Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Fortune In Waiting

A Fortune In Waiting
Michelle Major


Fortune on the MenuEveryone in Austin is charmed by architect Keaton Fortune Whitfield, the sexy new British Fortune in town—except Francesca Harriman, waitress at Lola May's and the one woman he wants in his life! Can he win the heart of the beautiful American girl?







Fortune On The Menu

Even in a town as eclectic as Austin, Keaton Fortune Whitfield stands out. With his dreamy British accent and his slate-blue eyes, he has captured the fancy of every red-blooded Texas female in town...except one. Francesca Harriman, his favorite waitress at Lola May’s, seems completely immune to his charms. When she’s not on her shift, she’s too busy studying to pay attention to him—which only makes him want her more.

Francesca has been burned before, and she won’t let the Londoner melt her heart. What would a brilliant, wealthy architect want with a commoner like her? She’s not about to abandon her schooling to become Keaton’s catch of the day. Could a hash-slinging waitress really find happiness with a Fortune?


MEET THE FORTUNES

Fortune of the Month: Keaton Fortune Whitfield

Age: 33

Vital statistics: We’re not sure which is sexier—his charming British accent, his brilliant mind or those eyes!

Claim to fame: He’s a world-renowned architect whose genius is exceeded only by his popularity with women. He is also the illegitimate son of philandering millionaire Gerald Robinson, formerly known as Jerome Fortune.

Romantic prospects: It’s Keaton Whitfield.

“The one thing you need to know about me is I’m nothing like my so-called father. The media may paint me as a heartbreaker, but it’s not true. I have never made a promise I couldn’t keep. In fact, I’ve decided to avoid women entirely while I’m here in Austin. Francesca Harriman doesn’t count. She’s my favorite waitress at Lola May’s Homestyle Restaurant, and besides, everyone says she doesn’t date. So there’s no danger here. No possibility of falling for her golden curls, that creamy skin, that curvy figure... I simply love puzzles, and Francesca is an intriguing one. Why doesn’t she date? And is there any man who could make her change her mind? Oh, wait. Right. I am avoiding women entirely...”

* * *

The Fortunes of Texas:

The Secret Fortunes—

A new generation of heroes and heartbreakers!


A Fortune in Waiting

Michelle Major






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


MICHELLE MAJOR grew up in Ohio but dreamed of living in the mountains. Soon after graduating with a degree in journalism, she pointed her car west and settled in Colorado. Her life and house are filled with one great husband, two beautiful kids, a few furry pets and several well-behaved reptiles. She’s grateful to have found her passion writing stories with happy endings. Michelle loves to hear from her readers at www.michellemajor.com (http://www.michellemajor.com).


To Susan and Marcia for everything you do to make this journey such an enjoyable one.


Contents

Cover (#uc20803ac-a268-5e87-bd08-116c27cd7a1e)

Back Cover Text (#udfca4eb1-9026-532e-a342-fd359d9f1552)

Introduction (#u4e375c9b-4761-5954-8b84-1c7d4967e512)

Title Page (#u0ef9bf26-a64c-59c5-9596-533edb37ff34)

About the Author (#u7c42c948-e3c2-5738-b6bc-e5cf5c8ecf3e)

Dedication (#u5d81eac7-4b97-5ef7-86e3-93d6439f03b3)

Prologue (#ubeaed342-4866-580d-b487-5edf686332c2)

Chapter One (#u05d23ead-e536-5c75-9f7b-1478876d8895)

Chapter Two (#u6b8df3c9-ed4b-5877-a1f6-1d423ac75217)

Chapter Three (#u01c73f7e-b64f-5648-abf5-cd36b680961c)

Chapter Four (#u68ea331e-048d-5988-b83d-7d833499f17f)

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)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u404d3f7b-2392-5a2b-ab81-f7edb74d03d9)

Keaton Whitfield watched the snow fall outside the front window of his mother’s cozy flat on the edge of London. The fluffy flakes, cast in a golden hue thanks to the streetlight, floated down for only a few minutes before the night sky cleared again.

“I can’t remember the last time it snowed on Christmas,” his mother said, coming to stand beside him. “It’s good luck.”

Keaton wrapped an arm around his mum, pulling her in for a quick hug. She was several inches shorter than his own six foot two and her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, but she still had the same comforting scent of lavender that he always associated with her. “Everything is good luck to you.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

“You are my best bit of luck,” she answered and turned to face him. “I’m so glad you chose to spend Christmas with us this year, Keaton.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Mum.” He thought for a moment of his own empty flat across town. It had been almost two years since he’d headed up the renovation of the building he lived in near the center of the city. His apartment was spacious and new, boasting a state-of-the-art design that had led one London magazine to name Keaton the heir apparent to one of the UK’s most famous architects, Lord Foster.

But as much as Keaton appreciated the style and amenities of his posh apartment, he’d spent each of the past thirty-three holidays with his mother, having Christmas dinner around the slightly shabby oak table in the house where he’d been raised. Keaton might have earned the finer things in life through his success, but he’d always appreciate where he came from and the woman who sacrificed so much to make sure he had a good life.

“Yet you’re still set on leaving me?” she asked, a small catch to her voice.

He turned and glanced down, hating the worry his mother couldn’t quite hide from her gentle blue eyes. Anita Whitfield still wore her hair in the same simple bob she’d had since Keaton was a lad. Delicate lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and her mouth pulled down on either side before she forced it into a smile.

“I’m moving to Austin for a project,” he corrected. “That isn’t the same thing as leaving you. I’ll be gone for a few months and now that you have a smartphone, we can text or FaceTime whenever you want.”

“That phone you gave me is so smart it makes me feel like a regular idiot,” she complained, making Keaton smile.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” he told her.

She sniffed. “In the past few days, I’ve made more accidental calls with my bottom than by actually dialing any numbers.”

He pulled his mother in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

She squeezed him tightly before stepping away. “I hope you know you don’t have anything to prove to your father,” she whispered.

“Gerald Robinson,” Keaton said through clenched teeth, “is not my father.”

“Keaton.” Anita cupped his cheek like she used to do when he was a boy. “I know he hurt you.”

He turned toward the display of his mother’s Lemax Christmas Village. He rearranged the tiny figures in front of Santa’s workshop, setting them together in groups of three or four. As a boy, his mother’s miniature buildings, figurines and holiday landscapes had been off limits, but he’d routinely snuck over to it, setting the small porcelain figurines into family units, the kind he’d never known.

Until last year, the identity of the man who had deserted his mother when she’d been pregnant with Keaton had remained a mystery. Keaton had been aware, in the inexplicable way of children, that his mother’s heart had been broken by her short-lived love affair. Even as boy, he’d hated the wistful sorrow that filled her eyes when he’d asked about his father. So he’d stopped asking. Instead, he’d channeled his energy into hating the stranger who—to his young mind—was the reason his mum had been forced to work two jobs and still continually scrimp and save in order to support the two of them.

Now that he knew that man was Gerald Robinson, the ridiculously successful and wealthy technology mogul, he was more determined than ever to prove that he’d been better off never knowing his father as a boy.

“You were the one he hurt,” he answered. “Gerald Robinson is nothing to me. I don’t have a thing to prove to that man.”

He said the words with conviction, even though he and his mother both knew they were a lie.

Anita placed a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. “You’ll do well in America,” she murmured, “and I know it will be lovely to visit with the other Fortunes again.”

Keaton nodded. As bitter of a pill as it was to learn that Gerald, who had years ago faked his death as Jerome Fortune so that he could start a new life, was his biological father, Keaton had enjoyed getting to know his half brothers and sisters. He’d always envied his mates who came from big families, and being a part of the Fortune clan—despite his feelings for Gerald—filled a bit of the void inside him.

