pulled a boarding pass out of her bag. “It leaves in an hour and a half.”
Hope sobered. “Then you better get going, if you want to be sure and get through international flight security.”
Mary handed over the diaper bag she had looped over one shoulder. “Max’s just been fed and burped, and I changed his nappy. Unfortunately, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Hope nodded. “Take all the time you need...”
“Thank you for understanding!” Mary hugged Hope, gave the cooing baby in the carriage an affectionate pat, then rushed off to catch her flight.
Meanwhile, the reporters were still trying to talk their way past the security guards. Eyeing them, Hope said, “We better get out of here.”
Garrett’s mom pointed toward the last section of glass doors off the baggage claim. “There’s my driver now.”
* * *
GARRETT HELD THE door while Hope and his mother charged into the Dallas afternoon heat.
His mom entered the limo first and slid across the seat. Hope disengaged the car seat from the stroller and gently set it inside. She followed, more concerned with getting her baby settled and secured than the flash of leg she showed as her skirt rode up her thighs.
Ignoring the immediate hardening of his body, Garrett got in after them. Trying not to let what he had just seen in any way mitigate his initial impression of Hope, he sprawled across the middle of the opposite seat while the two women doted on the baby secured safely between them. “You are such a darling!” Lucille cooed to the baby facing her. “And so alert!” His mother beamed as the infant kicked a blue bootie-clad foot and waved a plump little hand. “How old is he?”
“Twelve weeks on Wednesday,” Hope announced proudly.
Which meant she was just coming off maternity leave. Suddenly curious, although he had never actually considered himself a baby person, Garrett asked, “Does the baby have a name?”
Hope’s chin lifted. The warmth faded from her eyes. “Max.”
Garrett waited for the rest. “Max or Maxwell...?”
Her gaze grew even more wary. “Just Max.”
She still hadn’t said her son’s last name. Nor did she seem about to do so, which made him wonder why.
His mother gave him the kind of look that ordered him to stop fishing around for Hope Winslow’s marital status.
Was that what he had been doing? Maybe. But who could blame him? He was going to have to know a lot more about Hope Winslow, before he could trust her to handle this crisis for his family.
Satisfied her baby was set for now, Hope turned her glance away from his, pulled her phone out of her bag and quickly checked her messages. “Everything is set up for the press conference,” she told his mom.
Not liking the way she seemed ready to cut him out, Garrett asked, “If there’s going to be a press conference, why were there reporters at the baggage claim?”
Lucille sighed. “There probably wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t decided to come and greet you, last minute. The press followed me to the airport.”
Hope glanced his way, sunlight streaming in through the window and shimmering in her gilded hair. “They were probably hoping you would be in uniform. Or that you’d say something unfortunate like ‘I am not a crook.’ Which—by the way—did not even work for Richard Nixon.”
He mimicked her droll expression. “You’re seriously comparing me to a disgraced politician?”
Hope shrugged in mock innocence.
Lucille looked from Garrett to Hope and back again.
“This is no time to be flirting.”
“We’re not!” Hope and Garrett said in unison.
Lucille lifted a dissenting brow. “Exactly what I said before I started dating your father.”
Garrett felt a flash of grief.
His mom was able to talk freely about his dad, recalling everything about their life together with affection. Not him. Some two and a half years after his dad’s passing, thoughts of his late father still left him choked up. Maybe because so much had been left unresolved between them.
Would finally dealing with his inheritance give him the closure he needed?
Hope gave him a long, steady look laced with compassion, then dropped her head and rummaged through her bag. “Let’s concentrate on the press conference.” She produced the talking points again.
Garrett had been forced into sugarcoating the truth once. He wasn’t doing it again. Refusing so much as a cursory glance, he handed Hope her computer tablet back. “Why are you so intent on cleverly orchestrating every word?”
She checked the near constant alerts on her phone as the limo stopped in front of the downtown Dallas high-rise that housed the foundation and numerous elite businesses. With a beleaguered sigh, she predicted, “You’ll see.”
And he did, as soon as he walked into the elegant ninth floor suite that housed the Lockhart Foundation. A reception area, with a desk and comfortable seating, opened up onto a marble-floored hall that led to four other offices and a boardroom where, he soon discovered, three of his other siblings were waiting.
A collection of laptop computers was spread out on the table. Running on them were clips from every local news station, showing his arrival at the airport, looking grim while declaring his family innocent of all charges, and menacing when his mother turned away from the press and buried her head in his shirt. They even had shots of Max’s nanny bursting into tears while approaching Hope, though they didn’t say what that was all about.
The longest and most dramatically edited rendition ended with Hope ushering his mother into the limo while looking like a force to be reckoned with. Footage of her baby had been cut. Garrett was happy about that, at least. Her child had no place in this unfolding drama. But there was a shot of him climbing in after the women, just before the door closed, that had him glowering.
The reporter turned back to the camera. “Renowned scandal manager, Hope Winslow, best known for her handling of the crisis involving the American ambassador’s son in Great Britain last year, has been retained by the Lockhart family to manage the situation. Which can only mean they are expecting more fireworks to ensue. So stay tuned...”
Looking as stubborn and ornery as the bulls he raised—despite a suit and tie—Garrett’s brother, Chance, slapped him on the back and quipped, “Nice job handling the press.”
Wyatt also stood, no trace of the horse rancher evident in his sophisticated attire, and gave him a brief hug. Then, grinning wickedly, he agreed, “Articulate, as usual, brother.”
His only sister, Sage, in a pretty tailored dress and heels that was very different from her usual cowgirl/chef garb, embraced him warmly. “I don’t blame you,” she consoled him. “You were caught completely off guard.”
Garrett
