Fortune's Cinderella (22 page)

Scott looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “This isn’t about trusting the fairy tale. Or even me. It’s about trusting yourself. What you want. What you deserve. And it pisses me off to no end that for someone so determined not to let circumstances define her…that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Then he stalked back to the car and got in, slamming his door so hard it set off the Jetta’s alarm.

Scott was still in a slamming and banging mood when he got back to Wendy’s, although he took care not to show his irritation when he returned the minivan’s keys to the neighbors, giving them a brief rundown on what had happened. Minutes later he was on the couch, his phone in one hand, his head in the other as he waited for Blake to pick up. Although he agreed with Wendy that it was probably best not to tell their parents about her condition, at least for the moment, Blake would skin him alive if he discovered they’d deliberately kept him out of the loop.

And calling his brother would divert Scott’s overwrought brain from dwelling on what was going on with Christina. Or would have, had not Blake’s voice mail picked up the call instead of the man himself.

Annoyed, Scott left a curt message, then stood, ramming the phone into his pocket and heading back outside before he suffocated in the tiny house. Granted, part of him was inclined to cut his losses and walk away. Unfortunately, the stubborn part—which would be the part that grabbed a project by the throat, refusing to let go until he’d seen it through—wasn’t onboard with that idea.

At. All.

Especially since the…resignation in her voice, which only intensified the deeper she got into the story, make him abso-freaking-lutely crazy. Maybe it wasn’t up to him, he thought as he found himself walking toward Main Street, to fix her, to eradicate her pain…and maybe it was. Because what if God or whatever had put him in that part of the airport for a reason, and that reason was to save—for a lack of a better word—Christina?

Or for her to save him, which was a far more likely scenario.

Whichever it was, how could he turn his back on that?

Sure, he’d been momentarily blindsided by her bombshell that she couldn’t have children. But, come on, he hadn’t even considered having kids a month ago. So pretty stupid to allow it to derail him now—

His phone buzzed.

“Hey, guy,” Blake said. “What’s up?”

“Wendy’s in the hospital,” Scott said as he walked. “She went into early labor.”

“Holy crap, Scott, is she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. They got it stopped, but they’re keeping her for a few days to make sure it doesn’t start up again. But the plan is to let her come home, as long as she stays in bed.”

“For more than a month?”

“Three weeks, at least. If she goes into labor then, she’ll be far enough along that the baby won’t be considered premature.”

“Wow. Who’s going to take care of her?”

“Now that you mention it, I have no idea. Marcos’s time is already splintered between the restaurant and seeing to Javier—”

“I’ll do it. Come out there to help out, I mean.”

Scott laughed. “You? Wait on the Princess?”

“She adores me. It’ll be good, I promise. I’ll simply work from there. Did you get the ranch?”

Instantly, visions flashed, of Christina gawking in astonishment at the huge kitchen…the late-afternoon light haloing her blond hair as she stood in front of the family room window…of her sweet cries as she shattered beneath him—

“Yeah. It’s mine. Plenty of room if you’d rather stay there instead of Wendy’s.”

“And…Christina?” At Scott’s dry laugh, Blake asked, “What’s going on?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Dude.”

“Let me clarify that. She’s told me plenty, enough to figure out there’s a lot of past garbage cluttering up her head. Then, as if that’s not bad enough…” He sighed. “She overheard Dad basically accuse of her being after my money.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. As positive as she is that I’m going to wake up one day and realize I’ve made a mistake.”

After too long a pause, Blake said, “You sure you won’t?”

“I’m not infatuated, if that’s what you’re asking. And no, this isn’t about the thrill of the chase, either. And, sorry, obviously I didn’t call to bitch about my love life.”

“Good. Then we can talk about mine.”

“Wasn’t aware you had one.”

“Har, har. But, as you said, that staring death in the face thing really does have a way of making a person reassess his life. Choices he’s made, opportunities that slipped through his fingers.”

“Such as…?”

“Brittany.”

