“Is that what I am to you? A deal?”

Yearning bled through her words, gave the lie to her defensive posture. Scott came up behind her to wrap her in his arms. “The best damn deal I’ve ever run across,” he whispered into her ear. “And the only one I’ve ever truly cared whether I landed or not.”

Gently, he twisted her around to face him, his fingers winnowing through her hair to cradle the back of her neck, their mouths so close he could feel her breath, coming in short, sweet bursts. “And if you can’t trust your intuitions, trust mine. Because they’ve never been wrong.”

Never in her life had she wanted to believe so badly. To let herself fall into the promise in those warm brown eyes. If this is a dream, Christina thought, I don’t want to wake up. Ever.

But nobody knew better than her that wanting wasn’t enough to change what was.

Dear Reader,

I adore Cinderella stories, don’t you? Seriously, who doesn’t (at least occasionally!) fantasize about a handsome prince (or reasonable facsimile thereof) sweeping her away to a life of ease and glamour and all the cute shoes she can cram in her closet. But when the fantasy arrives for Christina Hastings—in the form of telecommunications mogul Scott Fortune—her damaged heart warns her not to trust it. Or him. So Scott has his work cut out for him, convincing Christina that he’s the one who’s struck it rich.

Of course most of us buy our own cute shoes. And cars. And whatever else we need. But if our princes can’t exactly hand over the credit card and say, “Go for it, honey,” at least they’ve given us their hearts—which is worth more than a closet full of shoes, any day.

Enjoy!

Karen

About the Author

Since 1998, two-time RITA® Award winner and Waldenbooks bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETON has written more than thirty books for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.

Fortune’s
Cinderella

Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Marie Ferrarella,

Judy Duarte,

Nancy Robards Thompson,

Susan Crosby

and Allison Leigh,

who made my first attempt at

writing a continuity book so much fun.

And a lot less scary than I thought it would be.

We are now sisters.

Chapter One

Make it happen.

If Scott Fortune could attribute anything to his success—in life, in business—it was that simple mantra, doggedly applied to every challenge that dared him to fail. Too bad the weather on this blustery, end-of-December afternoon hadn’t gotten that particular memo.

From underneath the expansive portico fronting the main entrance to La Casa Paloma, an exclusive resort where he, his parents and his siblings had stayed while in Red Rock, Texas, to attend his youngest sister Wendy’s wedding to Marcos Mendoza, he glowered at the charcoal sky. But the heavens jeered at his insignificance, the icy rain jackhammering the battered winter lawn, the gravel drive where a pair of SUVs waited to ferry them to the regional airport ten miles away and the chartered jet that would take them home to Atlanta.

“You really have to go already?”

Scott turned, smiling in spite of himself at Wendy’s newly wedded—and not-so-newly pregnant—glow. Behind her, through the open, intricately carved double wooden doors, assorted family members traipsed back and forth, while the groom and his two brothers, Javier and Miguel, carted luggage out to the cars. In a minute, he’d have to herd his other siblings. But now he opened his arms to let his baby sister walk into them—as much as she could, at least—thinking that Marcos Mendoza was the luckiest, and bravest, guy in the world, taking on the family’s little princess.

“You know I’ve got to get back,” he said into his much shorter sister’s slippery brown hair. “As it was, I left several projects hanging to come here.”

Snorting, Wendy disentangled herself. And gently smacked his arm, her all’s-right-in-her-world grin a blatant affront to the dreary weather. “Well, excuse me for putting you out,” she said, her warm brown eyes sparkling, her accent tilting more toward Texan by the second.

“And anyway—”

“I know, I know—Daddy’s hot to get back for that New Year’s Eve gala y’all are sponsoring.” Her mouth pulled into a pout … for about a half second before she grinned again. Wasn’t that long ago, however, that those pouts had been precursors to the hissy fits of a precocious, blatantly spoiled young woman who’d assumed being an heiress was her life’s work. At their wits’ end, a year ago his parents had packed off Miss Diva-in-Training to Red Rock for some serious grounding … as a waitress in Red, the Mendoza family’s restaurant. Which Marcos managed.

Poor guy probably never knew what hit him.

And neither, in all likelihood, had Wendy, who was definitely not the same wild child she’d been then. Although the marriage had been far more to get their parents off her case than to please Wendy herself, whose penchant for doing things her way was legendary. And yet, there was more to that glow than hormones, Scott suspected. She seemed genuinely happy, and content, in a way that felt almost foreign to him.

“Why don’t you come see us off?” he said, suddenly loath to leave her.

Palming her burgeoning belly underneath her too-tight sweater, she shook her head. “My doctor wants me to take it easy. And to be perfectly honest—” she grinned again “—having y’all around has worn me out—”

“… because when people pay a thousand bucks a plate,” their father said as he strode through the door, his attention far more focused on his touch-screen phone than their mother, who trailed him like an agitated, delicate gray bird, “they expect the people who got them to part with their money to show up.”

Spotting her youngest daughter, Virginia Alice Fortune dragged Wendy into her arms, a small pink box containing a sampling of Wendy’s exquisite desserts swung from her French-manicured fingers.

“For heaven’s sake,” Scott heard his mother mutter, cupping her baby’s head to her cashmere-covered bosom, “it’s not as if we’re going to serve them their salmon and buttered asparagus personally!”

Over the crush of her mother’s embrace, Wendy’s eyes popped, and Scott swallowed a sigh. Because God forbid their mother—who’d raised all six of them on her own, without a nanny in sight—should stand up to their father. Not that many people did. The impenetrable aura of his vast wealth notwithstanding, at six-foot-four, his full head of dark hair barely tinged with silver, John Michael Fortune’s physical presence alone made most folks think long and hard about disagreeing with him.

Which made his mother’s soft, “What’s the harm in staying another day or two?” all the more stunning. And finally brought his father’s confused gaze to hers.

“Because I promised the Harrises we’d be there,” he said, his annoyance clear. “Which you know. And it’s not as if we’re never coming back.” His eyes shifted to Wendy, who was soon to give him his first grandchild. “Baby’s due in March, you said?”

“I did.”

“Then we’ll be here.”

But as John Michael escorted their mother to the car, Scott caught Wendy swiping a tear from her cheek. What a weird bunch they were, he mused as Marcos bounded back up the porch steps to slip an arm around his wife’s thickened waist, plant a quick kiss on her lips. For as long as Scott could remember, their father had rammed home to all six of them that you were either a success or a failure—there was no middle ground … and his mother, that nothing was more important than family. Dual mantras that defined everything they did. Everything they were.

And seemed to so often be in conflict with each other.

Suddenly restless, Scott returned to the lobby, an elegant blend of terra-cotta tiles and hand-plastered walls, wrought-iron fixtures and down-cushioned leather furniture, to see what was holding up the others. In a suit and tie, his older brother Mike paced the patterned carpet in front of the registration desk, his dark brows drawn as he barked orders at whoever was on the other end of his phone, while his younger brother Blake and their sister Emily were just entering the lobby from the restaurant, deep in conversation over something on Blake’s iPad screen. Only their cousin, Victoria—close to Wendy in both age and temperament—seemed to be “in the moment,” scooting toward Scott in her high-heeled suede boots, her long, dark brown curls bouncing over her shoulders.

First through the door, Victoria threw her arms around Wendy, giving her a fierce hug, then, to Marcos, a stern, “And you’d better take good care of her or there will be hell to pay,” before dashing across the flagstone porch and into the waiting, rented Escalade … but not before flashing a grin at Marcos’s youngest brother, Miguel, as he hefted her bag into the back.

“Guys! Let’s go!” Scott called to the others. “Mom and Dad are already in the car!”

Emily, her long blond hair uncharacteristically loose, picked up the pace. “Sorry!” she said breathlessly. “But Blake just came up with this killer campaign for Universal Mobile.” Her green eyes sparkling with excitement, she glanced back at Mike, who, still on his phone, was making “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming” gestures in Scott’s direction, then added, “As soon as Mike closes the deal and it becomes Fortune Mobile.”

No sooner were they outside, though, than a Jeep with Redmond Flight School painted on the door pulled up behind Javier’s somewhat battered Explorer and a tall, cowboy-booted guy in a flight jacket and a ball cap climbed out. On seeing Tanner Redmond, Scott smiled and extended his hand, his eyes level with the other man’s. Apparently a long-time friend of the Red Rock Fortunes, as well as the Mendozas, Tanner had been at the wedding … and danced, as Scott now recalled, with his sister Jordana. Who, Scott also now realized, was nowhere to be seen.

