Книга - The Pregnant Heiress

The Pregnant Heiress
Eileen Wilks


Seven-months-pregnant Emma Michaels had come to Texas seeking a safe haven from her stalker.But she soon faced a greater danger from darkly handsome Flynn Sinclair - her round-the-clock bodyguard. Though duty-bound Flynn tried to ignore their smoldering attraction, pent-up desire soon gave way to passion.And when the present danger had passed, could Emma convince her fearless guardian to face his greatest challenge…and entrust his heart to her safekeeping?













THE TEXAS TATTLER All the news that’s barely fit to print!

Fortunes Host “Members-Only” Party

In the wake of Miranda Fortune’s shocking revelation about bearing twins out of wedlock comes the next revelation. Notorious bad boy Cameron Fortune fathered three illegitimate heirs with three different women prior to his death. Family patriarch Ryan Fortune hosted a party at the Double Crown Ranch this past week to welcome these stunned individuals into the family fold.

No expense was spared as the Fortunes served the finest champagne and fanciest hors d’oeuvres. Although one heir declined the invitation, international importer Jonas Goodfellow, Marine Gunnery Sergeant Sam “Storm” Pearce, businessman Justin Bond and a very pregnant Emma Michaels mingled with their new relatives.

“There was something mysterious about Emma,” according to one unnamed source. “She didn’t want to have much to do with the Fortunes.” Of course, this reporter couldn’t help noticing that she spent an awful lot of time talking to the P.I. who’d tracked her down. Was she just expressing her gratitude…or could something be brewing between them?


Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

The ever-fabulous Ann Major offers a Cowboy Fantasy, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH. Will a fateful reunion between a Texas cowboy and his ex-flame rekindle their fiery passion? In Cherokee, Sheri WhiteFeather writes a compelling story about a Native American hero who, while searching for his Cherokee heritage, falls in love with a heroine who has turned away from hers.

The popular miniseries BACHELOR BATTALION by Maureen Child marches on with His Baby!—a marine hero returns from an assignment to discover he’s a father. The tantalizing Desire miniseries FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with The Pregnant Heiress by Eileen Wilks, whose pregnant heroine falls in love with the investigator protecting her from a stalker.

Alexandra Sellers has written an enchanting trilogy, SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS, launching this month with The Sultan’s Heir. A prince must watch over the secret child heir to the kingdom along with the child’s beautiful mother. And don’t miss Bronwyn Jameson’s Desire debut—an intriguing tale involving a self-made man who’s In Bed with the Boss’s Daughter.

Treat yourself to all six of these heart-melting tales of Desire—and see inside for details on how to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.

Enjoy!






Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire




The Pregnant Heiress

Eileen Wilks










EILEEN WILKS


is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.

Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she’s tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 4612, Midland, TX 79704-4612.







Meet the Fortunes of Texas

Meet the Fortunes of Texas’s Lost Heirs. Membership in this Texas family has its privileges and its price. As the family gathers to welcome its newest members, it discovers a murderer in its midst…and passionate new romances that only a true-bred Texas love can bring!

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Flynn Sinclair: Although this hardened private investigator’s job ended as soon as he’d brought Miranda Fortune’s twins to Texas, one look at a very pregnant, scared Emma Michaels told him that his work had only begun….

Emma Michaels: She’d fled from an abusive relationship in the dead of night, but seven months pregnant, this reluctant heiress wasn’t quite so fleet-footed. The only person who could help her was a darkly handsome stranger whose deep voice had already inspired a fantasy—or two.

Justin Bond: Getting to know the Fortunes had changed Emma’s twin brother…and the first thing on this businessman’s “to do” list was wooing back his wife!










Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve




Prologue


February: just off I-10, north of Huachuca City,

Arizona

She smiled a lot. Flynn couldn’t figure out why. The elderly couple she was waiting on now could have been excused for thinking she’d shown up at the truck stop this morning just for the pleasure of looking at the photos the old woman had spread out on the table.

Her smile was bright and natural, too, not forced. Sunny-side up, like the eggs she’d set in front of Flynn a few minutes ago. It made people smile back. Flynn couldn’t make sense of that smile.

If the old couple had been paying attention, they would have seen that she didn’t have time to stop and ooh over pictures of their grandkids. They would have seen the exhausted smudges beneath those baby-blue eyes, too.

Flynn paid attention. To everything. It was his job.

She detached herself from her elderly admirers and was making her way along the row of booths in her station when a trucker with a handlebar mustache slid out of a booth and stood, blocking her. He tried out a smile that looked creaky from disuse. He also tried to pat her fanny.

She dodged his hand and said something Flynn couldn’t catch over the noise in the truck stop. He frowned. The trucker might be a slug or just an idiot. There were plenty of both around, men who would want a taste of that sunshine and grab for it.

He had an urge to explain manners to Handlebar Mustache in terms the man would understand. His fingers twitched with the need to make a fist. But he wasn’t needed. Handlebar headed for the register, the lines of his face drooping in disappointment. Flynn’s gaze switched to his subject as she hurried behind the counter to replace the coffeepot on its warmer.

She was too skinny. With her brown hair pulled back in that bobbing ponytail she looked like a kid, her face all eyes and smiling mouth, her arms and legs in perpetual motion. In spite of the telltale bulge her stomach made beneath her faded pink uniform, she looked like she ought to be climbing trees and contemplating the mysteries of puberty. Not dealing with its most noticeable result.

She wasn’t a child, though. Flynn knew her age to the day. Emma Michaels was thirty-two, single, and until recently she’d lived in San Diego, California. He knew her birthplace, the name of her high school English teacher, her last three places of residence and her mother’s name.

Which was more than she knew.

Flynn smiled. He hadn’t expected to enjoy this job. His client was a worm, and when you worked for worms you usually found yourself mucking around in dirt. Moreover, he was certain Lloyd Carter had lied to him.

By itself, that wouldn’t have bothered him much. Clients lied. Everyone lied. He was often amazed at the amount of trouble people would take to cover up some piddly little sin that didn’t amount to a hill of beans to anyone but themselves. Lying was a skill that came packaged with language, and in Flynn’s line of work, spotting those lies was a necessary talent.

Lloyd Carter was a good liar, but not good enough. Nothing put Flynn on his guard faster than someone who insisted he was being totally honest. Flynn was doing well enough these days that he didn’t have to work for a worm if the job didn’t interest him. Even though Carter claimed that Miranda Fortune wanted him to contact the twins, Carter’s explanations and candid gray eyes had failed to impress him.

In spite of that, he’d taken the job. There was a debt involved, a matter of family and honor. Death didn’t cancel a debt, not to Flynn’s way of thinking, and the people Carter had wanted him to find were Fortunes. Not that they knew it.

He’d made the worm cough up a big retainer before taking the case. He would have worked for free if one of the Fortune family had been his client, but there was no point in letting Carter off the hook, and Carter’s credit was bad.

Flynn sipped from the chipped cup and grimaced. The coffee tasted like it had been brewed about the time the cracked vinyl in the seat he sat on was new. He’d had worse, and been in worse places than this. Part of the hazards of his trade. But he hadn’t had much worse.

