Czytaj książkę: «A Fortune In Waiting»
Fortune On The Menu
Even in a town as eclectic as Austin, Keaton Fortune Whitfield stands out. With his dreamy British accent and his slate-blue eyes, he has captured the fancy of every red-blooded Texas female in town...except one. Francesca Harriman, his favorite waitress at Lola May’s, seems completely immune to his charms. When she’s not on her shift, she’s too busy studying to pay attention to him—which only makes him want her more.
Francesca has been burned before, and she won’t let the Londoner melt her heart. What would a brilliant, wealthy architect want with a commoner like her? She’s not about to abandon her schooling to become Keaton’s catch of the day. Could a hash-slinging waitress really find happiness with a Fortune?
MEET THE FORTUNES
Fortune of the Month: Keaton Fortune Whitfield
Age: 33
Vital statistics: We’re not sure which is sexier—his charming British accent, his brilliant mind or those eyes!
Claim to fame: He’s a world-renowned architect whose genius is exceeded only by his popularity with women. He is also the illegitimate son of philandering millionaire Gerald Robinson, formerly known as Jerome Fortune.
Romantic prospects: It’s Keaton Whitfield.
“The one thing you need to know about me is I’m nothing like my so-called father. The media may paint me as a heartbreaker, but it’s not true. I have never made a promise I couldn’t keep. In fact, I’ve decided to avoid women entirely while I’m here in Austin. Francesca Harriman doesn’t count. She’s my favorite waitress at Lola May’s Homestyle Restaurant, and besides, everyone says she doesn’t date. So there’s no danger here. No possibility of falling for her golden curls, that creamy skin, that curvy figure... I simply love puzzles, and Francesca is an intriguing one. Why doesn’t she date? And is there any man who could make her change her mind? Oh, wait. Right. I am avoiding women entirely...”
* * *
The Fortunes of Texas:
The Secret Fortunes—
A new generation of heroes and heartbreakers!
A Fortune in Waiting
Michelle Major
MICHELLE MAJOR grew up in Ohio but dreamed of living in the mountains. Soon after graduating with a degree in journalism, she pointed her car west and settled in Colorado. Her life and house are filled with one great husband, two beautiful kids, a few furry pets and several well-behaved reptiles. She’s grateful to have found her passion writing stories with happy endings. Michelle loves to hear from her readers at www.michellemajor.com.
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To Susan and Marcia for everything you do to make this journey such an enjoyable one.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Extract
Copyright
Prologue
Keaton Whitfield watched the snow fall outside the front window of his mother’s cozy flat on the edge of London. The fluffy flakes, cast in a golden hue thanks to the streetlight, floated down for only a few minutes before the night sky cleared again.
“I can’t remember the last time it snowed on Christmas,” his mother said, coming to stand beside him. “It’s good luck.”
Keaton wrapped an arm around his mum, pulling her in for a quick hug. She was several inches shorter than his own six foot two and her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, but she still had the same comforting scent of lavender that he always associated with her. “Everything is good luck to you.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.
“You are my best bit of luck,” she answered and turned to face him. “I’m so glad you chose to spend Christmas with us this year, Keaton.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Mum.” He thought for a moment of his own empty flat across town. It had been almost two years since he’d headed up the renovation of the building he lived in near the center of the city. His apartment was spacious and new, boasting a state-of-the-art design that had led one London magazine to name Keaton the heir apparent to one of the UK’s most famous architects, Lord Foster.
But as much as Keaton appreciated the style and amenities of his posh apartment, he’d spent each of the past thirty-three holidays with his mother, having Christmas dinner around the slightly shabby oak table in the house where he’d been raised. Keaton might have earned the finer things in life through his success, but he’d always appreciate where he came from and the woman who sacrificed so much to make sure he had a good life.
“Yet you’re still set on leaving me?” she asked, a small catch to her voice.
He turned and glanced down, hating the worry his mother couldn’t quite hide from her gentle blue eyes. Anita Whitfield still wore her hair in the same simple bob she’d had since Keaton was a lad. Delicate lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and her mouth pulled down on either side before she forced it into a smile.