“You two lovelies had better get seated,” a voice called from the hallway that led to the flat’s kitchen, “Or you’re going to miss the whole of the Christmas feast.”

Keaton took a breath and smiled, watching his mother do the same. Lydia Miles, one of Anita’s close-knit circle of friends, beckoned to them.

Keaton might not have had a large family growing up, but he’d never lacked for love. His mother had cultivated a group of women, her own little village of mother hens, and Keaton had been at the center of their sweetly smothering love and attention.

As he followed his mother into the kitchen, he was accosted on all sides by this brigade of pseudo-mums. They kissed and hugged and pinched his cheek as if, at six foot two, he didn’t tower above the lot of them.

“I’ve made your favorite pudding,” Mary Jane told him.

“And I’ve brought prawns,” Lydia added.

Not to be outdone, Jessa held a plate under his nose. “Don’t forget my pigs in a blanket.”

Keaton laughed and plucked one of the bacon-wrapped sausages off the tray. “I’m going to need to loosen my belt a notch after this dinner,” he said and popped it into his mouth.

“Ah, dearie,” Lydia said, patting him on the shoulder. “Word on the street is you have plenty of notches to go around.”

Keaton promptly choked on the sausage, and the women gathered even closer to take turns gently slapping him on the back.

“Give him some room,” Anita shouted with a laugh. The other women backed away and his real mother handed him a glass of water.

“There are no notches on my belt,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

His mother raised a brow.

“At least not recently,” he amended.

Ever since discovering that Gerald might have a whole passel of illegitimate Fortunes from various dalliances with women over the years, Keaton had curbed his own dating life until it was nonexistent. He was careful with women—both their hearts and in the bedroom—and had remained friends with almost all of his ex-girlfriends. But he still wanted there to be no mistaking the fact that he was nothing like his womanizing father.

Part of why he’d taken the position with the firm in Austin was to work with his half brother Ben on tracking down other children sired by Gerald. Keaton was determined to make it clear that he hadn’t inherited the “ship in every port” tendency of the elder Robinson.

“Sit down,” his mother said, pushing him into a chair at the head of the table. “We can talk about your plans to settle down while we eat.”

“I have no plans to settle down,” he argued, earning a round of reprimanding tsks from the other women. “Sorry, ladies.” He grabbed the wineglass that sat to one side of his plate and took a fortifying gulp. “I’m focused on work right now.”

“Work doesn’t warm you under the covers on a cold winter night,” Lydia mused.

“And you’re such a lovely chap.” Mary Jane beamed at him.

Jessa nodded. “A true catch, Keaton. That’s what you are. And those of us who love and adore you aren’t getting any younger.”

Although he had a feeling he’d regret it, he asked, “Why would you need to get younger?”

His mother dropped into the chair next to him and took his hand. “We love you, darling. But we want some grandbabies to spoil.”

Keaton stifled a groan and took another drink, hoping his mother had more than one bottle on the ready. This was going to be the longest Christmas night of his life.


Chapter One (#u404d3f7b-2392-5a2b-ab81-f7edb74d03d9)

“Y’all back away from that poor man or else his supper’s liable to get cold.”

The two waitresses who had been leaning over the counter at Lola May’s Homestyle Restaurant slowly straightened.

“Just say one more thing for us,” Emmalyn, the petite blonde, cooed.

“How about ‘I’ll have mine shaken not stirred,’” prompted the buxom redhead, whose nametag read “Brandi, with an i”—as if customers in Texas needed the clarification.

“I mean it, you two. Get going.” Lola May, owner and namesake of the diner, swatted at the two young women with the corner of a dishtowel.

“Another time, luv,” Keaton told Brandi, earning a girlish giggle as she backed away.

Lola May, who looked every bit of her sixty-plus years but had a mischievous smile that softened her hard edges, rolled her blue eyes at him. She was exactly the image he had of the type of woman who would run a casual, neighborhood diner in Austin, Texas. One part old-school cowgirl mixed with two parts aging hippie.

Her platinum blond hair, with about a half inch of gray roots, was spiked around her pixie face and each of the past three days he’d been in for dinner, her heavy eye makeup had matched her sparkling earrings. The color du jour was turquoise green and it gave her clear blue eyes an almost otherworldly look when she blinked. The lines across her forehead and fanning out from her eyes could only have been put there by years of stress and hard work.

He recognized them because they reminded him of his mother. Although Anita and Lola May on the surface had nothing in common, there was something about the diner owner that helped ease the twinges of loneliness he’d felt since arriving in Austin a week ago.

The diner was directly across the street from the site of the project he’d come to America to manage, and only a few blocks from the apartment he’d rented. It had been easy to slip into the pattern of having dinner each night at Lola May’s lime-green Formica counter.

He forced his gaze not to stray to the woman hunched over a laptop in the corner booth. That particular waitress had nothing to do with the reason he’d so quickly become a diner regular. Or so he’d been trying to convince himself for the past week.

Lola May wagged a red-tipped nail in his direction. “You’ll never get any peace if you keep charming the waitresses with that accent and your cheeky smile.”

Keaton winked at the older woman. “Well, darlin’,” he drawled in an exaggerated Texas accent, “would it make you happy if I sounded more like a local?”

“Stick to 007,” she said, barking out a laugh. “’Cause you sure ain’t no John Wayne.”

He bit back a grin when she slid a plate with a piece of apple pie onto the counter in front of him. “I don’t remember ordering that,” he argued half-heartedly.

“But you’re going to devour it as always,” she shot back then leaned closer. “You’ve ended every meal here with a slice of my pie. Trust Miss Lola May, handsome. I know what you need.”

At the word need, Keaton couldn’t help glance to the corner booth.

“Need and want are two different things, sugar,” Lola May said softly.

“Everyone flirts with me except her.”

Keaton didn’t realize he’d spoken the words out loud until Lola May chuckled. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist over Francesca,” she cautioned. “It isn’t that she doesn’t like you, but our girl gives new meaning to the phrase ‘nose to the grindstone.’”

One side of Keaton’s mouth curved as he watched the gorgeous blonde in the corner blow a wayward curl out of her face before typing furiously on her laptop’s keyboard.

Francesca. He’d heard the other waitresses call her that, and the name fit her. With her mass of golden hair, creamy skin and her lushly curved figure, Francesca looked more like a Botticelli muse than a waitress in a diner near Austin’s trendy South Congress neighborhood.

“She’s taking a full course load over at the university,” Lola May continued, “in addition to her schedule here. I don’t think she’s had a day—or even an hour—off in months.”

“Why does she take on so much?”

“That’s her story, handsome.” Lola May picked up his empty dinner plate and pushed the pie closer to him. “I’ll just tell you she’s a great little gal and deserves better than what—” She paused until Keaton glanced up at her then continued, “Or who she got stuck with in her life.”

Keaton watched as Francesca moved a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the muscles there. Well, if she needed a massage, he’d be glad to...

No.

An image of Gerald Robinson popped into his mind and he willed it away. He’d committed to a moratorium on dating during his time in Austin. It seemed easier to go cold turkey on the dating front than to have temptation constantly beckoning to him. He wasn’t going to take the chance that anyone, especially his new siblings, might confuse him with the man who’d broken his mother’s heart so many years ago.

Still, he couldn’t seem to look away from the blonde. Just as Lola May disappeared into the kitchen, Francesca’s head lifted. Her eyes widened as their gazes clashed and sparks seemed to dance on the air between them.

