In the Arms of a Hero
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THE TEXAS TATTLER
All the news that’s barely fit to print!
Fortune Fiancée Arrested For Murder
A media frenzy erupted last week when a blood-red ruby bracelet found at the scene of a heinous crime led police to the doorstep of the Double Crown Ranch. A seemingly stunned Lily Cassidy, Ryan Fortune’s fiancée, was taken into custody and awaits trial for the murder of Sophia Fortune, Ryan’s wife.
The megamogul has been in a grueling divorce standoff with second wife Sophia, who refused to bow out of their marriage even though hubby’s offer would have made her a millionaire—many times over. Ever-devoted Ryan has been keeping constant vigil at the prison and swears on his Texas-sized integrity that Lily is innocent. Still, the district attorney continues to mount a strong case, making Lily out as the sort of woman who’d stop at nothing to get her man…and his money.
And in the wake of this shocker comes the next…the life of Victoria Fortune, international do-gooder, is reportedly at risk. Sources confirm that the knockout nightingale became stranded in San Bonisto when the tiny, remote nation broke out in civil war late last month. Fearful father Ryan has commissioned mercenary-for-hire Quinn McCoy to smuggle the heiress back to safety. But those close to the fiery innocent know she doesn’t kowtow to anyone, especially her father’s errand boys—even when this “errand boy” is 100% virile man!
About the Author
BEVERLY BARTON
has been in love with romance since her grandfather gave her an illustrated edition of Beauty and the Beast. An avid reader since childhood, Beverly wrote her first book at the age of nine. After marriage to her own “hero” and the births of her daughter and son, Beverly chose to be a full-time homemaker—aka wife, mother, friend and volunteer. The author of thirty books, Beverly is a member of Romance Writers of America and helped found the Heart of Dixie chapter in Alabama. She has won numerous awards and has made the New York Times, Waldenbooks and USA TODAY bestseller lists.
In the Arms of a Hero
Beverly Barton
MILLS & BOON
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Meet the Fortunes of Texas
Victoria Fortune: Her life was on the line, and out of nowhere hero Quinn McCoy arrived. And soon days spent dodging danger with the handsome stranger led to nights of passion. But was it just the moment or could it be forever kind of love?
Quinn McCoy: Protecting former debutante Victoria Fortune was turning into the mercenary’s most perilous assignment ever…because this time he was in danger of losing not only his life, but also his heart.
Lily Cassidy: When Ryan Fortune’s wife was found murdered, all fingers pointed to the billionaire’s soon-to-be third bride. Did Lily resort to murder to clear her path down the aisle with Ryan?
Cole Cassidy: He couldn’t stand idly by and let his mother go to jail. But would he be able to prove Lily’s innocence before it was too late?
To my wonderful former editor, Lynda Curnyn, whose tireless efforts to help me make each book the best it can be are greatly appreciated.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Prologue
“I can’t guarantee the man that I can bring his daughter home safe and sound!” Quinn McCoy narrowed his piercing blue eyes into slits as he glared at the closed door to Ryan Fortune’s study.
Sam Waterman scrutinized his old friend, someone he trusted implicitly, despite Quinn’s mercenary background and mean-as-the-devil reputation. Women considered the man good-looking, in a rough and rugged way. They were attracted to him like bears to honey. And he was definitely a man other men respected and feared. Smart men. Those not so smart learned the hard way not to cross swords with Quinn McCoy.
As head of security for the Fortunes since Ryan Fortune, the patriarch of the family, had hired him, Sam took his responsibilities seriously. After the man’s grandson had been abducted right out of his own crib, more bodyguards had been added to protect the family. It seemed unfair that with Ryan already having to deal with his fiancée being accused of murdering his former wife and his grandson being kidnapped that he now had to worry about his daughter Victoria’s safety.
But Sam knew, without a doubt, that the hardboiled gun-for-hire was a godsend for the Fortunes—the only man on earth he felt certain could bring Victoria home to her family.
“I told Ryan you were the best, that you’re worth every penny of what he’s offering you,” Sam said. “Just go in there and talk to him. He’s a father who’s worried sick about his child. He’ll give you anything you want, if you bring Victoria home to him.”