Scott’s scalp prickled. “Blake…no—”

“Gorgeous gal like her…why is she still single? I’ll tell you why—because we left things hanging. You remember that fundraiser we attended in the fall? How she and I ‘just happened’ to keep running into each other? Maybe the timing was off before, but now…it’s fate, I tell you. And this time I intend to give fate a helping hand—”

“And there’s nothing more pathetic than a man trying to win back his old college girlfriend. Give it up, guy. Let the past stay in the past—”

“No can do, bro. And I have you to thank for the inspiration. Now all I have to do is formulate a plan—”

Scott grimaced.

“—and you—don’t you dare give up. You want this woman, you fight for her, you hear me? And I’ll let you know tomorrow when I’m coming in.”

Pocketing his phone, Scott ambled past the hodge-podge of architectural styles that made up the little residential street, frowning so hard his head hurt. Because while Blake was clearly off his rocker for wanting to resurrect a dead relationship, giving up on one that hadn’t even gotten off the ground yet was something else entirely. But Christina was right, too, that this was one thing he couldn’t make happen—

He stopped dead in his tracks as large chunks of their last conversation replayed in his brain, and with them, an idea. A crazy, long-shot idea that could seriously blow up in his face. But if he wanted to be Christina’s prince, it would appear he had some dragon slaying to do.

He once more dug out his phone, scanned his Contacts, hit Send. She answered on the first ring, her already familiar cackle making him smile. “Yeah, figured I’d hear from you sooner or later…”

Scott had debated whether to call first or simply show up, finally deciding that, while the element of surprise often proved useful in business dealings, it could backfire in personal ones. Not the best way, perhaps, to establish a relationship with his potential motherin-law. So he’d called.

Clearly nervous, Sandra invited Scott into the kitchen of the modest ranch house in the middle-class Houston suburb, where she offered him coffee and a slice of boxed Danish, both of which he refused.

“Your husband’s at work, I presume?”

The woman’s mouth tightened before she carefully closed the Danish box, then slid it toward the backsplash. “He’s not here, no.

Well. I suppose we may as well go and sit down…”

The living room was simply and inoffensively furnished, the only spot of color a bright orange, long-haired cat sprawled across the back of a gray-and-beige-striped sofa.

“Have a seat—”

“I’d rather stand, thank you,” Scott said, pulling an old trick of his father’s out of his arsenal and using his height to his advantage.

Not to intimidate, exactly, but definitely to keep the upper hand in the proceedings.

Christina’s mother briefly frowned, then shrugged, the gesture eerily reminiscent of her daughter’s. In fact, beneath the trying-too-hard makeup, the defensiveness stiffening her shoulders—not that Scott could blame her for that, he supposed—he caught a glimpse of the same vulnerability as well.

Something else, God forgive him, that could possibly prove useful.

“Suit yourself,” she said, sitting on the sofa. The cat immediately left his perch to settle on her lap. “I’m assuming Christina sent you?”

“No. She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then how’d—?”

“Doesn’t matter. Mrs. Hastings—”

“Sandra, please,” she said, apparently regaining her composure. “I haven’t used that name in years.”

“Fine. Sandra. Quite simply, I’m here because I love your daughter. Very much. And I want to marry her.”

Despite an obvious attempt at keeping her expression blank, agitation bloomed in eyes more gray than blue. “And, what? You want my blessing?”

“Right now I’m more about getting answers. Because something’s keeping her from saying yes.”

The agitation yielded, barely, to a tight, yet almost triumphant smile. “How about…maybe she doesn’t want to marry you?

Nothing I can do about—”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Scott shoved aside the front of his leather jacket to slip his hands into his pockets. “In fact, I know it’s not. This isn’t about what she does or doesn’t want, but what she’s believes she can’t have—”

“And if, after all this time, everything I’ve been telling her has finally taken root? Then hallelujah. And frankly,” Sandra said, gently pushing the cat off her lap to get to her feet, “I don’t think you and I have anything more to discuss—”

“What’s taken root,” Scott said, blocking her way when she sidestepped the coffee table on her way to the front door, “is fear.

