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The Spanish Millionaire's Runaway Bride
SUSAN MEIER


The bride is falling for a stranger…When heiress Morgan Monroe sees nothing about her wedding is her choice – including the groom! – she runs. But Spanish millionaire Riccardo Ochoa is hot on her heels! Morgan wonders why being with Riccardo feels so right?







She ran away from her own wedding...

Now she’s falling for the man who must bring her home!

When heiress Morgan Monroe realizes nothing about her wedding is her own choice—including the groom!—she runs. But her father’s associate, Spanish millionaire Riccardo Ochoa, is hot on her heels, under orders to bring her home! Morgan knows it’s wrong to imagine a romance with this stranger, but why does being with Riccardo feel so right?


SUSAN MEIER is the author of over fifty books for Mills & Boon. The Tycoon’s Secret Daughter was a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, and Nanny for the Millionaire’s Twins won the Book Buyers’ Best Award and was a finalist in the National Readers’ Choice awards. She is married and has three children. One of eleven children herself, she loves to write about the complexity of families and totally believes in the power of love.


Also by Susan Meier

Daring to Trust the Boss

The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Her Brooding Italian Boss

A Bride for the Italian Boss

A Mistletoe Kiss with the Boss

The Boss’s Fake Fiancée

The Princes of Xaviera miniseries

Pregnant with a Royal Baby!

Wedded for His Royal Duty

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


The Spanish Millionaire’s Runaway Bride

Susan Meier






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07723-1

THE SPANISH MILLIONAIRE’S RUNAWAY BRIDE

© 2018 Linda Susan Meier

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my mum, an avid reader, who taught me to love every story.


Contents

Cover (#ua0dc4079-18ba-588d-b444-987474fa3557)

Back Cover Text (#u31006f55-7571-5c96-b729-8070211b4d23)

About the Author (#u945826d8-d7c4-5046-8be2-532bde885d71)

Booklist (#ubde8c47e-7b7b-5e2f-b810-911861f11af0)

Title Page (#u0d4bd395-dbca-512f-a459-a463b9a59e79)

Copyright (#u587593a5-bbbe-5c38-a3eb-51884dd737bf)

Dedication (#u786bf203-e2a7-5199-b036-34a691a86142)

CHAPTER ONE (#udebfbacd-ef55-5560-84e3-b0d6a3a229e2)

CHAPTER TWO (#u84fc1b97-40d4-5a32-9eaf-1867421495cc)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf5651414-4efa-522c-8cef-5e3a4de4971b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ue95149fd-0e10-5ccf-83ab-b85deda44848)

RICCARDO OCHOA DROVE under the portico of the Midnight Sins Hotel on the Las Vegas strip. He got out of his rental—a black Mercedes convertible with white leather interior—and tossed the keys to the valet.

“Don’t take it too far,” he told the twentysomething kid dressed in neat-as-a-pin trousers and a white shirt. “I don’t intend to be long.”

He turned to enter the hotel and almost ran in to a gaggle of giggling women. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

They stopped. Wide-eyed and no longer giggling, the women stared at him.

He hadn’t been living in New York City for years without recognizing that his Spanish accent intrigued American women. As did his dark hair, dark eyes and the fact that he worked out five days a week. To them, he was exotic.

The woman wearing a strapless red velvet dress took a step closer. Her brown hair had been pulled into curls on top of her head. Her green eyes were sultry, seductive. “Are you going inside?”

He smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Maybe I should ditch my friends and join you?”

If he hadn’t been there on business, he probably would have taken her up on her offer for a few hours of drinking and gambling. Just some fun. That might have morphed into a night of romance, but that was it. Not because he didn’t believe in relationships. He’d seen them work. His cousins Mitch and Alonzo had married beautiful women and were as happy as two guys could be.

But some men weren’t built for that kind of life. Riccardo had tried it and had had his heart ripped out of his chest and stomped on—publicly—when his fiancée left him two days before their wedding to reunite with her ex. Gowns had been bought. Tuxes had hung in closets. White-linen-covered tables had lined the rolling lawn of Northern Spain’s Ochoa Vineyards, and she’d walked out without a backward glance.

Humiliation had caused him to swear off relationships, but over the next few years, he’d grown to appreciate the benefits of being single. Not to mention rich. When a man had money, the world was at his fingertips. Though it was his cousin Mitch who had started their company, Ochoa Online, Riccardo took the income Mitch’s websites generated, invested it and made them millionaires, on the fast track to become billionaires. He more than earned his keep.

Which was why he was in Vegas. With the creative genius behind Ochoa Online away on an extended honeymoon, and one of Mitch’s best customers having trouble with his daughter, Riccardo had to shift from moneyman to client problem solver.

“Sorry.” He took the hand of the woman in red velvet and caught her gaze before kissing her knuckles. “I’m here on business.”

She swallowed. “Maybe when your business is done?”

“I’m picking somebody up and driving us both back to the airport.” Morgan Monroe, daughter of Colonel Monroe, owner of Monroe Wines, had run from her wedding. The Colonel wanted her home not just to explain, but for damage control. “I’ll be here two hours, tops.” He released her hand. “Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to meet on my next trip.”

“Maybe.”

He nodded at her and her friends. “Goodbye, ladies.”

The little group said, “Goodbye,” and he walked toward the hotel door, which opened automatically. The sleek, modern lobby welcomed him.

He stopped at the concierge. “I’m looking for Morgan Monroe.” Unlike his ex, Cicely, who’d at least given him two days’ warning, Morgan Monroe had walked halfway down the aisle before she’d turned and run. Her dad had asked his staff to monitor her credit cards and the next day this hotel had popped up. “I’m told she’s a guest here.”

The fiftysomething gentleman didn’t even glance at his computer. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t give away guest information.”

“I’m only asking because her father, Colonel Monroe,” Riccardo said, deliberately dropping the name of her famous father, “sent me.”

The man’s face whitened. “Her dad is Colonel Monroe?”

Riccardo unobtrusively slid his hand into his trouser pocket to get a one-hundred-dollar bill. “The same.”

“I love his wine.”

“Everybody loves his wine.” He eased the bill across the polished counter. “He just wants me to make sure she’s okay.” And bring her home. But the concierge didn’t need to know that.

The man casually took the bill off the counter and stuffed it into his pocket. “It’s against policy to give you her room number, but friend to friend,” he said, motioning for Riccardo to lean closer, “I can tell you I saw her going into the casino about an hour ago. I also happen to know she plays penny slots and loves margaritas. She’s been in the same spot in the far right-hand corner every afternoon since she got here.”

Though Riccardo groaned internally at the thought of getting a drunk woman into his car and onto a plane, he smiled appreciatively at the concierge. “Thank you.”