He drank it anyway. He needed a reason to linger until things slowed down enough for him to speak to Emma Michaels about the family she didn’t know she had.

Watching her was surprisingly pleasant. She was too thin, she smiled too much, she was pregnant—the woman had strings and obligations sticking out all over her, like porcupine quills. She was a flake, too. When she’d brought him his eggs he’d commented on the colored stones in her bracelet. She’d told him cheerily that there was a stone for each of her chakras. The bracelet was supposed to balance her energy, or some crap like that.

No, God knew he wasn’t interested in her personally. He just liked looking at her. She had all the charm of a friendly kitten. She also had very nice legs. World-class legs.

The protectiveness he felt didn’t surprise him. Habit died hard, and in spite of that smile, she looked like a waif in need of help.

The stir of masculine interest did.

She bustled around behind the counter, loading her tray with plates of pancakes, eggs, biscuits and toast. Flynn found himself watching the quick twitch of her hips as she hurried past him to a booth in the corner. She wore a pale-pink uniform reminiscent of the fifties with a pair of up-to-the-minute athletic shoes…and her stomach pulled the uniform tight enough to make the rear view appealing. She had a great ass to go with those excellent legs.

Flynn frowned. He wasn’t supposed to be appreciating his subject’s ass.

He watched her deal with the truckers and wondered how someone as guileless as Emma Michaels survived in this world. She didn’t look like she would be able to lie worth spit.

Yet she was lying. Flynn’s curiosity itched strongly about that. Emma Michaels was calling herself Emma Jackson now, which had made tracking her difficult. Being pregnant and unwed might account for the lie—shoot, just working as a waitress in this place was reason enough to invent a husband. Only why change her name? He’d checked her finger when she waited on him. She hadn’t bought a ring to back up the pretense.

Chances were, her reason for using a fake name had nothing to do with his case, so that, technically, it was none of his business. But once Flynn’s curiosity was aroused, it was hard to ignore. He wanted to know why such a lousy liar was trying to pull off such a big lie.

Maybe, he thought as he took another sip of his coffee, she would tell him. She might be willing to explain it once he gave her the good news. He was looking forward to that. It wasn’t every day he got to tell a down-on-her-luck young woman with a baby on the way that she was going to be rich.

By nine forty-five, business at the truck stop had thinned out. The other waitress, a heavyset woman with big hair, was refilling the sugar and salt and pepper shakers in her station, and Emma was headed his way with the coffeepot.

Flynn decided it was time. He felt a tingle of anticipation. Would she be more excited about the money, or learning who her mother was?

Even good news could be a shock. He would try to break it to her gently, but he hoped she was tougher than she looked. He wasn’t much good at tact and sensitivity. His sisters had mentioned that he had all the emotional subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Emma Jackson-Michaels stopped at his table, coffeepot in hand, but didn’t fill his cup. “We have some nice teas, too,” she said brightly.

He looked at her blankly. “Teas?”

When she nodded, her ponytail bounced. “Too much caffeine is hard on your system.”

“I like coffee.”

“If you say so, but I can’t help noticing that you look a little tense. You might try some of the chamomile. It’s good for relaxing. There’s some for sale up at the cash register.”

“This doesn’t look like the sort of place that would sell herbal teas.”

“It was my suggestion.” Her voice didn’t go with the kitten image. It was low, almost husky—a satin-sheet kind of voice, the sort of voice a man imagined whispering in his ear late at night. “Henry is a little resistant to new ideas. I’m trying to talk him into offering a vegetable plate, but he thinks a meal has to include some portion of a dead animal.”

His mouth quirked up. “I guess I have something in common with Henry, then.”

“A lot of people do.” She looked disappointed but still cheerful as she relented and poured a stream of sludge into his cup. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yeah.” Up close, she didn’t look quite so young, though she could have passed for twenty-five easier than thirty-two. There were tiny creases at the corners of her eyes from all that smiling. Her cheeks were plump, unlike the rest of her, and she had cute eyebrows. They were thin and shaped into curves of mild astonishment above those big eyes. “Do you pluck your eyebrows?”

“What?”

Why had he asked her that? Annoyed, Flynn pushed his cup away. “Never mind. I need to talk to you.”

Wariness slid across her blue eyes, but she kept smiling. “My boss wouldn’t like that, I’m afraid. Henry has this idea we’re supposed to wait on several customers, not just one.”

“I’m not trying to pick you up. Here.” He raised up slightly so he could dig into his back pocket for his wallet, which held his ID. “My name’s Flynn Sinclair. I’m a P.I., and you—”

“I have to go,” she said abruptly.

That wasn’t wariness he saw in her eyes now. It was fear. Real fear. She edged away.

He grabbed her wrist. It was so narrow his fingers overlapped, which made him feel large and clumsy. “Hey, don’t worry. I have good news for you.” He gave her his best trust-me smile. “It’s about your mother.”

“Oh.” She smiled wider than ever, but it was neither real nor natural now. “My mother. Of course. I’d love to talk to you about my mother, but I can’t stop to chat when I’m working. You understand. If you don’t mind waiting until my shift is over, we can talk then, okay?”

A truly lousy liar, he thought, letting go of her wrist. “Sure, no problem. I’ll wait here for you.”

“That’s great.” She spoke brightly. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the coffeepot. “I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t heard from—Mom—in awhile.”

Flynn watched as his subject fled for the kitchen. His curiosity was itching fit to kill. She was going to bolt. He didn’t know why, but he knew she was going to bolt.

The back door, he thought, rising and pulling a couple bills out of his wallet. Every restaurant had a delivery entrance off the kitchen. She’d slip out that way, thinking he was waiting patiently for her out here.

Flynn was a big man, but he could move quickly when he wanted. He tossed the bills at the cashier and was out the door before the woman had done more than blink at him.

The air was sharp and dry despite the light dusting of snow on the parking lot and the yucca, creosote and dirt that surrounded it. Flynn spared a brief thought for the jacket he’d left in his car, then forgot the temperature as he reached the rear of the truck stop. A strip of pavement containing Dumpsters, employees’ cars, a tottering stack of empty crates and a stray cat separated the building from the land.

There was no sign of Emma. But Flynn knew which car was hers—the aging red Ford Escort on the other side of a jacked-up pickup that looked ready to compete in a monster truck pull.

Her car was still here, so she hadn’t run. Yet. Flynn jogged over to it, then stood there shaking his head. The paint was peeling, making the Ford look as if it had leprosy. How had she made it here from San Diego in this heap?

Desperation or stupidity, he thought, bending to pet the stray cat, which was twining itself madly around his legs. Maybe both.

He heard the door to the kitchen slam and the sound of running feet—soft footfalls, like a skinny, slightly pregnant woman in athletic shoes might make. He abandoned his feline admirer and straightened just as she rounded the side of the oversize pickup.