“Glad I caught you,” Tanner said, his own smile glinting in his olive-green eyes as he clasped Scott’s hand. “Had to go out of town right after the wedding, but wanted to say goodbye before you all left. Although …” His mouth pulled tight, the former Air Force pilot peered up at the sky, shaking his head.

Scott blew out a breath, glancing inside for his missing sister before tucking his fists in his leather jacket’s front pockets. “Don’t say it.”

Tanner grinned again, gouging deep creases in tanned cheeks. “Who’s the pilot?”

“Guy named Jack Sullivan.”

“Know him well. You’re in excellent hands. Man does not do stupid. Besides, this is bound to clear. Eventually.”

“Thanks,” Scott said drily, earning him a low chuckle and a clap on the shoulder before Tanner walked away to talk to Blake and Emily, then lean into the Escalade to pay his respects to their mother. Still one sister short, Scott asked the mob at large, “Where’s Jordana—anybody know?”

“Not going,” came from the doorway where his middle sister stood in plain jeans and a cowl-necked tunic, her dark blond hair pulled into her customary don’t-give-a-damn ponytail. Although a brilliant asset to FortuneSouth’s research and development team, Jordana clearly had not inherited his other sisters’ fashion sense. Or their confidence in non-business-related situations.

Standing by the car with Tanner, their father glanced over, then lifted his own bag into the back. “Nonsense,” he said, her “rebellion” clearly not worth even considering. “Of course you’re going.”

Jordana’s arms tightened across her ribs, as something Scott couldn’t remember ever seeing before flashed in her deep brown eyes. Still, her voice shook slightly when she spoke.

“I t-told you, there is no way I’m flying in this weather. Especially in some dinky little puddle jumper.”

“A Learjet is hardly dinky—”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said, her face reddening, “but I am not getting on that plane.” Even though Jordana probably racked up more air miles than the rest of them for her work, flying had always scared the crap out of her. A quirk she’d kept hidden from their father, Scott wagered. Until now. “I’ll get a commercial flight later. Promise.”

Smiling, Tanner said something to John Michael that Scott couldn’t hear, earning him a quick glower and an even quicker nod.

“We’ll expect you back tomorrow, then,” their father said, then ducked into the car. Scott gave Wendy a final hug, shook Marcos’s hand, then climbed into the Escalade’s front seat beside Javier. As they finally got under way, he waved to Jordana, standing under the portico, hugging herself and frowning. Tanner said something to her and pointed to the still-open door. Probably suggesting they go back inside, Scott guessed, where it was warm. And dry.

“How come you’re not driving your own car?” he now asked Wendy’s brother-in-law.

“Like I’d miss an opportunity to get behind the wheel of this beauty?” the black-haired man said with a grin, stroking the luxury car’s leather-clad steering wheel with work-roughened fingers. “No way.”

Scott sighed, letting his head drop back against the headrest. “I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get out of there,” he said in a low voice, even though, between the constant swishing of the windshield wipers and both his father and brother being deep in conversation on their phones, he doubted he’d be heard.

“I feel your pain,” Javier said, tossing a bright smile in Scott’s direction before once more focusing on the rain-drenched road. “With three brothers, I know what it’s like trying to get that many people moving in the same direction at the same time … man,” he said, angling his head slightly to look up at the clouds. “At least it isn’t snow, right?”

“At least.”

Behind Scott, his brother laughed. A calculated We’re all friends here, right? laugh designed to put the other party at ease. A tactic Scott had mastered before his twenty-fifth birthday—

“You worried about your sister?”

The unexpected question sliced through Scott’s thoughts. “What? Oh. No. Not at all. I—we—can tell, Wendy couldn’t have done better than with your brother. I get the feeling he’ll be very good for her.”

Javier chuckled. “Think maybe it’s the other way around, to be honest. Dude needed some serious shaking up. And Wendy was just the girl to do that. But I wasn’t talking about her. I meant the one who stayed behind. Jordana, right?”

Scott frowned. “Worried? No. Jordana’s a smart cookie.”

“No doubt. But … maybe a little shy? At least, next to Wendy …”

A half smile tugged at Scott’s mouth. “Everybody’s shy compared with Wendy. But then, more than one Wendy in the family might have taken us all under. So, I hear you’re a developer …?”

They fell into an easy conversation for the next few miles, everyone’s chatter competing with the hammering of rain on the Escalade’s roof, the windshield wipers’ rhythmic groans. When the visibility worsened, however, Javier became far more intent on driving than talking, giving Scott a chance to check his own messages on his iPhone. Not that there were many this close to New Year’s, but the business world never completely stopped, even for the holidays.

He heard his mother ask his father something, his father’s curt, distracted reply. A relationship dynamic he’d always taken for granted … until witnessing Wendy and Marcos together.

As far as he could tell, the relationship his sister and new brother-in-law had seemed to be based on mutual regard and respect for each other’s opinions and intelligence. God knew, he thought with a smile, his strong-willed sister was not easy to live with, but Marcos seemed to actually thrive on the challenge. The stimulation. And while Wendy would never be “tamed” by any stretch of the imagination, being with Marcos had obviously forced her to focus on something other than herself. And that could only be a good thing.

Which made Scott wonder—not for the first time, as it happened—what, exactly, had kept his parents married for more than thirty-five years. Loyalty? Habit? After all, it was no secret—at least to their children—that the relationship was strained. Strike that: it might be a secret to his father. Because as Virginia Alice’s role as mother became more and more attenuated, Scott more and more often caught the haunted “Now what?” look in her eyes.

And yet, Scott had no doubt their bond was indissoluble, if for no other reason than appearances meant too much to both of them. Lousy reason to stay together, if you asked him. And why, in all likelihood, their older progeny sucked at personal relationships. Business savvy? The drive to succeed? Sure. Those, they all had in spades. But the ability to form a lasting attachment to another human being?

Not so much.

Scott exhaled, thinking of his own track record in that department. Granted, his lack of commitment was by choice. He enjoyed the company of women, certainly, but falling in love had never been on his agenda. Or in his nature, most likely.

Which was why seeing Wendy so … blissful was … unsettling. As though she hailed from a different gene pool altogether. Cripes, she was so young. So fearless, falling in love with the same reckless abandon as she did everything else—

His phone rang, rescuing him from pointless musings.

“Scott Fortune here—”

“Mr. Fortune, glad I caught you. It’s Jack Sullivan. Your pilot?”

“Oh, yes … What can I do for you?”

He heard a dry, humorless laugh on the other end of the line. “Not a whole lot, I don’t imagine. Afraid I’ve got some bad news—all this rain’s flooded out the route I normally take to the airport.” At Scott’s muttered curse, the pilot said, “Oh, I’ll be there, don’t you worry. Just gonna take a bit longer than I’d figured.”

“How much longer are we talking?”

“Hard to say. Might be a half hour or so, maybe a little more. But until this weather straightens out I’m not taking that bird up, anyway. So y’all just go on ahead and sit tight, have a cup of coffee, and hopefully this will have all blown over by the time I get there. Good news is, hundred miles east of here, it’s completely clear!”

“Problem?” Mike asked quietly behind him. His brother’s thinly veiled criticism made Scott bristle, as it always had. Not that he’d take the bait.

“Pilot’s going to be late,” he said mildly, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Roads are flooded.” At Mike’s soft snort, he added, “Hard as this might be to believe, there are some things even we can’t control.”

As if on cue, they hit a squall that was like going through a car wash, making Javier slow the car to a crawl and Scott’s mother suck in a worried breath.

“Man,” Javier said. “I sure wouldn’t want to fly in this weather. I’m beginning to think your sister had the right idea, staying put.”

Probably, but despite what he’d said to his brother, Scott was chafing, too, at their plans being derailed, at being in a situation over which he was powerless.

Because first, last and foremost, he was a Fortune, and Fortunes did not like being told “no.”

Ever.

From behind the snack bar counter, Christina Hastings watched the well-heeled group trickle through the front door and across the tiled lobby of the chichi private airport and reminded herself of two things: one, that being envious was a waste of time and energy; and two, that being grateful for what you already had went a long way toward receiving more.

And besides, she had goals. Because a girl had to have goals, or she might as well shrivel up and die.

