Fortune's Prince

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  He caught her arms before she made it to the kitchen. “Calm down,” he said. “You’re going to make yourself sick again.”

  “Calm down?” She shook off his hands. “Would you feel calm if you knew you were causing nothing but embarrassment to the people you love?”

  The words felt like blows.

  “That’s what involvement with me is. An embarrassment.”

  She looked stricken. “No! I never said that. I—I—” She broke off hugging her arms tightly around her. Her eyes turned wet. “I don’t like being the cause of scandal. That’s all.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Her lips parted. She seemed to sway a little.

  Then her face smoothed, though her eyes still gleamed, wet and glassy. “Of course you wouldn’t,” she said expressionlessly. “You haven’t believed me about anything I’ve said yet. You just want to maneuver me into marriage to protect your interests. Same thing James wanted to do.”

  “You’re gonna compare our baby to a textile company?”

  She just shook her head, looking weary, and walked over to the stairs.

  There was no phone upstairs. The only one inside the house hung on the wall in the kitchen.

  “Thought you were calling your mother.”

  She didn’t answer him. Just kept going up the stairs.

  He was still standing there, rooted in place, when she came down a few minutes later.

  She’d twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and pulled on a black T-shirt with the same striped skirt she’d worn the day before. The clothes were inexpensive. Hardly fancy. Yet she still managed to look untouchably elegant.

  Her eyes didn’t meet his. “If you’d be kind enough to drive me to Aunt Jeanne’s, I would be grateful.”

  His hands curled into fists. “Aren’t you afraid the vultures will be waiting?”

  “I’m sure they will be.” Her triangular chin lifted. “I’ll handle it.”

  Unlike him.

  She didn’t say it.

  But she didn’t need to.

  Chapter Twelve

  “When is this going to die down?” Jeanne Marie fretted, and turned off the television and yet another gossipy tidbit on the morning news speculating about the most intimate details of Amelia’s, Quinn’s and James’s lives while a silent video ran in the background showing Amelia, dressed only in Quinn’s shirt slamming his front door shut on the photographers’ cameras. “It’s been a week already.”

  This time, the commentator—Amelia refused to call the vapid woman an actual reporter—had even dug up ancient stories about her mother’s first marriage to Rhys Henry Hayes and even more ancient stories about King Edward’s abdication of the throne for the woman he’d loved. Trying to manufacture out of thin air similarities where there were none at all.

  “It’s because of the funeral,” Amelia said on a sigh. James’s father’s funeral service had been held in London that morning and the timing made it a prime topic for the morning’s national news shows. “The story will lose traction eventually, once something more interesting in the world comes along.” She made a face. “Horrible of me to wish for a slew of natural disasters somewhere in the world.”

  Jeanne Marie squeezed her hand and sat down beside her. “Have you spoken with Quinn?”

  Just the sound of his name caused a pang inside her and she shook her head.

  Since he’d dropped her off at her aunt’s home that dreadful morning a week ago, he hadn’t tried to reach her once.

  To be fair, she hadn’t tried to speak with him, either. The only thing she’d been able to do was unleash threats of a lawsuit against the offenders who’d trespassed on the Rocking-U.

  Only because her family had won the last suit they’d brought against the phone hackers a year ago had there been enough teeth behind the threat to encourage many of the pests to finally move on. Amelia wished that were true of Ophelia Malone, but the woman was still taking up residence at the B and B in Vicker’s Corners. She was a freelancer, according to the sketchy information Molly had been able to unearth. She didn’t have publishers keeping her on a leash they could retract when necessary.

  “You’re going to want to talk to Quinn sooner or later,” her aunt said gently.

  “I know.” Amelia plucked the knee of her jeans. She just didn’t know what she was going to say when she did. He’d had an up close and personal taste of the sort of things she’d had to deal with almost daily back in London.

  Who would blame him for wanting no part of it?

  For the past week, she’d lived in the seclusion of her aunt and uncle’s house. Avoiding going outdoors in case there were still remaining telephoto lenses aimed their way. Avoiding all but the most necessary of phone calls. She’d even been careful not to find herself standing or sitting near windows.

  It wasn’t fair to burden her aunt and uncle with that sort of behavior, but they’d both been adamant that she remain with them. Even Amelia’s mother had agreed that Amelia should stay in the States while she and James—now the Earl of Estingwood himself—dealt with the official media back home.

  Everyone around her was taking care of her.

  And she was heartily tired of it.

  “I need a good solicitor,” she said abruptly. “An attorney. Is there anyone you recommend? Someone you trust?”

  Jeanne Marie looked thoughtful. “We haven’t had a lot of need for attorneys, but Christopher once mentioned an attorney in Red Rock he knew through people at the Fortune Foundation. Or I can contact James Marshall. He surely has his own legal department at his company.”

  Amelia knew that JMF Financial was located in Georgia. Red Rock, though, was only four hundred or so miles away. “Would you mind calling Christopher for me?”

  “Of course not.” Jeanne Marie hesitated a moment. “Do you want me to call him right away?”

