The Spanish Millionaire's Runaway Bride
She ran away from her own wedding...
Now she’s falling for the man who must bring her home!
When heiress Morgan Monroe realizes nothing about her wedding is her own choice—including the groom!—she runs. But her father’s associate, Spanish millionaire Riccardo Ochoa, is hot on her heels, under orders to bring her home! Morgan knows it’s wrong to imagine a romance with this stranger, but why does being with Riccardo feel so right?
“I dated Charles because I knew it was what my dad wanted. He wanted me with Charles. So, I was with Charles.”
Riccardo stared at her, a confused expression on his handsome face. “That’s just sad.”
The wind raised her hair and Morgan tucked it behind her ear. “No. It was life with my father. Walking down the aisle I realized I wanted more.”
“More?”
She almost blurted that she wanted somebody like him. Someone strong and interesting. Someone who listened to her opinions. Gave her choices. But after running away from her wedding, another man was the last thing on her mind. As it was, if her dad shut her out, she’d have to create an entirely new life, without family, and probably with only a handful of friends who’d be okay with going against her dad. She didn’t need the added complication of a handsome Spanish guy.
But, oh, he was tempting.
Dear Reader,
From the second that Riccardo showed up in his cousin Mitch’s book, I knew he had a story. I just didn’t know what that story was. But as soon as I sent him to Vegas to find runaway bride Morgan Monroe... Boom! There it was.
The daughter of a former secretary of state who has outgrown falling in line with everything her famous father wants, Morgan has enough troubles to sink a battleship. But she’s determined not just to take back her life, but also figure out what that life should be. She just has to convince Riccardo not to take her home, to risk his business and Mitch’s anger, until she has enough time to think everything through.
While traveling across the United States and then flying to Spain in the hope that a chat with his Nanna could speed things along, Morgan surprises Riccardo, amazes him and makes him crazy. Little does he know that’s why he likes her. He needs someone to make him think, even as she makes him laugh.
Fall in love in two weeks? Riccardo didn’t think it was possible. But destiny is about to surprise him.
Happy reading...
Susan Meier
THE SPANISH MILLIONAIRE’S RUNAWAY BRIDE
Susan Meier
Susan Meier is the author of over fifty books for Harlequin. The Tycoon’s Secret Daughter was a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, and Nanny for the Millionaire’s Twins won the Book Buyers Best Award and was a finalist in the National Readers’ Choice awards. She is married and has three children. One of eleven children, she loves to write about the complexity of families and totally believes in the power of love.
Books by Susan Meier
Harlequin Romance
The Princes of Xaviera
Wedded for His Royal Duty
Pregnant with a Royal Baby!
The Vineyards of Calanetti
A Bride for the Italian Boss
Mothers in a Million
A Father for Her Triplets
Single Dad’s Christmas Miracle
Daring to Trust the Boss
The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Her Brooding Italian Boss
A Mistletoe Kiss with the Boss
The Boss’s Fake Fiancée
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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To my mom, an avid reader, who taught me to love every story.
Praise for
Susan Meier
“Meier sucked me into this remarkable love story from the first page and I could not put it down...a captivating love story.”
—Goodreads on A Mistletoe Kiss with the Boss
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM STRANDED WITH HER GREEK TYCOON BY KANDY SHEPHERD
CHAPTER ONE
RICCARDO OCHOA DROVE under the portico of the Midnight Sins Hotel on the Las Vegas strip. He got out of his rental—a black Mercedes convertible with white leather interior—and tossed the keys to the valet.
“Don’t take it too far,” he told the twentysomething kid dressed in neat-as-a-pin trousers and a white shirt. “I don’t intend to be long.”
He turned to enter the hotel and almost ran in to a gaggle of giggling women. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
They stopped. Wide-eyed and no longer giggling, the women stared at him.
He hadn’t been living in New York City for years without recognizing that his Spanish accent intrigued American women. As did his dark hair, dark eyes and the fact that he worked out five days a week. To them, he was exotic.
The woman wearing a strapless red velvet dress took a step closer. Her brown hair had been pulled into curls on top of her head. Her green eyes were sultry, seductive. “Are you going inside?”
He smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Maybe I should ditch my friends and join you?”
If he hadn’t been there on business, he probably would have taken her up on her offer for a few hours of drinking and gambling. Just some fun. That might have morphed into a night of romance, but that was it. Not because he didn’t believe in relationships. He’d seen them work. His cousins Mitch and Alonzo had married beautiful women and were as happy as two guys could be.
But some men weren’t built for that kind of life. Riccardo had tried it and had had his heart ripped out of his chest and stomped on—publicly—when his fiancée left him two days before their wedding to reunite with her ex. Gowns had been bought. Tuxes had hung in closets. White-linen-covered tables had lined the rolling lawn of Northern Spain’s Ochoa Vineyards, and she’d walked out without a backward glance.
