Fortune's Cinderella

by Templeton, Karen

  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?”

  He hadn’t planned on telling his father about Christina—especially not before he had it sorted out in his own head—but there was nothing to be gained from not being honest. To a point.

  “The young woman I was trapped with—Christina. Her foot’s broken, meaning she’s going to be laid up for some time. I don’t feel…it’s right to leave before I make sure she’s taken care of.”

  His father frowned. “She doesn’t have family? Friends?”

  “Her support system is apparently pretty meager. Nor can she afford nursing care.”

  “And she knows you’re a Fortune.”

  “Well, yes, obviously she does. Although she hasn’t asked for anything, I assure you,” he said to his father’s Watch out frown. “But the least we can do is make sure she’s okay. And since I’m hanging around for Javier, anyway…”

  “One week, Scott,” his father said, jabbing his index finger in Scott’s direction. “You make sure this…Christina has whatever she needs, then you get your butt back where it belongs. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Scott said, knowing, as he left his father’s room, that he wasn’t going to feel any differently in a week than he did right now…that there was something here he needed. Something he’d risk everything he’d ever known, ever been, to get.

  He doubted his father would ever understand. But for the first time in his life, Scott thought as he climbed behind the steering wheel, right now he didn’t much care.

  At the purr of Scott’s rental car pulling up in front of her apartment, Gumbo bounded off Christina’s lap and boing-boinged across the floor to the front door to sniff and whine and wag
until Scott let himself in. Two days, two years, whatever, it made no difference to a dog—they were now friends for life.

  “Hey, guy—no, this isn’t for you, so back off.” Gumbo now in retreat—for the moment—Scott grinned over at Christina, holding his prize aloft, and her heart boing-boinged worse than the dog. Which was getting to be a habit. A very, very bad one.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better,” she lied. The doctor had been dead-on about how sore she’d be. Her foot didn’t even hurt that much anymore, but man, every muscle in her body ached. Since she didn’t want to get too cozy with the big-gun pain meds, however, she’d been popping Tylenol like there was no tomorrow. Not that it helped much.

  “Have you been moving, as the doctor suggested?”

  She glared at Scott. “You bet. What’s in the bag?”

  “Dinner. From Red. Some new chicken dish Enrique came up with. You hungry?” he said, heading into the tiny kitchen for plates and flatware while holding a nonstop, one-sided conversation with the dog. This person who’d been waiting on her hand and foot since his family’s return to Atlanta was definitely not the same uptight dude who’d flinched at the idea of drinking plain coffee…a metamorphosis she’d been observing with a combination of amusement and sheer terror.

  Because let’s be real here, boys and girls—she could like this new, improved Scott Fortune a whole lot. Yes, even more than she’d liked the old one. Not good. Especially since she figured he probably saw her as some sort of, well, charity project.

  “Sure,” she said, even though she rarely felt like eating much, what with her only exercise these days being getting up to pee every few hours or point the remote. Whoopee.

  Humming, he carted in their food, setting hers on the TV tray that had become a permanent fixture beside the sofa, and the light from the lamp played across his handsome face, provoking all sorts of prickles of a sexual nature. Which only went to prove that God did indeed have a very strange sense of humor.

  “I hate this,” she muttered.

  Scott frowned. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

  “No, I mean this.” She waved her hand toward her foot, stretched out in front of her underneath one of her long summer skirts, which were easier to deal with than jeans. “I’m not incapacitated, I can walk with the crutches—”

  “After a fashion. And you also know if you don’t keep the foot elevated it will take longer to heal.”

  “Are you always this irritatingly logical?”

  “Yes. Are you always this argumentative?”

  “Only around irritatingly logical people,” she grumbled, hefting her fork to begin her nightly ordeal of picking at her food. Except when she finally put a bite into her mouth, she practically swooned. “Ohmigosh, this is good.”

  “Told ya,” Scott said, his crisp, upscale khakis, deep blue dress shirt and la-di-da sweater—part of the haul overnighted from various online clothing companies to replace his lost luggage—so at odds with the poor old recliner it almost hurt to look at him. Them. “I called a medical supply company, by the way. Said they’d have a shower chair delivered in the next couple of days.”

  “I’ll make sure I’m here, then,” she said drily, only to then notice half her food was already gone. Wow.

  “So,” Scott said, looking all relaxed and whatnot in the chair. As opposed to Gumbo, who was about to quiver his fur right off at the prospect of something, anything, falling off Scott’s plate and into his mouth. “You up for taking down the tree tonight?”

  Christina’s gaze swerved to her little tree, still valiantly twinkling away in the corner. “Or I could simply let it stay up until next year, save the trouble of doing it all over again.”

  “I did that one year. When I was, I don’t know…eight or nine, maybe? We were all allowed to have a tree in our rooms, if we wanted. And that year I decided to decorate mine with action figures. GI Joes and He-Man stuff, mostly. Coolest tree ever,” he said, chewing. “Couldn’t bear to take it down. So I didn’t.”

  “Ever?”

  “Might still be there, for all I know,” he said, and she laughed. Then she sighed.