  Now that Amelia had brought it up, she did.

  In fact, she was suddenly impatient to do something.

  “If you would. I need an appointment as soon as possible. Preferably before Mum arrives in a few days. I can call Sawyer Fortune and arrange for a charter flight to Red Rock.” Until her latest escape from London and subsequent trek making her way to Quinn’s, she’d used the flight service her cousin ran to get from Dallas to Horseback Hollow the other times she’d visited.

  “You’re ready to go out in public?”

  Amelia made a face. “No,” she admitted. “But the longer I hide out, the harder it will get. And I’d rather get used to it now than wait until the Cantina’s grand opening this Friday.” She followed her aunt into the kitchen and found herself looking out one of the windows at the picnic table and benches sitting on the grass.

  But she wasn’t really seeing them.

  She was remembering dancing with Quinn out there on a portable dance floor.

  He’d put his arms around her, and even though it was the first time he’d touched her, the first time they’d ever done anything but see each other from a distance really, she felt like she’d come home.

  Her throat tightened and her nose burned with unshed tears.

  Now, she feared that home was nothing more than a fantasy. A silly girl’s romantic longing.

  * * *

  “Pour another.” Quinn tapped the empty shot glass sitting on the bar in front of him. At seven in the evening, he hadn’t expected the Two Moon Saloon to be entirely empty, even on a Tuesday. But he’d been the only one there for a good hour now.

  He’d had no particular desire to go out at all, but Jess had nagged him into meeting up at the Horseback Hollow Grill for burgers with her family. He’d been avoiding her, like he’d been avoiding most everyone else in town for the past week. But he’d been sick of his own company, and since the paparazzi that had plagued him for
most of the week since the whole shotgun incident had finally gone off for greener pastures, he’d agreed.

  And even though, for once, his sister had wisely showed the good sense not to bring up anything to do with Amelia or the fact that his image—shirtless and brandishing a shotgun like some kind of madman—was all over creation thanks to the magic of the worldwide web and nonstop news services, he’d been glad when the meal was over.

  While his sister and brother-in-law had corralled their sons out the door to go home, he’d just gone next door to the saloon that was attached to the grill.

  He was sick of his own company, true. But he also wasn’t in the mood for socializing.

  Nor was he in the mood to hide out inside his own damn house because everywhere he looked, he saw Amelia.

  One night last week he’d even slept out on the porch.

  Damned pathetic.

  He eyed the pretty bartender who was pouring him another shot of bourbon. “You’re new.” She had brown hair and brown eyes, just as dark as Amelia’s, and was slender as a reed, also like Amelia.

  And he didn’t feel the faintest jangle of interest.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Annette.”

  “Why’d you come to Horseback Hollow, Annette?” He tossed back the drink and clenched his teeth against the burn that worked down his throat. “Nothing going on in this place.” He set the shot glass down on the wood bar with a thud.

  She swiped her white bar towel over the wood. “Wouldn’t say that, Mr. Drummond,” she countered.

  He narrowed his eyes, studying her while his fingers turned the small glass in circles on the bar. “How’d you know my name?”

  She smiled faintly. “How d’ya think? I have a television.” She lifted the bottle. “Another?”

  He moved his hand away and she filled the glass, then set the bottle on the counter behind her and returned to her polishing.

  “It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” he muttered.

  “It looked like a man trying to protect what’s his,” she said calmly. “What’s so bad about that?”

  He lifted the glass, studying the amber-colored contents. The deputy sheriff who’d come calling about the matter had agreed with that notion and it’d been plain from the ample video coverage that Quinn hadn’t tried shooting at anyone.

  But that didn’t change things for Quinn.

  Amelia wasn’t his. She’d made it plain she didn’t want to be his. The only thing that was his was the baby she carried.

  His chest tightened and hating the feeling, he put the glass to his lips. The liquor burned again, but brought no relief. No blurring of reality. No softening of the facts.

  Amelia came from one world. He came from another.

  “Send us over a round of margaritas and a couple a’ waters, would you, darlin’?”

  He realized that a group of people were coming in through the street-side entrance and glanced over to see Sawyer and Laurel Fortune coming in along with a few of the folks he knew were working for them over at their charter service. He lifted his hand, returning the greeting they sent him, then turned back to his solitude.

  He quickly realized, though, that Sawyer and his group weren’t cooperating with that notion, insisting that he join them as well.

  Quinn had no desire to be among the Fortunes, but Orlando Mendoza was with them, and his daughter Gabriella was marrying Jude Fortune Jones, whom he’d known all his life. The new bartender was noisily scooping ice into margarita glasses with one hand and pouring tequila into a pitcher with the other so he reluctantly left his empty shot glass and moved over to their table.

  “Y’all look like you’re celebrating,” he greeted.

  “We are.” Sawyer gestured to his companions. “You know everyone here, don’t you, Quinn?”

  “Some, more ’n others.” Quinn gave a general nod, sticking out his hand to Orlando and the older man shook it. “Glad to see you’re up on your feet again.”

