Fortune's Cinderella (9 page)

Silence stretched between them until he said, “I take it reality just hit?”

She snorted. “Like a ton of bricks. Sorry.”

“No apology necessary. Nice to see you’re human, after all. But…you don’t think I’d understand what you’re going through?”

“Not a whole lot, no.”

“Because…?”

“Because that hospital bill you took care of without a blink? Would’ve taken me years to pay off—”

“Which is maybe why I paid it?”

“And I’m grateful, I really am. But it only points out how different we are. That you’re so used to things coming easy for you there’s no way you could even begin to comprehend what life is like for the rest of us peasants. Now you’ve done your good deed you can tuck yourself into your thousand-count Egyptian sheets at night with a clear conscience…what are you doing?”

Gravel sprayed as he yanked the car off to the side of the road by somebody’s pasture. In the distance, by a stand of trees, a half-dozen fat and sassy horses grazed. The engine cut, Scott twisted to face her, his left hand gripping the steering wheel, the anger in his eyes boring straight through her.

“Hopefully setting you straight.” His gaze darkened. “I work hard for my money, Christina. I’ve earned it. As has my whole family. And I’m not going to apologize for it, or them, or pretend this isn’t who I am because it offends you.” When she turned away, her face hot, he said, “I know you’re scared, Christina—”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t even give me that. Right now you’re like a wounded animal backed into a corner, lashing out at me not because I have money, but because you’re afraid I’m somehow going to make things worse. Not that I blame you. You don’t know me from Adam, for one thing. And, for another, no matter what I say you’re going to think I’m patronizing you. Which irritates me no end, but I get it. However,” he said when her eyes cut back to his, “I didn’t pay your bill, or offer you a lift, so I could check them off some hypothetical ‘good deeds’ list.”

Christina broke free of that penetrating gaze to look out the windshield. “Then why—?”

“Because I like you, dammit. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Why?” she said again, more softly.

“I don’t know, maybe because you’re likable?” he said, adding, when her eyes bugged out of her head, “But the why is immaterial. The point is, there’s no way I’m leaving you in the lurch. You’re going to need help, honey. And I’m going to make sure you get it. Because that’s how I roll.”

After a brief but intense conscience-grappling session—although why she should feel guilty about accepting whatever assistance he could give, she had no idea—Christina blew out a long, shaky sigh. “You must think I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“No,” Scott said with a sigh as he pulled back onto the highway. “I’ve dated crazy before. Trust me, you don’t even come close.

But I do wish you’d judge me by what I do. Not what I am. That you’d simply…give me a shot.”

She could feel her heart beat throbbing at the base of her throat. “At…what?”

“Well, to begin with…how about the chance to prove I’m a human being and not a stereotype?”

“Oh, Lord…” Christina lifted one hand to her flaming face. “I deserved that, didn’t I?”

“’Fraid so, petunia,” he said with a light laugh, then glanced over. “So do we have a deal?”

“Sure,” she said, since, at the moment, it didn’t appear she had much choice. Although whether Scott was her guardian angel, or she’d just made a pact with the devil, remained to be seen.

She was an odd little duck, that was sure. His entire adult life Scott never been able to tell if women were interested in him or his bank account—a major reason why he’d never let himself fall in love, most likely. Christina, on the other hand, almost seemed afraid of his money. Or, at the very least, found it suspect.

Go figure.

“It’s right up there—you can’t miss it.”

Gravel from the disintegrating blacktop crunched under the wheels as he pulled into the parking lot. “You live in a motel?” he said, regretting the question the instant it left his mouth.

“Used to be a motel,” Christina said. Almost cheerfully, as though maybe that air-clearing a few miles back had done some good.

One could hope. “Since, as you may have noticed, this is no longer a through road, about twenty years ago Enid—that’s my landlady—and her husband Eddie converted it to apartments. After a fashion.”

Scott’s gaze swung to the murky, leprous hole in the ground in front of the units. “I take it the pool is no longer in service.”

“Not since I’ve been here. I’m up at the far end, by the way. No extra charge for the second window.”

“Good deal.”

“I thought so.”