He turned away from the serene lobby and faced the casino. Twenty steps took him down a ramp, out of the quiet and into a cacophony of noise. Bells and whistles from slots mixed with cheering at the gaming tables and blended with keno numbers. He inhaled deeply. He loved a good casino.

But he didn’t even pause at the rows of slot machines or the game tables, where an elderly gentleman appeared to be hot at blackjack. He made his way through the jumble of people and paraphernalia to the penny slots in the far right-hand corner.

No one was there.

He looked to the left, then the right. He’d walked so far back the noise of the casino was only a dull hum behind him. The vacant slots around him were also silent.

Confusion rumbled through him. Though Monday afternoons typically weren’t as busy as weekend afternoons, the entire corner was weirdly quiet.

“I’m telling you. When you have as little money as you guys have, you can’t play the stock market.”

Riccardo’s head snapped up.

“But my cousin Arnie netted a bundle playing the market!”

“Because of a lucky guess.” The woman talking sighed heavily. “Look, your primary goal should be to make money without losing any of your initial investment.”

Curious, Riccardo followed the sounds of the conversation. He walked down the row and turned right, then stopped. Two cocktail waitresses, an old guy in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, a young guy in a hoodie and two women leaned against the corner machine as a slim blonde in jeans and gray canvas tennis shoes counseled them.

“You can’t guarantee you’ll keep your initial investment buying individual stocks. Mutual funds mitigate the risk.”

One of the waitresses saw Riccardo and nudged her head in his direction. The woman doling out investment advice turned, and Riccardo’s mouth fell open.

He knew it was stupid to think Morgan Monroe would still be in the wedding gown she’d had on when she bolted from St. Genevieve church on Saturday, but he also hadn’t expected to see Colonel Monroe’s high-society daughter in blue jeans and canvas tennis shoes. Her long blond hair hung past her shoulders in tangled disarray. Her enormous blue eyes speared him from behind the lenses of oversize tortoiseshell glasses.

“Get lost, buddy.”

He also hadn’t expected her to snipe at him. Oh, he’d been sure there’d be a little resistance to his putting her on a plane and taking her back to Lake Justice, home of her father’s enormous wine empire. But everything he’d read about Morgan portrayed her as a demure, sweet woman who loved charity work and took in stray cats.

Either the press had absolutely got her wrong, her dad had a really good PR machine, or Morgan Monroe had snapped.

Considering she’d gotten halfway down the aisle at her eight-hundred-person wedding and then turned and run, he was guessing she’d snapped.

He suddenly wondered if that’s what had happened with Cicely. If she’d snapped when she’d called off their wedding—

His heart chugged to a stop. He hadn’t thought about Cicely in years and today he couldn’t stop thinking about her, comparing his situation to Morgan Monroe’s. He didn’t like remembering the humiliation any more than he liked being reminded that it was his own damn fault. Arrogance had made him believe he could make her love him, though she’d told him time and again that she had an ex she couldn’t forget. And pride sure as hell went before his fall.

So, what was he doing getting involved with another runaway bride? Was he nuts?

No. He was helping a client. Plus, the situations were totally different. Cicely had been his fiancée. Morgan was the daughter of the owner of the biggest vineyard on Mitch’s wine website. Riccardo did not intend to get involved with her beyond taking her home to her dad. This wasn’t just a favor for their best client. It was the only way to keep the beloved, world-renowned Colonel from dumping them to start his own wine website and becoming their competition.

* * *

Morgan Monroe barely held back a sigh of annoyance with the guy staring at her. He was good-looking, obviously rich—if his tailored white shirt and Italian leather loafers were any indicator—and clearly confused, just standing there as if he had no idea what to do.

Guessing he had been startled to find someone doling out investment advice by the penny slots, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, and said, “There’s a sea of machines behind you. You can play any one you want. And if you go at least a row away, you won’t even hear us.”

The surprise on his face was replaced by chagrin. “Holding a little stock seminar, are you?”

His voice wasn’t exactly condescending. She really couldn’t tell what it was. But if he thought she would let him insult these people who needed her help, he was mistaken.

“If I were, it would be none of your business.”

The chagrin became a wince. “That’s not true. I’m actually looking for you... Morgan.”

Her chest squeezed. She’d expected her dad to come searching for her. But this guy didn’t look like a private investigator. She glanced at the black trousers and fitted shirt again. Open at the throat, the white shirt revealed tan skin, as if he summered in the Mediterranean. With his accent, he probably did.

“You’re a PI?”

“No. I’m a friend of your father.”

That was infinitely worse. A PI she could handle. A friend of her dad’s? That would take some finesse.

She turned to her group. “I’m sorry, guys. I’m going to need a few minutes. Just stay here. I’ll be right back.” She walked toward her dad’s minion, pointing at the raised circular bar in the middle of the room. “There’s a table open up there.”

Heading for the bar, she assumed the guy would follow her. She used the two minutes of skirting people, slot machines and gaming tables to remind herself she was twenty-five, educated and in desperate need of some time alone. No matter how this guy approached this, she could say, “Tell my dad I love him and I’m sorry he spent a lot of money on the wedding...but I needed some air.”

No. She couldn’t tell a perfect stranger she needed some air. That was stupid. Her dad would roar with fury if she sent this admittedly handsome guy back to him without something concrete.

She reached to pull out her chair, but Handsome Spanish Guy beat her to it.

Giving her a polite smile, he said, “My nanna would shoot me if I let a woman get her own chair.”

She sat. “Your nanna?”

“My grandmother.” He sat across from her. “She lives in Spain. Very much old-school. She likes men with manners.”

So did Morgan. And, wow, she loved this guy’s voice. Smooth and sexy with just enough accent to make him interesting.

But he was here because her dad had sent him. She shouldn’t be noticing that he was attractive. Plus, she’d just walked out on her own wedding. After leaving one guy at the altar two days ago, she was not in the market for another. No matter how gorgeous.

She cleared her throat. “Okay. My dad sent you to find me—”

“I didn’t have to find you. He knows where you are. He wants me to bring you home.”

She gaped at him. “He knows where I am?”

“Did you think I just strolled into this hotel on a lucky guess?”

“No.” As a former secretary of state and a current high-profile business owner, her dad had more money than God and resources to do things Morgan was only beginning to understand. She didn’t need to know how her dad had found her. The point was, he had.

She pulled in a breath and released it slowly enough to get her thoughts together. “Okay, Marco Polo, here’s the deal. The next two weeks had been blocked off for a honeymoon. My dad has an event in Stockholm two days after that, so I have to be home before he leaves. But that also means I don’t have to be anywhere for another twelve days.” She planted her backside a little more firmly on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are. You left your dad with eight hundred confused guests filling the bed-and-breakfasts in town, waiting to see if you’re okay, not to mention one very disoriented fiancé. You’re not dodging the damage control.”