Sighing, she tossed her long braid over her shoulder, then checked the coffeepot to make sure it was still full, casting a baleful glance toward the two-story window running the full length of the lobby’s back wall. It was dumb, letting the gloomy weather get to her. Dumber still that she’d agreed to come in on her day off, in case somebody had a sudden hankering for a premade Caesar salad with three bites of chicken or an overpriced bottle of water. By rights, she should be home, wrapped up in a throw on her sofa with her dog, Gumbo, smooshed up beside her, watching Buffy DVDs and enjoying the next-to-last day with her little fake Christmas tree before she took it down for another year.

Instead, she was amusing herself—although she used the term loosely—by watching the goings-on in front of her. Living in Red Rock—as opposed to under one—it had been impossible not to hear about the Fortune/Mendoza wedding at Red, the local family restaurant in town she’d only ever seen from the outside. Or that the small jet still in its hangar on the other side of the flight school building had been chartered to take the bride’s family back to Atlanta. Not that it apparently mattered whether the men—all tall, all dark, all handsome, sheesh—were here, there or in Iceland, given their preoccupation with their spiffy, and probably five-minutes-old, electronic toys. As opposed to her ancient flip phone with half the numbers rubbed off. Made texting a mite tricky.

Not that she had anybody to text. She was just saying.

“Hey, there. What’s good today?”

She smiled for the improbably red-headed flight attendant she’d seen once or twice before, dressed in a nondescript uniform of black pants and vest over a long-sleeved white shirt. “Same as always. Although the turkey sandwiches don’t look half bad.”

“Let me have one of those, then. And a Diet Coke.”

“You flying out with this group?”

“Yep. The Atlanta branch of the Fortunes. Older guy’s the father, the younger men his sons.” As the flight attendant waited for her order, she nodded at the women now gathering in the posh lounge tucked underneath the second-floor offices on the other side of the lobby. “Not sure about the women, though. Although the little blonde looks exactly like the older one near to having a conniption, so I’m gonna guess she’s a daughter.” She pulled the tab on her soda. “Wonder what’s got Mrs. Fortune so bent out of shape?”

She was, too. Elegant, reed-thin, the still-beautiful, silver-haired woman periodically pressed a tissue to her mouth, while the conservatively dressed blonde tried—with little success, it seemed to Christina—to comfort her distraught mama. A third woman—younger than the others, very pretty, oblivious to what was going on around her—flounced past them to plop down on one of the sofas. She leaned over to tug an e-reader out of her giant designer purse, her long, dark curls spilling over the shoulder of her cropped suede jacket, which matched her killer boots.

As the attendant droned on about the weather, Christina watched the Fortune brothers—one dressed like he was about to meet the president, another in a sportcoat and jeans, the third decked out in a wicked cool leather jacket and black pants—milling about, each in his own little world. Close in age, looked like. Lord, no wonder the older woman was distraught—she was awfully skinny to have pushed out that many kids that close together. A thought that evinced a brief pang Christina had no intention of indulging.

She handed the attendant her change; the redhead thanked her, then left to go talk with Mrs. Fortune. The brunette, apparently too fidgety to stay seated, got up to wander aimlessly into the lobby to look at a glassed-in display of model planes in the middle of the floor. A second later some guy in a cowboy hat strode past, carrying a stack of boxes … and winked at the brunette, obviously startling her into scurrying back into the lounge, where the oldest of the men and one of the younger ones had settled into opposite ends of the biggest sofa, yakking on their phones and ignoring the excited weatherman trying to get their attention on the big-screen TV.

Two more handsome young men ferried inordinate amounts of luggage into the building, piling it near the exit to the airfield. One lobbed a quick smile in Christina’s direction before heading back outside. The highlight of her day, she thought morosely, only to mentally smack herself.

Overhead, thunder complained as the skies poured even more rain across the glass wall, hard enough to nearly obliterate the small single-engine plane on the other side—

“Excuse me? Could I get an espresso, please?”

With a start, Christina jerked around, running into a pair of bronze-ish eyes. Ah. The One in the Leather Jacket. The pissed One in the Leather Jacket, apparently.

Christina shrugged, apologetic. Tried unsuccessfully to ignore the mouth. And the cheekbones. Holy moly. Not only did this family have, if the scuttlebutt was to be believed, more money than God, they had a gene pool to die for. “Sorry, all I’ve got is regular. Or decaf.”

“You’re not serious?”

Okay, the man was easily the best-looking guy she’d ever seen in her entire life—how she wasn’t blinded, she did not know—but still. A pain in the butt is a pain in the butt.

This ain’t Starbucks, Bucko, she wanted to say. But she didn’t. Partly because she didn’t have the energy, and partly because, along with his iPad, the guy was toting a silly little pink bakery box. Which for some reason tickled her no end.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “which isn’t much, I’ll grant you, I’ve been after my boss to get an espresso machine ever since I started working here. He ignores me. So.” Overhead, hail pummeled the steel roof, the sudden din making her jump. Outside it looked like God had dumped out His snowcone machine. When she turned back to Leather Jacket Dude, he was glaring at the deluge.

“It’ll let up,” she shouted over the barrage. Although why she felt compelled to reassure him, she had no idea. He turned the glare on her, and she sighed. “Regular or decaf?”

The man grimaced. And he hadn’t even tasted the coffee yet. Forget an espresso maker, Christina couldn’t even get Jimmy to spring for a decent Colombian brew.

“Regular,” he grumbled. “Black.”

Christina opened her mouth, then shut it again, thinking Just give the man his coffee, honey chile. She poured it into a foam cup, smooshed a plastic lid on top, then set it on the black granite counter, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans to keep from messing up her apron, which was a bear to get clean. “That’ll be a dollar fifty. The flight attendant said you’re all family?”

He barely glanced at her before reaching inside his jacket for his wallet, the slight move releasing a very pleasant scent. Probably not something he picked up at Walgreens. “Yes. We were here for my sister’s wedding.”

“Oh, that’s nice. From Atlanta, right?”

He frowned slightly, like he couldn’t figure out why on earth she was talking to him. Well, tough. Talking to people was what kept her from going insane, giving in to the loneliness that sometimes felt like it would suffocate her. Gumbo was a great dog, but his conversational skills were limited. “Yes,” he said, looking up when the hail stopped, as abruptly as it had started.

“See?” Christina said. “Told ya. You watch, the sun’ll be out before you know it.”

For a moment their gazes touched, his a bit disconcerted as his cell phone rang. Almost like he heard the distinct twannnnng in Christina’s midsection. Uh-oh. Distractedly he hunched it to his shoulder, mumbling, “Scott Fortune,” as he handed her a twenty, then started to walk away.

Must be nice, she thought as the twanging died out, to be able to treat twenties like quarters. “Wait! You forgot your change—”

A deafening, blood-chilling roar drowned out her words, raised the hairs on her arms. Scott turned, the startled look in his eyes tangling with hers a split second before the glass wall exploded and Hell rained down around them.

Chapter Two

The woman’s scream pierced his brain, rudely dragging Scott back to consciousness. His heart pounding hard enough to hurt, he lay motionless, his eyes still closed, his ears still ringing, trying to regain his bearings … until she screamed again.

“For the love of all that’s holy, stop that.”

After a beat or two of blessed silence, he heard, “I thought you were dead.”

That raspy voice … ah. The waitress. “No. At least I don’t think so—” The last word ended in a cough; yanking his jacket collar over his mouth and nose, Scott opened his eyes. Panic cramped his chest: through the occasional shaft of dust-clogged light eking through the rubble, he realized he’d come damn close to being buried alive. He fumbled for his phone, only to realize it had apparently fallen out of his pocket. Damn.

“Um, are you okay?” she said. “I mean, c-can you help me? I’m stuck.”

Adrenaline spiked through him. “Hold on …” Debris clattered as Scott tried to heave himself upright, only getting as far as his knees when his right temple gave him hell. Flinching, he quickly brushed his fingers over the spot—no blood, thank God. “Where are you?”

“Close enough to think you were dead, obviously. I can see you, though. Kinda. Keep going, you’ll find me.”

“How long was I out?” he asked as he cautiously crept toward her.

“Not long. Couple minutes, maybe? You remember the tornado hitting?” she asked when he reached her, barely six feet away. Propped on her elbows, she lay back against what he assumed was the counter base, her legs imprisoned beneath a pile of rubble. Even through the haze he could see the grim set to her mouth.

“Yes,” Scott said quietly, knowing he’d never forget the wind’s brutal, relentless shrieking, like a million furious demons. “Guess I blacked out right after, though. Does it hurt?”