He parked in front of her unit. The architecture was strictly midcentury Minimalist—varicosed stucco walls, plain brown numbered doors, slider windows, a flat roof. A five-foot overhang sheltered the cement slab “porch,” dotted with a couple of banged-up molded plastic chairs, a kid’s lower-rider tricycle, a cheap charcoal grill.

A scene that by rights should have been unrelentingly dismal. Except for the occasional wind chime or sparkly porch ornament, a glittery Christmas garland entwining one of the porch posts, a wreath of bright red poinsettias on one door. And, lining the entire edge of Christina’s allotment of porch real estate, pot after pot of multicolored pansies, bravely shivering in the cool breeze.

“Home is what you make it, you know,” she said, as if seeing the picture through his eyes.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He got out to help her from the car, saw her bite her lip as she fitted the crutches under her arms. “Lean on your hands.”

“That hurts, too.”

“I know. But this will hurt less. Trust me.”

“Say that enough times,” she grumbled, hobbling to her door, “I might eventually believe you.”

After several obviously frustrating moments trying to juggle her purse, her keys and the crutches, Scott took the keys to unlock her door—behind which he heard very excited whining and scratching.

“Should I be worried?” Scott asked as the lock tumbled.

“Only if you’re in the way.”

He pushed the door open, barely avoiding the four-legged torpedo that shot out, a bow-legged, stout-bodied, floppy-eared canine concoction whose sole purpose was to love, love, love. Laughing, Christina practically threw down the crutches to somehow lower herself to the porch, where she wrapped her arms around the wriggling mass of unbridled bliss, burying her face in his golden brown ruff.

Scott sternly told himself it was stupid to be jealous of a dog. Okay, maybe not jealous. Envious?

Still dumb.

“Hey, guy—gotta pee?” A question that apparently ratcheted up the excitement factor another level or two, before, with a joyful woof, the pooch bounded like a jackrabbit for the stand of trees a few feet away and did his thing.

“Tough little dude,” Scott observed.

“Yup. Like a gymnast. Lots of power in a small package.”

Gumbo sauntered back, grinning like he was hot stuff, the tail wagging the entire dog. Then he seemed to notice Scott, schlurping his tongue into his mouth and cocking his head, his furry forehead furrowed before he sidled back to Christina. Scott could have sworn the dog nodded in Scott’s direction as if to say, So who’s the dude?

Still on her rump on the porch, Christina lifted her eyes to Scott. “Sorry. I don’t bring…visitors here very often—”

“Ohmigosh, you’re back!”

Scott no sooner hauled Christina to her feet than a scrawny redhead in a flowered housecoat, a bright orange down vest and a pair of scuffed-up sneaker clogs grabbed Christina out of Scott’s grasp and into her own. For a moment he feared for Christina’s rib cage.

The woman barely came up to Christina’s chin and had arms like a plucked chicken, but that was one fierce hug. Then she let go, her painted claws clamped around Christina’s elbows as she scrutinized her from head to broken foot. “Lord, child, where did you get those clothes?”

“My mother. ’Nuff said. Scott, this is my landlady, Enid Jackson. Enid, this is Scott Fortune. Scott and I…got trapped together in the same part of the airport. After the tornado.”

From behind a pair of burgundy glasses that had been cutting-edge ten years ago, Enid’s beady gray eyes latched on to his like a burr to a dog’s underbelly.

“Fortune? As in the family that owns half the ranchland in these parts?”

“Distant cousins. But yes.”

Arms crossed underneath where her bosom should have been, the old woman studied him for what seemed like an eternity, then gave a sharp nod. “Thank you for bringing my girl home. I would’ve come to get her myself, but my sight ain’t what it used to be. In fact…” Her carefully drawn eyebrows plunged as her gaze swung to Christina. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna be doing much driving for the next little while.”

“No,” Christina said on a sigh. “And not only because of my foot. Ellie Mae…they told me she didn’t make it.”

When Enid softly groaned and again took Christina into her arms, Scott wondered if the storm had claimed another victim he wasn’t aware of, until Enid said, “She was a good old car. I’ll miss her.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Now if you don’t mind…I need to get inside and put my foot up.”

