The Spanish Millionaire's Runaway Bride Read online

  “Yes, you are. You left your dad with eight hundred confused guests filling the bed-and-breakfasts in town, waiting to see if you’re okay, not to mention one very disoriented fiancé. You’re not dodging the damage control.”

  She rose from her seat. “I didn’t want the eight hundred guests. Charles did. I didn’t want the wedding reception at the vineyard. That was my dad’s handiwork. I picked out the dress and my bouquet.” Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears and the emotions that had hit her as she walked down the aisle spiraled through her again. The betrayal. The sense of stupidity for trusting Charles. The sense of stupidity for being so trusting—period.

  She very quickly said, “If you’ll excuse me,” turned and headed back to her cluster of new friends, not willing to let this stranger see her cry. Damn it. She’d thought she’d worked through all this in the plane.

  She raised her chin. She had dealt with all this on the commuter flight to JFK, while shopping for clothes to change into in the big airport and on the flight to Vegas. That reaction to talking about her wedding was simply a release of stress. She was not unhappy that she’d left Charles. She seriously didn’t care that her dad’s life had been inconvenienced. She’d told them and told them and told them that she wanted a small wedding. No one listened, and eventually she’d let it drop. Because that’s what she’d done since she was twelve, when her mom had died and she suddenly became lady of the house.

  Not old enough to really know what to do, she’d taken her father’s advice on everything. That had become such a habit she didn’t even realize she’d let him pick the man she’d marry. For as much as her dad had nudged her in Charles’s direction with frequent dinners at their home and trips to London, Ireland and Monaco that coincided with trips Charles was taking, her dad had also groomed Charles to be his son-in-law.

  They’d seemed like the ultimate power couple until Charles’s best man mentioned that fact at the rehearsal-dinner toast. Even he’d seen how Charles had been groomed and all Morgan had to do was wait until her father’s creation was finished to have the perfect man to add to their two-person family.

  The crowd had laughed, but her chest had pressed inward, squeezing all the air from her lungs. His toast, no matter how lighthearted, had a ring of truth to it. No. More like a gong of truth. A whole Mormon Tabernacle Choir of truth.

  And Charles’s response when she’d confronted him after the dinner? He’d needed her dad’s help. If marrying her was the price, he’d pay it.

  When she’d gasped, he’d said he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. He loved her. She was beautiful. Wonderful. A woman so perfect she was more like a reward, not a price. He was sorry his explanation had come out all wrong.

  For the hours that had passed between the toast and her trip down the aisle, she’d believed that.

  But there was something about walking toward her destiny, dressed in all white, looking sweet and innocent while perpetuating something that felt very much like fraud, that caused her feet to stop, her heart to break. Her dad had controlled everything in her life, from where she’d gone to school to how she dressed and who she’d invite to their gatherings. The man she spent the rest of her life with would be her choice.

  “You okay?” Mary, the lead waitress for the afternoon shift, studied her as she walked back to her little investment group beside the last row of slots.

  She sucked in a breath and smiled. “I’m fine.” She was fine. Though Charles was history, she wasn’t writing off her dad completely. This was a hiccup in their relationship. A time for her to take a breath, sort out what she wanted, maybe come up with some new rules for how she and her dad would relate. Then she would go back to Lake Justice. Then they would talk.

  And no gorgeous Spaniard with a sexy voice was taking her back before she was ready.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RICCARDO STAYED AT the two-person table in the bar. From the raised vantage point, he could see Morgan as she counseled her little band of friends. She was a lot stronger than he’d imagined. He didn’t want to admire her for it. It was his job to bring her home. But he had to admit to a twinge of respect that she could hold her own. Which was good. He didn’t want to feel like he was riding roughshod over her by forcing her onto the plane. He wanted her to see the error of her ways and go home voluntarily to do her duty to her ex. That was more than Cicely had done for him.

  He winced. Seriously. He had to stop comparing the two. At least Cicely had talked to him two days before their wedding and been honest. Morgan had just run. She’d embarrassed her groom. Embarrassed her dad. Shocked her guests. And now she wanted to give stock seminars?

  Okay. That did speak to her state of mind. Ignoring something wasn’t always a sign of indifference. Maybe she wasn’t ready to handle it yet.

  Who was he? Doctor Phil? It was not his job to fix her, just to get her home.

  Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to keep her mental state in mind as he guided her to see the error of her ways and agree to come back home with him.

  That’s what Mitch would do. And Mitch was their people person.

  When the small group broke up, Riccardo glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by. Their flight left in an hour and a half. But it was a short ride to the airport. Of course, he should probably add packing time in there. He might not have luggage, but she did.

  Or maybe not.

  She’d run from the ceremony, jumped into her car and had gotten to Lake Justice’s small municipal airport in a matter of minutes. She’d caught the commuter flight that just happened to be leaving for JFK International, and that’s why they’d lost her. The plane had taken off as her dad’s people were pulling in to the small airport parking lot.

  He could imagine her arriving at Kennedy in her gown, stopping at the first shop she saw and buying some jeans, T-shirts and those superspiffy canvas tennis shoes.