“I’m moving to Austin for a project,” he corrected. “That isn’t the same thing as leaving you. I’ll be gone for a few months and now that you have a smartphone, we can text or FaceTime whenever you want.”
“That phone you gave me is so smart it makes me feel like a regular idiot,” she complained, making Keaton smile.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” he told her.
She sniffed. “In the past few days, I’ve made more accidental calls with my bottom than by actually dialing any numbers.”
He pulled his mother in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”
She squeezed him tightly before stepping away. “I hope you know you don’t have anything to prove to your father,” she whispered.
“Gerald Robinson,” Keaton said through clenched teeth, “is not my father.”
“Keaton.” Anita cupped his cheek like she used to do when he was a boy. “I know he hurt you.”
He turned toward the display of his mother’s Lemax Christmas Village. He rearranged the tiny figures in front of Santa’s workshop, setting them together in groups of three or four. As a boy, his mother’s miniature buildings, figurines and holiday landscapes had been off limits, but he’d routinely snuck over to it, setting the small porcelain figurines into family units, the kind he’d never known.
Until last year, the identity of the man who had deserted his mother when she’d been pregnant with Keaton had remained a mystery. Keaton had been aware, in the inexplicable way of children, that his mother’s heart had been broken by her short-lived love affair. Even as boy, he’d hated the wistful sorrow that filled her eyes when he’d asked about his father. So he’d stopped asking. Instead, he’d channeled his energy into hating the stranger who—to his young mind—was the reason his mum had been forced to work two jobs and still continually scrimp and save in order to support the two of them.
Now that he knew that man was Gerald Robinson, the ridiculously successful and wealthy technology mogul, he was more determined than ever to prove that he’d been better off never knowing his father as a boy.
“You were the one he hurt,” he answered. “Gerald Robinson is nothing to me. I don’t have a thing to prove to that man.”
He said the words with conviction, even though he and his mother both knew they were a lie.
Anita placed a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. “You’ll do well in America,” she murmured, “and I know it will be lovely to visit with the other Fortunes again.”
Keaton nodded. As bitter of a pill as it was to learn that Gerald, who had years ago faked his death as Jerome Fortune so that he could start a new life, was his biological father, Keaton had enjoyed getting to know his half brothers and sisters. He’d always envied his mates who came from big families, and being a part of the Fortune clan—despite his feelings for Gerald—filled a bit of the void inside him.
“You two lovelies had better get seated,” a voice called from the hallway that led to the flat’s kitchen, “Or you’re going to miss the whole of the Christmas feast.”
Keaton took a breath and smiled, watching his mother do the same. Lydia Miles, one of Anita’s close-knit circle of friends, beckoned to them.
Keaton might not have had a large family growing up, but he’d never lacked for love. His mother had cultivated a group of women, her own little village of mother hens, and Keaton had been at the center of their sweetly smothering love and attention.
As he followed his mother into the kitchen, he was accosted on all sides by this brigade of pseudo-mums. They kissed and hugged and pinched his cheek as if, at six foot two, he didn’t tower above the lot of them.
“I’ve made your favorite pudding,” Mary Jane told him.
“And I’ve brought prawns,” Lydia added.
Not to be outdone, Jessa held a plate under his nose. “Don’t forget my pigs in a blanket.”
Keaton laughed and plucked one of the bacon-wrapped sausages off the tray. “I’m going to need to loosen my belt a notch after this dinner,” he said and popped it into his mouth.
“Ah, dearie,” Lydia said, patting him on the shoulder. “Word on the street is you have plenty of notches to go around.”
Keaton promptly choked on the sausage, and the women gathered even closer to take turns gently slapping him on the back.
“Give him some room,” Anita shouted with a laugh. The other women backed away and his real mother handed him a glass of water.
“There are no notches on my belt,” he muttered, clearing his throat.
His mother raised a brow.