She rose from her seat. “I didn’t want the eight hundred guests. Charles did. I didn’t want the wedding reception at the vineyard. That was my dad’s handiwork. I picked out the dress and my bouquet.” Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears and the emotions that had hit her as she walked down the aisle spiraled through her again. The betrayal. The sense of stupidity for trusting Charles. The sense of stupidity for being so trusting—period.

She very quickly said, “If you’ll excuse me,” turned and headed back to her cluster of new friends, not willing to let this stranger see her cry. Damn it. She’d thought she’d worked through all this in the plane.

She raised her chin. She had dealt with all this on the commuter flight to JFK, while shopping for clothes to change into in the big airport and on the flight to Vegas. That reaction to talking about her wedding was simply a release of stress. She was not unhappy that she’d left Charles. She seriously didn’t care that her dad’s life had been inconvenienced. She’d told them and told them and told them that she wanted a small wedding. No one listened, and eventually she’d let it drop. Because that’s what she’d done since she was twelve, when her mom had died and she suddenly became lady of the house.

Not old enough to really know what to do, she’d taken her father’s advice on everything. That had become such a habit she didn’t even realize she’d let him pick the man she’d marry. For as much as her dad had nudged her in Charles’s direction with frequent dinners at their home and trips to London, Ireland and Monaco that coincided with trips Charles was taking, her dad had also groomed Charles to be his son-in-law.

They’d seemed like the ultimate power couple until Charles’s best man mentioned that fact at the rehearsal-dinner toast. Even he’d seen how Charles had been groomed and all Morgan had to do was wait until her father’s creation was finished to have the perfect man to add to their two-person family.

The crowd had laughed, but her chest had pressed inward, squeezing all the air from her lungs. His toast, no matter how lighthearted, had a ring of truth to it. No. More like a gong of truth. A whole Mormon Tabernacle Choir of truth.

And Charles’s response when she’d confronted him after the dinner? He’d needed her dad’s help. If marrying her was the price, he’d pay it.

When she’d gasped, he’d said he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. He loved her. She was beautiful. Wonderful. A woman so perfect she was more like a reward, not a price. He was sorry his explanation had come out all wrong.

For the hours that had passed between the toast and her trip down the aisle, she’d believed that.

But there was something about walking toward her destiny, dressed in all white, looking sweet and innocent while perpetuating something that felt very much like fraud, that caused her feet to stop, her heart to break. Her dad had controlled everything in her life, from where she’d gone to school to how she dressed and who she’d invite to their gatherings. The man she spent the rest of her life with would be her choice.

“You okay?” Mary, the lead waitress for the afternoon shift, studied her as she walked back to her little investment group beside the last row of slots.

She sucked in a breath and smiled. “I’m fine.” She was fine. Though Charles was history, she wasn’t writing off her dad completely. This was a hiccup in their relationship. A time for her to take a breath, sort out what she wanted, maybe come up with some new rules for how she and her dad would relate. Then she would go back to Lake Justice. Then they would talk.

And no gorgeous Spaniard with a sexy voice was taking her back before she was ready.


CHAPTER TWO (#ue95149fd-0e10-5ccf-83ab-b85deda44848)

RICCARDO STAYED AT the two-person table in the bar. From the raised vantage point, he could see Morgan as she counseled her little band of friends. She was a lot stronger than he’d imagined. He didn’t want to admire her for it. It was his job to bring her home. But he had to admit to a twinge of respect that she could hold her own. Which was good. He didn’t want to feel like he was riding roughshod over her by forcing her onto the plane. He wanted her to see the error of her ways and go home voluntarily to do her duty to her ex. That was more than Cicely had done for him.

He winced. Seriously. He had to stop comparing the two. At least Cicely had talked to him two days before their wedding and been honest. Morgan had just run. She’d embarrassed her groom. Embarrassed her dad. Shocked her guests. And now she wanted to give stock seminars?

Okay. That did speak to her state of mind. Ignoring something wasn’t always a sign of indifference. Maybe she wasn’t ready to handle it yet.

Who was he? Doctor Phil? It was not his job to fix her, just to get her home.

Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to keep her mental state in mind as he guided her to see the error of her ways and agree to come back home with him.

That’s what Mitch would do. And Mitch was their people person.

When the small group broke up, Riccardo glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by. Their flight left in an hour and a half. But it was a short ride to the airport. Of course, he should probably add packing time in there. He might not have luggage, but she did.

Or maybe not.

She’d run from the ceremony, jumped into her car and had gotten to Lake Justice’s small municipal airport in a matter of minutes. She’d caught the commuter flight that just happened to be leaving for JFK International, and that’s why they’d lost her. The plane had taken off as her dad’s people were pulling in to the small airport parking lot.

He could imagine her arriving at Kennedy in her gown, stopping at the first shop she saw and buying some jeans, T-shirts and those superspiffy canvas tennis shoes.

He laughed into his beer before he finished it in one long swallow. He seriously doubted she would want to take home any of the clothes she’d bought if they were anything like what she was wearing now. But he would be more sensitive, more Mitch-like, when he approached her this time.

Except she’d better not call him Marco Polo again. Marco Polo wasn’t even Spanish.

The group dispersed. Morgan took a seat at the last slot machine. She pulled her comp card out of her jeans pocket, inserted it into the poker machine and started playing.

Riccardo rose, tossed a few bills on the bar table and ambled over to her. He sat on the seat of the empty machine beside hers. “So... Our flight leaves in an hour and a half. I know it’s a short ride to the airport, but we do have to go through security.”

“Your flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

“Our flight. You’re coming with me. You’re too nice of a woman to leave your groom upset and wondering what the hell happened.”

“I seriously doubt Charles is upset. We’d had a disagreement the night before. He thought he’d talked me out of being angry. But I’d never been angry. I was hurt. Which means, once again, he didn’t hear what I was saying. Only what he wanted to hear. When I get home, he’ll have a ten-point plan for how we can fix things. And he doesn’t even really know what’s wrong. I have twelve days until I have to be back and I’m taking them.”

He wanted to argue, but saw her point. Something had caused her to run from her own wedding. But it sounded like Charles didn’t care to talk it through. All he wanted was to fix things. That wasn’t very romantic. Or sensitive. Or even nice.

He hated having to drag her back to that, but all he had was her version of things. He knew what it was like to be the brokenhearted groom, totally confused—

And, once again, he was thinking about his own situation, which was entirely different and completely irrelevant. If he was going to take Morgan Monroe home, perhaps he would have to get her to talk about whatever it was that had hurt her and caused her to bolt, and stop thinking about Cicely. Then Morgan would feel better about returning to Lake Justice, and Mitch wouldn’t come home from his honeymoon to find his biggest client gone—and becoming their competition.

He leaned his elbow on the poker machine and studied her. When he’d first seen her, she’d seemed out of place. But really, in her jeans and T-shirt, with her long hair casual, she looked like the average slot player on a Monday afternoon.