She saw him, stopped dead and shrieked.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quickly, holding his hands out, palms up, and trying to look harmless. Unfortunately, he wasn’t any better at harmless than he was at sensitivity. “I just need to talk to you for a minute. I was hired to find you—”

“I know,” she said, her voice soft and breathless. “But please, please—tell him you couldn’t find me. He—he’s crazy. You don’t know what he’ll do. Or at least give me time to leave town. You could do that, couldn’t you?”

She knew? His brows drew together. According to Carter, she knew nothing about her family. “I can’t lie to a client.” Not much, anyway. “Anyway, he already knows where you are.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, and shivered.

He frowned. “Don’t you have a jacket? It’s too cold out here for a little thing like you.”

The back door slammed again. The footfalls Flynn heard this time were heavy, solid. He grimaced.

“Emma?” The voice was heavy, too. Deep and heavy and obviously male. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Back here, Henry!”

Harmless, Flynn reminded himself. Think harmless. He smiled harmlessly at her. “I’m not here to make trouble for you. I want to tell you about your mother. Your family.”

For the first time, anger flashed in her eyes. “I don’t have any family. I sure don’t have a mother.”

“No, she—”

“You get away from her!”

Emma’s protector had arrived. Not many men were bigger than Flynn, but this one was. He wore a huge, stained apron wrapped around the middle of his three-hundred plus pounds, and brandished a butcher knife the size of a small sword. His face had been badly scarred by acne thirty or more years ago, a condition that the grizzled stubble on his cheeks didn’t quite cover.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Flynn said, irritated. “I’m not going to hurt her. I’m a private investigator. If you promise not to get excited, I’ll get my license out and prove it.”

The big man took a threatening step forward. The hard desert sunlight gleamed on the steel of his knife. “What d’you mean, excited? You calling me names?”

Flynn sighed. Some days, nothing went right.

“Henry.” His subject put her hand on the man’s arm. “It’s all right.”

“All right? You get so scared you quit, you don’t even give notice, you go tearing out of my place like the devil was on your heels, you say it’s all right? You!” He scowled at Flynn. “I dunno anything about licenses or private investigators. I know you scared Emma. You go away. Now.”

“Listen,” Flynn said to Emma, abandoning the effort to look harmless and settling for determined. He was better at that. “Give me five minutes. If you don’t like what I have to tell you, you can go back to work, or peel out of here in your car—assuming it’s running—or whatever. Five minutes.” He glanced at her mountainous protector. “Alone.”

“No way.” Henry waved his knife.

Emma patted the man on one huge arm. She looked distracted and painfully unsure with those curvy eyebrows of hers trying to frown and managing only to make her look like a perplexed kitten.

She was so damned cute. “Okay, okay,” Flynn said. “This isn’t strictly ethical, but I’ll make you a deal. If, after I talk to you, you’re still worried about my client knowing where you are, I’ll give you eight hours’ head start.” And then he’d find her again.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Flynn. Flynn Sinclair.”

“That’s Flynn with two n’s?”

“Yeah,” he said, baffled by her interest in spelling.

She chewed on her lip a moment. “That makes your heart number a one—very independent. But your personality number is two, so you’re kind and, ah, reassuring.” She looked at him dubiously, obviously doubting the accuracy of her forecast.

Definitely a flake. A pretty one, but a flake. “That’s me. Kind of reassuring.”

She chewed on that unpainted lip. “I don’t think he would send someone to hurt me. That’s not his style. And you’ve seen this man now, Henry, so you could testify if….” She straightened her shoulders. “All right. Five minutes. But show me that ID of yours first.”

Not a complete flake, he thought as he dug into his pocket again. Checking his ID was a good idea if she thought he might be tempted to conk her on the head as soon as they were alone. And apparently she did. Damn it, his curiosity was getting tangled up with those blasted protective urges.

Flynn flipped his wallet open and held it out, displaying his driver’s license—with the photo that made him look like he belonged on the Ten Most Wanted list—and his investigator’s license. She gave both a careful study, then stepped back so Henry could see them, too.

“You sure this is what you want—to be out here with him?” The mountain glared at Flynn.

“He won’t go away until I listen to him.” She patted a massive arm again. “You’d better get back to the kitchen. Something’s probably burning.”

Henry lumbered off, muttering that he’d leave the door open, just in case, and she’d better not even think about running off in that uniform and with her station in a mess.

When he was gone, Flynn looked into a pair of wary blue eyes. Poor kitten. How best to start? “Thirty-two years ago, a desperate young woman left two babies in front of the sheriff’s office in Dry Creek, Nevada.”

Her brows almost managed a real frown this time. “Wait a minute. Two babies?”

“A boy and girl.”

“You’re not talking about me, then.”

Yes, he was. “The young woman’s name was Miranda Fortune.” He waited, but she didn’t react. Maybe she hadn’t heard of the Fortunes. They were well-known in Texas, but that was one of the few western states Emma hadn’t lived in. “She was only seventeen, dead broke and estranged from her family. Miranda is your mother, Emma. And she wants very badly to meet you.”

He wouldn’t have thought a face like hers could look stony. But it did. “So you say, but your client is a man, not a woman. You said he already knew where I was.”

“My client is Lloyd Carter, Miranda’s ex-husband.”

The rest of her face still wasn’t giving much away, but something uncertain moved behind the blue of her eyes. She blinked once, slowly. “My…father?”

“No.” He spoke as gently as he could. “Miranda didn’t meet Carter until several months after you were born. I don’t know who your father was.”

She swallowed. “This man—this Carter—are you sure he’s who he says he is?”

Flynn had been putting some things together. Emma had gotten pregnant while she was living in San Diego. She’d left town in a big hurry, changed her name and was running scared. Scared of the man who got her pregnant? Afraid of a custody battle—or of the man himself? “I check out all my clients. Carter’s on the slimy side of handsome, but he’s definitely who he claims to be.”

She was stiff all over—her shoulders, her back, her expression. “How old is he? What does he look like?”

“He looks like a two-bit actor—weathered face, lots of smile lines, good cap job on his teeth. Wiry, fairly fit for his age—which is fifty-three, despite what he claims. Dark hair, gray eyes.”

Tension sighed out of her, leaving the slim shoulders slumped. “That’s not Steven.”

“Who’s Steven?”

She made a vague gesture. “Never mind. You say he hired you to find me? Was he acting for his ex-wife?”

“More or less.” Mostly less, but the situation was complicated. Flynn didn’t think this was the time to go into details.

She was looking dazed now. “So she’s alive. I’ve wondered…but it doesn’t really change anything.”

“Of course it does. Maybe your mother didn’t do right by you when you were a baby, but she wasn’t much more than a child herself then. She’s got a bucketful of regrets now, and the money to do something about them. I’m to make whatever arrangements are necessary to get you to come to her for a visit—or to stay, if you like. She’s living in Texas now, close to her family.” He paused. “Your family, too. The Fortunes.”

“Well…” She didn’t think about it long before shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t…this is awfully sudden.” Her smile crept out shyly. “She could write to me if she wants, though. You can tell her my address.”

Appealing to sentiment hadn’t worked. Flynn was conscious of feeling disappointed in her, which was absurd. He switched tactics smoothly. He’d hit her where it counted with most people: the wallet. “One thing I haven’t mentioned. The Fortunes are rich. Not your garden variety rich, either. Buying-small-countries rich.”