“And what happens if I go after this spoiled little heiress and don’t bring her back?” Quinn turned his speculative gaze on Sam. “Ryan Fortune is one of the most powerful men in the U.S. and not someone I’d want as an enemy.”
“But if you succeed, he’d be your friend for life.”
“Do you know how slim the odds are that I’d be able to make it in and out of Palmira, let alone bring Victoria Fortune out alive, now that Santo Bonisto is at war?”
“Just talk to Ryan before you make your decision.” Sam rapped loudly on the closed door.
“Come in!”
Sam opened the door. Quinn hesitated.
Ryan Fortune rose from behind his massive desk, his dark eyes surveying the man Sam ushered into his private domain. Sam waited for several minutes, allowing the two men to size each other up and assimilate their gut reactions. As two bucks about to go into battle over a doe, the wealthy, powerful older man studied the lean, broad-shouldered warrior while the younger man defiantly met his perusal with a cool, confident observation of his own.
Before Sam could make the introductions, Ryan rounded the edge of the desk. “So you’re Quinn McCoy.”
Quinn didn’t so much as flinch. “So you’re Ryan Fortune.”
The corners of Ryan’s lips twitched as if he were going to smile, but instead he nodded to a manila file folder on his desk. “I know everything there is to know about you, Mr. McCoy, from your shoe size to how many fillings you have in your teeth. You’ve lived a rather dangerous, exciting life, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I suppose I have.”
“Sam tells me that I can trust you, Mr. McCoy. His faith in you is the reason you’re here today,” Ryan said. “The reason I’m willing to offer you half a million dollars to bring my daughter back to Texas.”
Quinn let out a long, low whistle. “I’ve been offered some fat fees before, but nothing close to five hundred thousand!”
“You don’t have children, do you?” Ryan asked.
“No. Why?”
“If you did, you’d understand how I feel. My baby girl has gone and gotten herself caught right in the middle of a civil war in Santo Bonisto. She’s in grave danger now, but if the rebel forces find out she’s my daughter, they’ll kidnap her and God knows what could happen to her. I want you to go in there and get her out of that hellhole before anything does happen.”
“I don’t see why you ever let your daughter go to a Third World country like Santo Bonisto,” Quinn said.
“If you knew my Victoria, you’d know that no one allows her to do anything. She’s her own woman. And in her own way, as stubborn as her old man.” Moisture glazed Ryan Fortune’s brilliant dark eyes. “My girl has a big heart. Since she was just a kid all she’s wanted to do was be a nurse, to ease other people’s suffering. And now her idealism is putting her life at risk. When I talked to her this past week, she told me she couldn’t desert the people in Palmira because she’s the only trained medical help they’ve got. She’s letting her loyalty and concern for those people make her act foolishly.”
“I can’t guarantee her safe return. Once I land on the island, anything could happen.”
Sam had known Quinn long enough to realize by what he’d said that he was going to take the job. Had seeing, firsthand, a father’s barely controlled agony actually swayed Quinn? Sam wondered. Or did he think of this assignment as simply another challenge? Few men were qualified for such a dangerous job and even fewer would have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually bringing Victoria Fortune off that South American island powder keg. But Quinn McCoy had the credentials. A former navy pilot turned mercenary. A man who’d traveled the globe as a bodyguard, private pilot and all-around soldier of fortune.
“I understand,” Ryan said. “All I ask is that you do everything within your power to bring my daughter safely home to us. I’m prepared to deposit a quarter of a million dollars into your bank account right now and another quarter million once you return with Victoria.”
“And if I can’t—”
“The quarter million is yours, if you come back alive, with or without Victoria.”
“Fair enough.”
“If there’s anything else you need, all you have to do is tell Sam and he’ll see that you have it.” Ryan turned his gaze on Sam. “This family has been through enough. We will not lose anyone else we love.”
“I understand,” Sam assured Ryan.
“Mr. Fortune, there’s one big item I need before I head off for Santo Bonisto,” Quinn said.
“What’s that?”
“My old plane is in pretty bad shape. I’d feel more confident about getting on and off the island if I—”
“Sam, get Mr. McCoy a new plane. Whatever he wants!”