He nodded at her machine. “You like poker?”

She peeked over at him, her blue eyes a pretty contrast to the tortoiseshell glasses. “To be honest, I’m just learning to play.”

“That would explain why you threw away the chance for a straight flush.”

“Odds are I’m not going to get it.”

He bobbed his head in a sort of agreement. “Yeah, but when the machine gives you four cards in a row in the same suit and you have two open ends, your odds go up.”

“Odds are odds.”

“What are you? An accountant?”

She glanced over at him. “Yes.”

He remembered the little stock seminar and felt like an idiot for not realizing that. He knew she was educated but he’d never thought a society girl would pick such a practical major. Her dad only talked about her charities. He’d made her sound like a sort of helpless Southern belle though they lived in upstate New York.

“You’re like a CPA?”

“I am a CPA.”

Her machine gurgled the music of a lost game and she hit a few buttons to make her bets and start the next game. Cards appeared on the screen. She threw away two twos.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Two twos don’t pay out.”

“No. But three of a kind does. So does two pair. Starting off with two twos you have a good chance of getting another two or another pair and both of those hands pay.”

“Chump change.”

He laughed. “What?”

“I want to win. I don’t just want to keep playing.”

That was a weird strategy if ever he’d heard one. And he’d certainly heard his share in Monaco. “Who taught you that?”

“The guy who was sitting beside me on Sunday night.”

“He was a professional gambler?”

“No. He manages a couple fast-food restaurants.”

“And you thought this made him a genius poker player?”

She tossed her hands in the air. “Hell if I know.”

He scooted over to get closer to her. He’d take this opportunity to become her friend and eventually she’d spill the story. He could sympathize and in a few minutes they’d be in his rental, heading for the airport.

“Okay, look.” He pointed at the ranking of hands. “See this list here? This is what pays out and how many points.”

“I know that.”

“If you have a pattern that you use all the time, the machine will become accustomed to it and use that against you.”

Her pale blue eyes narrowed.

“If you only go for what seems like a sure thing, it will set you up so that you keep getting those opportunities, then never give you the cards you need to make the hands, so that you lose all your money.”

“Oh.” She thought about that a second. “I should shake it up? Not play the same way all the time.”

“Exactly. But on another trip.” Now that they were friends, or at least friendly, they could talk about her wedding in the car. “Right now, we need to get you home.”

She looked over at him. “We have to leave this very second? What’s a few more hands going to hurt? I just want to try out what you told me.”

He’d expected a bit of a protest. Maybe an argument. But getting her to think about her fiancé must have caused it to sink in that she had to take responsibility for what she’d done. She hadn’t even blinked when he mentioned leaving.

He caught her gaze and saw a muddle of emotions in her blue eyes. Sincerity? Regret? Or maybe fear? She wasn’t exactly returning to a celebration.

A twinge of guilt rippled through him for pushing her. The least he could do was teach her some strategies.

“Okay. A few hands.”

“And you’ll show me what to do?”

“Sure.”

He didn’t know how it happened, but a couple of hands turned into forty minutes of playing, which put them behind the eight ball. Though she’d seemed to have had a good time and was definitely a quick study, the fun had to end now.

“Okay. That’s it now. Time to go.”

She hit the button to cash out and got the little slip that told her she had thirty-eight dollars coming.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Thirty-eight dollars.” She caught his gaze. “Hardly seems worth it.”

“Most people who gamble enjoy the game.”

“Really? Because I’ve seen video poker games that are handheld. Our cook, Martha, has a ton of them. It’s how she fritters away time waiting for doctor appointments or bread to rise.”

He shrugged. “People enjoy the game.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t spend money playing. She owns her handheld machines and can enjoy anytime she wants.”

He sighed.

“If it’s all about playing a game, enjoying a game, why not just buy the game? Why involve betting?”

“Are you trying to ruin Vegas for me?”

She laughed. “No. I mean, come on. If playing the game is the attraction and not gambling, why not just use a handheld poker game?”

This time his sigh was eloquent. “Do not ruin Vegas for me.”

“I’m not ruining it. I’m just pointing out that your argument doesn’t hold water.”

“You’re a stickler for logic.” And obviously so was her fiancé. Anybody who’d have a ten-point plan to fix their canceled wedding had to be logical. Was that how they’d ended up together? Two people who were so much the same it seemed inevitable that they get married?

“I am a stickler for logic. So sway me. Why do you really come to casinos?”

He looked into her eyes again and saw the quiet remnants of pain, even though she was very good at pretending she was fine. If talking about himself made her comfortable, calm enough that she’d be compliant through their trip, then so be it.

He shrugged. “I come to Vegas for the people, the crowds, the noise, the excitement.” He couldn’t stop a smile. “You never know who you’re going to meet here. You can sit beside a sheikh at a blackjack table and end up a guest at a palace. Or meet the daughter of a rock star and end up backstage at a concert.”

“Interesting.”

She glanced around. The way her eyes shifted, he could tell she was seeing the place from a new perspective. If only for a few seconds, her sadness lifted.

“It’s about people for you.”

“Yes.” It was one thing to help her get comfortable, quite another to let this conversation derail his plans. He’d be happy to discuss anything she wanted, just not now. He pointed to the exit. “But we’ll talk about it on the way to the airport or on the plane.”

She slid off her chair. “I have to pack.”

“You have five minutes! I’m serious. Five. I’ll get the car.”

She nodded.

He started walking away but turned back. “And, honestly, I have no idea why you’d want these clothes. If I were you, I’d leave them.”

She laughed.

A strange sensation invaded his chest. Even in those big glasses, she was incredibly beautiful. Add adorably logical and laughing—

He yanked himself back from the feeling that almost clicked into place. Attraction. He wasn’t worried that he’d fall for her. His heart had been sufficiently hardened by Cicely. So the pullback was quick, easy, painless. Especially given that Morgan had also publicly dumped some poor guy.

He headed out to the valet. When the kid returned with his rental car, he gave him a good tip for being speedy. He slid behind the steering wheel and locked his gaze on the door. The first five minutes had already passed, so when a second five minutes ticked off the clock he got nervous. The third five minutes had him slapping the steering wheel. She’d ditched him.

He shoved open his door, apologized to the valet for needing a few more minutes and raced into the lobby, hoping to see her checking out at the registration desk. But the place was quiet.

The concierge slipped away from his station and ambled up to him. “Your friend left.”

He spun to face the short, bald man. “What?”

“She checked out, rolled her suitcase through the casino—not the front door—and slipped out of one of the back exits.” He cleared his throat. “I probably shouldn’t have watched her, but it’s kind of hard not to see a beautiful woman rolling an ugly black suitcase through the casino.”

Riccardo pressed his fingertips into his forehead. He’d been duped. And in the most obvious, simple way. She’d used up all their time, gotten him to trust her and just walked away.