“I don’t think … no. Not really. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I can’t move, but at least I don’t feel like I’m being crushed. But something—” Grimacing, she strained to pull herself free; Scott’s hand shot to her shoulder, stopping her.

“Stay still. Do you hear me?”

Not looking at him, she nodded. “Just … hurry.”

“On it,” he muttered as he snatched away the lighter stuff—wood lathing, plaster chunks, shards of glass. But despite having lifted weights for years, Scott was no match for the granite slab pinning her to the ground. He tried another angle, his back and shoulder muscles burning like a sonuvabitch, but no dice. Sitting back beside her, he punched out an exasperated breath. “Why the hell did they use granite for the counter?”

Her head fell back, her eyes shut. “And yet,” she said through faint, rapid breaths, “no espresso maker. Go figure.”

More dust sifted down beside them, the sound like scurrying ants. “Call me crazy, but this seems like an odd time to crack jokes.”

“It’s that or s-scream again. D-deal.”

He groped for her hand in the dim light, found it; her fingers tightened around his, kicking his heart into overdrive. “Take some deep breaths before you hyperventilate. There, that’s better,” he said when she complied, then gently squeezed her hand. “You scared?”

A snort preceded, “Yeah, fear is kinda my go-to emotion when I think I might die.”

“We’re not going to die.”

“Oh? Last I heard, death couldn’t be bought off.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her eyes opened as she shifted, clearly trying to suppress a wince. And shivering. “S-sorry. Today hasn’t gone exactly the way I thought it w-would … no, it’s okay, I’m fine,” she said when he let go to shrug off his jacket.

“I’m wearing a sweater. You’re not. So no arguments. Can you sit up a little more?” Nodding, she did, at least enough for him to wrap the jacket around her shoulders, tug her smooth blond braid free.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Elbowing aside the first stirrings of alarm, Scott glanced around. “This is … surreal.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Especially as I can’t recall ever seeing a tornado around here before. Farther north and west, sure. But …” Her eyes lifted. “I think … I’m gonna pretend this is all a dream. And any minute I’ll wake up and … it’ll be over.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He inched a little closer. “I’m Scott, by the way.”

“I know.” Her eyes drifted closed again. “Heard you on your cell phone.”

“Speaking of which, mine’s gone AWOL. Do you have one?”

“Sure thing. In my purse.”

“Which is where?”

She almost laughed. A sound that, under other circumstances, he would have found extremely appealing. “Around here somewhere. And you need to be quiet now.”

Scott angled his head to see into her face. Her eyes were still shut. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Christina. Hastings. Now hush.”

“What … what are you doing?”

“Praying. Trying to, anyway.”

“You really think that’ll help?”

“We’ll never find out if you keep talking, will we?”

A damp draft swept through their little cave. “Is your head okay?”

“And that better not be you thinking I’m off my nut because I’m praying.”

He did, but he wasn’t about to say that. “Not at all. But if your head got hit, you might have a concussion. So you shouldn’t close your eyes in case you fall asleep.”

“Oh. No. Head’s fine. Well, no worse than usual—”

A muffled sound from outside made Scott jump. Holy hell. How could he have forgotten—?

The initial shock sloughed off, he jolted to his knees again to claw at the wall of debris barely three feet away separating him from the others. “Blake! Mike!” He yanked at a chunk of drywall, sending plaster dust and small chunks of heaven knew what sifting down on them. “Dad! Can you hear me—?”

“For heaven’s sake, stop!” Christina snapped behind him. “You want to bring whatever’s left up there down on our heads?”

“No, but … dammit!” Terror erupting in his chest, he stared into the darkness quickly swallowing up what might as well have been a mountain. “Most of my family’s out there. Somewhere.”

“It’ll be okay,” she murmured, although he wasn’t sure if the reassurance was aimed at him or she was trying to talk herself down off the ledge. Scott duckwalked back to where she lay, planting his butt on the floor beside her and listening to the unremitting drip, drip, drip of rain somewhere above them.

“You sure about that?”

A beat passed before she said, “Somebody’s bound to know what happened, where we are. It might take a while, but … we’ll be okay.”

He could barely see her now, but that first image when he’d looked up from his phone earlier and actually noticed her was indelibly etched into his brain: the sass and intelligence in those enormous blue eyes, the barely repressed humor—at his expense, no doubt—behind her smile. “For somebody convinced a minute ago we were about to die, you seem amazingly calm now.”

“I had my moment. It’s over. Or I could be in shock. Hard to tell.”

“Or maybe you did get beaned.”

Her soft laugh melted something inside him. “Or maybe I did.”

Crazy. Most women he knew would be in hysterics by now. And Christina’s hair and skin had to be as caked with plaster dust as his, her eyes and mouth as gritty. Not to mention she couldn’t have been more than five-two, five-three tops. And yet—

“You’re tougher than you look.”

“So I’ve been told.”

More distorted sounds from the other side of the wall snagged his attention; he crawled over, shouting. “We’re in here! Can anybody hear me? Javier! Is that you?”

“You’re wasting your energy, you realize.”

His head swung back to her. “I can’t sit here and do nothing.”

“Looks like you don’t have much of a choice.”

“Doing nothing is not a choice.”

“We’re not doing nothing. We’re waiting.” She paused. “And trusting.”

“Ah. That praying thing again, right?”

He sensed more than saw her shrug before she said, “Tell me about them. Your family.”

“Why?”

“Maybe it’ll keep us distracted.”

Scott’s gut contracted. “You are in pain.”

“Let’s just say I’ll never complain about cramps again.”

Honestly. “Do you always say whatever pops into your head?”

“Depends on the situation. This definitely qualifies. Besides …” She shifted slightly. “Either we’re gonna die, in which case we’ll never see each other again. Or we’ll be rescued—which would definitely be my preference—and you’ll go back to Atlanta, and we’ll still never see each other again. Either way, I’m not too worried about making a good impression.”

Except you are, Scott thought, startled, thinking if he had to be trapped in a pile of rubble with anybody, he could have done far worse than this smart-mouthed, cool-as-a-cucumber little bit of a thing with her soft, raspy voice and even softer blue eyes.

“So talk,” she said. “How many of you are there, exactly …?”

He made her laugh.

And, bless him, forget. As much as she could, she supposed, given the situation. But considering their initial encounter, not to mention the frown lines he’d probably been working on since kindergarten, the last thing Christina had expected was for the man to have a sense of humor.

Not that she couldn’t hear weightier threads lacing the stories about growing up with five siblings, despite Scott’s obvious discretion at how he presented his family to a complete stranger. Even so, when, for instance, he told her some silly story about him and his older brother, Mike, setting up competing lemonade stands across the street from each other when they were kids, she could hear the frustration—and hurt—underlying his words. Mike couldn’t let an opportunity pass to one-up his younger brother … and that their father had praised eleven-year-old Mike for his ingenuity at besting Scott, who’d only been in the third grade at the time.

She was also guessing that Scott had been busting his buns trying to win his father’s approval ever since. Not that Scott would ever admit as much—certainly not to Christina, at least—but nobody knew better than she did what it was like to yearn for a parent’s attention and respect.

His obvious loyalty—and genuine affection—was honorable. But good Lord, if half of what he’d said was true, this family took the concept of sibling rivalry to new heights, not only not discouraging competition but fostering it, pitting the kids against each other to make them stronger. More fierce. And yet, from what she could tell, they all loved each other, even if those bonds were mainly forged by their mutual interest in FortuneSouth’s success.

It was enough to almost make her grateful she was an only child.

“So what do y’all do for fun?” she asked.

“Fun?”

It was almost totally dark by now. And cold. Cold enough that they leaned into each other for warmth. And comfort. The pain in her leg and foot had settled into a dull but constant ache. As had the fear, which was almost like a third person in the space.

“It’s not a trick question, you know.”

“More than you might think,” Scott muttered, then parried, “What do you do for … fun?”

“I asked you first.”

He blew out a heavy sigh, his breath warm in her hair. “Okay … we … go to a lot of charity events.” His accent was pure Southern-privileged, his voice pure man, all low and rumbly. A delicious, and deadly, combination. “Dinners, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Excruciatingly.”

“For pity’s sake—I said fun, Scott. Or do you need me to define the word?”

“How would you define it?”

“Well … fun is something that makes you feel good. Makes you happy. Makes you glad to simply be alive.”

“Such as?”