“At least not recently,” he amended.
Ever since discovering that Gerald might have a whole passel of illegitimate Fortunes from various dalliances with women over the years, Keaton had curbed his own dating life until it was nonexistent. He was careful with women—both their hearts and in the bedroom—and had remained friends with almost all of his ex-girlfriends. But he still wanted there to be no mistaking the fact that he was nothing like his womanizing father.
Part of why he’d taken the position with the firm in Austin was to work with his half brother Ben on tracking down other children sired by Gerald. Keaton was determined to make it clear that he hadn’t inherited the “ship in every port” tendency of the elder Robinson.
“Sit down,” his mother said, pushing him into a chair at the head of the table. “We can talk about your plans to settle down while we eat.”
“I have no plans to settle down,” he argued, earning a round of reprimanding tsks from the other women. “Sorry, ladies.” He grabbed the wineglass that sat to one side of his plate and took a fortifying gulp. “I’m focused on work right now.”
“Work doesn’t warm you under the covers on a cold winter night,” Lydia mused.
“And you’re such a lovely chap.” Mary Jane beamed at him.
Jessa nodded. “A true catch, Keaton. That’s what you are. And those of us who love and adore you aren’t getting any younger.”
Although he had a feeling he’d regret it, he asked, “Why would you need to get younger?”
His mother dropped into the chair next to him and took his hand. “We love you, darling. But we want some grandbabies to spoil.”
Keaton stifled a groan and took another drink, hoping his mother had more than one bottle on the ready. This was going to be the longest Christmas night of his life.
Chapter One
“Y’all back away from that poor man or else his supper’s liable to get cold.”
The two waitresses who had been leaning over the counter at Lola May’s Homestyle Restaurant slowly straightened.
“Just say one more thing for us,” Emmalyn, the petite blonde, cooed.
“How about ‘I’ll have mine shaken not stirred,’” prompted the buxom redhead, whose nametag read “Brandi, with an i”—as if customers in Texas needed the clarification.
“I mean it, you two. Get going.” Lola May, owner and namesake of the diner, swatted at the two young women with the corner of a dishtowel.
“Another time, luv,” Keaton told Brandi, earning a girlish giggle as she backed away.
Lola May, who looked every bit of her sixty-plus years but had a mischievous smile that softened her hard edges, rolled her blue eyes at him. She was exactly the image he had of the type of woman who would run a casual, neighborhood diner in Austin, Texas. One part old-school cowgirl mixed with two parts aging hippie.
Her platinum blond hair, with about a half inch of gray roots, was spiked around her pixie face and each of the past three days he’d been in for dinner, her heavy eye makeup had matched her sparkling earrings. The color du jour was turquoise green and it gave her clear blue eyes an almost otherworldly look when she blinked. The lines across her forehead and fanning out from her eyes could only have been put there by years of stress and hard work.
He recognized them because they reminded him of his mother. Although Anita and Lola May on the surface had nothing in common, there was something about the diner owner that helped ease the twinges of loneliness he’d felt since arriving in Austin a week ago.
The diner was directly across the street from the site of the project he’d come to America to manage, and only a few blocks from the apartment he’d rented. It had been easy to slip into the pattern of having dinner each night at Lola May’s lime-green Formica counter.
He forced his gaze not to stray to the woman hunched over a laptop in the corner booth. That particular waitress had nothing to do with the reason he’d so quickly become a diner regular. Or so he’d been trying to convince himself for the past week.
Lola May wagged a red-tipped nail in his direction. “You’ll never get any peace if you keep charming the waitresses with that accent and your cheeky smile.”
Keaton winked at the older woman. “Well, darlin’,” he drawled in an exaggerated Texas accent, “would it make you happy if I sounded more like a local?”
“Stick to 007,” she said, barking out a laugh. “’Cause you sure ain’t no John Wayne.”
He bit back a grin when she slid a plate with a piece of apple pie onto the counter in front of him. “I don’t remember ordering that,” he argued half-heartedly.