  He laughed into his beer before he finished it in one long swallow. He seriously doubted she would want to take home any of the clothes she’d bought if they were anything like what she was wearing now. But he would be more sensitive, more Mitch-like, when he approached her this time.

  Except she’d better not call him Marco Polo again. Marco Polo wasn’t even Spanish.

  The group dispersed. Morgan took a seat at the last slot machine. She pulled her comp card out of her jeans pocket, inserted it into the poker machine and started playing.

  Riccardo rose, tossed a few bills on the bar table and ambled over to her. He sat on the seat of the empty machine beside hers. “So... Our flight leaves in an hour and a half. I know it’s a short ride to the airport, but we do have to go through security.”

  “Your flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

  “Our flight. You’re coming with me. You’re too nice of a woman to leave your groom upset and wondering what the hell happened.”

  “I seriously doubt Charles is upset. We’d had a disagreement the night before. He thought he’d talked me out of being angry. But I’d never been angry. I was hurt. Which means, once again, he didn’t hear what I was saying. Only what he wanted to hear. When I get home, he’ll have a ten-point plan for how we can fix things. And he doesn’t even really know what’s wrong. I have twelve days until I have to be back and I’m taking them.”

  He wanted to argue, but saw her point. Something had caused her to run from her own wedding. But it sounded like Charles didn’t care to talk it through. All he wanted was to fix things. That wasn’t very romantic. Or sensitive. Or even nice.

  He hated having to drag her back to that, but all he had was her version of things. He knew what it was like to be the brokenhearted groom, totally confused—

  And, once again, he was thinking about his own situation, which was entirely different and completely irrelevant. If he was going to take Morgan Monroe home, perhaps he would have to get her to talk about whatever it was that had hurt her
and caused her to bolt, and stop thinking about Cicely. Then Morgan would feel better about returning to Lake Justice, and Mitch wouldn’t come home from his honeymoon to find his biggest client gone—and becoming their competition.

  He leaned his elbow on the poker machine and studied her. When he’d first seen her, she’d seemed out of place. But really, in her jeans and T-shirt, with her long hair casual, she looked like the average slot player on a Monday afternoon.

  He nodded at her machine. “You like poker?”

  She peeked over at him, her blue eyes a pretty contrast to the tortoiseshell glasses. “To be honest, I’m just learning to play.”

  “That would explain why you threw away the chance for a straight flush.”

  “Odds are I’m not going to get it.”

  He bobbed his head in a sort of agreement. “Yeah, but when the machine gives you four cards in a row in the same suit and you have two open ends, your odds go up.”

  “Odds are odds.”

  “What are you? An accountant?”

  She glanced over at him. “Yes.”

  He remembered the little stock seminar and felt like an idiot for not realizing that. He knew she was educated but he’d never thought a society girl would pick such a practical major. Her dad only talked about her charities. He’d made her sound like a sort of helpless Southern belle though they lived in upstate New York.

  “You’re like a CPA?”

  “I am a CPA.”

  Her machine gurgled the music of a lost game and she hit a few buttons to make her bets and start the next game. Cards appeared on the screen. She threw away two twos.

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

  “Two twos don’t pay out.”

  “No. But three of a kind does. So does two pair. Starting off with two twos you have a good chance of getting another two or another pair and both of those hands pay.”

  “Chump change.”

  He laughed. “What?”

  “I want to win. I don’t just want to keep playing.”

  That was a weird strategy if ever he’d heard one. And he’d certainly heard his share in Monaco. “Who taught you that?”

  “The guy who was sitting beside me on Sunday night.”

  “He was a professional gambler?”

  “No. He manages a couple fast-food restaurants.”

  “And you thought this made him a genius poker player?”

  She tossed her hands in the air. “Hell if I know.”

  He scooted over to get closer to her. He’d take this opportunity to become her friend and eventually she’d spill the story. He could sympathize and in a few minutes they’d be in his rental, heading for the airport.

  “Okay, look.” He pointed at the ranking of hands. “See this list here? This is what pays out and how many points.”

  “I know that.”

  “If you have a pattern that you use all the time, the machine will become accustomed to it and use that against you.”

  Her pale blue eyes narrowed.

  “If you only go for what seems like a sure thing, it will set you up so that you keep getting those opportunities, then never give you the cards you need to make the hands, so that you lose all your money.”

  “Oh.” She thought about that a second. “I should shake it up? Not play the same way all the time.”

  “Exactly. But on another trip.” Now that they were friends, or at least friendly, they could talk about her wedding in the car. “Right now, we need to get you home.”

  She looked over at him. “We have to leave this very second? What’s a few more hands going to hurt? I just want to try out what you told me.”

  He’d expected a bit of a protest. Maybe an argument. But getting her to think about her fiancé must have caused it to sink in that she had to take responsibility for what she’d done. She hadn’t even blinked when he mentioned leaving.

  He caught her gaze and saw a muddle of emotions in her blue eyes. Sincerity? Regret? Or maybe fear? She wasn’t exactly returning to a celebration.

  A twinge of guilt rippled through him for pushing her. The least he could do was teach her some strategies.

  “Okay. A few hands.”