She thought. “Goin’ to the state fair and eating your weight in fried food. And cotton candy. Tossing burgers on the grill on a summer night, sittin’ around and chewing the fat with friends. Driving to nowhere with the top down, stopping wherever you feel like it. Sittin’ on the steps and watching fireflies. What?”

“Apparently your definition of fun doesn’t include the word exciting.”

“Does yours?”

“Good point.”

“I said, it just has to make you feel good.”

“So … is that your life? In a nutshell? Going to the fair and chowing down on burgers and watching fireflies?”

After a long moment, she said, “I said that’s how I define fun. I didn’t necessarily say that was my life. Not at the moment, anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just … I’m kind of … focused on other things right now.” When he got real quiet, she said, “What are you thinking about?”

“That I’ve never been to a state fair.”

“Get out.”

“It’s true. But also … that I can’t remember the last time I felt good about doing something that didn’t involve improving the bottom line.”

“And that is too sad for words.”

“There’s nothing wrong with making money, Christina. FortuneSouth provides jobs for thousands of people—”

“Oh, don’t go getting defensive. I never said there was anything wrong with making money. But you have to admit there’s something off about only getting your jollies from work.”

Another pause. Then: “I don’t only get my jollies from work.”

“Lord, I can practically hear your brows waggling. And that doesn’t count,” she said when he laughed.

“It doesn’t?”

“Not that it can’t be fun—don’t get me wrong. But it’s so … trite.”

Scott barked out a laugh. “Point to you.”

“Thank you.”

She felt him shift beside her. “You remind me a little of my youngest sister. Wendy.”

“The one your parents sent out here because she was about to drive ’em up a wall?”

“The very one.”

“Is Wendy your favorite?”

“Yes. But don’t you dare tell her that. Or anyone else.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Christina thought a moment, then said, “I’m very flattered, then.”

Scott chuckled. “So tell me about your family.”

Yeah, he would ask that. “Not a whole lot to tell. My father jumped ship when I was a toddler, never to be seen again, and my mother … we’re not real close.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. But I do have a dog … ohmigosh!”

“What?”

“I can’t believe I forgot! I have a dog. And I have no idea if he’s okay—”

Feeling her eyes burn, Christina pressed a hand to her mouth. Not being dead yet, she figured she was ahead of the game, but suddenly not having any idea how her baby was made her sick to her stomach.

“What’s his name?” Scott said gently.

She lowered her hand. “G-gumbo. ’Cause when God made him he tossed whatever parts He had on hand into a bowl, and Gumbo was the result. Although he gets called Dumbo a lot, too,” she said on a shaky little laugh. “Dog’s dumber than a load of bricks, I swear. But he’s mine, and I love him, and—”

The tears came whether she wanted them to or not. The shock came when Scott slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her head to his chest. Not saying anything, just holding her close.

So. Unfair.

Then her stomach rumbled. “How long do you suppose we’ve been here?”

“I have no idea. It’s been dark for a while, though.”

She listened. “Rain’s stopped.”

“Yep. In fact, there must be a full moon.”

Christina blinked, noticed the silvery light here and there delineating the scene. “Oh, yeah.” She sighed. “I’d kill for a burger and fries right now.”

Another of those low chuckles preceded, “You and me both.”

“While we have the light … there’s a refrigerated case, if you can get to it, with food, such as it is. And water and stuff.”

“Be right back.”

He disappeared; for several minutes she heard scuffling, some cursing. Then a surprised, “I’ll be damned. I found my phone. Although … crap. No service. But … hold on …”

A minute later he returned with a couple of sandwiches, two bottles of water and that little box. “The case was pretty banged up,” he said, sitting beside her again. “But still cold. I have no idea what I got, though.”

“Ask me if I care,” she said, grabbing one of the sandwiches and ripping off the cellophane. “So what’s in the box?”

“Heaven. Or so I’m told.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. After she started working at Red, Wendy discovered she had a talent for making desserts. So she gave all of us a sampling of some of her creations.” He turned on his phone, the feeble light illuminating the contents of the box enough for Christina to see several kinds of cookies, some sort of bar thing and a Napoleon-like pastry. “Help yourself, I’m not big on sweets. But you’d better believe I wouldn’t tell Wendy that.”

The sandwich gone, Christina hesitated, then selected something that melted in her mouth. Butter and chocolate and caramel and maybe some kind of liqueur? It was the fanciest thing she’d ever tasted in her life, given that, for her, a “splurge” was buying real Oreos instead of the Walmart fakeouts. Which she wasn’t about to tell Scott.

“That was amazing” was all she said, then closed the lid on the box.

“Please. I mean it. Take what you want.”

Like she’d ever been able to do that in her entire life. “No, it’s okay. I’m good.”

Their meal done, they sat in silence for a little while, digesting what had happened to them—well, at least that’s what Christina was doing—as well as their food. Outside, the wind had picked up enough to whistle through the jagged orifices left in the wake of the destruction. Close by, something periodically scraped against the wall on the far side of what used to be the snack bar.

Scott cleared his throat. “I think we need to keep talking—”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Absolutely.” Then she yawned. “If I can stay awake. I think the adrenaline’s gone.”

“You comfortable?”

“I’ve been better. Been worse, too.”

He pulled her close again. “Lay your head on my chest.”

“I couldn’t—”

“One, you already have. And two, I cannot tell you how little I’m in the mood for arguments right now. And I’m cold, too. So just do it, dammit.”

All righty, then. Although, even before her cheek made contact with his soft, soft sweater—and the hard, hard muscles underneath, Christina knew she was doomed.

Whether they made it out alive or not.

Scott couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a woman close—one not related to him, that is—with no ulterior motive in mind. Or when doing so had provoked such mind-blowing feelings of … tenderness. Especially when, with a long sigh, Christina relaxed against him.

“Better?”

“Yes, actually.” She lightly rubbed his chest. Probably not the best move. “What is this stuff? Cashmere?”

“Silk and lambswool. Wendy gave it to me for Christmas.”

Her hand once more fisted near her chin, she said, “Gal’s got good taste.”

“That she does.” Fingering her shoulder, he asked, “So tell me—who is Christina Hastings when she’s not pawning off lousy coffee in an airport?”

A little laugh preceded, “You tasted it, then?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Well? What are your dreams?”

“Now why on earth would you be interested in my dreams?”

“Would you rather talk about sports? Politics?”

“God, no.”

“Good. Because neither would I.” He paused, then added, “I don’t make small talk, Christina. Or ask questions I don’t really want answers to. And we agreed we need to keep talking—”

“Okay, fine. Short term or long term?”

“Either. Both.”

“Well, first, to finish getting my business degree. Although I’ve been working on that one for some time already. I didn’t … I got sidetracked after I finished high school, so I didn’t start college until I was twenty-one. And even then I’ve always had to work while going to school, so I’ve only been able to take a couple courses a semester. I’m definitely a tortoise and not a hare.”

“Nothing wrong with that. But there’s no one to help you out?”

“Not really, no. Although I’m hoping to finish up in the next year or so. And after that—way after that, most likely—I’d like to have my own business.”

“Doing what?”

“You don’t—”

“Christina. Captive audience. Go for it.”

A moment passed before she said, “I’ve got a couple of ideas, although nothing’s set in stone. But I’m good with animals, so I thought maybe a pet grooming shop. Or one of those spas where people could leave their pets for me to spoil while they go on vacation? Although that would mean owning someplace large enough to do that, so that’s definitely on the ‘someday’ list … oh, it’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Because … I don’t know. My plans must seem like small potatoes to somebody like you.”

“One, you are not allowed to sell yourself short. Two, all businesses start with a seed. An idea. Feed that idea with focus and determination and it will grow.”

“And sufficient start-up capital,” she said with a sigh.

“Somebody’s done her homework. I’m impressed.”

“Homework, I can do. Finding money lying around under rocks, not so much.”

He smiled. “If the idea is good, the financing will fall into place.”

“So would you finance my start-up?”

“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”

“So would you?”

Scott chuckled. And got a sweet whiff of what was left of her perfume or hair stuff or whatever it was. “Show me a well-thought-out business plan and we’ll talk.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re figuring we’re gonna die here and then you’ll be off the hook?”

“We’re not going to die, Christina.”

She snuggled closer, her arm banding his ribs as she whispered, “Do you know I’ve never told another living soul about this?”

“Not even your mother?”

“Especially not my mother.” She paused. “Since she’s shot down everything I’ve ever tried. Or ever wanted to do. Not exactly a big cheerleader.”