“Oh. Yes, I think I’ve heard of them,” she said vaguely, as if it weren’t important. “I don’t pay a lot of attention to gossip columns and such.”

“Miranda wants to settle some money on you.”

That got a reaction, but not the one he expected. Instead of greed lighting a spark in her eyes, impatience made her snappish. “I don’t need her money. I do just fine on my own.”

He glanced at the car beside them. Three bald tires and peeling paint didn’t equal “doing just fine” to him. “Maybe so. But what’s fine for you might not be fine for that baby you’re expecting.”

Her chin tilted up. “I can take care of my baby. And myself. And now,” she said, haughty as a duchess, “if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to work.” She turned away.

Yeah, that’s one great ass, he thought as she walked away from him and several million dollars. Pretty face, too, in spite of those smudges beneath her eyes, and what a smile she’s got. Pity she’s a flake.

He had one last thing to try. “Maybe you forgot what I said about there being two babies,” he called out. “Are you at all interested in meeting your brother, Emma?”

She stopped and turned slowly to face him. “You’re just saying that to get me to…a brother? I don’t…do I really have a brother?”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted it so badly he could taste her yearning in the air between them. This was the reaction he’d expected when he’d told her about her mother. He walked up to her and said quietly, “His name is Justin. He’s your twin. I found him, too. Last week I told him about you and your mother, and he’s making arrangements to fly there to meet her. He’s expecting to see you there, too.”

“He’s in Texas?”

“He will be, in another day or two.”

“I have a brother. A twin brother.” Wonder filled her eyes.

“A fraternal twin.” Amusement lightened his voice. “Obviously.”

She hugged her arms around herself tightly. “All right. I’ll go.”




One


April: San Antonio

There were thirteen different lip colors on the dressing table in front of Emma. Four were pencils, three were tubes, four more were in little pots and two of them looked like a kindergartner’s crayons. She even had accessories for them: a teensy brush and two sizes of sharpeners.

Emma generally owned one or two lipsticks that she forgot to use. What was she doing with thirteen lip colors that needed their own accessories?

“Emma?” The voice that drifted up the stairs was raised enough to be heard, but fell far short of being a yell. Miranda Fortune never did anything as crude as yelling. “Are you almost ready?”

That’s how she’d ended up with thirteen lip colors. Emma sighed. “Almost!”

Which was almost true. She had her dress on. She just had to do her hair and her makeup and find some shoes, and she’d be ready…ready for a party she didn’t want to attend.

Emma grimaced and reached for one of the crayon-type lipsticks. It was appropriate; she felt like a kindergartner playing with makeup as she drew an outline on her lips with a purply-red crayon and then colored it in.

She wasn’t exactly dreading the party. She didn’t expect to fit in, but she was used to that. And her brother would be there. Two brothers, actually—she had a half brother, too, and a half sister. But it was her twin she thought of. Justin.

She smiled at her reflection, noticed the dimple in her left cheek and smiled wider. Her brother had a smile just like hers, dimple and all. The first time she’d seen him smile she’d laughed in delight. Not that she got to see his smile often—or him, either. This was his second trip to Texas, though, his second trip to see her. And Miranda, of course. Justin Bond was a very successful businessman based in Pittsburgh; he was always busy, usually too serious and very private.

But when he did smile, the sun came out. Oh, how she was looking forward to seeing him again!

Flynn Sinclair might be there, too.

Anticipation took on another note, a deeper, less certain chord that resonated in places Emma didn’t want to notice.

She heard the light tread on the stairs and tensed. Stay with your breath, she told herself, and focused on the slow in and out of her breathing the way the monk at the temple in Taos had taught her.

Her muscles were relaxed again by the time Miranda spoke from the doorway. “Kane and Allison are here to take us to the ranch.”

Kane Fortune was Miranda’s son from her marriage to Lloyd Carter. He’d taken the Fortune name soon after Miranda moved back to Texas. Emma hadn’t felt the immediate connection with Kane she’d experienced with her twin. Mostly she felt wary. “I may have exaggerated about being ready,” she said cheerfully without turning around. “But it will only take two shakes to finish up. There’s not much that can be done with this mop of mine.”

There were two women in Emma’s mirror: one with dark, frantically curly hair, one with smooth blond hair swept into a perfect chignon. Miranda Fortune was sleek, blond and lovely, impossibly elegant tonight in diamonds and a long sweep of black silk.

“Oh, my.” Emma spun around on the small stool. “Don’t you look gorgeous!”

Miranda’s lips turned up in a surprised smile. “Thank you. You look wonderful, too. Don’t worry about Kane. He won’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

Emma had her doubts about that, but she kept them to herself.

“Oh, do stand up and let me see how the dress looks!”

Emma’s dress was yet another compromise in a long line of compromises she’d made in the eight weeks since she came here. She was holding firm about the important thing, though. She wouldn’t let Miranda settle any money on her. A small trust fund for the baby, sure. That was fine. But Emma didn’t want to be rich. She didn’t know how to be rich. Who would she be if she had tons of money she hadn’t earned herself? No one she knew.

The dress was pretty, though. Miranda had wanted to take her to one of the expensive shops she patronized; Emma had wanted to go to a factory outlet store she’d discovered. In the end, they’d found this one on the fifty-percent-off rack at an upscale department store. It was more colorful than elegant, which suited Emma.

The layers of tissue-thin gauze swished pleasantly around her ankles when she stood. She grinned and patted her tummy. “I look like a cross between a hippie and a hippo—one of those dancing hippos in Fantasia, maybe.” And nothing at all like the polished woman standing in front of her.

“You look beautiful.”

The words were simply spoken and obviously sincere. Emma flushed. “Well—thank you.” A sharp jab from inside made her grin. “Elmo is more excited about this party than I am.”

“Elmo?” Both elegant eyebrows rose. “I hope that’s a joke. Yesterday you called the baby Abigail.”

Emma shrugged. “Elmo, Abigail, Zeke, Penelope—I haven’t made up my mind.”

Miranda smiled. “It might be easier to decide on a name if you’d let the doctor tell you what its sex is.”

“I like surprises.”

“That’s good, because I’ve brought you one.” She held out a small, silver-wrapped box the size that jewelry came in. Her lips still smiled, but her eyes were uncertain.

Emma felt a now-familiar stab of irritation. “That’s very nice of you, Miranda, but you really have to stop buying me things all the time. It makes me uncomfortable. You’re already giving me an allowance—”

“This isn’t anything expensive, truly.” She offered the box again. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it.”

Emma had long since realized that her idea of expensive and Miranda’s were vastly different. Reluctantly she held her hand out and summoned a smile. “How can I refuse?”

The box held jewelry, just as Emma had suspected—a necklace with a dainty silver chain. “Oh…how pretty!” She held it up. The pendant was a stylized yin-yang symbol.

“I hoped you would like it. You seem very interested in that sort of thing.”