He was an idiot.

No. He had trusted her.

Hadn’t he told himself he should never again trust a pretty girl?

* * *

Morgan entered her new room at the hotel right beside Midnight Sins. She felt just a teeny bit bad for deceiving the handsome Spanish guy. Not just because her dad had made him a pawn in a game that didn’t have to be a game—she only wanted her twelve days to think about what to say, and how to handle him when she went home—but also because he was interesting. And fun. In a weird way, it was nice having someone so curious about her, even if it he was only asking her questions to figure out how to get her on the plane with him.

She took a shower, fixed her hair and slid into a slinky black dress she’d bought at one of the many shops in Midnight Sins. She wasn’t here to have fun, but she didn’t intend to sit in her room and mope, either. She’d spent her entire life semisheltered. She’d had a path at university. She’d had a path with Charles. And her dad had had too big of a hand in creating those paths. For the next twelve days, she did not want a path. She just wanted to live. Breathe. And eventually figure out an explanation for running that would appease the man who’d spent his life first fighting in wars and then preventing them.

Right now, living meant getting a salad, maybe having a gin and tonic and going to a show.

She grabbed her small beaded evening bag and left her room. Though she’d never been to Vegas before, she’d happily discovered that once she checked in to a hotel, she didn’t need to leave for anything. She could sleep there, gamble there, eat there, buy a bathing suit in a shop and sunbathe at the hotel pool. She would be right under Handsome Spanish Guy’s nose and he would never find her because he’d have to check hundreds of hotels. And then he’d have to find someone willing to tell him she was a guest.

The odds were absolutely in her favor.

Happy, she took the regular elevator to the first floor then a designated elevator to the rooftop restaurant, where she had a reservation.

The maître d’ greeted her effusively and led her to the private table in the corner. With its walls of windows, the restaurant provided a view of Las Vegas that astounded her. She sat, smiled at the maître d’ and took her menu. A minute later she gave her drink order to a friendly waiter and he left her alone to decide what she wanted to eat. She should have at least glanced at her food choices, but the view from forty stories up was too captivating. Lights and color twinkled silently below. Beyond the city, the desert was so dark she swore the world ended at the city limits.

The blackness in the window was interrupted by a strip of white. Something shiny winked. She saw the reflection of a hand.

She spun around and there was Handsome Spanish Guy. The man who wanted to take her home.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Riccardo Ochoa.” He pointed at the seat across from her. “May I join you?”

She tossed her hands in despair. “No! What part of ‘I’m trying to get some peace and quiet’ do you not understand?”

“Well, most of it—since I come to Vegas to meet people and have fun.”

“I came here to rest my brain. I know I have to go home and face all of this but I just want a breather.”

He sighed, pulled out the chair opposite her and sat. “You are not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Why do you care?” She sighed. “Look. Whatever my dad is paying you, I’ll double it.”

“He’s not paying me. He’s a client of my cousin’s firm.” He made a quick signal to summon the waiter and ordered a Scotch.

When the waiter left, she said, “And my dad threatened to walk if you didn’t bring me home.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you but if you’re counting on taking me home to keep him as a client you’re going to lose him.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve never failed on a mission. Never. When I promised to return you to Lake Justice, you were as good as home.”

She shook her head. “So arrogant.”

He laughed but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m Spanish. We invented arrogant.”

“It must have really hurt your pride that I lost you.” She frowned. “How did you find me so quickly?”

His Scotch came with the drink she had ordered. He took a long swallow. “Your credit card.”

“My credit card?”

“Your dad got you that card when you were at university, right?”

“Yes, but I took it over. I pay the bill.”

“He still has the number and his name is on the account. Yesterday, he realized he could log in online. Now, every time you use it, he sees where you are.”

She slapped her evening bag on the white linen tablecloth. “Damn it.” She’d been so stressed out, she’d completely forgotten that.

“You’re not getting away from me.” He smiled. “Unless you have another card.”

“I don’t.” She sighed. “Well, I do, but my dad’s staff got me that one, too.” She drank her gin and tonic in one long gulp, thinking through her options, which, right at this moment, stunk.

“Sort of a little too attached to Daddy, maybe?”

She rose. “That’s actually the point.”

No matter what hotel she checked in to, her dad would know her location from the charge record. No matter where she flew, same deal. She could rent a car, but that would be on a card, too, and even if she drove a hundred miles away, every time she stopped for gas her dad would know where she was.

She started toward the restaurant door.

Riccardo jumped up. “Really? We’re going to play this game?”

He pulled a few bills from his pocket and tossed them on the table. When he caught up to her at the elevator, he said, “There’s nowhere for you to go. You’re trapped.”

Oh, she knew that better than anybody else.

She cast him a sideways glance. As long as her dad knew where she was, there would be someone coming after her. If this guy failed, her father would just send somebody else.

She’d already fooled Riccardo Ochoa once. She liked her odds with fooling him again. And she had a plan. She and her mom had spent many a week in Chicago shopping. She could think things through there just as well as in Vegas. She’d never get Riccardo to fly her to Chicago. But after a bit of time together, she might be able to convince him to drive her there. And she had just the way to do it.

“Do you have a rental?”

“Yes. But I’ll be getting rid of it at the airport.”

She turned, facing him. His gaze rippled from her bare shoulders, past the shimmery sequins of the bodice of her dress to the hem where her skirt stopped midthigh.

The quick look was as intimate as a caress. A light flickered in his dark eyes. She would bet if this guy was interested in her romantically, there wouldn’t be a dull moment. Their summer vacation wouldn’t be a trip to Europe to meet with clients. He’d take her somewhere hot and steamy—

She stepped back, away from him. The last thing she wanted was a man attracted to her when she hadn’t properly dealt with Charles. But she also needed this guy. She had to keep their relationship platonic.

“I don’t want to fly. I don’t want to be in Lake Justice any sooner than I have to be. Drive me—” She felt a prick of conscience, but desperation overwhelmed it. She was twenty-five. Twenty-five. And her dad was theoretically kidnapping her. This was her only move. “Instead of forcing me to fly, and I’ll have a few days to think things through, while my dad calms down.” She caught the gaze of his very suspicious black eyes and smiled prettily, innocently. “I just want a couple of days of peace and quiet. A car ride will give me that as well as give you something to tell my dad about why it’s taking you so long to get me back.”

Those dark eyes studied her. “You won’t run?”

“No.”

“You won’t sneak out of a hotel room in the middle of the night?”

“You’ll have the only keys to the car.”

He still deliberated.

She stood quietly, but confidently. She didn’t intend to sneak out, steal the car, or ditch him. True, she wanted him to take her to Chicago to extend their trip for an additional few days, but she’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

“Okay.”

“Good. Just let me get my bags.”