“But you’re going to devour it as always,” she shot back then leaned closer. “You’ve ended every meal here with a slice of my pie. Trust Miss Lola May, handsome. I know what you need.”
At the word need, Keaton couldn’t help glance to the corner booth.
“Need and want are two different things, sugar,” Lola May said softly.
“Everyone flirts with me except her.”
Keaton didn’t realize he’d spoken the words out loud until Lola May chuckled. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist over Francesca,” she cautioned. “It isn’t that she doesn’t like you, but our girl gives new meaning to the phrase ‘nose to the grindstone.’”
One side of Keaton’s mouth curved as he watched the gorgeous blonde in the corner blow a wayward curl out of her face before typing furiously on her laptop’s keyboard.
Francesca. He’d heard the other waitresses call her that, and the name fit her. With her mass of golden hair, creamy skin and her lushly curved figure, Francesca looked more like a Botticelli muse than a waitress in a diner near Austin’s trendy South Congress neighborhood.
“She’s taking a full course load over at the university,” Lola May continued, “in addition to her schedule here. I don’t think she’s had a day—or even an hour—off in months.”
“Why does she take on so much?”
“That’s her story, handsome.” Lola May picked up his empty dinner plate and pushed the pie closer to him. “I’ll just tell you she’s a great little gal and deserves better than what—” She paused until Keaton glanced up at her then continued, “Or who she got stuck with in her life.”
Keaton watched as Francesca moved a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the muscles there. Well, if she needed a massage, he’d be glad to...
No.
An image of Gerald Robinson popped into his mind and he willed it away. He’d committed to a moratorium on dating during his time in Austin. It seemed easier to go cold turkey on the dating front than to have temptation constantly beckoning to him. He wasn’t going to take the chance that anyone, especially his new siblings, might confuse him with the man who’d broken his mother’s heart so many years ago.
Still, he couldn’t seem to look away from the blonde. Just as Lola May disappeared into the kitchen, Francesca’s head lifted. Her eyes widened as their gazes clashed and sparks seemed to dance on the air between them.
Keaton swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as his body went on alert in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. He liked women. He appreciated women. Hell, he’d been raised solely by women. He’d had plenty of girlfriends and recognized mutual attraction.
Yet there was something different about this Francesca, and damn if he didn’t want to figure out what it was. He’d loved puzzles as a kid. Alone in the flat after school with his mum at work, he’d spent hours poring over jigsaw pieces, trying to decipher exactly where they fit to make the picture complete.
That’s what Francesca... Bloody hell, he didn’t even know her last name. But that’s what she felt like to him. A missing piece. Maybe he’d spent too long in his own company, but he knew he’d have a difficult time walking away until he understood exactly where she fit in his life.
He had a feeling the trick was going to be convincing her to let him.
* * *
Francesca Harriman slammed shut the door of her apartment above the diner and toed off one of the well-worn cowboy boots she’d been wearing all day, kicking it across the floor.
It landed with a thud against the coffee table, and a moment later, her roommate, Ciara James, burst from the bathroom. She was clutching a towel around her, water dripping from her long dark hair, and brandishing a...
“Is that the toilet bowel scrubber?” Francesca took a step back.
Ciara blew out a relieved breath and lowered the makeshift weapon. “You scared the pants off me,” she said with a laugh.
“You were in the shower,” Francesca countered and kicked off her other boot. “I doubt you were wearing pants.”
“Give me thirty seconds before you melt down,” Ciara answered, pointing the toilet bowl brush at Francesca. She disappeared back into the bathroom and Francesca dropped to the sofa, letting her head fall back onto the cushions.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on moving air in and out of her lungs at a normal rate. She wasn’t going to melt down. She did not have time for a major freak out, or even one of the minor variety.
So why wouldn’t her stupid heartbeat settle? The answer that appeared in her brain was in the form of pair of sinfully sexy blue eyes staring at her from across the diner.