Sam nodded agreement, then gave Quinn a deadly glare. He knew Quinn didn’t have much use for the idle rich. His friend didn’t make any secret of his disdain for most of his wealthy clients, but it riled Sam to think Quinn was taking advantage of Ryan at a time such as this.
Ryan Fortune held out his hand. “Do we have a deal, Mr. McCoy?”
“We have a deal, Mr. Fortune.”
As soon as the two men sealed their agreement with a handshake, Sam ushered Quinn out into the hallway.
“You’re getting greedy, aren’t you, asking for a new plane?” Sam gripped Quinn’s shoulder.
“I’m risking my neck to even go into Santo Bonisto. There’s a fifty/fifty chance I won’t make it back alive. And you and I both know what will happen to Victoria Fortune if the rebels get hold of her, so the odds of me bringing the spoiled little princess back to the U.S. are slim to none. My odds are better with a decent plane. Besides, I figure the old man won’t miss the money.”
“Sometimes, you can be a heartless son of a bitch.”
A quirky grin curved Quinn’s lips. “You know me too well, old buddy.”
“What do you mean, all lines of communication with the outside world have been severed?” Victoria Fortune demanded as she slammed down the dead telephone receiver. “Are you saying I can’t even contact anyone in the capital city?”
“Sí, Señorita Victoria, that is what I am telling you,” Ernesto Hernando said. “The rebel forces are headed this way and they are destroying all communication lines as they approach the city.”
“Then there’s no way to get word out of here? No way I can contact my family in the United States?”
“When your papa called last week and asked you to come home, you should have gone then.” Ernesto gazed at Victoria, his huge brown eyes filled with concern. “Now you are trapped here with us and if it is discovered you are a wealthy American heiress, your life will be in grave danger. I wish I knew a way to get you to safety, to get you out of Palmira and to Gurabo.”
She patted Ernesto’s thin brown arm. “I can’t leave you and Dolores here alone to cope with the clinic. As much help as you both are to me, neither of you has any medical training, other than what I’ve been able to teach you. And if the war does reach Palmira, I’ll be needed here more than ever.”
“You are an angel, señorita.”
Ernesto stared at Victoria with such admiration and devotion that she blushed. In the three years she’d been working through the World Health Institute, as the only nurse at the small clinic in Palmira, she had become close friends with Ernesto and his wife Dolores. During her first month at the clinic, Victoria delivered the couple’s third child, little Rico Fortune Hernando. Named in her honor because she had saved the premature infant’s life.
“We must make sure that everyone in Palmira knows not to reveal my true identity to any of the rebel soldiers,” Victoria said. “I’m afraid with my red hair and green eyes, and my limited Spanish I’d never pass as a native. If necessary, I’ll just have to use a false name and claim my papers were somehow lost or destroyed.”
“Sí, the whole town will keep silent. You are greatly loved here. There is not one family who does not owe you their allegiance.”
“From now on, I’ll use the name Victoria Lockhart.” She had instantly thought of using her mother’s maiden name.
“Sí, Señorita Lockhart.” Smiling, Ernesto nodded agreement.
“We need to make preparations for the children’s immunizations this afternoon. Sister Maria is expecting us at two o’clock.”
Ernesto hesitated, but when Victoria smiled reassuringly, he turned to leave. Just as he reached the doorway, he paused momentarily and, without looking back, said, “We will find a way to keep you safe.”
Before Victoria could reply, Ernesto slipped away quietly. She sighed. The thought that her presence here might put her friends’ lives in danger unnerved her. She had to make Ernesto and Dolores understand that she didn’t expect anyone to put their own lives on the line to protect her.
She had willingly chosen to come to Santo Bonisto, to live and work in the tragically poor little town of Palmira. Before she had set up a clinic here, the nearest medical facility had been a hundred miles away in Las Palomas. She had known the civil war would eventually reach her town, but she had hoped it wouldn’t be this soon. Her father had demanded, in the way only Ryan Fortune could demand, that she return to the United States immediately. In attempting to make him understand why she couldn’t leave, she had only made him angry. And she knew his anger was a result of fear. He loved her and wanted her safety above all else. She had promised him that she could stay in Palmira without endangering her life. But now she realized that there was every possibility she had lied to herself as well as her father. In her devotion to her duty, she had refused to admit the obvious. And now it was too late.