He laughed heartily. “Right. This time I’m coming with you.”


CHAPTER THREE (#ue95149fd-0e10-5ccf-83ab-b85deda44848)

THEY STEPPED OVER the threshold of her hotel room and Morgan immediately ducked into the bathroom. Riccardo ambled into the small room, but not far. He wasn’t letting her get much more than an arm’s distance away from him until they were at her daddy’s vineyard.

His conscience grumbled a protest. When he’d accepted this assignment, he’d done it out of desperation, to protect everything he and Mitch had built. He hadn’t thought much about the situation beyond the fact that Morgan had dumped her fiancé and she needed to come home and explain herself. Then she’d told him a bit about her fiancé and he’d felt sorry for her.

Then she’d duped him and now he was super suspicious of her.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about her ex’s ten-point plan and the sadness he’d heard in her voice. If he were to guess, he’d say she genuinely believed her fiancé hadn’t loved her.

She stepped out of the bathroom wearing jeans, a tank top and the gray canvas tennis shoes. The curls had been combed out of her long blond hair and she’d pulled it into a ponytail. Her glasses were gone and he suspected she’d put in contacts. She looked innocently beautiful. So beautiful that he could probably disabuse her of the notion that her fiancé hadn’t loved her. There wasn’t a man on the planet who wouldn’t fall for that face.

“You may not like my clothing choices but they are going to come in handy driving across the country.”

He couldn’t argue that. Or the fact that she was beginning to look really cute in jeans. Not quite hot. More like sweet and cuddly.

Thank goodness. Sweet he could resist. Hot? The way she’d looked in that form-fitting black dress? That was his wheelhouse. Instinct had almost taken over and he’d wanted to touch her, to smooth his hands along the lovely curve of her waist. But he hadn’t because he was smart. And now she was dressed like a good girl, not the kind of woman a man played with. She was perfectly safe.

So was he.

In the hall outside her room, he took the handle of the cheap black suitcase that she’d probably bought at the worst shop she could find in the airport on her way here.

“I’ll get this.”

She smiled sweetly. “Thanks.”

He wanted to trust that she really was this compliant, that the promise of several days on the road to calm her nerves had satisfied her. But his pride still stung from the way she’d ditched him at Midnight Sins.

They rode down the elevator and she used her credit card to check out. Then she motioned for him to follow her to an ATM. She withdrew cash three times, getting as much money as she could before the bank shut her off.

“Planning your escape?”

“No. Paying for my own food and hotel.”

“You could use the credit card for that. Your dad’s going to know where you are. Might as well just roll with it.”

She said nothing, simply walked out the front door, her head high, as if it took great effort to preserve her pride, and his damn conscience nudged him again.

He scrambled after her. “It’s not like I’m kidnapping you.”

“If you were, I could at least call the police. As it is, with my dad behind your taking me away, you’re more like a jailer.”

“I’m not a jailer.”

“Sure you are. You’re keeping me from going where I want to go.”

They strode the short distance back to Midnight Sins and he tossed his car keys to the valet, who rolled his eyes as he raced away to get Riccardo’s rental.

“I don’t know what he has to complain about. He gets a tip every time he takes or brings back my car.”

She laughed.

His spirits rose a little. If she could laugh, then he shouldn’t feel too bad. Because she was right. With the way all this was going down, he was her jailer. Or her guard. Which meant she probably felt like a prisoner.

The valet returned and handed the keys to Riccardo, who gave him a tip way beyond what he deserved.

He stowed Morgan’s suitcase in the trunk before getting behind the wheel. “I just realized that I don’t have anything to wear for five days on the road,” he said. “I’d planned on flying to Vegas and back to Lake Justice in the same day.”

“I’m sure we’ll pass a discount store along the way.”

“Discount store?” He glanced over at her as he started the car. He didn’t like being judgmental, but he was just about positive she’d never seen the inside of a big-box store.

But, of course, she wasn’t going to shop there, she was sending him there.

Because she had a low opinion of him?

Probably.

He shouldn’t care. No matter what she thought, she wasn’t a prisoner. And he was more like the accountability police than a jailer. He was taking her back to deal with the fallout from her canceled wedding so that cleaning up the mess didn’t default to her dad or her undoubtedly shell-shocked fiancé. He was doing a good thing, and on some level, she had to agree or she wouldn’t be on the seat beside his.

He pulled the gearshift into Drive and eased off the hotel property into the traffic of the Vegas strip. In the time that had passed since his arrival, they’d transitioned from afternoon to evening. Hotel fountains now spewed water through glorious colored lights. Neon signs began to glow.

Realizing he had no clue where he was going, he took his phone out of his pocket, set it on the dashboard and said, “Directions to Lake Justice, New York.”

After a few seconds, his GPS told him to turn around. He glanced at the green road sign up ahead and sighed. “We’re going the wrong way.”

Morgan didn’t reply.

The GPS took him to the first street where he could make a right. He turned around and headed out to the strip again, except in the opposite direction.

“Okay. Now, we’re on our way.”

She said nothing.

Fine. They could spend the next four or five days in total silence and he’d be happy. She’d probably be happy, too. She’d said she wanted time to think things through. Well, he would give it to her. Jailers or guards or even accountability police didn’t try to make friends with prisoners. They just got them to their destinations.

He refused to feel guilty.

Refused.

Except she’d said her fiancé didn’t listen to her. The idiot had thought she was angry, when she was hurt. Hurt enough to run out on a wedding with eight hundred guests.

Curiosity begged him to ask her about it. Especially since this was nothing like his own past. His fiancée had gone back to the love of her life. Morgan had run to nothing. No one.

The fact that she was quiet made him feel like scum. Even more than when she called him her jailer.

It didn’t take long until they were on the highway, headed northeast to pick up the roads that would take them east. When they left the lights of Las Vegas, the world became eerily dark. Time passed. Riccardo wasn’t sure how much because he’d been so concerned with getting Morgan into the car that he hadn’t checked his watch to see when they’d started out.

He shifted on his seat, uncomfortably aware that he’d awoken at six o’clock that morning in the eastern time zone. And it was now after ten at night, mountain time. Midnight in New York. No wonder his eyelids were scratchy. And he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten.

“Want to stop to find someplace to stay for the night and get dinner?”

“Sure.”

Her reply wasn’t exactly perky or happy, but she didn’t sound sad anymore, either. Ten minutes later, the road signs for a town began to appear, including one that named the available hotels and restaurants. He took the exit and drove to the first hotel.

With Morgan standing beside him, he booked a room for each of them using his own credit card. When he handed her key to her, she gave him the cash to cover her room. Then she took the handle of her suitcase and headed for the elevator.

“Don’t you want dinner?”

She stopped and faced him. “I’ll eat breakfast.”

She turned toward the elevator again, got in and disappeared behind the closing door.