Keaton swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as his body went on alert in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. He liked women. He appreciated women. Hell, he’d been raised solely by women. He’d had plenty of girlfriends and recognized mutual attraction.

Yet there was something different about this Francesca, and damn if he didn’t want to figure out what it was. He’d loved puzzles as a kid. Alone in the flat after school with his mum at work, he’d spent hours poring over jigsaw pieces, trying to decipher exactly where they fit to make the picture complete.

That’s what Francesca... Bloody hell, he didn’t even know her last name. But that’s what she felt like to him. A missing piece. Maybe he’d spent too long in his own company, but he knew he’d have a difficult time walking away until he understood exactly where she fit in his life.

He had a feeling the trick was going to be convincing her to let him.

* * *

Francesca Harriman slammed shut the door of her apartment above the diner and toed off one of the well-worn cowboy boots she’d been wearing all day, kicking it across the floor.

It landed with a thud against the coffee table, and a moment later, her roommate, Ciara James, burst from the bathroom. She was clutching a towel around her, water dripping from her long dark hair, and brandishing a...

“Is that the toilet bowel scrubber?” Francesca took a step back.

Ciara blew out a relieved breath and lowered the makeshift weapon. “You scared the pants off me,” she said with a laugh.

“You were in the shower,” Francesca countered and kicked off her other boot. “I doubt you were wearing pants.”

“Give me thirty seconds before you melt down,” Ciara answered, pointing the toilet bowl brush at Francesca. She disappeared back into the bathroom and Francesca dropped to the sofa, letting her head fall back onto the cushions.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on moving air in and out of her lungs at a normal rate. She wasn’t going to melt down. She did not have time for a major freak out, or even one of the minor variety.

So why wouldn’t her stupid heartbeat settle? The answer that appeared in her brain was in the form of pair of sinfully sexy blue eyes staring at her from across the diner.

With a growl, she jumped up from the couch and stalked to the postage-stamp-sized galley kitchen. She stood on tiptoe and reached for the top shelf of the cabinet, sighing slightly as her fingers closed around the bar of chocolate Ciara had stashed there.

“Hey,” her roommate shouted and Francesca whirled around, tearing off the wrapper and shoving a bite of blessedly rich chocolate into her mouth. “That’s my secret spot,” Ciara complained. “It’s hidden from you.”

“You’ve got to do better than that,” Francesca said after chewing. “I’m a professional chocolate hound.”

“Girl, you need more willpower.”

“I’ve got an accounting exam the day after tomorrow,” Francesca said with a groan. “I need brain food.”

“I left you two squares on the table this morning,” Ciara answered, “just like you told me to do.”

Francesca sagged against the counter and handed over the remainder of the chocolate bar. “I know. I’m weak. I’m so weak.”

With a small laugh, Ciara broke off another two squares and handed them to Francesca. “I have a feeling the emergency is related to more than your classes, but desperate times and all that.”

“You’re a life saver, Ci.”

“Do you want to talk about why you came slamming in here like someone had just stolen your favorite bottle of conditioner?”

Francesca smiled. “If you had these curls to tame,” she said, pulling at the ends of her hair, “you’d take your conditioning seriously, too.” She nibbled the corner of a chocolate square—a nibble full of willpower and self-control. “It’s the Brit,” she whispered after a moment.

Her friend blinked before a wide grin spread across her face. “The one who’s been eating at the diner every day this week?”

“I need to concentrate,” Francesca answered with a nod. “I can’t with him lurking around Lola May’s all the time. He’s distracting.”

“In the best way possible,” Ciara agreed. “And I wouldn’t exactly call ordering food and leaving awesome tips ‘lurking.’”

“He’s a good tipper?”

“Amazing. A fact that you would know if you didn’t trade tables every time he sat in your section.”

“I don’t... It isn’t... He makes me nervous.”

“It’s the way he looks at you.”

“He doesn’t look at me in any way,” Francesca argued, biting down on her lip. “It’s the accent. It’s weird.”

Ciara shook her head. “Weird is Mr. Fenke spooning his leftovers into all those little plastic bags he carries in his pockets. The accent is hot.” She leaned in closer. “The way he looks at you is even hotter, like he wants to carry you across the moors in the misty morning fog.”

“There are no moors in Austin.”

“You know what I mean.”

Francesca did know, and that was the problem. Keaton Whitfield—yes, she’d researched his name from one of the receipts in the register—made her wish they lived in a land of romantic moors and mist and that she was the type of woman to be carried anywhere by a man.

More like the type to carry his bags.

“I’m finally getting caught up on life,” she told Ciara. “I can’t afford to backslide again.”

“Not every man is going to treat you like your ex-boyfriend. Lou the Louse was a special kind of jerk.”

“I get that.” Bitterness welled up in Francesca at the mention of his name. She’d dated Louis Rather for almost six years, and the fact that she’d been stupid enough to think he loved her still made her mad enough to spit. She’d put her entire life on hold to cater to a man, and when she’d finally left him, it was with the bone-deep conviction that she’d never make that same mistake again. “I was a fool for Lou for way too long. I don’t trust myself to recognize heartbreak when it’s standing right in front of me.”

“Whoa, there, cowgirl.” Ciara’s smile was gentle. “You’ve just skipped over all the fun parts and gone straight to heartbreak.”

“That’s where I end up with men,” Francesca muttered.

Ciara sighed. “I heard the hottie Brit say he was only in town for a few months. He’s some kind of big-wig architect working on the Austin Commons project.” She boosted herself up onto the counter. “Think of it as short-term fun.”

“That’s not exactly how my mind or my heart works.”

“Come on, Francesca. You work and study all the time. You never go out. You don’t date. You’re only twenty-four, and you are the least fun person I know.”

“I’m fun,” Francesca protested, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m a ton of fun.”

“Prove it.” Ciara pointed a finger in Francesca’s direction. “Flirt with the Brit.”


Chapter Two (#u404d3f7b-2392-5a2b-ab81-f7edb74d03d9)

The following evening, Francesca untied her apron and hung it on a peg in the back hallway of Lola May’s, taking an extra moment to smack her open palm against the wall a few times.

Since her conversation with Ciara, she’d thought of little else besides flirting with Keaton. The problem was Francesca didn’t know how to flirt. She’d only had one boyfriend in her life, and she and Lou had started dating back when they were still in high school. He was the bad boy of their class, an indie rocker who wore leather and a permanent scowl. All the girls from her tight-knit Austin community had crushed on him, including Francesca, even though she could barely bring herself to make eye contact.

But Lou had chosen her, literally picked her out of the crowd during one of his concerts at a neighborhood festival. After that, they were a couple. No flirting needed. She belonged to him.

At first she’d been overwhelmed and embarrassingly grateful. For a girl who’d grown up with the nicknames “Fat Frannie” and “Frizzy Frannie,” gaining the attention of a boy like Lou had felt accomplishment enough. There was no doubt in either of their minds that Lou was doing her a great favor by letting her be his girlfriend.

For years, Francesca had shown her gratitude by taking care of him and his bandmates, which had left her more of a glorified roadie than a girlfriend. It sure hadn’t left her much inclination or opportunity for flirting, unless it was vicariously as she watched a parade of groupies throwing themselves at Lou. Apparently, that kind of overt flirting worked with some men because she’d eventually found Lou in the arms of one of those same groupies.

So, yeah, Francesca had never had much use for flirting. Her skills at talking to men weren’t just rusty. They were non-existent, especially when the man was as handsome as Keaton. Emmalyn and Brandi, the other two waitresses who had shared yesterday’s shift with her, had no such problems.

