women. It was a gradual process and she—”

  Angelica abruptly lapsed into silence. Flynt Corrigan had been an FBI agent, she reminded herself, a professional investigator who’d made his living interrogating people. She had to proceed with caution around him. But it was hard to remember that because he was so easy to talk to. So easy to confide in.

  It was mystifying. Angelica was thoroughly bemused. She’d never been the open, trusting type who shared secrets and sought advice; from an early age, she had found it best to keep her thoughts and feelings to herself. Yet here she was, chatting away about mama’s men with Flynt as if they were long-time confidantes, just like she’d done with Mara, who was her best friend, fellow nurse, former foster sister and current roommate.

  Of course, the feelings Flynt evoked in her were definitely not the comradely ones Mara inspired. Angelica noticed that Flynt was watching her, and her heart began to beat erratically. Needles of sexual excitement pricked her, and she was suddenly, sharply aware of how quickly she’d shifted from being mentally attuned to him to this aching sensual awareness of him.

  “Why hasn’t your mother told the kids who their dads are?” Flynt asked.

  Angelica dragged her eyes away from him, wishing that they were talking about something else, not t
his subject that had caused so much pain.

  She swallowed hard. “There’s no deep dark secret why mama hasn’t told the kids who their dads are. My brother Danny knows, but he’s old enough to deal with it. Sarah and Casper aren’t. Mama doesn’t want them to know their fathers’ names because she’s afraid the kids might try to contact their fathers and be hurt when they’re rejected by them, which they definitely would be.”

  “Help!” Casper came running into the kitchen with an armful of dishes. “I ate ice cream and spaghetti and pie and chocolate pudding in my room, and this gunk got crusted on, and now there’s roaches in my room and mama’s gonna kill me.” He dumped the dirty dishes onto the counter and ran out the back door without pausing to take a breath.

  Flynt joined Angelica at the counter and picked up one of Casper’s discarded bowls. “It’s encrusted with gunk, all right,” he said lightly. “I’m surprised that any self-respecting roach would go near this.”

  Angelica began to fill the sink with detergent once again. “Mama is something of a neat freak. Gunk and roaches aren’t going to improve her relationship with Casper.” She took two of the bowls and submerged them in the sink of soap bubbles.

  She found herself resorting to her own private fantasy that something—somebody!—would come along to help improve the relationship between her mother and baby brother. More specifically, a good man who could relate to both Casper and Romina because it was achingly clear that Casper needed a strong male presence in his life, especially with Danny gone. Immediately, Angelica reproved herself. A good man to set everything right? How embarrassing! Her fantasies were becoming downright retro; she’d undoubtedly watched one too many reruns of those old heartwarming family sitcoms. Next she’d be proclaiming that “Father Knows Best.”

  She cast a stealthy glance at Flynt. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his jacket and reached for a plate coated with an ominous-looking blue substance. He tentatively dipped it into the sink.

  Angelica was totally diverted by the sight of his muscular forearms, now exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his jacket. They were covered with a light dusting of wiry hair. Her stomach turned a wild somersault. She’d seen plenty of bare forearms—the doctors in the hospital scrubbed to their elbows—but none of them ever had impacted upon her like the sight of Flynt Corrigan’s. And his hands…

  She stared at his big hands, the long, well-shaped fingers. Not even the fact that those fingers were now holding two of the most disgustingly filthy bowls she’d ever seen detracted from the compelling masculinity of his hands. She watched him reach for the scrub brush.

  “Don’t bother,” she said hastily. “These dishes need to soak for hours.”

  “Sounds like you’re experienced with this sort of thing.”

  “Pretty much,” Angelica murmured, as an entirely new wave of sensation rolled over her. She had been so riveted by the sight of his hands she hadn’t noticed that when he’d moved to stand next to her at the sink, their hips had made contact. And remained touching as they stood together.

  Her head seemed to be spinning. Just being near him, their bodies touching in exciting yet comfortable familiarity was a sensual experience that she wanted to prolong, to savor. She stood, dazed by these strange new feelings, watching Flynt helpfully finish putting the dishes into the sink to soak.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly shy.

  Flynt nodded and pulled off three squares from the roll of paper towels. Angelica couldn’t help but count; their mother had drilled them into the one-square rule since toddlerhood.

  “Would you say you owed me a favor?” He scrunched the paper towel into a ball and slamdunked it into the trash can.

  Angelica knew she should be suspicious. Instead, her heart pounded with nervous anticipation. “That depends.” She inhaled sharply. “What does this favor involve?”

  “Your father, Brandon Fortune.”

  Chapter 4

  Disappointment rolled through Angelica in waves. Flynt was standing close to her, their bodies touching; she was aware of his masculinity in a way that enticed her instead of intimidating her.

  But Flynt didn’t appear to notice, or at least, he didn’t intend to talk about it. The question he’d asked about her owing him a favor contained no sexual innuendo whatsoever. Damn! exclaimed a naughty, previously unheard-from little voice in her head. Angelica firmly stifled it.