  “It is tempting, to leave it up. But if I do, what’ve I got to look forward to next year?”

  Setting his plate on the floor—to Gumbo’s unbridled joy—Scott propped his elbow on the arm of the chair to rest the side of his face in his hand. “You really see yourself in the same place next year? In your life, I mean?”

  His question caught her up short. “I…don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Then maybe you should,” he said softly, rising to take her plate, as well as his dog-slimed one, to the kitchen.

  “No,” she said to his back, making him turn. “No, you’re right…of course I don’t see myself in the same place.”

  His smile warmed her heart. And scared the heck out of her. Nobody ever paid this much attention to her, ever. Or cared two hoots about her plans. Her dreams. To be treated like a grown-up, and an intelligent one at that…

  “Good girl,” he said, then pointed to the tree, one eyebrow raised.

  Christina nodded, sighing as Scott began to dismantle it, handling the cheap ornaments like they were precious heirlooms.

  Just like he’s handling you, she thought, stifling a sudden urge to throw something at the man.

  Scott had meant what he’d said—to his father, about feeling a responsibility to help Christina; to Christina, about genuinely liking her. Nor could he deny the immediate whoosh of attraction, off-the-wall though that had been. However, if he were being honest, another thought had niggled, that those feelings would pass. That the mist of infatuation would clear and he’d see Christina as simply a sweet, very pretty young woman who could use a helping hand. Period.

  Four days on, he was pretty sure he could put that worry to rest.

  Especially since he’d seen Christina at her worst, during those four days—frustrated and cranky and given to periodic bouts of pure muleheadedness just for the heck of it, as far as he could tell. Once or twice she’d even snarled at him. But was he put off?

  Nope.

  And how could he be, when she’d also laugh at herself for being such a pain in the butt. Or compliment his cooking skills, such as they were, with a sparkle in her eyes that turned him inside out. Or ask him what courses he thought she should take to help her reach her goals. And with every laugh, every tease, every sparkle, the mist cleared a little more, leaving Scott even more convinced that while adrenaline and testosterone might have fueled that initial, kick-to-the-head reaction, neither accounted for what he was feeling now.

  What the next step was, however, was anybody’s guess.

  He’d spent most of the day putting out metaphorical fires Mike couldn’t, or didn’t want to, handle back in Atlanta. Now he pulled up in front of Christina’s apartment, making a mental note to research an outfit that could fix that pool. Enid’s insurance would take care of the tornado damage, but he was guessing the pool had fallen victim to insufficient cash flow. That, he could handle…

  He saw Christina’s curtains twitch as he got out of the car, a bouquet of flowers in hand. A moment later the landlady came out onto the porch, silently shutting the door behind her and huddling inside a heavy cardigan against the night’s chill. They’d only chatted a couple of times since Scott brought Christina home, but now the old woman’s protective, suspicious expression, even in the jaundiced light from the caged bulb over the door, put him on alert.

  “I’m just leaving, I think my hanging around was making her twitchy,” Enid said with an eyeroll behind the glasses. “But she’s already had supper, dog’s been fed, too.”

  “Thank you—”

  “So what’s your deal with her, anyway?”

  “Pardon?”
<
br />   The old woman snagged his arm—with a far stronger grip than he’d expected—and tugged him out into the parking lot, where she crossed her arms over her bony chest and somehow managed to back him against his own car.

  “Mr. Fortune, not that I’m not appreciative of everything you’ve done for Chrissie, but you need to know…that gal’s been through the mill. Been screwed over too many times by too many people. That she’s as sweet as she is, is nothing short of a damn miracle. So you feel sorry for her, or what?”

  “As in, pity her? No. Do I think she deserves better than life’s given her so far? Absolutely.” He palmed the car’s fender. “I take it you don’t have a problem with that?”

  “Depends.”

  Scott suppressed a grin. Barely. A lesser man—or a smarter one, perhaps—would be halfway to the hills by now. “Mrs. Jackson—I promise you I only want to help. And I can give her whatever she needs—”

  “Oh, I imagine you can buy her plenty. But before you go bandying around the word give, you might want to think about what that really means.”

  Okay, that gave him pause. Because…did he? Know how to give in the way she meant it?

  “Are you saying she’s fragile?”

  “Oh, hell, no. Gal’s as tough as they come. She’s had to be, you know? That don’t mean she might not mistake your…kindness for something more. That she can’t still be hurt. That she’s not still hurting. And I’m not talking about her foot.”

  “I didn’t think you were—”

  “I love that little gal like she’s my own, and that’s the Lord’s truth. More’n her own mama ever has, from everything I can tell. So the last thing I want is for some fancy man to come along and break her heart all over again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly. Are we done here?”

  “No.” Enid backed up, barely, her eyes pinched nearly closed. “I ain’t never been rich, Mr. Fortune. But I cleaned houses for enough wealthy families over the years to come to a conclusion or two about ’em. Either they pretend the poor don’t exist, or they’re curious about us, like we’re a different species. Christina don’t need you being fascinated with her, that’s all I’m saying.”