“That’s rough.”

“Eh,” she said on a shrug, “it taught me early on to be self-reliant. ‘Course, that doesn’t make an ideal mate, either. Prob’ly why I haven’t been on a date in, oh … two years?”

Gal was definitely getting tired, Scott thought with a weary smile of his own. Inhibitions shattered and all that.

“Two years? Really?”

“Yep.” She yawned. “Got tired of the stupid games. Of meeting a guy and thinking he’s nice, only to find out he automatically expects something in return for taking me out to dinner. That he’s not even remotely interested in getting to know me as a person. Sucked.”

Bitterness, dulled and worn, veneered her words. And provoked him into defending his sex. “Not all men are like that.”

“Then maybe I’m just lousy at picking ’em,” she said, her accent getting heavier the sleepier she got. “But you know? I’m okay with being on my own. It’s kinda nice, being able to make my own decisions about what’s best for me without having to swing ’em past anybody else.” This last bit was accentuated with a sweeping arm gesture before she snuggled closer, rubbing her cheek against his chest. Damn.

“You’re awfully young to be so cynical,” he said into her dusty hair.

She shrugged, clearly unperturbed. “Better than havin’ my head in the clouds.”

She yawned again, one of those double yawns that signified that sleep couldn’t be far behind. Yet despite her soft voice, her words were clear. “I’m a realist, Scott. I know who I am. Where I came from. Maybe not exactly where I’m going, but close enough. What’s in my control and what’s not. Like … if I never get married, maybe I’ll … adopt someday.” She hmmphed tiredly. “Never told anybody that, either.”

And the longer she talked, the more her honesty seemed to wrap around his soul, nourishing something inside him he hadn’t even known was hungry. “Were you always this wise? Or has experience made you this way?”

“Hell if I know,” she said, and he laughed. “But I am a real firm believer in being true to yourself. In knowing who you are and what you want, and then doing your best to make those two things work together. Long as you understand the road between points A and Z might not always be a smooth one.”

At that, Scott held her closer, resting his cheek in her hair, as if doing so would help him absorb some of whatever it was that had so firmly grounded her. “What if … you get so entrenched in Point A you can’t even see Point Z? What if you’re not even sure what Point Z is?”

He could sense her tilting back to look at him, even though he couldn’t imagine what she’d see in the murky light. “Seems to me all you need to know is that where you are in your life? It’s not working anymore. And then have the guts to do something about it. Because way too many people get so caught up in doing things the way they’ve always done them, living the lives they’ve always lived, that they don’t even know they’re unhappy. And that, to me, feels unbearably sad.”

She molded herself to him once more, as though she belonged there. “I don’t want to die with regrets, wondering why I didn’t try to go after my dreams. And I have to say, if I did kick the bucket right now? Sure, I’d be pissed that I didn’t get there, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I was on my way.”

Scott’s heart constricted as he fought the urge to tell her that she’d made him think more, feel more, in the past few hours than he probably had in ten years. If ever. That, suddenly and inexplicably, the thought of never seeing her again bothered him far more than the possibility of not making it out alive.

But he didn’t dare say that.

Not in words, at least.

“Christina?” he whispered, waiting for her face to lift to his before cupping her cheek. “This is nuts, but I want—” He swallowed.

“Go for it, Bucko,” she whispered, then softly laughed, low in her throat. “Not like anybody’s gonna know but us.”

Or at least that’s what he thought she said over his pounding heart as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Chapter Three

“Holy hell! Found ’em—!”

“They okay—?”

“Think so, although the gal looks like she’s stuck. Frank! Hernando! Get your butts over here, now!”

Jerked awake, Scott batted at the bright light searing his eyes … until it registered that was the sun shining in his face.

“Hey, buddy—how’re you doing?”

Scott shook the last remnants of sleep and disbelief from his brain as Christina stirred in his arms, then let out a little cry. Although whether from relief, surprise or pain, Scott couldn’t tell.

“I’m fine, but she’s—”

“Yeah, we can see that,” the rescuer said, his voice graveled with both age and what had undoubtedly been a very long night. “It’s okay, sweetheart, we’re gonna get you outta there in two shakes.” Then, to Scott, “You did good, keeping her warm like that. Can you walk?”

“Yes. At least,” he said as he tried to stretch out his cold, stiff muscles, “I could before I fell asleep—”

“Good,” the rescuer said as three or four other people appeared, bustling around Christina, “’Cause I need you outta the way so the paramedics can do their thing—”

“But—”

“Go check on your family,” Christina said, her voice rough, “they must be worried sick.” When he still hesitated, she shut her eyes and commanded, “Go.”

“I’ll be back. I swear,” he said, although he doubted she’d heard him.

Stooped over, he crawled through the tunnel the rescuers had made in the destruction, releasing a nauseous gasp when he emerged into what looked like the set from a disaster movie.

Momentarily paralyzed, Scott struggled to absorb the scene as dozens of rescuers, some in National Guard uniforms, swarmed around him—the odd wall, still inexplicably standing; the sunlight dancing across the glass-littered ground, glancing off twisted pieces of what Scott realized in horror was a small plane; rows of seats, the leather furniture from the lounge upended, mutilated, half-buried underneath what had been the second floor. And above it all, framing the destruction, the blue, cloudless sky, serene and still and contrite, as though denying the fury it had unleashed only hours before.

“Scott! Thank God!”

He wheeled around to see Blake and Mike striding toward him, dusty and muddy and scratched up, but otherwise okay, and his head snapped back to the present. Then his cousin, Victoria, her dark curls a tangled, filthy mess, appeared, squealing as she threw her arms around each one’s neck in turn, all of them talking at once.

“—ceiling caved in so we couldn’t get out—”

“—Javier’s in bad shape, they’ve already taken him to the hospital, Miguel’s with him—”

“—Dad’s in an ambulance, something about chest pains—”

“—Mom’s got a broken wrist—”

“—but they had to give her something to calm her down,” Victoria put in, tears brimming in her eyes. “Because, that flight attendant? She … she didn’t make it.” Scott swore as Mike laid a hand on Scott’s arm, the uncharacteristic gesture raising the hairs on the back of Scott’s neck. “They haven’t found Emily yet, either.”

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t, for the first time in his life, make a decision. Try to find his sister or go back for Christina? Honor a promise he’d only made a few minutes ago, or his duty to family?

Frowning, Scott glanced back over his shoulder, then sighed. Meeting his brothers’ gazes, he asked, “Where was Em when the storm hit?”

“Over there, talking to Aunt Virginia,” Victoria said, pointing to where the lounge had been, then shuddering. “But then, so was I, and I ended up way the heck over there.” Her arms folded across her ribs, she nodded toward the other side of the building, then started to cry. “Oh, God—what if Em’s …”

She burst into sobs as Blake wrapped one arm around her shoulders, a moment before a shout went up from about twenty feet away.

“We got her!”

Scott and the others picked their way through the wreckage as fast as they could, getting to Emily right as the rescuers pulled her free. Like the rest of them, she was dirty and debris-ravaged, but, other than a wonky ankle, she seemed none the worse for wear.

Physically, at least. Because Scott wondered what sort of psychological toll the last fifteen, sixteen hours would have on all of them, none of whom had ever been through anything even remotely life-threatening before. Certainly he would never be the same, he thought as he made his way back to where he and Christina had spent that long, cold, miserable night, only to find that she, too, was already gone.

“Where?” he asked a state trooper on the scene.

“Same place they took everybody else. San Antonio Memorial.” The trooper looked over at his brothers and cousin. “Y’all need a ride?”

“I … I don’t know.” Forking a hand through his hair, Scott scanned the surreal landscape. “The cars—”

“All totaled,” the trooper said gently. “Except for that Escalade over there. Some dings and scrapes, but otherwise intact. Probably drives okay. Strange, how these things happen. I’ve seen entire blocks wiped out, except for one house left standing, untouched.” Away from the mangled building by now, the officer nodded toward the SUV, which did indeed look virtually unscathed. “A rental, I’m guessing from the license plate.”

Scott nodded, his throat constricting. Around them, lights flashed, radios squawked from assorted emergency vehicles. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mike climbing into one of the ambulances, its siren bloop-blooping as it started away. “Yeah. Ours,” he finally got out as he took in the crushed Explorer lying on its side.

“Then you’ll be wanting these,” the trooper said, digging in his pocket and handing over the keys. “They were in the ignition, so I figured I’d better take ’em. Not that I expect anybody to come out here looking for trouble, but you never know.”