Just being an American in Santo Bonisto these days could be dangerous, if you were captured by the rebels. But if it was known that she was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the United States, nothing and no one could save her.
One
Quinn landed his new Cessna on an abandoned airstrip near a wide-open savanna halfway up Mt. Simona. Jungle surrounded the freshly cleared area. He could have demanded and gotten a more expensive plane from Ryan Fortune, but he had chosen a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar jewel. A larger plane would have had great difficulty landing, but the Skyhawk 172R breezed onto the narrow strip. The 172 didn’t excel at anything in particular, not in style nor performance. But no other plane, on as little as 145 hp, could equal its overall performance. Quinn had chosen this particular plane for its dependability. In his chosen profession, that quality outweighed any other.
The airstrip built on the mountain plateau known as El Prado prior to World War II and left to the jungle in the early seventies had been forgotten by all but a few old-timers. Quinn never began an assignment without knowing the terrain of the country and searching out “associates” who could assist him. Julio Vargas, who waited for Quinn to disembark, had come highly recommended by “friends.”
The short, stocky native, a machete in his hand, greeted Quinn with a wide smile. “Bienvenido! Welcome to Santo Bonisto.”
The sun kissed the mountain peaks above them, creating a colorful twilight. The sounds of oncoming night in the jungle resonated like distant music as a hushed stillness encompassed the secluded mountain plateau. A mad, high-pitched cry announced that a laughing falcon was nearby. The sound, so close to human hilarity, grated on Quinn’s nerves. He scanned the area. A three-toed sloth hanging from a fig tree branch seemed to be staring at him. Ugly creature, he thought.
“Let’s camouflage the plane and get out of here. I don’t want to set up camp anywhere close by,” Quinn said.
Coming in at night would have been ideal, except it would have required Julio to light the runway. Any unidentified light up so high in the mountains would have been suspect if seen by rebel soldiers. So coming in at dusk had been the wisest alternative. The plane, once hidden by brush, a lot of it removed from the runway itself, would be safe enough. As safe as any isolated spot on this godforsaken island.
He had done his homework on Victoria Fortune before flying out of Puerto Rico, after refueling there earlier in the day. The more he knew about the woman beforehand, the better his chances of persuading her to leave Santo Bonisto. The picture that had been included in the folder Sam had given him didn’t look much like a sophisticated heiress. The fresh-faced redhead, with a splattering of freckles across her nose, looked more like the girl next door than a multi-millionaire’s daughter. But her do-gooder complex marked her as lady who had more money than sense. Any woman in her right mind wouldn’t be playing nursemaid to a bunch of peasants in a Third World country ready to blow sky-high at any moment. Just what was Ms. Fortune trying to prove? With her college degrees, she could be working in any hospital or clinic of her choice in the U.S. Or with her daddy’s millions, she could be part of the jet-setting idle rich. So why had she become a member of the World Health Institute? And why had she stayed in Santo Bonisto when civil war broke out? Didn’t she know that by staying in Palmira, she risked not only her life, but the lives of anyone who befriended her? And now she was risking his life—the sucker her father had hired to save her spoiled little butt.
“There is no time to set up camp, Señor McCoy.” After laying aside his machete, Julio began dragging up brush to cover the plane. “You must go to Palmira as quickly as possible, if you wish to bring Señorita Fortune back with you.”
Quinn lifted a heavy tree limb that lay on the ground. “What’s happened?” He positioned the limb against the side of the plane.
“The rebel forces will be in Palmira no later than day after tomorrow. Perhaps as early as late tomorrow.” Julio continued the process of hiding the plane from any aerial observance. “In order to reach Palmira before daybreak, you must get started immediately.”
“I thought I’d have more time.”
“Your supplies are ready.” Julio removed a rolled parchment from his jacket and handed it to Quinn. “The quickest and safest way to reach Palmira is to take a boat upriver. I have a boat waiting for you when you reach the Rio Blanco. Here’s a map to guide you down the mountain and to the river. I have marked the exact location of the clinic in Palmira. I understand that Señorita Fortune has a room there.”
“Just what will I run into on my way?” Quinn asked.
