One Night Scandal

by Joanne Rock

  Scarlett wasn’t sure if Emilio had saved her from being thrown off the grounds, or if he’d merely granted her a window of time to speak before they arrested her for trespassing. Either way, she couldn’t afford to waste this opportunity to find out why her mother had moved away from home, changed her name and never gone back.

  “You have an idea.” Scarlett crossed her arms and stared him down. “It strikes me as a sad commentary on your parenting when you only have a general idea of your grandchild. In fact, it makes me question why someone like you should have children in the first place if your only role in their lives is donating genetic material.”

  He flinched just the smallest bit at those last words. He set the orange on his easel and lifted sad, dark eyes toward her. “Did she say that?”

  “Who? Did who say that?” Scarlett still didn’t regret the tirade, especially as she couldn’t detect the least hint of remorse in his expression.

  “Your mother,” he ventured, shoving his hands in the pockets of his neatly pressed khaki trousers. “My daughter. Because even though you’re taking me to task for not knowing my own grandchild, I certainly see my daughter’s face reborn in yours.”

  There was something kind in the way he said it. Something that, for a moment, made her regret all the times she’d silently wished she looked more like her siblings, who favored the McNeills.

  Quickly, she brushed aside any softening of her feelings toward him.

  “I can’t help but think a man who had treated his daughter with any kindness wouldn’t need to guess at her grown child’s identity.” Scarlett glanced over her shoulder again, wondering if the security guard was on his way over. But the golf cart was nowhere in sight now. “But maybe you plan to have me thrown off the grounds. Is that what you did to my mom all those years ago? Is that why she’s never mentioned you? Never visited? Changed her name and hid from you on a Wyoming ranch?”

  The older man shook his head, the lines in his face deepening as he frowned. “Never. Eden’s mother... Barbara Harris. Have you met her?”

  Scarlett shook her head, curious.

  “She was a mixed-up girl long before your mother was born,” he explained, steepling his fingers together as he walked a slow circle behind the easel. “I loved her deeply, but she wanted no part of a traditional relationship. She was a flower child, I suppose. Full of idealistic dreams that I loved, but she fell into drug use soon after Eden was born. We broke up and I should have taken legal custody of our daughter, but at the time—men didn’t do that.” He glanced up from his pensive pacing, stopping as if to gauge Scarlett’s reaction. “I thought I was doing the right thing to support her decision to live with her mother. I thought she would have extra help. And that worked out okay for a while, until Eden was in middle school and Barbara ran away for months.”

  Scarlett was drawn in by the family history she never knew, and never even imagined until the scandal broke. She didn’t know what to make of her reception, and she still wasn’t sure if she was about to be kicked off the property, but she wanted to hear more about her mother’s mysterious past.

  And as much as she dreaded cutting Emilio any slack, she couldn’t deny a strange fascination with watching him as he paced. Seeing him in person and not just in pictures online revealed the likeness to her mother even more. In the way he tilted his head. The turn of a phrase.

  “By then, I had married Stella, and I had adopted her son, Antonio. But I told Stella we needed to take Eden in, give her a stable home since her grandmother couldn’t watch her all the time. For a few years, it was wonderful having my daughter under my roof. We were a real family.” He started pacing again, tipping his chin down to the tips of his fingers. Around them, birds chirped and the fountain babbled musically in the idyllic garden.

  Scarlett’s stomach knotted, knowing this story didn’t have a happy ending. “So what happened?”

  “I came home from a long location shoot and Stella said Barbara had returned to take Eden to live with her. I wasn’t surprised that it was sudden, or that Eden didn’t come back to visit for the first year or so—that’s the way Barbara is. I assumed they were traveling. By the time I saw Barbara again, two years after that, she was back to using, worse off than ever, and couldn’t tell me anything about Eden.”

  Scarlett waited for more. When he said nothing, continuing to walk in circles, a fresh surge of frustration simmered.

  “And that’s it? You figured your daughter was gone so why bother looking for her? It’s fine if she never wants to see you again after you—supposedly—did nothing wrong?” It made no sense to her, and she could see in his face that he fully appreciated that it was illogical.

  “I did look for her,” he protested. “A little. I asked some journalist friends to use their sources.” He quit pacing. “But you’re right. I always feared she had a reason for leaving.”

  “Like?” She gestured with her hands, making a speed-it-up motion, tired of him circling the truth the way he was pacing the gazebo. “You’ve obviously worked hard to give the world the impression you’re living in paradise. Is life in Chateau Ventura not all you’ve painted it to be?”

  Emilio heaved a gusty sigh, his gaze moving toward the easel where his canvas rested. The half-finished painting was of green creeping vines and bougainvillea, with the house in the distance.

  “Your mother didn’t care for Antonio. I wondered if he had... I don’t know. Bullied her in some way.” Emilio continued to speak, saying something about his wife being defensive of the boy, but Scarlett couldn’t focus on what he was saying.

  The pieces shifted in her brain, forming a new picture.

  Had her mother run from the son, not the father?