Emma felt touched—and guilty. Miranda was trying so hard, and Emma hated to keep disappointing her. But what Miranda wanted from Emma wasn’t possible. “I’ll wear it tonight. Would you put it on for me?”

She sat back down at the dressing table. It was a pretty, totally feminine piece of furniture, covered at the moment with the detritus from Emma’s attempt at applying makeup. The mirror showed her Miranda’s face as the woman moved up behind her.

They looked nothing alike. Their hair was different, their eyes were different, their mouths, the very shape of their faces…but the nose on the older woman’s face was a lot like hers. Straight and a little too short.

It should have been a comforting discovery. After years of looking for her features on the faces of strangers, Emma ought to be glad to find her nose on the face of the woman who had given birth to her.

She wasn’t.

When Miranda bent to fasten the necklace, her fingers brushed Emma’s nape. Feelings rushed in—crowded, confused feelings that made her want rather frantically to get away. She summoned a smile. “I love it.”

“Maybe I could fix your hair.” Miranda touched one curl lightly. “You’d look lovely in a French braid, and I have a little silver clasp we could use.”

Something strong and ugly flashed through Emma. Something she had no intention of acknowledging or encouraging. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Great. I can never do anything with my hair.”

It was going to be a long night.



The party was being given by her uncle, Ryan Fortune, at his ranch outside the city in Red Rock, Texas. Emma rode there in the comfort of plush leather seats with classical music throbbing gently from the car speakers.

Miranda didn’t speak much once they got in the car, and Kane and Allison spoke mostly to each other. and Emma was glad. Making conversation could be a strain with all those undercurrents swirling around.

There would be undercurrents at the party, too, but not such personal ones. It was a big “welcome to the family” bash for her, Justin, and two other Fortune cousins—Sam “Storm” Pearce and Jonas Goodfellow—that the family had recently discovered, thanks to the efforts of Flynn Sinclair.

That man sure got around. He’d made his way into Emma’s thoughts far too often in the past eight weeks.

It was only natural that she would think of him sometimes, she told herself as the lights of San Antonio faded behind them. He’d been the catalyst for some important events in her life. It was no wonder she kept remembering that deep, laconic voice.

Elmo—or maybe Abigail—gave her a hard kick in the ribs in rebuttal.

Okay, so maybe she thought of Flynn a little too often. But there was no harm in a fantasy or two. She wasn’t really interested in the man, no matter what effect he’d had on her unruly hormones. He was a P.I., for heaven’s sake. One step removed from a bounty hunter.

Like Steven.

Emma’s shoulders tensed against the rush of fear. She had to stop reacting that way. It had been months since she’d fled San Diego in the dead of night, and Steven was very good at finding people who didn’t want to be found. Surely, if he had been determined to track her down, he would have done it by now.

No, she wouldn’t think about Steven. He was part of her past, not her present or her future. Better to think about all her new relatives. Fortunately, she’d already met a few of them—like her uncle, Ryan Fortune.

She tasted the phrase in her mind: her uncle, Ryan Fortune. Uncle Ryan. It had an odd ring to it. Odd, but pleasant.

He had come to see her soon after she arrived in San Antonio. There was something very solid about Ryan Fortune, a grounded quality she hadn’t expected in a man with his wealth. She liked him. He didn’t push. He hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow over her being pregnant and unmarried, either.

She glanced at the woman sitting beside her in the silver Mercedes sedan. Miranda didn’t mean to push. Whatever she had been like when she was young, back when she ran away from home and gave birth to two babies she didn’t keep, she was a nice woman now. A bit too perfect, maybe, but Emma didn’t hold that against her. And Miranda was clearly delighted about the baby.

All in all, Emma thought she could like Miranda, too—if only the woman would stop trying to be her mother. It was too late for that. Years and years too late.



Ryan and Lily Fortune’s house at the Double Crown Ranch looked like an old-time Spanish hacienda. It was large, lovely and easy to get lost in.

Not that she was really lost, Emma assured herself as she paused at one end of a hallway she was almost sure she’d seen before. Just turned around. She could hear voices, the sound muted by the thick walls of the house into a sort of human ocean, rising and falling in the distance. She must be headed in the right direction.

Of course, she could have asked for directions. She’d stumbled across the kitchen in her wanderings; she should have asked one of the people who’d been clattering pans and dishes. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d hurried off in another direction. It was absurd, but she hadn’t wanted to be seen. She felt guilty for having misplaced herself. As if she had no business being here—not here in this house, not here with these people.

Well. She paused and shook her head. It didn’t take Sigmund Freud to figure out what that meant.

Emma trailed her fingers lightly over the stuccoed wall beside her. Would she ever feel as if she belonged in these grand surroundings? As if these strangers were really family?

Probably not, she thought wistfully. She wasn’t good at making permanent connections with people. But…her hand stole to her stomach, her fingers spreading to cup the curve protectively. A tiny knee or elbow butted against her palm as her baby shifted inside her.

Emma might never belong here. But her baby would.

She smiled. Alice—or maybe Edward—would grow up knowing these people, maybe running down this hall when the two of them came for a visit, small, bare feet slapping the tile floor. Emma’s child wouldn’t even notice the niches in the thick walls that displayed pottery and other art objects, much less think about what they cost. They would all be familiar. As with all familiar things, they would be comfortingly invisible.

But it was foreign to Emma, strange and obtrusive. She remembered the objects better than the people—like the solid oak front door, the huge fireplace. She’d tried to keep track of faces and names, but there were so many of them, an overabundance of strange new relatives.

Not that everyone here was related to her. Some were relatives by marriage, others were friends or neighbors of the family. But there were an awful lot of Fortunes. Some, like her, were Fortunes by birth, but they bore other names. Like her new cousins, “Storm” and Jonas.

They had been fathered by her Uncle Ryan’s black-sheep brother, Cameron, who had died several years ago. Emma had yet another new cousin, courtesy of her Uncle Cameron’s womanizing, but Holly Douglas wouldn’t be at the party tonight. She refused to leave her home in Alaska.

Jonas had brought a bottle of port for their host—no, for Uncle Ryan, she corrected herself mentally. It was a courteous gesture…and one that hadn’t occurred to Emma.

She sighed. She didn’t know how to act with these people.

The sound of voices was growing louder, reassuring her that she was on her way back. She turned a corner and caught a glimpse of someone vanishing into one of the rooms that opened off the next short stretch of hallway.

She grimaced. Maybe a lot of the names and faces had blurred, but she had no trouble matching that particular brassy blond head to a face and a name. Thank goodness Leeza hadn’t seen her. One encounter with Lloyd Carter’s current wife had been more than enough. The woman was as sticky-sweet as strawberry jam, with big, bouncy breasts and big, sly eyes shadowed by inch-thick mascara.

Leeza had cornered Emma earlier and made a big deal about how she’d urged her husband to hire Flynn Sinclair to find Emma and Justin. She’d cooed about how her heart had been wrenched to think of “you poor little things” growing up without a mother.

Phooey. That woman had never done anything for anyone unless there was something in it for her.