Scott nodded his thanks, then said, “My brothers, they said …” His stomach turned. “Javier Mendoza? Do you have any idea where he is?”

The grave, compassionate expression in the man’s gray eyes said far more than Scott wanted to hear. “That must be the guy they got to first, lying right past the doorway. He’s probably already at the hospital by now, they can tell you more when you get there.” The man rested a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “You okay, son? That bruise on the side of your head bothering you any—?”

“I’m fine. Or will be, soon enough. Thank you.”

The trooper’s radio crackled; with a wave he walked away, the same moment a reedy, but surprisingly strong, voice called out.

“Oh, Scotty—thank God you’re all right!”

Forcing a smile for his mother, Scott made his way through the angled vehicles toward her, the warm sun again giving the lie to the wicked, bizarre weather from the day before. Wrapped in a silver Mylar blanket and propped up on a gurney, her arm strapped to her chest, his mother accepted his kiss, then asked, with anxious eyes, if they’d found Emily.

“Yes. A few minutes ago—”

“Is she … is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Her ankle’s a little messed up, but you know our Em—can’t keep a good girl down—”

“And Jordana?”

Figuring whatever they’d given her, combined with the trauma, was playing tricks with their mother’s head, Scott said quietly, “Jordana didn’t come, remember? She stayed at the resort—”

“No, no—she called me on my cell about ten minutes before the tornado hit, said she’d changed her mind and was getting a ride to the airport with that Tanner person.” She grasped Scott’s wrist with her good hand, her eyes wide with fear. “Oh, God, Scott—if she was on the road—”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Mom,” Scott said evenly, even if his stomach didn’t agree.

“All righty, Mrs. Fortune, we need to get going,” the attendant said, adding, as another pair of EMTs wheeled Emily toward them, “Your daughter’s going to ride with you, how’s that?”

“Emily, sweetheart …!”

As the last ambulance finally pulled away with his mother and sister inside, Scott stood with his hands in his pants pockets, a light, chilly breeze ruffling his hair as he surveyed the decimated landscape—fences gone, trees uprooted or snapped in two, entire windbreaks felled like bowling pins. Oddly, the storm seemed to have inflicted far less damage to the flight school building behind him—it was still standing, at least—but Scott had overheard some of the rescuers saying that this tornado was only one of a series. That others—although not as devastating, thankfully—had also touched down in Red Rock itself, causing even more damage.

Blake came up beside him, one hand on his hip, the other cuffing the back of his neck. “Holy crap.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Think this is what’s known as one of those life-altering events.”

A lot more than you know, Scott mused, his thoughts drifting back to Christina—the heat of her hand gripping his, her trusting weight against his chest … the lingering buzz from that sweetly electric kiss. Still. Even in the clear light of day.

Crazy.

But damn if he didn’t feel as though somebody’d flipped a switch in his brain … a switch he hadn’t even known had been in the “off” position.

He looked back over Blake’s shoulder to see their cousin picking through the debris, wobbling on her high-heeled boots like a tipsy mountain goat. “What on earth is Victoria doing?”

“Looking for her luggage, she said. I suppose it’s giving her something to focus on so she won’t freak out.” Blake met Scott’s gaze. “She keeps talking about some dude in a cowboy hat pulling her out of the rubble then disappearing. Got any clue who she’s talking about?”

“None,” Scott said, thinking he had far more pressing things on his mind than Victoria’s mystery cowboy in shining armor. Like the woman who, in one night, had twisted him far more inside out than a tornado ever could. Not knowing how badly she was hurt …

Pulling the rental’s keys from his pocket, Scott called to his cousin. “Vicki! We need to get to the hospital.”

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. The wind caught in her hair, whipping it around her smudged face. “But … my things …”

“Now, Victoria,” Scott said sharply, walking to the SUV, his brother and muttering cousin following suit.

“Sorry,” she mumbled after she got into the back. “I’m just hungry. And exhausted. And …” She let out a muffled sob. “And when I think—”

“It’s okay, honey,” Scott said as they slowly pulled away, the car’s shocks working overtime as they drove over the chewed up ground. “We’ve all had a rough time.”

And yet, he mused as they reached the highway, where it became much smoother going except for the occasional jagged branch or chunk of somebody’s shed, not once during their ordeal had Christina complained. Even though she had to have been in pain. And frightened out of her wits.

If anything happened to her …

He stepped on the gas.

Not surprisingly, the E.R. was borderline chaos, all the exam rooms filled, a pair of obviously harried nurses doing triage on the dozens of walking wounded flooding the waiting room.

“Scott! Over here!”

Emily was in a far corner, between a resigned-looking older man pressing a bloodstained towel to a gash in his head and a mother with worried eyes holding a sleeping toddler. His sister’s foot, wrapped in an ice pack, was elevated on a pillow on the glass table in front of her. Blake scanned the crowd. “Wow. Did San Antonio get hit, too?”

Emily shook her head, her pinched brow the only clue she’d been through hell. “No, just Red Rock. This is overflow from the Medical Center. Look,” she said, nodding toward the TV mounted high on the opposite wall, where a camera panned parts of the town, showing the damage. Considering what might have been, though, things could have been much worse.

For all of them.

He turned back to his sister. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“In treatment rooms. Mike’s been toggling between the two of them. I’d bug the desk for more information, except, one, I can’t exactly move and, two, I’m afraid of that nurse. Yeah, that one, in the pink scrubs. Don’t let the teddy bears fool you—she’s fierce.” The man with the bleeding head was called to see the doctor. With a heavy sigh, Victoria plopped into his vacated seat, laid her head on Emily’s shoulder. She smiled for her cousin, then said, “Eventually I’ll get into the inner sanctum and find out what’s going on, but …”

She glanced across the room, then whispered, “It’s Javier I’m most worried about, if the look on Miguel’s face is anything to go by.”

Scott twisted around to see Javier’s and Marcos’s brother, who’d come from New York for the wedding, sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, his head in his hands.

“Go on, talk to him,” Blake said. “I’ll check on Mom and Dad.”

Looking far more bedraggled than the rest of them, Miguel shakily stood at Scott’s approach. A small, tight smile strained his mouth. “Your family—is everybody okay?”

“More or less. Miguel—for God’s sake, sit, you look like you’re about to keel over. How is he?”

“It’s bad, man,” Miguel said, sinking onto the seat, strangling his still wet ball cap in his hands. “Real bad.” Terrified brown eyes lifted to Scott’s. “He’s … he’s unconscious, they don’t even know yet what needs fixing. His head, his legs …” The young man swallowed hard, obviously fighting for control.

“Damn …” Scott felt as though someone had put a stake through his chest. “You need me to make any calls—?”

“No, I already talked to Marcos. He’ll get in touch with everybody else.” He looked at Scott, obviously fighting tears. “I found him, right after the twister hit. I could tell he was in bad shape, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do—couldn’t call 911 because the cell service was down, couldn’t go get help because the roads were trashed. Best I could do was keep the worst of the rain off him, but …” Shaking his head, he looked away, a tear tracking down his filthy, stubbled cheek.

“Hey …” Scott laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. He made it through the night. That’s got to count for something—”

“I can’t stop thinking,” Miguel went on, his left leg bouncing, clearly not hearing any voices except the nasty ones in his own head, “what if he didn’t get help in time—?”

“And you’re only going to make yourself crazy, worrying like that,” Scott said, even though his own voices, making him worry and wonder about Christina, weren’t doing him any favors, either. When he spotted Blake, he waved him over. “I need to go check on my folks, but Blake will stay with you until your family arrives. And listen,” he added as he stood, “you know we’ll help in any way we can. Whatever Javier needs, it’s his. Got that?”

Miguel looked up, hope and terror fighting for purchase in red-rimmed eyes. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Despite Emily’s warning, Scott had no choice but to confront the obviously frazzled nurse at the desk. “Yes?” she snapped, not looking at him.

“I’d like to see my parents. Virginia Alice and John Michael Fortune?”

“Rooms 1B and 1A,” she said, jabbing a pen over her shoulder, “right on the other side of the door—”

“And you have another patient who came in by ambulance around the same time, Christina Hastings? Can you tell me which room she’s in?”

“She a relative, too?”

“No, but—”

“Only family’s allowed to see the patients, sorry.”

“You’re not serious?”

She frowned up at him. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to kid around?”

