knew it was stupid to think Morgan Monroe would still be in the wedding gown she’d had on when she bolted from St. Genevieve church on Saturday, but he also hadn’t expected to see Colonel Monroe’s high-society daughter in blue jeans and canvas tennis shoes. Her long blond hair hung past her shoulders in tangled disarray. Her enormous blue eyes speared him from behind the lenses of oversize tortoiseshell glasses.
“Get lost, buddy.”
He also hadn’t expected her to snipe at him. Oh, he’d been sure there’d be a little resistance to his putting her on a plane and taking her back to Lake Justice, home of her father’s enormous wine empire. But everything he’d read about Morgan portrayed her as a demure, sweet woman who loved charity work and took in stray cats.
Either the press had absolutely got her wrong, her dad had a really good PR machine, or Morgan Monroe had snapped.
Considering she’d gotten halfway down the aisle at her eight-hundred-person wedding and then turned and run, he was guessing she’d snapped.
He suddenly wondered if that’s what had happened with Cicely. If she’d snapped when she’d called off their wedding—
His heart chugged to a stop. He hadn’t thought about Cicely in years and today he couldn’t stop thinking about her, comparing his situation to Morgan Monroe’s. He didn’t like remembering the humiliation any more than he liked being reminded that it was his own damn fault. Arrogance had made him believe he could make her love him, though she’d told him time and again that she had an ex she couldn’t forget. And pride sure as hell went before his fall.
So, what was he doing getting involved with another runaway bride? Was he nuts?
No. He was helping a client. Plus, the situations were totally different. Cicely had been his fiancée. Morgan was the daughter of the owner of the biggest vineyard on Mitch’s wine website. Riccardo did not intend to get involved with her beyond taking her home to her dad. This wasn’t just a favor for their best client. It was the only way to keep the beloved, world-renowned Colonel from dumping them to start his own wine website and becoming their competition.
* * *
Morgan Monroe barely held back a sigh of annoyance with the guy staring at her. He was good-looking, obviously rich—if his tailored white shirt and Italian leather loafers were any indicator—and clearly confused, just standing there as if he had no idea what to do.
Guessing he had been startled to find someone doling out investment advice by the penny slots, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, and said, “There’s a sea of machines behind you. You can play any one you want. And if you go at least a row away, you won’t even hear us.”
The surprise on his face was replaced by chagrin. “Holding a little stock seminar, are you?”
His voice wasn’t exactly condescending. She really couldn’t tell what it was. But if he thought she would let him insult these people who needed her help, he was mistaken.
“If I were, it would be none of your business.”
The chagrin became a wince. “That’s not true. I’m actually looking for you... Morgan.”
Her chest squeezed. She’d expected her dad to come searching for her. But this guy didn’t look like a private investigator. She glanced at the black trousers and fitted shirt again. Open at the throat, the white shirt revealed tan skin, as if he summered in the Mediterranean. With his accent, he probably did.
“You’re a PI?”
“No. I’m a friend of your father.”
That was infinitely worse. A PI she could handle. A friend of her dad’s? That would take some finesse.
She turned to her group. “I’m sorry, guys. I’m going to need a few minutes. Just stay here. I’ll be right back.” She walked toward her dad’s minion, pointing at the raised circular bar in the middle of the room. “There’s a table open up there.”
Heading for the bar, she assumed the guy would follow her. She used the two minutes of skirting people, slot machines and gaming tables to remind herself she was twenty-five, educated and in desperate need of some time alone. No matter how this guy approached this, she could say, “Tell my dad I love him and I’m sorry he spent a lot of money on the wedding...but I needed some air.”
No. She couldn’t tell a perfect stranger she needed some air. That was stupid. Her dad would roar with fury if she sent this admittedly handsome guy back to him without something concrete.
She reached to pull out her chair, but Handsome Spanish Guy beat her to it.
Giving her a polite smile, he said, “My nanna would shoot me if I let a woman get her own chair.”
She sat. “Your nanna?”
“My grandmother.” He sat across from her. “She lives in Spain. Very much old-school. She likes men with manners.”
So did Morgan. And, wow, she loved this guy’s voice. Smooth and sexy with just enough accent to make him interesting.
But he was here because her dad had sent him. She shouldn’t be noticing that he was attractive. Plus, she’d just walked out on her own wedding. After leaving one guy at the altar two days ago, she was not in the market for another. No matter how gorgeous.
She cleared her throat. “Okay. My dad sent you to find me—”
“I didn’t have to find you. He knows where you are. He wants me to bring you home.”
She gaped at him. “He knows where I am?”
“Did you think I just strolled into this hotel on a lucky guess?”
“No.” As a former secretary of state and a current high-profile business owner, her dad had more money than God and resources to do things Morgan was only beginning to understand. She didn’t need to know how her dad had found her. The point was, he had.
She pulled in a breath and released it slowly enough to get her thoughts together. “Okay, Marco Polo, here’s the deal. The next two weeks had been blocked off for a honeymoon. My dad has an event in Stockholm two days after that, so I have to be home before he leaves. But that also means I don’t have to be anywhere for another twelve days.” She planted her backside a little more firmly on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. You left your dad with eight hundred confused guests filling the bed-and-breakfasts in town, waiting to see if you’re okay, not to mention one very disoriented fiancé. You’re not dodging the damage control.”
She rose from her seat. “I didn’t want the eight hundred guests. Charles did. I didn’t want the wedding reception at the vineyard. That was my dad’s handiwork. I picked out the dress and my bouquet.” Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears and the emotions that had hit her as she walked down the aisle spiraled through her again. The betrayal. The sense of stupidity for trusting Charles. The sense of stupidity for being so trusting—period.
She very quickly said, “If you’ll excuse me,” turned and headed back to her cluster of new friends, not willing to let this stranger see her cry. Damn it. She’d thought she’d worked through all this in the plane.
She