  “And you’ll show me what to do?”

  “Sure.”

  He didn’t know how it happened, but a couple of hands turned into forty minutes of playing, which put them behind the eight ball. Though she’d seemed to have had a good time and was definitely a quick study, the fun had to end now.

  “Okay. That’s it now. Time to go.”

  She hit the button to cash out and got the little slip that told her she had thirty-eight dollars coming.

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Thirty-eight dollars.” She caught his gaze. “Hardly seems worth it.”

  “Most people who gamble enjoy the game.”

  “Really? Because I’ve seen video poker games that are handheld. Our cook, Martha, has a ton of them. It’s how she fritters away time waiting for doctor appointments or bread to rise.”

  He shrugged. “People enjoy the game.”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t spend money playing. She owns her handheld machines and can enjoy anytime she wants.”

  He sighed.

  “If it’s all about playing a game, enjoying a game, why not just buy the game? Why involve betting?”

  “Are you trying to ruin Vegas for me?”

  She laughed. “No. I mean, come on. If playing the game is the attraction and not gambling, why not just use a handheld poker game?”

  This time his sigh was eloquent. “Do not ruin Vegas for me.”

  “I’m not ruining it. I’m just pointing out that your argument doesn’t hold water.”

  “You’re a stickler for logic.” And obviously so was her fiancé. Anybody who’d have a ten-point plan to fix their canceled wedding had to be logical. Was that how they’d ended up together? Two people who were so much the same it seemed inevitable that they get married?

  “I am a stickler for logic. So sway me. Why do you really come to casinos?”

  He looked into her eyes again and saw the quiet remnants of pain, even though she was very good at pretending she was fine. If talking about himself made her comfortable, calm enough that she’d be compliant through their trip, then so be it.

  He shrugged. “I come to Vegas for the people, the crowds, the noise, the excitement.” He couldn’t stop a smile. “You never know who you’re going to meet here. You can sit beside a sheikh at a blackjack table and end up a guest at a palace. Or meet the daughter of a rock star and end up backstage at a concert.”

  “Interesting.”

  She glanced around. The way her eyes shifted, he could tell she was seeing the place from a new perspective. If only for a few seconds, her sadness lifted.

  “It’s about people for you.”

  “Yes.” It was one thing to help her get comfortable, quite another to let this conversation derail his plans. He’d be happy to discuss anything she wanted, just not now. He pointed to the exit. “But we’ll talk about it on the way to the airport or on the plane.”

  She slid off her chair. “I have to pack.”

  “You have five minutes! I’m serious. Five. I’ll get the car.”

  She nodded.

  He started walking away but turned back. “And, honestly, I have no idea why you’d want these clothes. If I were you, I’d leave them.”

  She laughed.

  A strange sensation invaded his chest. Even in those big glasses, she was incredibly beautiful. Add adorably logical and laughing—

  He yanked himself back from the feeling that almost clicked into place. Attraction. He wasn’t worried that he’d fall for her. His heart had been sufficiently hardened by Cicely. So the pullback was quick, easy, painless. Especi
ally given that Morgan had also publicly dumped some poor guy.

  He headed out to the valet. When the kid returned with his rental car, he gave him a good tip for being speedy. He slid behind the steering wheel and locked his gaze on the door. The first five minutes had already passed, so when a second five minutes ticked off the clock he got nervous. The third five minutes had him slapping the steering wheel. She’d ditched him.

  He shoved open his door, apologized to the valet for needing a few more minutes and raced into the lobby, hoping to see her checking out at the registration desk. But the place was quiet.

  The concierge slipped away from his station and ambled up to him. “Your friend left.”

  He spun to face the short, bald man. “What?”

  “She checked out, rolled her suitcase through the casino—not the front door—and slipped out of one of the back exits.” He cleared his throat. “I probably shouldn’t have watched her, but it’s kind of hard not to see a beautiful woman rolling an ugly black suitcase through the casino.”

  Riccardo pressed his fingertips into his forehead. He’d been duped. And in the most obvious, simple way. She’d used up all their time, gotten him to trust her and just walked away.

  He was an idiot.

  No. He had trusted her.

  Hadn’t he told himself he should never again trust a pretty girl?

  * * *

  Morgan entered her new room at the hotel right beside Midnight Sins. She felt just a teeny bit bad for deceiving the handsome Spanish guy. Not just because her dad had made him a pawn in a game that didn’t have to be a game—she only wanted her twelve days to think about what to say, and how to handle him when she went home—but also because he was interesting. And fun. In a weird way, it was nice having someone so curious about her, even if it he was only asking her questions to figure out how to get her on the plane with him.

  She took a shower, fixed her hair and slid into a slinky black dress she’d bought at one of the many shops in Midnight Sins. She wasn’t here to have fun, but she didn’t intend to sit in her room and mope, either. She’d spent her entire life semisheltered. She’d had a path at university. She’d had a path with Charles. And her dad had had too big of a hand in creating those paths. For the next twelve days, she did not want a path. She just wanted to live. Breathe. And eventually figure out an explanation for running that would appease the man who’d spent his life first fighting in wars and then preventing them.