Maybe Ciara had imagined the way he’d looked at Francesca. What did either of them know about how things were done in England, anyway? Chances were he gave that smoldering, carry-you-off-across-the-moors look to every woman.

She pulled her laptop bag off the hook and headed down to her corner booth. The booth didn’t exactly belong to her, but as long as the restaurant wasn’t full, Lola May let her use it to study. Francesca was such a fixture in the corner that the diner’s regulars purposely left that table empty.

Just as she walked out, she heard a deep voice boom, “We don’t need no fancy-schmantzy strip mall clogging up the street, and we don’t need no foreigner trying to tell us how things should be built in Texas.”

Francesca suppressed a groan and searched for Lola May in the restaurant. Johnny Keller was one of her least favorite customers. A long-time resident of the neighborhood, he was loud and brash and the stingiest tipper she’d ever met.

She knew his opinion about the recent gentrification of the neighborhood, including the project Keaton was developing. Everyone in a ten-block radius knew Johnny’s opinion and it was always negative. Lola May could keep him in line, but Francesca didn’t see her feisty boss at the moment. Then she remembered Lola May had taken off early to go watch her grandson’s Little League game. No wonder Johnny had picked tonight to give grief to Keaton.

She couldn’t quite make out Keaton’s quiet response, but from the way Johnny’s shoulders stiffened, it wasn’t what the old blowhard wanted to hear.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, boy,” Johnny was saying now, “but our people won the war against your people. Take that as hint, ya hear?”

“Are you referring to the Revolutionary War?” Keaton inclined his head. “The one that was fought over two hundred years ago?”

Johnny placed his meaty hands on his hips. “Texas never forgets.”

Francesca stepped between the two men before Keaton could answer. “Johnny, Texas wasn’t even a state at that time.” She made her voice light and teasing. No use antagonizing him. “You know we would have been the capital of the whole dang country if we’d been around back then.”

She darted a glance at Keaton, who looked like he was trying to hold back a smile, then forced her gaze to return to Johnny. If Keaton smiled at her she’d probably melt into a puddle all over the floor. This was the closest she’d been to him and the proximity made little sparks dance all over her skin.

“Damn straight, honey,” Johnny agreed. “You don’t mess with Texas.”

She put a gentle hand on his arm. “And there’s no need to mess with a man who’s just doing his job.”

Johnny shook his head. “I’m telling you, we don’t need more highfalutin types changing up the spirit of the area.”

“I wouldn’t let Lola May hear you say that,” Francesca warned, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Why?” Johnny leaned closer. The man had a healthy fear of the diner’s hot-tempered owner. “Don’t tell me she supports all this new stuff.”

“She’s keeping an open mind,” Francesca said, giving a small shrug. “We all need to, Johnny. I’ve lived here my whole life, but change is bound to come and it doesn’t have to be bad.” She nodded toward Keaton without making eye contact. “He may be British, but he’s got a fantastic reputation as an architect. Our neighborhood is in good hands with Keaton Whitfield.”

She held her breath as Johnny looked between her and Keaton. Other than the fact that he liked to hear himself talk, the man was basically harmless. But Francesca needed to get to her review sheet for accounting, so she didn’t want to prolong this conversation. Plus, she could feel Keaton’s gaze on her almost as if it were a physical touch. The man was seriously messing with her equilibrium.

“If you’re vouching for him, Miss Frannie, then I guess I’ll give him a chance.” He shoved a hand past her and Keaton shook it. “I’ll be keeping my eyes on you and your fancy complex.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Keaton answered, each word clipped.

“Great.” Francesca blew out a quick breath. “Brandi,” she called. “I’d like to buy these two fine gentlemen a piece of pie.”

Johnny flashed a broad grin while Keaton held up a hand. “Generous,” he murmured, “but not—”

The other man clapped him hard on the back. “Boy, if a beautiful woman offers you pie, don’t say no.”

“Pecan for Johnny,” Francesca continued, “and apple for our friend from across the pond.”

“Got it,” Brandi shouted.

“Enjoy, fellas,” Francesca said quickly, still avoiding Keaton’s blue gaze. She hurried to the safety of her corner booth and slid in with a sigh. Crisis avoided—both Johnny making a bigger scene and her revealing what a bumbling idiot she was around Keaton.

It didn’t take long to become engrossed in her studies. Accounting was her toughest subject and the more she looked at the numbers, the more of a jumble they became in her head. She was staring at a particularly challenging problem when she felt someone approach the booth.

By the way butterflies zipped across her stomach, she didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

“May I join you?” Keaton asked in his rich accent.

The thoughtfulness of that question made a soft warmth spread through her. Most people at the diner just plopped down when they needed something, as if Francesca’s opinion on whether she wanted company didn’t matter.

She appreciated having her opinion matter to someone, even in such an insubstantial decision.

“Or not,” Keaton continued. “I can see you’re busy. Perhaps another time.”

When he started to walk away, his mouth pressed into a thin line, she realized she hadn’t actually given him an answer.

Add rude to her list along with bumbling and idiot.

“Please sit down,” she called to him.

He turned and slipped into the seat across from her.

“How was the pie?” she asked, her words sounding embarrassingly breathless.

“Worth enduring Johnny’s company while I ate it,” he said with a half smile. “Thank you for that and for diffusing the situation. You are the prettiest knight in shining armor I’ve ever met.”

She was so busy watching to see if the half smile turned into a full grin that it took a minute for his words to sink in. Had he just called her pretty?

“How did you know I prefer apple?”

She shrugged. “Lola May’s isn’t huge. You order a slice of apple pie every night.”

“It’s the best.” He leaned a little closer. “You also know my name.”

“The diner caters to regulars. You’re becoming a regular, Keaton, so I know your name.”

“I appreciate that, Francesca,” he answered.

Lord have mercy, it was a good thing she was sitting down because the way her name sounded in his rich, cultured voice made her knees go weak.

“You know I’m an architect.”

She felt color rise to her cheeks but didn’t bother to deny it. “Yes.”

“And the bit about my reputation?”

She huffed out a soft laugh. “I guessed at that.”

One of his thick brows rose.

“Someone is sinking a ton of money into the Austin Commons project across the street. Reports say it’s going to be the new retail and residential anchor for the neighborhood. They wouldn’t leave the design to someone who couldn’t handle it.” Now she leaned in, something about the warmth in his gaze inviting her closer. “Was I wrong about you?”

“No.”

“Are you famous?”

The smile widened. “In some circles, I suppose.”

“I also heard,” she murmured, “that you’re part of the Fortune family.”

He nodded, his blue eyes turning cool as he sat back against the vinyl-covered cushion of the booth. Interesting. Most people she knew would be shouting their connection to such a powerful family from the rooftops. Keaton seemed uncomfortable that she’d mentioned it. All traces of the smile disappeared from his face, making him look no less handsome but a lot more intimidating.

“It was pretty big news in Austin when Gerald Robinson was revealed to be that Fortune heir who everyone thought was dead.”

“Jerome Fortune.”

“Right,” she agreed. “Gerald Robinson is really Jerome Fortune. He’s your father?”

“He is.”

“Is that why you took on Austin Commons? To get to know your dad?”

“No,” he answered, the word spoken through clenched teeth. “I want nothing to do with the man, although I’m happy to spend time with my half siblings.”

It seemed she’d struck a nerve, so she quickly changed the subject. “I always wanted brothers and sisters.” She reached for her water glass and took a long drink, suddenly aware that she was sitting in Lola May’s, having a conversation with Keaton Fortune Whitfield. So much for all her plans about flirting.

She was lucky to be able to put a complete sentence together with him watching her from those gorgeous blue eyes. The lashes that surrounded them were so long they looked almost unreal. The strong line of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble covering it balanced his beautiful eyes and full mouth.