Humiliation had caused him to swear off relationships, but over the next few years, he’d grown to appreciate the benefits of being single. Not to mention rich. When a man had money, the world was at his fingertips. Though it was his cousin Mitch who had started their company, Ochoa Online, Riccardo took the income Mitch’s websites generated, invested it and made them millionaires, on the fast track to become billionaires. He more than earned his keep.
Which was why he was in Vegas. With the creative genius behind Ochoa Online away on an extended honeymoon, and one of Mitch’s best customers having trouble with his daughter, Riccardo had to shift from moneyman to client problem solver.
“Sorry.” He took the hand of the woman in red velvet and caught her gaze before kissing her knuckles. “I’m here on business.”
She swallowed. “Maybe when your business is done?”
“I’m picking somebody up and driving us both back to the airport.” Morgan Monroe, daughter of Colonel Monroe, owner of Monroe Wines, had run from her wedding. The Colonel wanted her home not just to explain,
but for damage control. “I’ll be here two hours, tops.” He released her hand. “Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to meet on my next trip.”
“Maybe.”
He nodded at her and her friends. “Goodbye, ladies.”
The little group said, “Goodbye,” and he walked toward the hotel door, which opened automatically. The sleek, modern lobby welcomed him.
He stopped at the concierge. “I’m looking for Morgan Monroe.” Unlike his ex, Cicely, who’d at least given him two days’ warning, Morgan Monroe had walked halfway down the aisle before she’d turned and run. Her dad had asked his staff to monitor her credit cards and the next day this hotel had popped up. “I’m told she’s a guest here.”
The fiftysomething gentleman didn’t even glance at his computer. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t give away guest information.”
“I’m only asking because her father, Colonel Monroe,” Riccardo said, deliberately dropping the name of her famous father, “sent me.”
The man’s face whitened. “Her dad is Colonel Monroe?”
Riccardo unobtrusively slid his hand into his trouser pocket to get a one-hundred-dollar bill. “The same.”
“I love his wine.”
“Everybody loves his wine.” He eased the bill across the polished counter. “He just wants me to make sure she’s okay.” And bring her home. But the concierge didn’t need to know that.
The man casually took the bill off the counter and stuffed it into his pocket. “It’s against policy to give you her room number, but friend to friend,” he said, motioning for Riccardo to lean closer, “I can tell you I saw her going into the casino about an hour ago. I also happen to know she plays penny slots and loves margaritas. She’s been in the same spot in the far right-hand corner every afternoon since she got here.”
Though Riccardo groaned internally at the thought of getting a drunk woman into his car and onto a plane, he smiled appreciatively at the concierge. “Thank you.”
He turned away from the serene lobby and faced the casino. Twenty steps took him down a ramp, out of the quiet and into a cacophony of noise. Bells and whistles from slots mixed with cheering at the gaming tables and blended with keno numbers. He inhaled deeply. He loved a good casino.
But he didn’t even pause at the rows of slot machines or the game tables, where an elderly gentleman appeared to be hot at blackjack. He made his way through the jumble of people and paraphernalia to the penny slots in the far right-hand corner.
No one was there.
He looked to the left, then the right. He’d walked so far back the noise of the casino was only a dull hum behind him. The vacant slots around him were also silent.
Confusion rumbled through him. Though Monday afternoons typically weren’t as busy as weekend afternoons, the entire corner was weirdly quiet.
“I’m telling you. When you have as little money as you guys have, you can’t play the stock market.”
Riccardo’s head snapped up.
“But my cousin Arnie netted a bundle playing the market!”
“Because of a lucky guess.” The woman talking sighed heavily. “Look, your primary goal should be to make money without losing any of your initial investment.”
Curious, Riccardo followed the sounds of the conversation. He walked down the row and turned right, then stopped. Two cocktail waitresses, an old guy in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, a young guy in a hoodie and two women leaned against the corner machine as a slim blonde in jeans and gray canvas tennis shoes counseled them.
“You can’t guarantee you’ll keep your initial investment buying individual stocks. Mutual funds mitigate the risk.”
One of the waitresses saw Riccardo and nudged her head in his direction. The woman doling out investment advice turned, and Riccardo’s mouth fell open.
He knew it was stupid to think Morgan Monroe would still be in the wedding gown she’d had on when she bolted from St. Genevieve church on Saturday, but he also hadn’t expected to see Colonel Monroe’s high-society daughter in blue jeans and canvas tennis shoes. Her long blond hair hung past her shoulders in tangled disarray. Her enormous blue eyes speared him from behind the lenses of oversize tortoiseshell glasses.
“Get lost, buddy.”