Not waiting for an invitation, Scott simply gathered Christina’s things from the car and carted them in behind her. Enid had gone ahead and was helping her settle onto the plain beige sofa at right angles to a slightly lopsided taupe recliner, the once-plush fabric worn shiny on the arms. The room looked pretty much as he’d expected, the few pieces of furniture dull and threadbare, cheap fake pine paneling smothering the walls, the appliances in the bare-bones kitchenette chipped and scarred and sorry.

You deserve so much better than this, he thought, appalled in spite of himself. And humbled, as he realized how much greater her struggle to leave even the tiniest scratch on the world, let alone a mark, was than his had ever been. No wonder she resented his life and its relative ease. Yes, he worked hard, not only to support his very comfortable lifestyle but also to overcome the trust fund baby stigma. For damn sure he wasn’t a slacker. Still, Christina was right—he’d never, not once in his entire life, worried about money.

Or had to live like this.

And yet…the banged-up appliances gleamed, he noticed. Bright prints obliterated much of the tacky paneling. A cheerful patchwork quilt gently hugged the back of the bland sofa. On a stubby little table, a small fake Christmas tree proudly shimmered in a patch of late-afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. The spotless window. And against one wall, cinder block-and-board shelving bowed under the weight of hundreds of books.

What Christina lacked in means, he realized, she more than made up for in spirit. And that spirit, her spirit, permeated the small space with something the best decorator in the world couldn’t supply, easing inside him as importunately as Gumbo—now wedged on the sofa beside his mistress—nudged at Christina’s hand until, laughing, she scratched his head.

Questioning blue eyes lifted to his, a slight smile curving her lips. Behind her, Enid fussed over something in the kitchenette.

“You don’t have to stay, you know. And your family must be wondering what happened to you.”

“I suppose I should check in on them. Especially since they’re all leaving in the morning.”

Her hand stilled in the dog’s fur. “They? Aren’t you going with them?”

“No. I—” He stopped, having no idea what to say. How to explain something he didn’t yet fully understand himself. “Will you be all right for a while?”

“You’re coming back?”

“Soon as I take care of a few things, yes.” He met Enid’s very astute gaze. “Can you keep an eye on her for a couple of hours?”

“You bet. Especially since I’m guessing our girl’s about to pass out, anyway.”

“Just go on and talk about me like I’m not here,” Christina said, yawning and tugging the quilt off the sofa’s back, snuggling underneath it with her dog.

He glanced back when he reached the door. She was already asleep, Gumbo’s head protectively propped on her thigh, the dog’s big brown eyes clearly saying Mess with her and you’re dead meat. Got it?

Yeah. He got it.

John Michael glowered at Scott from the high-backed upholstered chair in his hospital room. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re coming back with us.”

His arms folded across his chest, Scott stared his father down. “No, I’m not. Someone needs to stay to keep tabs on what’s going on with Javier, for one thing—”

“You can keep tabs every bit as easily from Atlanta.”

“This isn’t a business deal, Dad. This is Wendy’s brother-in-law. Family.” Wendy, who at the staff’s insistence had gone home to rest, had updated him on the phone shortly after Scott left Christina’s. Javier had come through both the orthopedic and neurological procedures as well as could be expected, but now the wait-and-see part of things began. “The family’s so stressed…if I can help in any way, I’d like to.”

His father pushed out a heavy breath. “But your work—”

“Nothing Mike can’t handle for a few days.”

John Michael’s heavy brows lifted. “So now you’re sharing? And don’t give me that look. You two have been like two dogs fighting over the same bone since you were babies.”

“I didn’t think you realized—”

“The competition between you?” His father barked out a short laugh. “Who do you think fostered that rivalry? And why wouldn’t I? It made both of you work harder, didn’t it?”

Not that Scott hadn’t suspected as much for years. Still, hearing it voiced… “In other words, you sacrificed your own sons’

relationship for the business.”

“Oh, don’t be so damn melodramatic. The family, the business…it’s all the same thing.” His father lifted his hands, the fingers tightly linked. “All one thing.” His hands dropped back into his lap, then he sighed. “I suppose you’re right, though. About staying around for Javier. For Wendy’s sake. No need to upset her any more than she already is. Now what was the second thing?”

“The second thing?”

“You said for one thing—meaning Javier—from which I deduced there’s another reason you want to stay. So what is it?”