  Flynt wanted to talk about her father Brandon Fortune. Mortification swiftly replaced disappointment. She could only be grateful that he didn’t know how wildly she had misinterpreted his request.

  “You said your mom told the other men in her life that they were fathers, but they chose to ignore that fact—and their kids.” Flynt stated his premise.

  Angelica could picture him using a similar technique with suspects during his FBI days. She purposefully moved away from the sink. Away from Flynt. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her arms folded in front of her chest in classic defensive body language.

  “That’s true,” she said shortly.

  “Well, Brandon never knew about your existence. Your mother didn’t tell him that she was pregnant, she broke up with him and then ran away from home.” Flynt’s voice rose slightly. “He knows about you now, and he’s here to acknowledge you as his daughter, Angelica. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “How about the Father of the Year Award?” Angelica was flippant.

  Flynt didn’t let her get away with it. “Angelica, be fair. This time it’s not a case of a father deliberately abandoning his child. This was your mother’s choice not to tell Brandon about you.”

  “Mama once told me that she was scared to tell him—my father—that she was pregnant.” Angelica defended her mother, her voice warm with compassion. “After all, when she finally worked up the courage to tell her own parents they were terrible to her. They threatened her, and she had to run away to have me.”

  “I’ve talked to your mother’s parents, Angelica. They admitted that they went to see Monica Malone when they found out that Romina was pregnant. Monica—uh—paid them some money…” He paused, searching for a tactful phrase.

  “Monica Malone bribed them to make Mama get rid of me,” Angelica said bluntly. “That squares with what Mama told me about her parents.”

  “Without condoning their actions, keep in mind that your mother was only sixteen years old at the time, Angelica. Only two years older than Sarah is now.”

  “Yet they never bothered to look for her,” Angelica shot back. “Mama was an underaged runaway and could’ve been found easily enough, but they never even reported her missing. All these years and they made no attempt to find her.”

  “She knows that? She’s looked into it?”

  Angelica nodded solemnly. “She knows.”

  “Do you think Romina expected to be found? Maybe hoped to be found? She was remarkably easy to trace, she never attempted to use false identity or conceal her whereabouts.” Flynt frowned thoughtfully. “Romina’s parents admitted to me that they never looked for her.”

  “What kind of people are they? I can’t imagine not knowing where your own child is.” Angelica’s voice grew husky with emotion. “If my sister or brothers or one of my own children were ever missing, I’d never stop looking for them. Never.”

  “Yet you don’t mind that your mother helps fugitive women hide their kids from their fathers? That those men are consigned to the very fate that you just said you would never accept—not knowing where their kids are?”

  “That’s different! Those children were abused by their fathers! Men like that don’t deserve to—” Her jaw dropped. “I—I mean, speaking hypothetically, of course. There is no proof that Mama is involved in—anything unlawful.”

  Angelica looked at the ground, unable to meet his eyes, aghast at her slip. She had almost admitted that her mother was a part of Nancy Portland’s underground network, something she’d never come close to doing with anyone else. Even after
warning herself to be careful what she said around Flynt, she’d been indiscreet. She flushed, angry with herself for her inexcusable lapse. And with Flynt for causing her to make it.

  He knew it, too; she could tell. She was darn lucky he’d opted out of law enforcement, Angelica thought grimly. Back in his agent days, Flynt Corrigan had probably weasled confessions out of suspects before they’d ever realized what they were saying.

  “Relax, Angelica, I’m not here to grill you or your mother about any disputed custody cases. I’m no longer an officer of the law, I’m here strictly as a—friend—of your father. To convince you to give him a chance to know you.”

  Angelica heaved an impatient sigh. “Look, if I agree to meet Brandon Fortune, will you both go away and leave me alone?”

  Getting rid of Flynt was paramount at this point. He penetrated her defenses too easily. Of course, that meant agreeing to meet Brandon Fortune. Her father. Angelica felt a peculiar tightness in her chest.

  “Will you be available to meet Brandon tonight? For dinner?”

  “I already have dinner plans.” Angelica decided it was none of his business that those plans were to nuke a frozen dinner in the microwave and watch the evening news with the cat in the apartment she shared with Mara Quinlan. After all, plans were plans. “But I suppose I could meet you afterward,” Angelica said.

  She could tell he didn’t buy her dinner plans excuse; he was staring at her in patent disbelief. And she’d learned enough about him in this short time to know that he wasn’t going to simply give up and go away. Not until she agreed to meet her father.

  “Afterward, then,” Flynt said stiffly.

  “But I might not be able to stay very long. I have three patients who are due to deliver any time, so I’m on call for them.”

  Angelica concocted her plan as she spoke. She could ask Mara to page her beeper, whether any patients actually went into labor or not. It was a built-in excuse to end the evening quickly and diplomatically.

  “I’m a nurse-midwife,” she explained.