Julio disappeared inside the thicket to his right, then returned leading a heavily laden mule. He retrieved an M-16 and tossed it to Quinn. “Going in will be relatively safe. Coming out is another story altogether.”
Julio grinned, exposing a wide expanse of rosy gum above a row of white teeth. He removed the backpack from the mule.
Quinn strapped on the pack, checked the M-16 and then opened the map. Scanning the map quickly, he noticed that Julio had outlined the rebel troop movements in the area. They were advancing toward Palmira at this very moment. If he didn’t get in as soon as possible, he might not be able to find Victoria Fortune and get her to safety before all hell broke loose.
“I couldn’t make any arrangements to aid you in returning from Palmira,” Julio told him. “The rebel forces have spies everywhere. Just a hint that someone from the outside was in the area would send off alarm signals. If you need help while in Palmira, contact Segundo. He works at the Cantina Caesar. You can trust him.”
Quinn gripped Julio’s shoulder and shook his hand soundly. “Keep an eye on my plane. If all goes as planned, I should be back with my passenger before nightfall tomorrow.”
“If anything goes wrong, your best course of action is to head to Gurabo. There’s a U.S. consulate there, and for now, the capital city is still held by the president’s army.”
Getting Victoria Fortune out of Santo Bonisto sounded as if it would be a simple operation. Travel to Palmira, tell the woman her father had sent him to fetch her home, bring her with him down the Rio Blanco and up Mt. Simona, then fly her back to Texas. An uncomplicated task—if rebel soldiers didn’t already have Palmira practically surrounded. “My gut instincts tell me not to count on this being easy.”
“Sí,” Julio said. “A man should always listen to his gut instincts.”
Victoria studied the man’s face—young, handsome, and deadly still. His big brown eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. She had lost him. Tears clouded her vision. Emotion clogged her throat. She had seen people die before, had attended elderly patients on their deathbeds and children passing away after suffering with incurable diseases. But this was her first experience with a soldier whose body was riddled with shrapnel. And he was only one of many who had been brought to the clinic from a battle less than twenty miles from Palmira. Nationalist soldiers were trying valiantly to protect Palmira from the horde of savage rebels blazing a path of death and destruction on their march toward Gurabo.
With gentle fingers she closed the youth’s eyes, then lifted the sheet to cover his bloody body.
“Move this man onto the back porch,” Victoria instructed Felipe, an elderly Palmira resident who had volunteered to help with the onslaught of wounded men being brought into the clinic. “There was nothing I could do for him. And I’m sure there will be others who will die tonight. Go to the church and bring Father Marco. He’s needed here. Then see if you can round up some men to…” She took a deep, calming breath. “Someone will have to bury this man and any others who die.”
“Sí, señorita,” Felipe said. “I go now.” His weary, faded brown eyes gazed at her with the same adoration she often saw in Ernesto’s eyes. “You care for the soldiers who are alive. Let me take care of the dead.”
Victoria nodded, then brushed her damp bangs from her forehead. Nightfall had brought cooler temperatures, but the day’s humidity lingered inside the stucco walls, creating a steam bath effect. The crowded clinic, filled beyond capacity, reeked with body odor, medicinal scents, fresh blood and the unmistakable stench of death.
Rain was badly needed—to ease the humidity, clean the air and to stall the rebel forces’ descent upon the town. Most of the roads leading in and out of Palmira were either dirt or sparsely graveled and filled with potholes. If it rained, perhaps the Nationalist troops could hold off the attack on the town until reinforcements arrived.
Victoria left the dead man with Felipe as she rushed toward Dolores, who was trying unsuccessfully to hold down a delirious soldier. Before she reached them, Ernesto restrained the man while Dolores prepared a syringe.
Her eyes met Dolores’s and they exchanged a silent message that assured Victoria she could move on to someone else. Although she had worked long hours on many occasions and had handled emergencies from time to time, nothing could have prepared her for the onslaught of wounded men who littered the clinic. Some she could help, others she couldn’t. The most she could do for several was to ease their pain. Less than an hour earlier she had operated on a middle-aged man whose black eyes reminded her of her father’s. A strong, broad-shouldered soldier, who now lay hovering between life and death.