“You’re an only child?” he prompted, the half smile returning, as if he could read her mind and understood exactly his effect on her.

She nodded. “It was just my mom and me.”

“I was raised by a single mum, as well.” He blew out a breath. “The whole time I was growing up, she worked at least two jobs to support me. She was my hero.”

All she could do was stare at him. Of all the things this man could have said, there was nothing more endearing to Francesca than how much he obviously loved his mother.

He flashed a full-fledged grin, somewhat self-deprecating, as if he hadn’t meant to share that detail with her. “Do I sound like a mummy’s boy?”

“Hardly,” she said on a small laugh. “You sound like the type of son every mother dreams about.” She paused then said, “I like the way you say ‘mum’ with your accent.”

“This coming from the woman with the adorable twang.”

“I’m a proud Texan native,” she told him, hitching a thumb at herself. “Go Longhorns. Keep Austin weird.”

“Remember the Alamo,” he added.

She giggled. “Exactly.”

“What are you studying?” He tapped a finger on the pile of notes in front of her.

“Accounting,” she said with a sigh. “I have a test tomorrow and it took everything I had to pull out an A last semester. This class is going to kill me.”

“Not going for a finance degree, I take it?”

“I’m a business major with a concentration in marketing. It’s not that I don’t like accounting...”

He nodded. “Because most people find it fascinating.”

She laughed again. For all her nerves around Keaton, it was also surprisingly easy to laugh with him. It had been a long time since Francesca had joked around with a man, other than her customers at the diner.

“I’m not sure fascinating is the right word,” she answered, “but the truth is math and I don’t always get along.” She pointed a finger at him. “I bet you’re a math whiz.”

“Not exactly,” he said, “but I do use dimensions, quantities, area and other math-based principles in my work, as they relate to spatial thinking and patterns.” He took a breath then gave her another lopsided smile. “From mummy’s boy to architecture geek. I’m not doing a bang-up job of impressing you, am I?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she muttered, because Keaton uttering building terms had the same effect on her body as another man whispering love words.

“Are you far along in your coursework?”

A familiar twinge of regret zipped across her stomach. “I’m in my second year,” she told him. “I took some time off after high school to...travel.”

“Visit any interesting places?”

She didn’t think the backstage area of every seedy concert venue between Austin and Los Angeles was what he had in mind, so she only shook her head. “Nothing worth mentioning.” She took another drink then idly flipped through her study guide. “I’m sorry to say my study break should probably be over now. I really do need to be ready for tomorrow morning.”

Was that a look of disappointment that darkened his eyes for a brief moment?

“Thank you again for coming to my rescue tonight.”

“No problem. I’m sure your project is going to be great,” she answered.

“Would you like an early view of the plans sometime?”

She swallowed. This was her chance. Say something witty. Something flirty and cute. “Sure,” she answered on a squeak. Okay, that was pathetic.

Keaton didn’t seem to notice. “Good luck with your test tomorrow.”

She blew out a breath and tucked a stray curl behind one ear. “I’m going to need it.”

He slid to the edge of the booth like he was going to ease himself out then stopped. “I could help you study,” he offered suddenly. “Quiz you on concepts and such?”

Francesca felt her mouth drop open. “Really? Because I’m sure you have someplace better to be.” Obviously he was being kind, but she didn’t want him to feel obliged to sit with her. Despite being her best friend, Ciara had made it clear on several occasions how boring Francesca was when she studied.

“I have no plans and there’s still...” He glanced at his watch then back at her. “Over an hour until the diner closes.” He moved back to the center of the bench seat. “It’ll be fun.”

“You must have a strange definition of fun in England.” She handed him a stack of notecards. “But I can use all the help I can get. Thank you.”

He asked the first question and Francesca couldn’t hide her smile. Maybe if principles of accounting were spoken in a British accent, she’d enjoy the class more. She made a mental note to buy handsome men slices of pie more often. Already this was the best study session she’d ever had.


Chapter Three (#u404d3f7b-2392-5a2b-ab81-f7edb74d03d9)

Keaton walked toward the restaurant in downtown Austin where he’d agreed to meet Ben for lunch the next afternoon. The sidewalk was filled with men and women from all different walks of life. There were corporate types in expensive suits hurrying to and from meetings and power lunches that reminded him of being on the streets in London. Although Austin didn’t have the same Wild West atmosphere as Houston or Dallas, he still saw plenty of cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans mixed in with the trendy and somewhat casual style favored by most people in the city. It still felt a world away from the quirky neighborhood that housed his latest project and the casual restaurant that was quickly becoming his home away from home.

He’d thought about inviting Ben to Lola May’s, but for some reason Keaton wanted to keep the little gem of a diner to himself. It probably had something to do with retaining a bit of his anonymity, or at least keeping the focus on his work or even his accent, and not the craziness that came with being a Fortune.

Growing up in London, Keaton understood that people went a bit wacky for the royals and the Fortunes were their own version of an American royal family. They were particularly well known in Texas. Last year cosmetics mogul Kate Fortune had appointed Keaton’s half brother, Graham Fortune Robinson, as CEO of Fortune Cosmetics. That bit of news, coupled with the earlier revelation that Gerald Robinson was really Jerome Fortune, meant a brighter spotlight continued to shine on the branch of the Fortune family from Austin.

It was still an adjustment to be recognized as a Fortune when Keaton had been raised so differently from his half siblings. He liked that the staff and other customers at Lola May’s had quickly accepted him as a regular. Since it was just him and his mother growing up, Keaton appreciated any time he could be a part of a bigger community, even the casual kind at Lola May’s.

It was a far cry from the night clubs and swanky house parties he was used to back in London and it seemed to fuel his creative side as well as his spirit. He’d stayed up late last night redesigning the residential section that would become the second phase of the Austin Commons project based on feedback he’d received from the development company’s CEO. In addition to the brownstones and smaller apartments, he’d added an inner courtyard that could function as a community gathering space.

Many of the changes centered around an open-air design with shade pavilions to take advantage of the mild temperatures in Austin. Granted, he had yet to live through a Texas summer, but he was definitely enjoying the fact that he could be out in just a shirt in January.

He’d spoken to his mother just yesterday, and she’d told him it had rained in London every day since the new year began. Keaton lifted his face to the bright Texas sun and was grateful for the warmth on his skin.

Almost as grateful as he was to the obnoxious local at the diner last night who’d given him an earful of grief. Listening to that blighter was a small price to pay for finally getting an opportunity to talk to Francesca Harriman.

At first she’d been as skittish as one of the colts on Graham’s ranch outside of town. The pink that had tinged her cheeks when she’d mentioned his accent was adorable. It was a strange thing, the way American women got so flustered when he spoke. But he had to admit he’d placed an extra emphasis on rounding his vowels and making his voice a bit more clipped when speaking to Francesca just to elicit a reaction from her.

It seemed only fair given the way she made him feel as nervous as a schoolboy with his first crush. He would have been content to sit and stare at her all night long. From a distance it was difficult to notice anything except her riot of blond curls and that luscious figure. Up close he realized her features were quite delicate, from her caramel-colored eyes with flecks of gold dancing through them to her high cheekbones and rosebud mouth.

More surprising was how much he’d enjoyed simply talking to Francesca once they’d each acclimated to the other. He could tell she didn’t even realize how appealing she was with her humor and gentle teasing. He was used to women who played games by volleying veiled sexual innuendoes and flirting outrageously. Francesca was wholly real, and helping her study for her test had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

If only he’d had a study partner like Francesca when he’d been at university. Scratch that. He would have spent far too much time watching her nibble on her bottom lip, something she did when concentrating and one more thing about her that drove him absolutely wild.