Emma hurried down the hall, wanting to be somewhere else when Leeza came out of that door. What was the woman doing, anyway? Maybe she was lost. That was the charitable explanation; Leeza must be as much of a stranger to this house as Emma was. Somehow Emma doubted it, though. More likely, she was prying. She was the sort who would make an excuse to use your bathroom so she could peek inside the medicine cabinet, hoping to find some interesting dirt to sling.

Emma had nearly reached the arched entry to the great room, where people in fancy dress were milling around, talking and laughing and making Emma’s head pound.

Oh, Lord. She really didn’t want to go back in there. Normally Emma made friends easily. New faces, new places—she was used to both, and good at making herself at home wherever she was. And she genuinely liked people. She considered mingling with strangers an opportunity, not a chore. Normally.

But nothing seemed to be normal anymore.

Well, she wasn’t going to hang out in the hallway all night. She took a deep breath and plunged back into the crowd.

She made it three feet before someone stopped her.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

She knew that voice—deep, rumbly, as if each word rolled up from somewhere deep inside the big, broad chest of the man. She turned, her heartbeat picking up speed. “Flynn. I mean, Mr. Sinclair. I wondered if you would be here tonight. Ryan told me you’d been invited.”

He was too big. That was, once again, the first thing she noticed about the man—his size. Emma didn’t like oversize men with tough-guy faces. Not even when they had Superman hair, black and shiny as wet Magic Marker, with an unruly curl that parted company with the rest of his hair to make an adorable little squiggle on his forehead.

“Flynn works fine.” The corner of his mouth kicked up in the cocky grin she remembered. “I’ve been hoping I’d see you tonight.”

He had? “Well—that’s flattering.” An elbow jabbing her rib cage from inside made her rub her stomach soothingly, reminding her that he hadn’t meant that the way she wanted to take it. He couldn’t have, she thought wryly. Not when she was doing her seven-month impression of a blimp. “I was hoping to see you, too. I never thanked you.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “No thanks needed. I did what I’d been hired to do. But I’m curious. When I, ah, talked to you at the truck stop, I didn’t get the impression that gratitude was one of your reactions.”

“I was a little spooked at the time,” she admitted. No need to tell him that she’d felt uneasy from the moment he’d sat down in her station, long before he’d scared her by telling her he was a P.I. Flynn Sinclair simply did not have a reassuring face. His nose had been broken at least once; his cheeks were sunken, dark with beard shadow, and his eyes were set too deeply beneath thick black eyebrows.

But they were green, those eyes. Not hazel, not even grass-green, but the bright, hard color of an old 7-Up bottle.

And they were laughing at her right now. “I figured that out.”

“You probably wondered why.”

He shrugged those oversize shoulders. “I figured that out, too. You were running scared of someone—Steven Shaw. The man who got you pregnant.”

“I—how did you—did I mention him?”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t a trace of a smile left on his face now, and his eyes had that hard, unwavering focus that unnerved her and made something inside her tingle. “Are you glad I found you now? And dragged you kicking and screaming into your family?”

“Not kicking and screaming,” she protested. “But—yes, I’m glad.” Amusement mixed with pleasure. “I’ve got a brother now. Two of them, actually. Not to mention a half sister, two aunts by marriage, an uncle and more cousins than I’ve been able to count.”

“And a mother.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Kane says you and Miranda are having problems.”

They’d discussed her? She didn’t like that.

“Well, he’s wrong. Miranda and I get along fine. I’m afraid Kane and Gabrielle don’t entirely approve of me. I guess that’s natural—I’m living, breathing proof that their mother isn’t quite the perfect person they’d like to think. Kane, especially, is protective of her.”

“Funny. I didn’t get the impression that Kane disapproves of you. Maybe you’re having trouble warming up to him and Gabrielle because you’re jealous of their relationship with Miranda.”

“I don’t know Miranda well enough to be jealous of her. Besides, jealousy is a very destructive emotion.”

“I’d call it a very human emotion. If you don’t know Miranda well, that’s because you never had the chance, while Kane and Gabrielle had her all these years. Stands to reason that you’d be jealous of that.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very annoying man?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to see you so we could argue about family relationships, though. I’ve checked out that boyfriend of yours, and—”

“You’ve what?” Annoyance boiled over into temper.

“Checked out Steven Shaw. He’s bad news.”

“Tell me something I don’t know! What right did you have to go digging around in my personal life?”

“I’m a P.I. If I waited until people gave me permission to dig around, I wouldn’t get much work done.”

“And were you working?” she demanded. “I thought your job ended when you found me!”

“I guess it did, technically. But I got a call a few days ago from a man named Mathers. He said he’d heard I was looking for you. Pretended he had information for me, while he tried to pump me for information.”

The blood drained from her head. “Richard Mathers is Steven’s friend,” she whispered.

“That’s what I discovered when I checked him out. And that’s why I decided to find out more about your old boyfriend.”

“Former fiancé,” she corrected absently. Had Flynn’s meddling tipped Steven off?

“Whatever.” He shook his head. “I should have gone with my itch to start with. Loose ends have a way of snapping back on a man.”

“What did you tell Richard?”

“Not a damned thing. You think I’m an idiot, or just unscrupulous?”

“Are you sure? Steven used to say that people don’t realize how much they’re giving away once he gets them talking. He’s…very good at that sort of thing.”

His voice turned dry. “I’m not bad at it myself, so I recognize the tricks when someone tries to play them on me. Besides, it wasn’t your boyfriend I talked to. It was his buddy, and Mathers isn’t all that good.”

Her head was spinning with possibilities, each more frightening than the last. “Stop calling Steven my boyfriend. He never was, not really—”

“That baby didn’t get started all by itself.”

“You know, when you lift one eyebrow that way, your whole face gets sarcastic. You don’t even have to change your voice. It’s very annoying. What I meant was that I object to the word ‘boyfriend.’ It’s so silly and juvenile. Steven and I were engaged.”

“You do know how to pick ’em, don’t you?”

How could she have entertained even one fleeting fantasy about this man? “I think I’ll go talk to someone else for awhile. Someone who will make more of an effort not to insult me.”

“Ah—sorry. I didn’t mean to—hey, don’t walk off. I need to ask you a couple of questions.” He wrapped one big hand around her arm.

She jerked her arm away. “I don’t like being grabbed.”

“Okay, okay. Is Shaw likely to trash my office looking for my case file on you? How fixated is he?”

“I…I don’t know.” It was a frightening thought. Would Steven be so determined to find her that he would break into Flynn’s office to learn where she was? “He might.”

“Hmm.” His eyes looked very green, very sharp. “Well, I’ll make sure he can’t learn anything from me, even if he is stupid enough to search my office. Since you’re staying with your mother, your name shouldn’t be out where he can find it, like on utility bills. Have you used your social security number at all?”

She shook her head. “Steven used to talk to me about how he tracked people down, so I know better than to do that.” She tried for a smile, but it wobbled. “Which has made finding a job rather difficult.”

“A job?” He drew those thick eyebrows together. “Why in the hell would you be looking for a job? You’re seven months’ pregnant.”

“You do have a talent for stating the obvious.”

“You don’t need money. Miranda is more than willing to take care of you, and the Lord knows she can afford it.”