  The pilot grinned. “Needed to if I’m going to be able to walk Gabi down the aisle and give her away when she and Jude get married. Glad to get the casts off at last. Things were itching me like crazy.”

  The bartender delivered the tray of waters and ice-filled, salt-rimmed glasses and set the margarita pitcher in the middle of the table before returning behind the bar.

  “Broke my arm once.” Quinn shook his head when Laurel started pouring out drinks and offered him one. “Couldn’t stand the cast so bad I ended up cutting it off myself a week before the doctor said. Are you cleared for flying again?”

  The salt-and-pepper-haired man nodded, looking relieved.

  “That’s what we’re celebrating,” Sawyer said. “That and the fact that the investigators have finally closed the case about the accident.” He held up one of the glasses and waited while the others did the same. “No sabotage. No pilot error—” he gave a nod toward Orlando at that “—and no maintenance insufficiencies.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Aircraft design,” Orlando supplied.

  “The plane’s been recalled,” Laurel added. She clinked her glass against her husband’s and the others. “Just wish the manufacturer could have caught their error before people got hurt.”

  “Manufacturer is wishing the same thing,” Sawyer said. “Not saying we’re planning to, but it’s a given that someone will bring lawsuits against them about it all.”

  Laurel looked at Quinn. “Speaking of lawsuits, is that what Amelia’s planning?”

  His skin prickled. “What do you mean?”

  Orlando sat forward. He was the only one around the table drinking only water. “I flew Miss Chesterfield to Red Rock this morning. She was meeting with one of my cousin Luis’s boys. Rafe’s a lawyer over there. Told her she could’ve just waited until this weekend to talk to him, since he’ll be in town for the opening of his brother’s restaurant, but she was anxious to go now. I’ll be picking her up again tomorrow afternoon.”

  Was she just adding on another layer of protection against more media invasions like they suspected? Or was she really laying the groundwork to keep his child away from him? “You’d have to ask Amelia what she’s planning,” he said abruptly and started backing away from the table. “I’ll leave y’all to your celebrating. Congratulations.” Not leaving them an opportunity to respond, he peeled a few bills off his wallet and dropped them on the bar.

  Annette tucked the bills in the cash register. “You want some coffee before you head out, Mr. Drummond?”

  He had never felt more stone-cold sober but to keep her satisfied and quiet about it, he told her to give him one to go, and then he went on his way, a foam cup of hot coffee in his hand. He was parked on the other side of the grill, so instead of leaving on the street side, he walked through the doorway separating the bar from the grill.

  Only a few people were still sitting at the old-fashioned tables positioned around the ancient tiled floor. The little game room where his nephews always fought over playing the race car game was silent, the light turned off.

  The coffee smelled bitter, like it was a day old by now, and his first sip confirmed it tasted that way, too.

  The coffee still reminded him of Amelia.

  He dumped the cup in the trash can next to the pay phone that hung in one corner of the diner and pulled out the thick phone book that was stuffed on the shelf below the phone. He paged through the yellow pages, finding the section he wanted. He tore out the first page of law firm listings, pushed the book back on the shelf and left.

  * * *

  Amelia paged through the agreement that Rafe Mendoza had sent with her and read through the paragraphs yet again. The attorney had tried talking her out of some of the stipulations that she’d wanted included, but she’d been adamant.

  “You may c
hange your mind,” he’d argued. “You want to stay in Texas now, but there’s no reason to sign away your choice of moving away later on.” His dark eyes had been kind. “You’re only twenty-three, Amelia. At least think about it.”

  “I won’t change my mind,” she’d told him. But she’d agreed to give it a day and had picked up the agreement that afternoon on her way to the Red Rock regional airport for her return charter to Horseback Hollow.

  She closed the document and tucked it back inside the folder Rafe’s secretary had provided with the custody agreement and then she climbed out of her aunt’s car that she’d borrowed and walked past Quinn’s truck toward the house.

  It was the middle of the afternoon, so she wasn’t particularly surprised when he didn’t answer her knock. When she tried the knob and found it locked, though, she was.

  A lesson learned from the paparazzi, she assumed with a pang of guilt. Once your privacy was invaded, it was hard to trust that it wouldn’t happen again.

  Carrying the folder with her, she walked down to the barn and found it empty. There were six horses standing around in the corral next to the barn, their long tails swishing against the heat of the day. She held out her palm over the metal rail and the nearest one nuzzled her palm, obviously looking for a tidbit.

  “Sorry, girl,” she murmured and rubbed her hand down the horse’s white blaze. “Next time I’ll bring a treat.”

  If she’d be allowed a next time.

  Following the road with the grassy strip in the center, she kept walking until it began to dip and she could see Quinn’s tree house tree in the distance. When she drew closer, she heard the distinctive beat of a hammer.

  And even though she’d been gearing herself up for the past twenty-four hours to see him, her mouth still went dry and her chest tightened.

  She tucked the folder under her arm and smoothed back a strand of hair that had worked free from the chignon at her nape. She aimed toward the tree while the hammering grew louder and more distinct, and soon she was standing beneath the shady leaves.