“Who is she?”

Keaton stopped as his half brother Ben Fortune Robinson stepped in front of him on the sidewalk. He was surprised to realize he’d made it to the restaurant, as he’d been oblivious to any thoughts except those of Francesca.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied. “I’ve got work on the brain.”

Although they had different mothers, Keaton looked enough like the Robinson twins, Wes and Ben, to make it clear to any stranger that he was related. Ben had come to London last year after his sister Rachel had revealed that Gerald Robinson was truly Jerome Fortune and the eight legitimate Robinson children might have other half siblings they didn’t know from their father’s various short-lived affairs over the years. Keaton had never known his father but the photo that Ben had of Gerald showed the same man from the photo Keaton’s mother kept hidden in her dresser drawer. The man who had broken her heart.

It had been a shock for Keaton to discover he was part of such a large and famous family, but he was determined to track down the rest of the children Gerald had left in his wake.

Ben was now happily married to Ella, who he’d hired to help him track down Keaton and other possible siblings. The happy couple was expecting their first baby in the next few weeks, which meant that in the course of one short year, Keaton had gone from an only child to a brother and soon-to-be uncle.

He held the door of the cafe open for Ben, who leveled a knowing look at him. “Give me a break,” Ben said before greeting the hostess by name. As the young woman led them to a table in the back, Ben continued to goad him. “If designing a building puts that cow-eyed look on your face, you definitely need to get out more.”

“I don’t know what kind of cows you have in Texas,” Keaton shot back, “but I’m not one of them.”

Obviously listening to their conversation, the hostess gave him a strange, assessing smile as they sat and she handed them menus.

“I guess you’re simply infatuated with our fair city,” Ben answered. “We’ll leave it at that.”

“Good idea,” Keaton agreed. He wasn’t ready to share Francesca with anyone. They’d only had one conversation, but he wanted more. The trick was going to be how to convince her. “How is Ella?”

“In her words she’s ‘ready to pop,’”

A waitress approached the table and recited the lunch specials in a bored, monotone voice. Keaton couldn’t help compare this place with Lola May’s, where the waitstaff and customers joked and laughed and generally treated each other as an extended family. Lola May set the tone for the casual, sociable environment so that eating there felt like pulling up a seat at a friend’s table. It was silly, but the restaurant had eased his transition to a new country and unfamiliar city, making him feel like he had a place he belonged.

They ordered and Ben continued, “We have everything set up for the baby’s arrival, but I still don’t feel ready.” He shrugged. “I never thought being a father was in the cards for me, you know?”

Keaton knew all too well. “You’ll do great.”

“Because I had such a bang-up role model in my dad?” He cleared his throat, then added, “I mean our dad.”

“Gerald wasn’t a father to me,” Keaton said quietly. “He isn’t anything to me.”

The waitress returned with two glasses of iced tea, and he took a long drink to cool the angry heat that pooled low in his stomach at the thought of the man who’d abandoned him and his mother. “But, yes, that’s part of the reason why I have no doubt you’ll take to fatherhood like a duck to water. It’s important for you not to repeat the same mistakes Gerald made.”

“I used to believe he’d made mistakes, but now I wonder if he was simply willfully ignorant for so many years.” Ben tapped one finger against the table. “Or the type of man who just didn’t care.”

Keaton inclined his head. “He’s still your dad, and I don’t want my personal feelings about him to color your opinion.”

“Trust me,” Ben said quietly, “I’ve had plenty of reasons to develop my own feelings about him. Each new revelation is a challenge, but Ella has helped me make peace with a lot of it.”

“You’re lucky to have found her.”

“Damn straight. I almost have to be grateful for all the turmoil Dad’s new identity caused because it led me to Ella. If I hadn’t crashed Kate Fortune’s birthday party last year, I never would have met her. It’s hard to imagine my life without her. Ella is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“There’s another reason you’ll be a good father—you love your baby’s mother.”

“With my whole heart.”

Keaton sucked in a sharp breath at Ben’s words. What would it feel like to give his whole heart to another person? To him, it felt like a recipe for disaster. He’d seen what that kind of love had done to his mother. She’d never gotten over having her heart broken by Gerald Robinson, and it had colored every part of her life. Keaton wouldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable to another person, nor did he want the responsibility of someone loving him that way.

An image of Francesca popped into his mind, but he immediately discounted it. Yes, there was something about the woman that made him want to know her better, but it was infatuation—nothing more.

“Do you have any new leads on other Fortune offspring?” he asked, wanting to change the subject away from love. If Ben was head over heels, there was no sense in Keaton trying to convince his half brother that those feelings were just an illusion. Keaton still worried that he wasn’t as distant in personality from Gerald Robinson as he wanted to believe. He simply wasn’t built for long-term commitment.

“I’m working on tracking down a woman living right here in Austin. It’s a pretty solid lead.”

“My contact in France,” Keaton said, “is gathering information about your former au pair. Nothing substantial yet, but he’s close. I’ve also been working to track down another lead in Oklahoma.”

Ben gave a small nod. “It’s slow going, but that’s how we want it. All of these people who my father left behind have lives and families, just like you did. We need to be sure that we approach them the right way.”

“It’s also important that we’re sure they are Gerald’s children. There are many reasons someone would want to be part of both the Robinson and the Fortune families.” Even before their connection to the Fortunes was revealed, the Robinson family had fame and wealth of their own account. Robinson Computers, the technology company Jerome Fortune founded after he changed his identity to Gerald Robinson, was worth millions and growing every year. Keaton refused to allow his new siblings to fall prey to impostors looking to make a quick buck off a feigned familial connection. But for the ones out there like him...

His thoughts were interrupted as the waitress brought their food. Keaton bit into his hamburger with little appetite. He hated to think other men and women had grown up feeling the lack of a father the same way he had. At the same time, if he could connect with them now, maybe he could ease some of that inherent loneliness.

He wanted to believe he was doing it to help others, but it was as much for himself. His eight half siblings had grown up with Gerald Robinson as their father. Gerald was far from perfect, and had too many secrets, including his true identity, but Kieran, Graham, Ben, Wes, Rachel, Zoe, Olivia and Sophie had always known who they were and where they came from. Keaton longed to talk to someone who’d shared his experience of longing to know where he belonged.

He and Ben discussed more specifics about how to track down the other half siblings as they ate, then Keaton headed across town to the office of Ariana Lamonte, a reporter at Weird Life Magazine, who had emailed him with an interview request regarding a story she was doing on the Fortune family.

Ben had warned Keaton to check her out before he agreed to anything. The Fortunes were big news in Texas, which was why Keaton didn’t speak to many people about his relationship with the family. He had a well-honed protective streak, thanks to years of taking care of his mum. In fact, it still shocked him that he’d shared so much of his history last night with Francesca. Yet there was something about her that made him confident he could trust her.

Whether he could trust the reporter remained to be seen. He walked the half dozen blocks to the magazine’s trendy office. Clouds had rolled in while he was having lunch and a brisk breeze was beginning to kick up.

Ariana Lamonte met him in the lobby and led him to a small conference room. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the reporter, but the friendly woman with long brown hair, wearing a brightly patterned dress and chunky jewelry wasn’t it. He’d been skeptical as to the blogger’s motivations for wanting to interview him, but his gut told him he could trust this woman. As he lowered himself into the chair across from her, she opened the file folder and began to spread out photos on the table between them.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said, her smile genuine.