“I don’t want or need to be taken care of! Good grief, I’ve been on my own since I turned eighteen.” Before that, really, but that’s when she legally took custody of herself.

“Yeah, but you’re broke, out of work and unable to even look for a job because of your psycho boyfriend. You’ve got a baby to think of. I’d say you could use a little help.”

He made her feel small. Small and helpless and incompetent, and she couldn’t stand it. “If you call him my boyfriend again, I swear I’m going to—to—”

“Hit me?” For some stupid, male reason, that amused him. His eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Okay. Have at it.”

“I don’t like violence.” She turned away.

At least he didn’t grab her this time. And she was not the least bit disappointed that he let her go so easily, either.

Emma headed for the dining room, where an array of snacks and desserts had been laid out. At the moment, the room was empty, which was even more appealing than the chocolate raspberry cake.

Well…almost as appealing. She picked up one of the small dessert plates and cut a nice, big slice. Then she stood there and scowled at the piece of cake she’d slid onto her plate.

How dare Flynn Sinclair imply that she couldn’t take care of herself? She’d been on her own for years and years. Maybe the mess with Steven had changed things some. Maybe she had to accept a little help right now. Nothing had changed permanently, she assured herself as she loaded her fork with chocolate cake dripping with raspberry sauce.

Steven would give up eventually. She’d get a job and a place of her own, maybe even here in San Antonio. She’d have her baby, and…

And then she wouldn’t really be on her own anymore, would she?

Emma smiled and rubbed her tummy. Anita, or maybe Adam, was turning somersaults. No, she wouldn’t be on her own anymore. She and her baby would be on their own—together.

It was a lovely thought.

She took a big, gooey bite. The cake was wonderful. And she was going to do just fine. Steven couldn’t find her here. Good as he was, he wasn’t Superman or 007. And Flynn, aggravating as he might be, was no fool. He’d make sure there was nothing in his office that gave her whereabouts away. Just in case.

“Emma,” a woman said from behind her. “Emma Fortune?”

Her name was not Fortune. It was Michaels. Michaels was a perfectly good name, even if it had come from some list kept by a social worker. But whoever was calling her no doubt meant well, so she mustered a smile as she turned, plate in hand.

A flash went off in her face. “What the—”

“How does it feel to get rich overnight?” that voice asked. “What was your first thought when you found out you were a Fortune?”

She blinked, the dazzlement fading to reveal a tall, skinny woman with short black hair, a short black skirt and a tight black top. And a camera. “Who are you?”

The woman grinned. “The person who’s about to give you your five minutes of fame, honey. Natalie Bernstein, of the Texas Tattler.”




Two


Ten days later

The light turned red just in time to make Flynn stomp on the brakes. He pulled to a stop, drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glanced at the tabloid newspaper lying on the seat beside him.

Dammit to hell. The photo on the front page wasn’t flattering, but it was recognizable. No one who’d ever seen that smile would fail to recognize Emma.

And just in case they had some doubts, the fool reporter had printed her name right beneath it. Oh, they’d called her “Emma Fortune” instead of Michaels, but that wasn’t going to do anything more than irritate her. It sure wouldn’t fool the scumbag she’d been engaged to. And the cutesy little rags-to-riches story that went with the photo identified Flynn and gave enough information for a sixth grader to find her.

Steven Shaw wasn’t a sixth-grader. He was a pro.

The light changed. Flynn pulled away quickly.

Take it easy, he told himself as he turned off into the entry to the exclusive Kingston Estates, a gated community where Miranda’s villa was located. Even if Shaw saw that tabloid the minute it hit the stands, he couldn’t get here this fast. But the sense of urgency riding him wouldn’t let up. He slowed, flashed his ID at the man at the gate, then accelerated smoothly.

It was his fault. If he’d stayed with her at the party, he could have gotten that camera away from the party-crashing reporter. If he’d followed his instincts and talked to Ryan before the party instead of waiting until he’d talked to Emma, the reporter would never have gotten in. Ryan would have seen to that.

Of course, Emma could have prevented the whole mess, too, by telling her uncle what was going on—if she weren’t so blasted pigheaded.

When Flynn pulled up in front of the townhome, Emma’s battered Ford was in the driveway. So was an Explorer.

Looked like Kane Fortune was here, too. Good. Flynn slammed the door to his Jeep and stalked up to the steps to the front door.

Miranda opened it herself. She was wearing a long blue robe that zipped up the front, her hair and makeup neatly fixed. She blinked when she saw him.

“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need to see Emma.”

“I’m sorry. Do come in.” She held the door wider and stepped back. “We’re all in the breakfast room. Would you like to join us? There are muffins left, and I think some eggs, too.”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.” The poor lady’s fingers were nervously pleating the blue silk of her robe. Flynn did his best to look reassuring. “I imagine you can guess why I’m here.”

She nodded jerkily. “The picture.”

“Yeah.”

“Emma thinks she has to leave. To just—take off. I hope you’ll help me convince her the situation isn’t that serious.”

Either Miranda was living in a fantasy world, or Emma hadn’t leveled with her. “Even if Shaw doesn’t read the tabloids himself, odds are that someone he knows does. All it takes is for one person to mention it to him.”

Her lips tightened. Without another word, she turned and led the way down a short hall.

The breakfast room was a small, sunny place. Lots of wood, painted white; lots of undraped windows with frilly things at the tops. The cushions on the chairs were green and yellow, and matched the frilly things at the windows.

Kane sat at the white table. The plate in front of him held only crumbs. He looked up when Flynn entered, his level gaze unsurprised. “You’ve seen that damned picture, I guess.”

Flynn nodded. He was looking at the other occupant of the room, who was wearing a red cotton nightgown that buttoned up to the neck. Emma’s plate held a dismembered muffin and some scrambled eggs she’d stirred around. Her hair looked like she’d stuck her head in a blender.

Her face was a little fuller, he noted with satisfaction. He couldn’t tell about her arms with that enveloping nightgown, but he thought she’d put a little weight on. Good.

“Flynn! What are you doing here?” Her eyes were wide and startled.

“Having coffee,” he said, going to the hutch where a pot sat on a warmer. “Then we’re going to get some things straightened out.”

“What’s to straighten out? I’ve got to leave, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid you do.” He brought his cup over to the table and sat across from her. She looked cute with blender hair. He wondered if her breasts were that full all the time, and wished she was wearing something clingy so he could see the shape of her breasts better….

Damn. What was wrong with him?

Miranda frowned. “Even if this man does come looking for Emma, she doesn’t have to leave. Kingston Estates has security.”

“A bored security guard or two won’t slow Shaw down, I’m afraid, if he’s determined to get to Emma.”

“What do you know that we don’t?” Kane asked.

“That’s what we need to get straight.” He sipped his coffee appreciatively. “This is great coffee, Miranda. You grind it fresh?”

“I—yes.”

“There’s a little place on Esquivel that has some good blends. The beans are shipped vacuum-sealed. You might want to try it some time.”

“You came here to talk about coffee?” Emma said sweetly.