He almost cursed. But not quite. She might not be angry with him but upset with the situation. And the situation was her doing, her problem. Not his. It was not his fault she had no support system. He’d rescued one damsel in distress—Cicely, who had been heartbroken over losing the love of her life—and that had ended in him being humiliated. He had learned this lesson and refused to fall into the same trap. He was a driver—he’d settled on that instead of jailer—not a knight in shining armor.

Besides, he needed something to eat. He didn’t even have a suitcase to drop off in his room. He could go now.

He walked to the sliding glass door of the popular chain hotel. It opened automatically and he turned to the right. A twenty-four-hour, diner-type restaurant was within walking distance. He strolled over, found a booth and ordered a burger and fries.

When his food arrived, his stomach danced. But when he picked up the hamburger and opened his mouth to take the first delicious bite, he remembered that Morgan had been in a restaurant, menu in front of her, when he’d barged in on her and reminded her that he’d always be able to find her because of her credit card. She’d been in that restaurant because she was hungry. No matter what she’d just said.

He sighed, put the burger back on his plate and hailed the waitress again.

“Is something wrong?”

He smiled. “Actually, it looks and smells delicious but I left my friend back at the hotel. Could I get a burger and fries to go for her?” The waitress nodded but before she turned away, he lifted his plate. “And could you put this in a to-go container, too?”

She took his plate. “I’ll be glad to.”

Twenty minutes later, he arrived back at the hotel with a bag containing two orders of fries and two burgers. Remembering her room number, he pushed the elevator button for her floor and inhaled deeply as the little car climbed. When the bell chimed, he stepped out and walked down the hall.

He hesitated at her door but only for a second. His nanna would shoot him for letting anyone go hungry, especially a woman in his custody.

He knocked twice and waited. After a few seconds, her door opened as far as the chain lock would allow.

“Checking up on me, Mr. Jailer?”

“No.” He displayed the bag of food. “I bought you a hamburger.”

“Leave it outside my door. I’ll get it.”

“Come on. Let me in. I’m sorry for my part in this but I made a promise and I keep my promises. If you’re angry, it’s because you don’t like the idea of going back and facing the music.”

She closed the door, undid the chain lock and opened it again. “No. I’m angry because I honest-to-God thought I’d get almost two weeks to think all this through before I had to go home and settle things with my dad and Charles.” She motioned him over to the small table at the back of the room. “I should have laughed at the best man’s dumb wedding toast, but what he’d said was true. My dad had groomed Charles to be his son-in-law and I’d fallen in line like a fluffy sheep. I would like a few days to consider all sides of the argument I’m about to have, so I’ll know what to say and I can win.”

His curiosity about how she hadn’t seen what was going on and had been a sheep almost overwhelmed him. But if he asked for specifics he’d become involved and he didn’t want to be involved. Rescuing Cicely had been enough.

He pulled the containers out of the bag and set them on the table. “You can think the entire drive.” She didn’t reply, but he noticed she also didn’t say no to the food. “The orders are the same. Bacon burgers and fries.”

She smiled stupidly. “I haven’t had a burger in years.” She peeked over at him. “Not since college.”

“Really?”

“There’s a lot of fat in beef.”

“I know. I love it.”

She shook her head then sat on one of the two chairs at the table. “At least I don’t have to worry about fitting into a gown.”

Taking his cue from her, he sat on the chair across from her. “There is that.”

She bit into the hamburger and groaned in ecstasy. “That’s so freaking good.”

He laughed.

She tried a fry and her eyes closed as she savored it. “I can’t eat like this the whole trip. We have to have a salad now and again.”

“Noted.” He also noted she hadn’t called him a jailer again and she was making small talk. He bit into his burger and his stomach sighed with relief. He ate three bites and four fries before he realized she’d gone silent again.

She did have things to work out before she talked to her dad. But his curiosity rose again. Plus, he didn’t want her to be sad for five long days. Surely, he could hear the story without wanting to jump in and fix things for her.

“What did your fiancé’s best man say in the toast that made you feel like a sheep?”

She shrugged. “That my dad had groomed Charles to be his son-in-law. Not even my husband. His son-in-law.” She shook her head as if she could shake away the anger. “But it wasn’t all about the toast. The toast merely confirmed odd, disjointed thoughts I’d been having for a few months before the wedding. My first doubts appeared while we were planning. I realized that Charles insisted on his own way a lot.”

“Were you one of those brides who’d planned her wedding when she was six and got mad when he asked for a few changes?”

“No. It was more that he had this grand, elegant event planned, and since I was sort of clueless about what I wanted, I went along.”

“Makes sense.”

For the first time in hours she held his gaze. The sadness was gone from her pretty blue eyes, but not the confusion.

“Yes. At the time, it did.”

“But eventually it didn’t?”

“No, eventually I saw that he got his own way a lot. That he always told me what we’d be doing. Everything from vacations to whose Christmas parties we’d attend.”

“Ah.”

“Then I noticed that if I tried to get something my way, he’d bulldoze me.” She suddenly closed the lid on her container of food, which was still half-uneaten, and bounced out of her seat. “You know what? That’s enough about me and my almost wedding to Charles.” She tossed her container in a wastebasket under the small, wooden desk and turned to him with a smile. “I’m tired and I’m talking about things I haven’t even worked through.”

He understood why her realizations infuriated her enough that she was done talking. Cicely had been all about getting her own way about their wedding, too, and he’d wanted so much to make her happy that he always fell in line.

“I knew somebody like that. We were engaged.”

“What happened?”

“She called off the wedding.”

She grimaced. “Like me?”

“No. She called it off a few days before so we had a chance to cancel things like flowers and the caterer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell you that to make you feel worse. I wanted you to understand that I’ve dealt with someone who was selfish, too. Cicely didn’t let me have a say in our wedding and though she didn’t exactly bulldoze, she did have a knack for always getting her own way.”

Morgan laughed.

He smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Her head tilted and her eyes met his. “I don’t feel better. I may never feel better. I was suffocating in that dress, walking down the aisle. Turning and running was like saving myself...like a survival instinct.” She drew in a breath and huffed it out again. “But I upset people. And I’m not used to that. I’m not used to putting myself first at the expense of others. When I turned and ran, I lost the girl who would never in a million years hurt another person. So, no. I don’t feel better. I may never feel better again.”

* * *

The next morning, he brought breakfast sandwiches to her room. Morgan suspected that was to keep her moving, but he need not have worried. She didn’t intend to slow him down. She wanted him to trust her again. When they reached the point in the highway when one simple turn would take them to Chicago, she wanted him to be willing to take it.

“Can I help with your suitcase?”

A week ago, she wouldn’t have minded a man being deferential to her. Now? She just wanted to do things herself. To be herself. But she wouldn’t argue something so stupid and risk alienating him. She let him wheel her bag out to the parking lot.