He also hadn’t expected her to snipe at him. Oh, he’d been sure there’d be a little resistance to his putting her on a plane and taking her back to Lake Justice, home of her father’s enormous wine empire. But everything he’d read about Morgan portrayed her as a demure, sweet woman who loved charity work and took in stray cats.
Either the press had absolutely got her wrong, her dad had a really good PR machine, or Morgan Monroe had snapped.
Considering she’d gotten halfway down the aisle at her eight-hundred-person wedding and then turned and run, he was guessing she’d snapped.
He suddenly wondered if that’s what had happened with Cicely. If she’d snapped when she’d called off their wedding—
His heart chugged to a stop. He hadn’t thought about Cicely in years and today he couldn’t stop thinking about her, comparing his situation to Morgan Monroe’s. He didn’t like remembering the humiliation any more than he liked being reminded that it was his own damn fault. Arrogance had made him believe he could make her love him, though she’d told him time and again that she had an ex she couldn’t forget. And pride sure as hell went before his fall.
So, what was he doing getting involved with another runaway bride? Was he nuts?
No. He was helping a client. Plus, the situations were totally different. Cicely had been his fiancée. Morgan was the daughter of the owner of the biggest vineyard on Mitch’s wine website. Riccardo did not intend to get involved with her beyond taking her home to her dad. This wasn’t just a favor for their best client. It was the only way to keep the beloved, world-renowned Colonel from dumping them to start his own wine website and becoming their competition.
* * *
Morgan Monroe barely held back a sigh of annoyance with the guy staring at her. He was good-looking, obviously rich—if his tailored white shirt and Italian leather loafers were any indicator—and clearly confused, just standing there as if he had no idea what to do.
Guessing he had been startled to find someone doling out investment advice by the penny slots, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, and said, “There’s a sea of machines behind you. You can play any one you want. And if you go at least a row away, you won’t even hear us.”
The surprise on his face was replaced by chagrin. “Holding a little stock seminar, are you?”
His voice wasn’t exactly condescending. She really couldn’t tell what it was. But if he thought she would let him insult these people who needed her help, he was mistaken.
“If I were, it would be none of your business.”
The chagrin became a wince. “That’s not true. I’m actually looking for you... Morgan.”
Her chest squeezed. She’d expected her dad to come searching for her. But this guy didn’t look like a private investigator. She glanced at the black trousers and fitted shirt again. Open at the throat, the white shirt revealed tan skin, as if he summered in the Mediterranean. With his accent, he probably did.
“You’re a PI?”
“No. I’m a friend of your father.”
That was infinitely worse. A PI she could handle. A friend of her dad’s? That would take some finesse.
She turned to her group. “I’m sorry, guys. I’m going to need a few minutes. Just stay here. I’ll be right back.” She walked toward her dad’s minion, pointing at the raised circular bar in the middle of the room. “There’s a table open up there.”
Heading for the bar, she assumed the guy would follow her. She used the two minutes of skirting people, slot machines and gaming tables to remind herself she was twenty-five, educated and in desperate need of some time alone. No matter how this guy approached this
, she could say, “Tell my dad I love him and I’m sorry he spent a lot of money on the wedding...but I needed some air.”
No. She couldn’t tell a perfect stranger she needed some air. That was stupid. Her dad would roar with fury if she sent this admittedly handsome guy back to him without something concrete.
She reached to pull out her chair, but Handsome Spanish Guy beat her to it.
Giving her a polite smile, he said, “My nanna would shoot me if I let a woman get her own chair.”
She sat. “Your nanna?”
“My grandmother.” He sat across from her. “She lives in Spain. Very much old-school. She likes men with manners.”
So did Morgan. And, wow, she loved this guy’s voice. Smooth and sexy with just enough accent to make him interesting.
But he was here because her dad had sent him. She shouldn’t be noticing that he was attractive. Plus, she’d just walked out on her own wedding. After leaving one guy at the altar two days ago, she was not in the market for another. No matter how gorgeous.
She cleared her throat. “Okay. My dad sent you to find me—”
“I didn’t have to find you. He knows where you are. He wants me to bring you home.”
She gaped at him. “He knows where I am?”
“Did you think I just strolled into this hotel on a lucky guess?”
“No.” As a former secretary of state and a current high-profile business owner, her dad had more money than God and resources to do things Morgan was only beginning to understand. She didn’t need to know how her dad had found her. The point was, he had.
She pulled in a breath and released it slowly enough to get her thoughts together. “Okay, Marco Polo, here’s the deal. The next two weeks had been blocked off for a honeymoon. My dad has an event in Stockholm two days after that, so I have to be home before he leaves. But that also means I don’t have to be anywhere for another twelve days.” She planted her backside a little more firmly on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”