“You realize I haven’t yet agreed to anything more?” he asked. He relied on his instincts about people but his own feelings about being a Fortune made him wary of discussing the family with anyone who wasn’t in his close circle of confidants. Interesting that Francesca had breached his walls in only one conversation. No one had done that in a long time, and he wasn’t sure what it meant about his connection to the plucky waitress.

Ariana didn’t seem put off by his question. “I want to reassure you I intend to approach this series of blogs with the utmost respect to your family. The Fortunes are important in Texas, and the family’s history appeals to many readers even beyond Austin. I’m curious what it’s like to discover that you are part of such a venerable legacy.”

He schooled his features as he thought of Gerald’s legacy. Yes, Ben and his siblings, the legitimate heirs to the Robinson name, were a big part of that. Each of them had dealt with their own issues since they’d learned that their father was really Jerome Fortune. There was also Charlotte Robinson to consider. Keaton couldn’t help but wonder how Gerald’s wife of more than thirty years was adjusting to this turn in her family’s dynamic. From the little he’d heard from his siblings about their mother, Charlotte was handling the changes with stoic poise, but it had to be acutely difficult for her.

“There are those who have had a bigger adjustment than me,” he answered. “You seem to have done your research on the family.”

Ariana smoothed a hand over the stack of files that sat in front of her. “I have.”

“As I’m sure you know, I was raised by a single mother. That means I always knew there was a part of my history that was missing. For some of the Fortune heirs, I believe it’s been quite a shock to discover there is more to their family than they’d grown up knowing.”

“But it must have been a shock for you to find out that the father you never knew was actually part of such a well-known and powerful family?”

Keaton inclined his head. “Yes,” he admitted.

“That’s the focus of this series. I want to profile some of the newer members of the Fortune family and share with readers the unique process of becoming a Fortune.”

“Becoming a Fortune,” Keaton repeated.

“That’s the title of the series,” Ariana told him. She slid several of the photos toward him, and he recognized the people in them as other recently minted Fortunes. There were several images of the children of Josephine Fortune Chesterfield. Unlike Gerald, Lady Josephine and her sister, Jeanne Marie Fortune Jones, hadn’t kept their status as Fortunes a secret. The women had both been put up for adoption as babies, two of a trio of triplets that also included family scion James Marshall Fortune.

It was only a few years ago that Jeanne Marie and Josephine’s connection to the Fortunes was revealed and they and their children had made the transition to being part of the famous family. Keaton already knew of the Fortune Chesterfields, as their ties to the royal family made them celebrities in Britain. From what he’d learned of the Fortune Jones branch of the Fortune family, based in the small Texas town of Horseback Hollow, they’d been regular people who had a bigger adjustment to being part of the limelight that came from being a Fortune.

“Which of the Fortunes have you spoken to already?”

Ariana’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “You’re the first.”

“Why me?”

She held up a hand to tick off the reasons on her fingers. “You’re now a local, which will be interesting to my readers, and the Austin Commons project is already news. The fact that you discovered your relationship with Gerald Robinson—or Jerome Fortune to be more precise—as an adult is intriguing. The Fortunes are quite well known in the States, particularly in Texas. The Fortune Chesterfields are famous in their own right, but you’re different.” She flashed a wry grin and added, “Unique.”

“Not as unique as you might think,” he muttered then regretted speaking the words out loud when Ariana leaned over the table.

“What does that mean?”

He thought about ignoring the question and refusing to be a part of the interview and subsequent profile. Other than recognition for his work, Keaton had never craved fame. But he remained deeply committed to discovering the others out there who’d been discarded by Gerald, and he felt certain there were more. Maybe if he spoke with Ariana, he could shake up the family tree a bit and see what else might fall from the branches.

He had to balance his need to locate other Fortune children with his desire to respect his half siblings and what the knowledge of their father’s philandering would do to them. That meant he had to tread carefully with Ariana.

“It means there’s more to the story of Jerome Fortune than anyone outside the family knows.”

The reporter’s eyes widened and she reached into the purse that sat on the chair next to her and pulled out a hand-held recorder. “What can you tell me?”

“Nothing while we’re on the record,” he said, shaking his head.

She sucked in a breath, clearly frustrated with his answer. “I have a responsibility to my readers.”

“I have a responsibility to my brothers and sisters,” he told her. His lungs expanded as he said the words. They were a truth he felt from the bottom of his heart. He might be new to the Fortune family, but Ben, Wes, Graham, Olivia, Rachel, Kieran, Zoe and Sophie meant something to him. They meant he wasn’t alone in the world any longer. “I’ll talk to you about my theories on Gerald Robinson and the implied consequences of how he’s chosen to live his life, but that can’t be part of the story you publish.”

Ariana studied him for several moments then placed the recorder back in her purse. “Will you agree to a featured profile on you in the magazine and on the blog?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“What about your theories on your father?”

“He’s not—” The urge to deny his connection to Gerald came fast and hot, but he swallowed it back, letting the bitterness burn a path down his throat. “For now, let’s just say that I don’t think I’m the only skeleton in Gerald’s adulterous closet.”

“That’s quite the bombshell,” she murmured.

“Indeed. I plan to uncover my father’s secrets.”

“I can help,” Ariana offered immediately.

He started to protest, but she held up a hand. “Off the record, Keaton. I won’t lie to you, if the ‘Becoming a Fortune’ series takes off, it will be a great stepping stone for me. I’m good at research and tracking down leads. But I’ll only take it as far as makes you and your half siblings comfortable. All I ask in return is that you agree to let me interview you, and not block my way to speaking with other Fortunes.”

“That’s fair,” he agreed then glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting at my office this afternoon. Call me and we’ll set up a time to talk about my Fortune journey.”

She stood at the same time he did and they shook hands. “I look forward to it,” she told him.

He expected to feel tense about what he’d agreed to, but as he returned to the Austin Commons project site, a sense of peace descended over him. He could try to convince himself and everyone around him that Gerald meant nothing to him, but the lack of a father had shaped almost every decision Keaton had made in his life. This was his chance to define what “becoming a Fortune” meant to him, and if Ariana Lamonte could help track down other half siblings then all the better.


Chapter Four (#u404d3f7b-2392-5a2b-ab81-f7edb74d03d9)

When the bell above the door to Lola May’s chimed at just past six that evening, Francesca didn’t need to turn around to know that Keaton had just walked in. The fact that her heart began to race and a tiny shiver made goose bumps pop up all over her body left no question.

She smiled at the couple at the table in front of her as she set down their plates of food. The man made a silly joke about buttering biscuits and Francesca tried to think of a clever response. She liked bantering with customers, but right now every one of her brain cells had taken the fast train south to parts of her body she’d assumed were stuck in permanent hibernation.

Keaton Whitfield might be the reason for global warming, at least in Francesca’s world.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slide into a booth in her section. It shouldn’t be so difficult to think about speaking to him. They’d had an entire conversation last night where she hadn’t stuttered or drooled or made an obvious idiot of herself. He’d been polite and charming, neither of which surprised her given how she’d seen him interact with Lola May and the other waitresses during his daily visits to the diner.

But actually enjoying his company had been a bit of a revelation. She couldn’t remember ever simply having fun with Lou. Every moment they’d been together had been about her adoring him. His life. His band. His schedule. His needs.

She was still embarrassed to admit how easy it had been to ignore her own needs in trying to take care of him. She knew it stemmed from the fact that she’d grown up without a father. When she’d asked her mother why her dad had left, the answer was always the same—“I couldn’t give him what he needed.”

Francesca had been determined to give Lou everything he needed so she’d never lose him. The problem was she’d lost herself in the process.