She wasn’t a doctor, and a doctor was what these men needed. But she was all they had—their only hope. The burden of that responsibility hung heavily on her shoulders. She was needed here, tonight, as she had never been needed before in her life. And she suspected that in the days and weeks ahead, she would be needed even more.
Perhaps she’d been foolish to stay in Palmira, putting her own life in danger. But how could she have lived with herself if she had abandoned these people when they needed her the most? Some of the young soldiers were boys from Palmira who had volunteered in recent days. Two she knew by name lay here in her clinic now, both wounded and suffering. She had removed a bullet from Carlos’s shoulder. He would live. The other boy, Aluino, wouldn’t survive until morning. His body had been ripped apart. He had been beyond saving when he’d been brought to the clinic.
The entire town worked together, friends and families with a common goal. By morning there wouldn’t be a Palmira citizen not involved in the effort to bring in the wounded, care for them, bury the dead or even go to the front lines to fight with the government soldiers. And there was not one person, if the time came, who would not lay down his or her life to protect Señorita Lockhart. These people were like a second family to Victoria. And as her own family, they were loyal and supportive. And they needed her far more than the rich and powerful Fortunes ever would.
Victoria stepped outside, slumped onto the steps and leaned her head against the wall. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. She was bone-weary. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast yesterday. Glancing into the sky, she sighed when she saw dawn spreading across the horizon, illuminating the world with a soft crimson glow. A red sky at dawn often meant rain. As she rested alone on the steps, she prayed for rain. Soon. This morning. Torrents of rain that would cleanse the earth and hinder the rebel troop’s movements.
The sound of a ragged Jeep coming up the street caught Victoria’s attention. More wounded, she thought. Men were piled into the back of the Jeep, their bodies mutilated beyond repair. Dear God, how much longer could she endure this horror?
As she stood she speared her fingers through her short hair, combing the tousled strands. When the Jeep approached the clinic, she noticed a foreigner—el extranjero—riding in the front seat. The man wasn’t from Santo Bonisto. Although his skin was dark, it was tinted by a deep suntan. His brown hair was cut short, only a bit longer than a crew cut. He wore rumpled khaki pants, mud-splattered boots and his short-sleeved khaki shirt was open enough to reveal a tuft of dark chest hair. He was big, broad-shouldered and had the look of a desperado.
The man jumped from the Jeep the moment the driver stopped. An M-16 draped across his shoulder. Within seconds he was issuing orders, organizing the men who rushed out of the clinic to carry the wounded inside. Victoria wondered who this man was and what he was doing in Palmira, helping the soldiers. Had the Santo Bonisto Nationalists hired mercenaries to aid them in their fight? Or was this man some U.S. government agent sent to assist? Everyone knew that the recent discovery of oil in this small island nation had made its welfare of prime interest to the U.S. It was the oil find that had instigated the current civil war.
“Señorita, where will we put these men?” Ernesto asked as he watched the helpers carrying the men inside to the crowded clinic hallway. “There are no more beds and the hall is covered with pallets.”
“What about the basement?” Victoria suggested. “We’ll move around whatever we can down there, light some lamps and then make pallets on the dirt floor for the less seriously wounded. We’ll have to move some of the other patients out to make room for those who need immediate attention.”
Dolores emerged from the clinic, wringing her hands. “How many this time?”
“There are six wounded men,” the stranger said. “We left behind two that were dead.”
Dolores glared at the big Anglo. “Who are you?” she asked in her heavily accented English.
“Quinn McCoy, ma’am.” He responded to Dolores’s question, but his gaze was riveted on Victoria.
“You’re an American.” Victoria had suspected as much, but the man’s deep, throaty Southwestern drawl identified his nationality.
“So are you.” He looked her square in the eye and smiled.
A shiver raced up Victoria’s spine. She didn’t like his smile. It was too cocky, too self-assured. And the way his gaze moved over her, languidly, appraisingly, almost seductively, unnerved her.
“What are you doing with these men?” she asked as she motioned to Dolores to go inside, not wait for her. “Has the United States sent down some military help for the Nationalists?”
“I’m not with the U.S. government. I’m self-employed.”
When he moved closer to her, she instinctively inched backward, taking a couple of steps up the stairs toward the clinic entrance. “Does that mean you’re a mercenary?”