  And who was keeping Paige McNeill safe from him now that Antonio was shooting a movie in her mother’s backyard? Fear for her mother coiled in her belly.

  “I have to leave.” She withdrew her cell phone from her pocket, dialing Logan’s number. “I need to go home.”

  * * *

  Grateful to be back at work, Brock stood outside the training yard, watching his top trainer work with a new two-year-old.

  The trainer had messaged him about three of the new horses slated as prospects for competition cutting—a sport designed to show a horse’s ability to handle cattle. Brock appreciated the guy’s input, especially since the evaluation process was far from scientific, even for the most veteran of equestrian judges. The Creek Spill was gaining a reputation for producing winners, with a core group of elite broodmares. Their breeding program had given Brock the financial security to expand their on-site training, something he personally enjoyed.

  Here, at the rail watching an afternoon workout, Brock felt almost like himself. He could forget about the amnesia for a few minutes at a time. Pretend things were normal.

  He couldn’t say the same for Hannah, however. The woman was firmly on his mind every moment, distracting him with thoughts of the kiss they’d shared the night before. She had surprised the hell out of him when she’d wrapped herself around him. Especially after the way she’d tried to run into the house on her own, without so much as a good-night.

  My speed has to do with me trying to outrun my own desires, Brock. Not you...

  Her words had floated around in his brain all night, giving him red-hot dreams starring her. Them.

  He wouldn’t press her about another date, let alone a trip to the West Coast with him. But he couldn’t deny that he wanted her. It didn’t make sense that he hungered for her this way when he still had the feeling that she was hiding something. His amnesia might leave him cloudy on the last six months, but he had a crystal-clear memory of waking up after the head injury and seeing those shadows in her eyes. Hesitation.

  Almost as if she were weighing how much to share.

  Pulling out his phone, he typed in a few notes about the two-year-old before he forgot what he wanted to say. H
e had to agree with the trainer on this one. The horse didn’t show enough interest in the cow, while the best cutters usually started with a strong reaction—fear or aggression. Either end of the spectrum could be trained well for cutting, but the horses who were more blasé about the cow required more training and might never have the necessary instincts to make a competitive cutting horse.

  The notes helped take his mind off his concerns about Hannah. He’d been with a deceptive woman once before. A woman who’d fed him small lies that might have been forgivable in themselves. Like the time she told him that they shared a mutual acquaintance and later he found out his friend had never met her. Or when she said she loved horses, and it became clear she’d never been around the animals in her life. One of his friends had suggested he should be flattered that Clarice had tried so hard to get close to him. But she hadn’t been trying to get close to him.

  She’d simply wanted to be a McNeill.

  The truth had been agonizingly clear when he confronted her on the inconsistencies in the things she said. Brock had realized he had no idea who she really was at all since she’d shown him only a fictional side of herself, a made-up facade intended to appeal to him. It unnerved him to think how well that had worked—and what it said about him.

  “Brock,” a man called to him from the barn.

  Turning, he saw his father ambling over, dressed in worn denim and a T-shirt with the ranch logo. Donovan McNeill had taught his kids that hard work and loyalty earned respect. Not a bank account. He walked the walk, too. Because although he’d been born into wealth and privilege, he’d cut himself off from his father after a dispute over land, and had gone on to become a self-made rancher through relentless work and sheer will.

  “Everything okay at home?” Brock asked, instantly on alert. He hadn’t seen his dad outside the house since the scandal broke. “How’s Paige?”

  “She’s doing better.” Donovan’s gaze moved to the training rink where the two-year-old was doing his best to follow the rider’s commands. The animal would make a good ranch horse, displaying a willingness to work. “How’s the training coming?”

  It occurred to Brock that his dad probably appreciated the distraction of ranch duties today as much as him.

  Briefly, Brock outlined the trainer’s concerns. Donovan had never taken much interest in the quarter horse breeding program until it began turning a profit, letting Brock run with the idea. But in the last year—at least, in the time he remembered—his dad had asked more questions. He’d pushed Brock to develop the training side to grow the business even more.

  “You’re doing well,” his father acknowledged after Brock’s explanation, words that counted as glowing praise considering the source. “I left Paige with Madeline for a little while so I could touch base with you and your brothers.”

  “We would have come to the house—”

  Donovan waved off his concern. “Of course. But I got the impression Paige needed a break from all the family living room meetings.” Squinting into the sun, his father tipped his head back, lifting the brim of his Stetson to feel the breeze. “I think she feels responsible for the recent spate of news stories, even though I told her it’s not her fault.”

  Brock watched the handler release the cow close to the horse again. “Scarlett puts the blame on us for not trying to work with the blackmailer.”

  “And she has a damn good point.” Donovan jammed his hat back on his head and settled a foot on the rail of the training fence. “Did you hear she waltzed right onto the Ventura estate and confronted Paige’s father? Asked the old man what he did to scare off her mother?”

  “She’s lucky he didn’t have her arrested.”

  Donovan laughed. “How could he? She’s his family.” His expression turned serious again. “Scarlett seems to think it wasn’t Paige’s father who made her run, but the son. That damned director we have living right under our roof at the Creek Spill.”