Fear that I have very good reason to believe you planted—”

“So what if I did? After everything that happened—”

“And what ‘everything’ would that be? Chris turning out to be a loser? Or her father walking out on you?” When Sandra’s chin jerked up, Scott blew out a sigh. “Yeah, crap happens. People screw you over. So because of that she should never be happy again?”

She scooped the mewing cat off the coffee table, clutching him to her chest. “You rich men, you love to put ideas in girls’ heads.

Make them believe they’re somebody they’re not. Until you get bored with your little game and then…you leave. And you know what the worst part of it is? That you’ve shown ’em a world nicer than anything they’ve ever known, letting ’em play in it for a while, only to yank it away when you go. Do you have any idea what that’s like, Mr. Fortune? To wake up and realize…it was all a dream?”

And there they were, the daughter’s words echoed in the mother’s. And, Scott could now see, the pain. Sandra’s not wanting her daughter to suffer as she had—and she had clearly suffered, of that he had no doubt—was understandable. But he also suspected there was something else at work here. What, he wasn’t sure. What he did know, however, was that the bogeyman was finally out of hiding.

Or at least showing his face.

“For whatever you and Christina have gone through,” he said gently, “I’m truly sorry. I know you’ve both been hurt. But having money doesn’t make me a bastard, Sandra. At least, I hope not. And I have never toyed with a woman’s feelings in my life, or ever made a promise I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d keep. So I’d hardly do that to someone who means everything to me. And make no mistake, your daughter has become the most important thing in my life.”

Several seconds passed before Sandra stepped around him and continued to the front door, which she opened. Taking his cue, Scott joined her, where she laid one hand on his arm, the defiance mostly gone from her eyes.

“If I don’t tell my daughter to be careful, who will? Because no matter what you think, I love her—”

“Then you might want to rethink how you show it.”

Her hand popped off his arm as though she’d been stung. “You’ve got no right to say that to me.”

“Your daughter’s happiness is at stake, Sandra. If not her entire future. And I’ll damn well say whatever it takes to make you realize that.”

He started through the door, then turned, zipping up his jacket against the suddenly stiff breeze. “Nothing would thrill me more than to help Christina turn her dreams into reality. Her dreams, not mine. She’ll also never want for anything. Not only for the moment, for the rest of her life. But far more than either of those, I can give her the one thing she’s apparently had in pretty short supply, which is my pledge to love her as long as I live. Now I ask you…what mother wouldn’t want that for her child?”

When she didn’t answer, Scott let himself out of the house, praying more than he ever had in his life that his words had hit home.

It hadn’t been the best couple of days she’d ever had, but Christina had always prided herself on being able to function, no matter what. Being productive instead of moping in front of Judge Judy and stuffing her face with Doritos. Or raw cookie dough. Which they now said could kill you, anyway. So she washed her hair and cleaned her house, tackled a few course assignments and tutored a couple of kids. Even took Gumbo for a slow, but steady, walk up to the 7-Eleven and back. Ogled the hunks who’d mysteriously appeared to get the pool up and running again. Like she didn’t know who was behind that, even though Enid was playing coy.

She even took the Jetta for a spin. Of course she sobbed her lungs out when she got back, but still. It was something she needed to do.Of course, if she’d thought all that activity was somehow going to keep her from thinking about Scott, and the hash she’d made of things, she was dead wrong.

It made no sense—she’d been perfectly okay before he’d blown into her life. Not only did she enjoy being alone, she cherished it.

And she supposed she’d cherish it again, someday. When she was sixty, maybe. Or somebody invented a drug or machine or something that wiped out memories, so she’d stop thinking about that afternoon in his house.

Because she ached. Oh, dear Lord, she ached.

Sighing heavily, she finally gave up reading the excruciatingly boring text for her marketing class and got up from the kitchen table to go stand at her living room window, if for no other reason than to look at something besides the same four walls. It’d been cloudy and windy all afternoon, threatening rain and rendering the view even more dreary than usual. Unbidden, she thought of the views from Scott’s ranch…the house…that bedroom…

“For pity’s sake,” she muttered, grinding her fingertips into her forehead like she could rub away the thoughts. “Cut it out!”