With a growl, she jumped up from the couch and stalked to the postage-stamp-sized galley kitchen. She stood on tiptoe and reached for the top shelf of the cabinet, sighing slightly as her fingers closed around the bar of chocolate Ciara had stashed there.
“Hey,” her roommate shouted and Francesca whirled around, tearing off the wrapper and shoving a bite of blessedly rich chocolate into her mouth. “That’s my secret spot,” Ciara complained. “It’s hidden from you.”
“You’ve got to do better than that,” Francesca said after chewing. “I’m a professional chocolate hound.”
“Girl, you need more willpower.”
“I’ve got an accounting exam the day after tomorrow,” Francesca said with a groan. “I need brain food.”
“I left you two squares on the table this morning,” Ciara answered, “just like you told me to do.”
Francesca sagged against the counter and handed over the remainder of the chocolate bar. “I know. I’m weak. I’m so weak.”
With a small laugh, Ciara broke off another two squares and handed them to Francesca. “I have a feeling the emergency is related to more than your classes, but desperate times and all that.”
“You’re a life saver, Ci.”
“Do you want to talk about why you came slamming in here like someone had just stolen your favorite bottle of conditioner?”
Francesca smiled. “If you had these curls to tame,” she said, pulling at the ends of her hair, “you’d take your conditioning seriously, too.” She nibbled the corner of a chocolate square—a nibble full of willpower and self-control. “It’s the Brit,” she whispered after a moment.
Her friend blinked before a wide grin spread across her face. “The one who’s been eating at the diner every day this week?”
“I need to concentrate,” Francesca answered with a nod. “I can’t with him lurking around Lola May’s all the time. He’s distracting.”
“In the best way possible,” Ciara agreed. “And I wouldn’t exactly call ordering food and leaving awesome tips ‘lurking.’”
“He’s a good tipper?”
“Amazing. A fact that you would know if you didn’t trade tables every time he sat in your section.”
“I don’t... It isn’t... He makes me nervous.”
“It’s the way he looks at you.”
“He doesn’t look at me in any way,” Francesca argued, biting down on her lip. “It’s the accent. It’s weird.”
Ciara shook her head. “Weird is Mr. Fenke spooning his leftovers into all those little plastic bags he carries in his pockets. The accent is hot.” She leaned in closer. “The way he looks at you is even hotter, like he wants to carry you across the moors in the misty morning fog.”
“There are no moors in Austin.”
“You know what I mean.”
Francesca did know, and that was the problem. Keaton Whitfield—yes, she’d researched his name from one of the receipts in the register—made her wish they lived in a land of romantic moors and mist and that she was the type of woman to be carried anywhere by a man.
More like the type to carry his bags.
“I’m finally getting caught up on life,” she told Ciara. “I can’t afford to backslide again.”
“Not every man is going to treat you like your ex-boyfriend. Lou the Louse was a special kind of jerk.”
“I get that.” Bitterness welled up in Francesca at the mention of his name. She’d dated Louis Rather for almost six years, and the fact that she’d been stupid enough to think he loved her still made her mad enough to spit. She’d put her entire life on hold to cater to a man, and when she’d finally left him, it was with the bone-deep conviction that she’d never make that same mistake again. “I was a fool for Lou for way too long. I don’t trust myself to recognize heartbreak when it’s standing right in front of me.”
“Whoa, there, cowgirl.” Ciara’s smile was gentle. “You’ve just skipped over all the fun parts and gone straight to heartbreak.”
“That’s where I end up with men,” Francesca muttered.
Ciara sighed. “I heard the hottie Brit say he was only in town for a few months. He’s some kind of big-wig architect working on the Austin Commons project.” She boosted herself up onto the counter. “Think of it as short-term fun.”
“That’s not exactly how my mind or my heart works.”
“Come on, Francesca. You work and study all the time. You never go out. You don’t date. You’re only twenty-four, and you are the least fun person I know.”
“I’m fun,” Francesca protested, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m a ton of fun.”
“Prove it.” Ciara pointed a finger in Francesca’s direction. “Flirt with the Brit.”
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