Ciara had the section next to Francesca’s on this shift, so it would be easy to beg her friend to take care of Keaton. She stole another glance and found him watching her. A slow, sexy half smile curved one side of his mouth. She was positive he knew that she’d been planning to ditch him. Seriously, it was like the man was some sort of British mind reader.

How difficult could it be to serve him a meal? It was her job, after all, and they’d already had a conversation. No biggie, right?

“Hi,” she said as she approached the booth and wondered if that one word sounded as lame to him as it did to her.

“Hello, Francesca,” he said in that gorgeous accent. He might as well have said “I’d like to ravish you” because all her circuits went slightly haywire. “You look lovely tonight.”

She glanced down at her black Lola May’s T-shirt and the denim skirt she’d paired with pink cowboy boots. She had a small splattering of ketchup just above the letter M that made her feel the exact opposite of lovely.

“How was your test?” he asked.

She met his gaze and promptly forgot how to speak. It was as if the English language didn’t exist to her anymore. All she could do was stare and—oh, dear—was that yearning she felt? She could almost feel her body yearning for the man. Not a good sign. Francesca had vowed to become strong and independent after her break up with Lou, but now her fledgling feelings for Keaton made her feel flustered and weak in the knees. She couldn’t risk being weak ever again.

She groaned softly then realized Keaton was still watching her. Wait, what had he asked her just now?

He ran a hand over his jaw and the slight rasping of stubble against skin did nothing to help her focus. How would his face feel under her fingertips? What if she kissed the edge of his jaw?

“You did have a test today?” he prompted.

She blinked. Swallowed. Made a fist and dug her fingernails into the fleshy part of her palm, hoping that the bite of pain might help her focus.

“Test,” she repeated like a googly-eyed tween when faced with her biggest fangirl crush.

“Accounting, I believe?”

“Yes, accounting.” She licked her dry lips and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Not helping her focus. “I think it went well. I don’t have my grade yet but I hope it went well. I hope...”

That you’ll take off your shirt right now.

Nope. She certainly wasn’t going to add that.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said instead.

Keaton’s smile widened and Francesca felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “For dinner,” she added and grabbed the small pad of paper from the pocket in her apron. “Are you ready to order?”

“What’s the special?”

Me was the first answer that popped into Francesca’s mind and she wanted to wring her own neck. She knew better than to let her attraction to a man overwhelm her. She’d been down that road before, the one where she felt grateful for any crumbs of attention. On the surface, Keaton had nothing in common with Lou the Louse, but they were both men who were way out of her league. Why pretend it was any different?

“Chicken pot pie. It’s a recipe from Lola May’s grandmother. We make the crust from scratch. It’s amazing.”

“I’m game for some amazing,” he told her. “Pot pie it is.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Water is fine. Is there a chance you could take a break and keep me company while I eat?”

She glanced around at the crowded diner. “It’s only Ciara and me on shift tonight so...” She wanted to take a break with his man. She wanted a lot more, too. “I’ll try.”

“Smashing,” he murmured.

She giggled at the obviously British term then clasped a hand over her mouth. Francesca had been around the block enough to know better than to be turned into a giggling school girl because a handsome man with a dashing accent showed her a bit of attention.

Another customer waved her down and she hurried away, her heart still racing. Why was it so difficult to act normal with Keaton?

She gave his order for the kitchen then delivered a glass of water to his table. He was frowning at something on his phone as she approached. When he glanced up at her, there was a momentary look of such pain in his eyes that she hurt for him. It took all her willpower not to slip in next to him in the booth and give him a hug, nerves be damned. He looked like he needed a hug as much as he needed his next breath.

He closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them, the look was gone. She started to ask about it, but the toddler in the booth behind him knocked over her juice, so Francesca quickly grabbed a pile of napkins to help clean up the mess.

A few minutes later, Keaton’s pot pie was ready. She picked up the plate from the pass through between the kitchen and the front of the restaurant. There was no way she was going to get a break before closing, so she thought about asking Keaton if he could stick around until her shift was over. She wanted to spend time with him, but the very thought of it made her heart hammer and her palms sweat.

Sweaty palms and carrying a porcelain plate were not a good combination apparently. When Keaton looked up and flashed another one of those sexy half smiles, the plate started to slip out of Francesca’s hand. She leaned over the booth, trying to will the plate to land on the table, which it did. But it had so much momentum that it skidded to the edge and tipped off, dumping the entire hot, steaming mass of pot pie into Keaton’s lap.

He made a choked sound and Francesca gasped. She’d been waiting tables since she was sixteen and had never dumped food into a customer’s lap.

The next few minutes were a blur. The only thing she was sure of was that she’d never been more humiliated. She bent toward him, reaching for his lap at the same time Keaton straightened from the booth. The top of his head clipped her chin, and she gave a tiny yelp as she bit down on her tongue.

“I’m sorry, luv,” he said immediately, but she was intent on cleaning up the mess she made.

So intent that she grabbed the hunk of food from his lap before the realization hit her that she was basically pawing at his crotch.

She let out a little screech and her hand jerked, sending chunks of chicken and bits of carrot and corn onto his shirt front.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, but before he could respond, Lola May was at her side with a wet rag.

“Customers want to eat the food, Frannie, not wear it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Go get yourself cleaned up,” Lola May snapped and Francesca glanced down at the dripping mess of pot pie she held in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said again without meeting Keaton’s crystal-blue gaze. How could she ever look at him again after this fiasco?

She ran to the back of the restaurant, washing her hands under the faucet of the kitchen’s utility sink. Pieces of crust and dollops of gravy clung to her T-shirt, making the ketchup spot she’d worried over earlier seem invisible.

“You smell like dinner,” the head cook, Richard, told her with a laugh.

“It’s not funny,” she answered. “I made a huge mess of a customer.”

“From what I’ve heard from the other waitresses,” the older man said, “that British bloke has a thing for you. Maybe he figured dumping food in his lap was your way of flirting. Tell him it’s an American custom.”

Francesca groaned. “I’m not telling him anything. I doubt he’ll ever want to speak with me again.”

The thought made tears prick the backs of her eyes, and she bit down on her lip. Lola May kept a shelf of diner T-shirts for the tourists who wanted to purchase them, so Francesca went to the bathroom and changed.

She stepped out into the hallway just as Ciara turned the corner. “You have to take my tables,” she whispered to her friend. “I can’t go back out there. It’s too embarrassing.”

“I have a full section of my own, so you’re stuck back on the floor, sweetie. It may even improve your tips. Customers will be scared that if they aren’t nice, you’ll dump food on them, too.” Ciara chuckled. “That was definitely impressive aim.”

“You know that was an accident. Why does everyone think it’s funny?” Francesca covered her face with her hands. “I bet he doesn’t think it’s funny, and I can guarantee Lola May isn’t amused.”

“True about Lola May,” Ciara admitted. “Keaton was a good sport about the whole thing, though, and we packed up a new pot pie in a to-go box for him so he’ll be fine.”

Francesca peeked through her fingers. “He’s gone?”

Ciara nodded. “He smelled like ‘winner winner chicken pot pie dinner.’ Did you expect him to stay for a second helping?”

“Of course not. How could I have been so clumsy?” She pointed at Ciara. “This fiasco is why I should have asked you to take his table. I’m a bumbling idiot when it comes to that man.”

“Maybe he finds it adorable, like you’re some kind of quirky sitcom star.”

“Or maybe he thinks I’m an idiot girl who can’t even put together a coherent sentence when talking to a handsome man.” She leaned her head back against the tiled wall. “I feel like such a fool,” she muttered. “As usual.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/michelle-major/a-fortune-in-waiting/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.