“You want to get right to business? Okay. What have you told them about Steven Shaw?”

“Everything necessary.” She met his eyes steadily, but her fingers fidgeted with the handle on her coffee cup. “I don’t see what you’re doing here. Why you’ve involved yourself in this.”

“Damned if I know.” He couldn’t stand to think of the scumbag getting hold of her, that was all. “Except that I’m pretty sure you’ve held back a few important facts from your mom and your brother, here.”

Those curvy eyebrows of hers sailed up haughtily. “Such as?”

“Did you tell them you needed stitches after the last time you saw Shaw? Did you mention that after beating you, he locked you in the bathroom and you had to break out before you could get medical care?”

In the silence that fell, the small, dismayed noise that Miranda made sounded very loud. Flynn noticed that the knuckles on Kane’s fists were white. He sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

“You talked to Mindy. You must have. No one else—” She shook her head. “I trusted her.”

“Who’s Mindy?” Kane asked.

“My friend. We worked together at the florist’s in San Diego and she helped me get away. I can’t believe she told Flynn everything.”

“She didn’t tell me. She told a colleague of mine. I told you I’d checked out your boyfriend—excuse me, your former fiancé—after I got that call from Mathers.” He watched the expressions fleeting across her face. Dismay, maybe shame. Disbelief. Anger. “If it makes you feel any better, Sam had a hell of a time getting her to open up.”

“Mindy knew better than to talk to a P.I.”

“Ed’s good at getting people to trust him.”

Her words came out flat. “So is Steven.”

He nodded. “That’s why you ran, isn’t it? Instead of going to the cops for help. Because you didn’t trust the San Diego P.D.”

“He’s got buddies on the force.” She pushed back her chair and stood.

Kane spoke up. “Emma told us this man is a bounty hunter. I take it he’s got contacts in the police department?”

“He used to be a cop,” Flynn said, “before he got kicked off the force for using unnecessary roughness.”

Emma froze. “He said he’d quit the force because he hated all the red tape that keeps officers from doing their jobs.”

“Right. Red tape meaning he wasn’t allowed to pistolwhip an uncooperative witness, I suppose.”

“I didn’t know.” She ran both hands over her hair. It didn’t do much to tame the unruly mass. “God. There was so much I didn’t know.”

She was so pale, her skin chalky with shock. He wanted to sound gentle. It came out gruff. “You wouldn’t have, of course.”

“The man is obviously bad news,” Kane said. “But will he really chase Emma all the way to Texas?”

“Emma thinks he will. Don’t you?”

“How can I be sure? He said…” She started pacing, her movements jerky. “When you were checking him out, did you find out if he’s been looking for me?”

“Yeah.” He hated to tell her that, but she needed to know. “Mindy told Sam he’d talked to her. And from what Sam learned, he’s got feelers out elsewhere.”

Her eyes closed. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Miranda went to her. “We’ll get you protection, Emma.”

“You don’t understand. Steven is…once he’s decided to do something, he doesn’t turn back. No matter what.”

That’s what he’d needed to know. Flynn turned slightly in his chair to watch her restless movement, his decision made. “Mindy wasn’t crazy about breaking a confidence, but when Ed explained the situation, she could see you needed help. You seem to have some trouble with that concept.”

She stopped by one of the big windows, her fingers gripping the frame. “I’ve been accepting help for the past two months. The result was that photograph.”

“That happened because you hadn’t leveled with the people who want to help you. But you’ve made a start. The next step is to go pack your bags. I’ve got a fishing cabin about two hours away. We’ll go there.”

She stared at him. “I beg your pardon.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “You know, you look a lot like your mom when you do that.”

“I don’t—oh, this is ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Kane’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you offering the use of your cabin, Flynn? Or your services as bodyguard? You don’t come cheap. I’m not sure Emma can afford you.”

“Money is not an issue,” Miranda said crisply. “But Emma doesn’t have to run off to some cabin. We can get her all the protection she needs. If she needs a bodyguard—”

“I need to leave,” Emma said flatly.

“Emma.” Miranda spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “If this Steven Shaw is violent, the last thing you should do is take off on your own.” She touched Emma’s arm. “There’s more than your own safety at stake now.”

Even from here, Flynn could see how she tensed at her mother’s touch. “I know that.”

Miranda sighed. “Whatever you do, you’re going to need money. Maybe this is the time to tell you that I intend to settle funds directly on you, not on my grandchild. It—it should have been yours, anyway. My father would have left you and Justin provided for if he’d known.”

“No.” Emma shook her head. “No, I’ve told you and told you—a trust fund to pay for the baby’s college is fine. And I haven’t had much choice except to accept a small allowance from you, since I gave up my job to come here. No one wants to hire a woman who’s seven months’ pregnant—especially when they see this address on my application. They don’t believe I really need the work. But I can’t and won’t accept more than that.”

Miranda smiled sadly. “Oh, Emma. What makes you think you have a choice?”

Emma’s mouth opened and closed twice before she managed to say, “You can’t just make me rich whether I like it or not!”

Kane broke in impatiently. “Mother doesn’t need your permission. She’s already spoken to her lawyer.”

“But I don’t have any right to her money! It should go to you, eventually. You’re her son, her—” Emma closed her mouth suddenly.

Her real child. The last words might have gone unspoken, but every person in the room heard them anyway.

Miranda’s voice was as quiet as always when she answered. But there was no missing the determination that lay behind her words. “You can do whatever you like with the money—set up a trust fund for the baby, give everything away, whatever. But it will be yours.”

Poor waif, Flynn thought. Most people would be delirious with joy to learn they were about to be rich. Emma looked like she’d been sucker-punched.

He decided to distract the others to give her a few minutes to pull herself together. “If she does stay here, you’re going to need extra security.”

“What do you recommend?” Miranda asked.

“You’d need a team. Five men should do it.”

Miranda’s eyes widened. “So many?”

“Four to take the outside in shifts, with two on duty at all times, one in front and one out back. Plus someone who can stick with her 24-7.”

“Sounds like you’re arranging security for a head of state.” Kane drew his eyebrows together. “Is Shaw really that dangerous?”

“He’s good. Damn good, from what I hear. Sam says he’s got quite a reputation on the West Coast for always bringing in his man.”

Miranda gave a delicate shudder. “A bounty hunter. I suppose his job made him seem dangerous and…interesting.” Her tone of voice made it obvious what she thought.

Flynn glanced at Emma. She looked a hundred miles away, her brow pleated, her arms hugging her middle. He’d give her a little more time to make up her mind, he decided. She might be a flake, and stubborn as hell, but she wasn’t stupid. “Not all bounty hunters are like Shaw. I’ve worked with some decent ones.”

“I didn’t even know they existed,” Miranda admitted. “I thought that sort of thing went out with the old West.”

“Most bounty hunters work directly for one or two bail bondsmen. Shaw’s an exception. He freelances up and down the California coast. He’s got a name for taking the hard cases, the skips no one can find—or wants to find, because they’re too dangerous.”

“Maybe we should have him followed,” Kane said, “instead of mounting guard on Emma. That’s a temporary solution, at best.”





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