  “Antonio?” Brock tensed. He couldn’t remember meeting the guy personally, but the picture Hannah had painted for him about that encounter told him enough. “We need to get that film crew out of here.”

  “Except that would be another PR nightmare, according to that publicist we hired. She’s recommending we allow the filming to continue so we don’t attract even more of a media circus.” Donovan scowled. “In the meantime, our investigator has added an extra security detail around my house so Paige is protected.”

  “And what about the blackmailer?” Brock hadn’t heard any more about that since the day of his accident when Carson’s girlfriend had shared her fears that her unstable mother was behind the whole thing. “Has the investigator looked into that angle?”

  “He says he’s got multiple people working on it. He doesn’t have enough evidence to contact the police for an arrest, but apparently Jane Layton had a lot of access to the Ventura family in her years as their maid.”

  Brock listened, but his brain was still stuck on Antonio Ventura possibly being the reason his stepmother had left home as a teen. He didn’t like the idea of Hannah working for someone like that. Brock wondered if he approached Paige himself and shared his fears for Hannah whether he might have better luck getting his stepmother to share something concrete about her past.

  “In the meantime,” his father continued, “Maisie said Scarlett is coming home. At least for the duration of the filming since her new boyfriend is an actor in the thing.”

  “That’s good.” He didn’t hold out hope they could convince his half sister to stick around the ranch afterward, though. “I think we’d all feel better if we could part on better terms with her. At least help her see the family’s side of the decision not to negotiate with the blackmailer.”

  Donovan nodded. “That girl has more grit than anyone I know. I hoped if I kept her on the ranch long enough, she’d find a role for herself. Decide to stay here after all.”

  “She always wanted to be an actress,” Brock pointed out, gesturing to the trainer that he’d seen enough with the two-year-old in the pen. As long as he was here, he might as well view the other animals.

  “And I hoped it was a phase.” Donovan shrugged, then pounded his fist on the top rail. “But maybe she’s going to need that acting career if she’s not even a legal McNeill.”

  Brock noted the set to his father’s jaw. The cold anger in his eyes. “Dad, you know we’d never deny the girls their inheritance.”

  “I’m telling you what the lawyers explained to me. There’s no fast way to sort out all the paperwork that details what they’re entitled to.” His voice had a dry, rough tone, hinting at emotions that Brock almost never saw in him. “Without the McNeill name to protect them, they could lose out on more than just the ranches.” He shot Brock a level gaze. “If Malcolm died tomorrow, they’d get nothing from his estate. And I have blamed my father for a lot, but that wouldn’t be any fault of his. It’s on me for not knowing my marriage wasn’t legal.”

  “How do we fix it?” Brock asked, understanding better now. McNeill Resorts was a global corporation with a net worth that far outstripped the ranches. But even then, it wasn’t about the money. It was about the name. Family. Legacy. Future generations.

  Because even when Donovan had cut himself off from his father, he’d kept the name, and he’d placed value on it.

  “For starters, I’ve got to marry Paige again.” Straightening from the rail, Donovan squared his shoulders. “She has been through too much already to give her just some quickie date with a judge to make us legal. As soon as I can pull the pieces together to make it special, there’s going to be a wedding at the Black Creek Ranch.”

  A wedding.

  Brock could tell by the tone of his father’s voice that he was counting the hours until he could make it happen. Did that mean tomorrow? The next day?

  As his father turned on his heel, Brock guessed that Donovan was on his way to deliver
the news to the rest of the family. Or maybe to shop for a new ring. Brock was seeing a more sentimental side of his dad this week, that was for sure.

  For his own part, Brock already knew who he was going to ask to be his date. The trip to the West Coast might not be happening with Hannah anytime soon, but he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d want at his side when his father said his vows.

  Nine

  “He invited you to go to a wedding with him?” Callie asked Hannah as they stood together in one of the wardrobe trailers.

  “Shh.” Hannah didn’t want the word to get around the set that Paige and Donovan were getting married for a second time. She peered over her shoulder through the open door where she could see an animal handler walking past with one of the horses that specialized in tricks. “It’s got to stay between you and me, okay?”

  Brock had phoned the night before to ask her if she could be ready within a few hours’ notice to attend a secret family wedding, tonight or tomorrow. She had tried to tell herself it would give her a perfect pretext to speak privately with Callie—she could ask to borrow a dress and then try to find out more about why she’d used the word “lewd” to describe Antonio. But instead of coming up with ways to convince Callie to confide in her, Hannah had fallen asleep thinking about how a dance at a wedding reception would put her in Brock’s arms again.

  As much as she’d like to think the attraction was all just sensual chemistry, she knew better. Every moment spent with Brock McNeill made her like him more. And made her regret the barrier she’d put between them that would ensure he would regret this relationship when his memory returned. She’d done it to keep herself from falling for a man like her father, like the sailor who lashed himself to the mast to keep from following the siren’s song. It seemed so smart at the time, but when temptation called...