Frankly, Scott guessed that was a mood she was never in. “Then can you at least tell me her condition?”

“No.”

Scott leaned over the counter, close enough to make the woman back up. “If it hadn’t been for my family,” he said in a low voice, “it’s highly unlikely Miss Hastings would even need to be here right now. So if you don’t mind—”

“Do you see all these people, Mr. Fortune? Do you also see how many more of them there are than us? Now, please, go see your parents and let us get on with what we’re supposed to be doing. Which includes taking care of Miss Hastings.”

When the woman turned her back on him to answer another staff member’s question, Scott realized he’d lost that round. Which did not sit well. But, he thought as he strode toward the exam rooms, damned if he’d lose the next one.

He heard Mike’s agitated voice before he entered their father’s cubicle. Sitting with his ankle crossed over his other knee, his brother was on his phone, conducting business as though his Gucci suit wasn’t filthy and ripped, his thousand-dollar loafers caked in mud. More than that, however, as though their father wasn’t dozing in a hospital bed six feet away, hooked up to an army of machines and looking more vulnerable—more human—than Scott had ever seen him.

Tearing his eyes from his father, he said to Mike, “Somebody’s gonna be all over your ass about that cell phone. If I were you I’d switch to text.”

Behind him John Michael snorted. “Took you long enough.”

Okay, strike the vulnerable part of that description.

“Been a little busy, Dad.” Scott glanced at his brother, getting to his feet and walking out of the cubicle, presumably to continue his conversation without interference. “And Mike’s been with you.”

Their father grunted, his eyes drifting back closed. “True,” he said, his breathing slightly labored. “I can always count on Mike.”

And some things never change, Scott thought, although frankly he was too worn out—and this was neither the time nor the place—to take umbrage. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. But it’s nothing a good night’s sleep and some decent food won’t cure.”

“So the pain in your chest—?”

His eyes opened again. “Gone. For the most part. It’s nothing, don’t know why everybody’s making such a fuss. They want to keep me overnight. Can you imagine?”

“I think that’s called doing their job.”

John Michael pulled a face. “Sticking it to my insurance company, if you ask me. I intend to fly back tomorrow, though. You’ll make the arrangements, won’t you? Might as well fly out from San Antonio. No sense returning to Red Rock.”

Scott crossed his arms. “Don’t you think you should wait to hear what the doctors have to say?”

“Flight’s only two and a half hours. If need be, I’ll hire a nurse to go with us. Which reminds me, how’s your mother?”

That he should ask about her as an afterthought was no surprise. That it should irritate Scott so much now, when it never had before, was. “I’m about to go look in on her now. Victoria said she was pretty shaken up—”

“No surprise, there. Virginia always has been emotionally fragile.”

“Dad. She just spent the night trapped in a tornado-demolished building. I think she’s entitled to be a little shaken up.”

His father gave him an unreadable look, then said, “Go on, tell Virginia I said to get some rest, but we’re going to be on a plane tomorrow. We need to get home, dammit. And send Mike in, I need to talk to him …”

Moments later his mother greeted him with a slightly dreamy, “Oh, hello, dear,” when Scott walked into her room. Leaning against the side of her bed, Scott took her good hand.

“How are you doing?”

“Better, now.” She frowned at the cast on her wrist, as if not sure how it got there, then yawned. “Although whatever they gave me for the pain makes me very sleepy. And apparently—” she yawned again “—I also got a nasty bump on the back of my head. There goes next week’s hairdressing appointment,” she said on a sigh, then crinkled her pale forehead at Scott. “The doctor said your father and I are going to be moved upstairs, that we should stay overnight. As a precaution.”

“I think that’s very wise. Don’t you?”

“I suppose,” his mother said on another puff of air. “Although I’d rather be home. In my own bed.” Virginia Alice grimaced down at the hospital gown. “Wearing my own things … oh, dear!” Her gaze shot to Scott’s. “Our luggage! Whatever happened to it?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. Could be in the next county, for all I know.”

“I see.” She thought a moment, then said, “Well, then, I suppose someone will have to pick up something for me to wear on the trip home. Since I certainly can’t be seen in public in this!”

Scott smiled. “Not to worry, Victoria and I will take care of it.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “Do you suppose they have size twos in San Antonio?”

“If not, I’m sure we can find a box of safety pins somewhere.” When she pulled a face, Scott chuckled, then said, “And by the way, if Dad gets his way you’ll be back in your own bed by tomorrow night.”

Virginia smirked. “And since when has he ever not?” Then she sobered. “Any word from Jordana yet?”

“No.” He squeezed his mother’s hand. “Sorry.”

She nodded, then pressed Scott’s hand to her soft cheek. They’d gotten her cleaned up, but without makeup she looked even more frail. “Thank you for not spewing out some platitude, telling me not to worry. Worrying is what I do.”

“No kidding,” he said, and she softly laughed, then lowered their hands.

“You know why I do, don’t you? Because your father doesn’t. Or won’t let himself, in any case. So I have to do his worrying as well as my own.” She shrugged. “’Tis my cross to bear.”

Smiling, Scott leaned over and kissed her forehead, getting a faint whiff of her familiar perfume, as though after using it for so long it was permanently embedded in her skin. “Get some rest, and I’ll check in again later. As he turned to leave, however, Virginia called him back.

“Your father and I … I know how our relationship must seem to you kids at times—”

“Mom, this isn’t the time—”

“I watched a woman d-die in front of me, Scotty. I thought we were going to die. That has a way of making you … think about things. About what matters. And what matters to me, right now, is that you and your brothers and sisters understand that, for all the … stuff your father pulls, I love him. And I know he loves me. Yes, there are times I want to smack the man senseless, for taking me for granted, for making me feel I come in a distant second to the business …”

She struggled to sit up straighter. “But I knew who he was when I agreed to marry him. Just like he knew I was a tenderhearted fool who jumped at the sight of her own shadow,” she said with a smile. “I also see a side of him he refuses to show to you kids, for whatever reason. Yes, your father’s the most stubborn human being on God’s earth, but deep down, he’s a good man who’s always only wanted the best for his children. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Virginia sagged back against the pillows, her eyes fluttering. For a long moment Scott simply stood there, stunned, until her breathing slowed into a deep, easy rhythm—she was asleep.

Nurse Ratchet was still at her post at the nurse’s station, sparing Scott the merest glance as she handed off a folder to another nurse.

“Your parents are being moved upstairs in about a half hour—”

“Not why I’m here.”

She sighed. “Still can’t tell you about Miss Hastings—hospital policy.”

But before “Screw hospital policy” could leave Scott’s lips, another nurse strode past, calling out, “Dr. Karofsky says to call County General, tell ’em we’ve got an orthopedic transfer.”

“Name?” she barked to the other nurse as she snatched up the phone.

“Hastings. Christina.”

Scott lunged across the counter to grab the phone out of her hand.

“Mr. Fortune! Don’t make me call security, now—”

He waggled the phone. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, and she huffed out a breath. “Why are you transferring her?” His gut twisted. “Is she … does she need some kind of special care?”

“No! She’s—” Apparently realizing she’d stumbled right into his trap, the nurse sighed heavily. And held out her hand for the phone, which Scott relinquished. “She’s fine. Broken foot, some bumps and scrapes, that’s it. But she’s uninsured. And we’re a private hospital. Although we’ll treat anybody who comes through that door, once they’re stabilized we transfer them to a public facility. She’ll be well taken care of there, I assure you—”

“She’ll be taken care of right here,” Scott said, yanking his wallet out of his pants pocket and throwing down his American Express card. “Consider her bills paid.”

With a Mama told me there’d be days like this eyeroll, the nurse picked up the card, slammed it back onto the counter lip. “Then go settle it with Admitting. Right on the other side of those doors.”

“Thank you.” He snatched his card and stormed back to the E.R. lobby, barely stating his case to the gal behind the glass when he heard a shrieked, “Scott!” behind him. He spun around to see a breathless, disheveled Jordana rush across the lobby, an equally disheveled Tanner Redmond right on her heels, Jordana’s luggage in his hands.

“Jordy! Thank God!” Scott said, all the air punched out of his lungs when Jordana threw herself into his arms, then launched immediately into a disjointed narrative about her changing her mind at the last minute and Tanner giving her a ride, except the car ended up in a ditch when he swerved to avoid flying debris, something about a shed, and the weather, that the National Guard guys who’d helped them pull the car out of the ditch had been at the airport and knew the family was here.

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