When they had settled in the car, she pointed up the road. “I see a few stores along there. Do you want to drive over and get a pair of jeans? Maybe a clean shirt or two?”

He laughed. “Do I smell bad? Or are you prolonging the trip?”

“Neither.” She pulled in a breath. There was no time like the present to start the campaign to get him on her side. “As I told you last night, I’m normally a very considerate person. Now that the shock is wearing off, part of the real me must be coming back.”

He glanced over. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I thought about what you’d said about how you felt when you bolted, and I realized there probably isn’t a person in the world who doesn’t understand the feeling of suffocating when you’re with someone who always has to have their own way.”

Though he didn’t know that her dad was really the one suffocating her, she smiled. “Thank you.”

The conversation died as he drove them to one of the big-box stores. As they got out of the convertible and headed for the door, she realized she was okay in her jeans and canvas tennis shoes, but in his expensive white shirt and black trousers he looked like he’d just stepped off the Las Vegas strip—at one of the better hotels. People were going to stare.

The automatic doors opened as they approached. When they walked inside, he got a cart.

She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“I need clothes for three or four days.” He nodded at his shiny handmade Italian loafers. “I’m not wearing these anymore. I want tennis shoes. Even with two of us to carry things, there’ll be too much for us to tote around.”

“I’m not talking about the clothes. What are you doing being so familiar with a shopping cart at a retail store?”

He laughed. “I came to this country a few years ago. And I’ve been exploring ever since. I don’t shop at stores like this often but I’ve investigated them.”

It was a real struggle not to laugh, then she wondered why. If she moved to Spain, she’d probably investigate things, too. At least she hoped she would. Lately, she was beginning to realize she didn’t know herself at all. Oh, she knew she was kind, a decent human being. But she’d taken a job at her dad’s vineyard that wasn’t even remotely challenging. She’d let it blow by her that her dad had thrown her and Charles together. And she’d been complacent with Charles. Where was the little girl who’d wanted her life to be an adventure?

She didn’t even have to wait for the answer to pop into her head. That little girl had grown up and realized she had only one parent and if she displeased him she’d be all alone.

That was really the bottom line to her battle. Her dad was her only family. She loved him and didn’t want to fight or argue. But she was an adult now, not a little girl, and she couldn’t let him go on telling her what to do and how to do it. She had to take her life back.

Still, her dad was a brilliant, powerful man, accustomed to getting his own way. Could she make him see he was suffocating her? And if she did, would he stop? Could he stop?

Or was the real solution to her problem to leave? Permanently. Pack her bags. Get an apartment. And never see him again.

The thought shot pain through her.

That’s why she needed the few days. To adjust to the fact that the conversation she needed to have with her dad just might be their last.

* * *

Riccardo recognized that his familiarity with the store totally puzzled Morgan, but within minutes he was preoccupied with getting himself enough clothes for what would probably be another four days on the road.

They returned to the rental car, drove back to the highway and were on the road for six hours before they stopped to get a late lunch. They drove and drove and drove until afternoon became evening and evening became night and—honestly—his backside hurt.

“I think we should stop for the night.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“I thought I’d shower and put on clean clothes, then we could get something to eat.”

“Sure.”

Her one-word answer didn’t annoy him. It simply made him feel funny. After almost two days together, hearing bits and pieces of some of the most emotional, wrenching parts of her life, it seemed weird that she was back to behaving as if they were strangers. It was good that she was no longer calling him her jailer, but he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. He’d thought through her scenario—her dad grooming her fiancé and her fiancé being clueless—and nothing about that screamed running away and needing almost two weeks to get your head straight before you could go home.

Something bigger troubled her.

Except for the times they’d found radio stations, the inside of the car had been silent. She’d had plenty of time to confide in him. But she hadn’t.

When they reached another hotel chain at a stop just off the highway, they got out of the car, registered and went to their rooms.

Showering, he told himself that it was stupid, maybe foolish, to want to hear her full story. Once he dropped her off at her father’s vineyard, he’d probably never see her again. At the same time, he thought it was cruel to put her in a car and drive her home, and then not say anything to her beyond “where do you want to eat?” If they’d flown, they could have stayed silent for the hours it would have taken to get to Monroe Vineyards. But driving was a whole different story. The long days of nothing but static-laced music or the whine of tires should be making her crazy enough to talk if only to fill the void, but she kept silent.

He stepped out of the bathroom and put on a pair of his new jeans, a big T-shirt and tennis shoes. They had dinner at the diner beside the hotel, where she focused on eating her salad, not talking, then he went back to his room and fell into a deep, wonderful sleep. He woke refreshed, took another shower, put on clean clothes again and firmly decided Morgan’s life was her life. Her decisions were hers to make. He wasn’t going to ask her about either.

Just as he was about to pick up his wallet and the rental car keys, his phone rang.

He looked at the caller ID and saw it was Colonel Monroe.

He clicked to answer. “Good morning, Colonel.”

“I’d expected to hear from you yesterday.”

“Things weren’t exactly cut-and-dried with your daughter.”

The Colonel sighed heavily. “What did she do?”

Not about to admit how easily she’d duped him, Riccardo turned the conversation in a different direction. “You know she bolted from her wedding for a reason.”

“What reason? Seriously? What could be important enough that she’d humiliate herself that way?”

He’d never thought of the fact that a runaway bride humiliated herself. Especially not with Cicely. He’d only seen his side of the story—that two days before his wedding the woman who was supposed to love him told the world she didn’t by calling off the wedding. It had been humbling, but worse than that, it had hurt. Hurt to the very core of his being. He’d seen himself as her knight in shining armor. The real prince she was supposed to marry. The guy who would make her life wonderful. And in the end, she’d thrown it all back in his face and left with the man who had crushed her. She’d proved that good guys don’t win. Bad guys do.

“You think she humiliated herself?”

“Sure, Charles and I might be left holding the bag, but we’re also the ones talking to confused guests. What we’re hearing is that everybody thinks she’s a little crazy or selfish...or both.”

He pictured the small town of Lake Justice, filled with concerned friends and neighbors, all expressing sympathy to Charles and questioning Morgan’s sanity. But he knew Charles had hurt her. Now the idiot was sucking up sympathy, at the expense of Morgan’s reputation.

“She’s got a lot of explaining to do, and I sure as hell hope she’s got a reason that doesn’t make things worse. She already looks like a fool. Has she said anything?”

Riccardo winced. If she looked like a fool it was because Charles and her dad had made her into one. At least Riccardo wouldn’t betray her trust.

“No. She hasn’t really said anything.”

“This is so not like her. None of it is. She was always so quiet and so quick to do what needed to be done.”

Another picture began to fall into place in Riccardo’s head. A picture of Morgan taking orders from her famous, powerful dad. Never arguing. Never complaining. Just falling in line.




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