The Pregnant Heiress. Eileen Wilks

Texas Tattler.”

      Two

      Ten days later

      The light turned red just in time to make Flynn stomp on the brakes. He pulled to a stop, drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glanced at the tabloid newspaper lying on the seat beside him.

      Dammit to hell. The photo on the front page wasn’t flattering, but it was recognizable. No one who’d ever seen that smile would fail to recognize Emma.

      And just in case they had some doubts, the fool reporter had printed her name right beneath it. Oh, they’d called her “Emma Fortune” instead of Michaels, but that wasn’t going to do anything more than irritate her. It sure wouldn’t fool the scumbag she’d been engaged to. And the cutesy little rags-to-riches story that went with the photo identified Flynn and gave enough information for a sixth grader to find her.

      Steven Shaw wasn’t a sixth-grader. He was a pro.

      The light changed. Flynn pulled away quickly.

      Take it easy, he told himself as he turned off into the entry to the exclusive Kingston Estates, a gated community where Miranda’s villa was located. Even if Shaw saw that tabloid the minute it hit the stands, he couldn’t get here this fast. But the sense of urgency riding him wouldn’t let up. He slowed, flashed his ID at the man at the gate, then accelerated smoothly.

      It was his fault. If he’d stayed with her at the party, he could have gotten that camera away from the party-crashing reporter. If he’d followed his instincts and talked to Ryan before the party instead of waiting until he’d talked to Emma, the reporter would never have gotten in. Ryan would have seen to that.

      Of course, Emma could have prevented the whole mess, too, by telling her uncle what was going on—if she weren’t so blasted pigheaded.

      When Flynn pulled up in front of the townhome, Emma’s battered Ford was in the driveway. So was an Explorer.

      Looked like Kane Fortune was here, too. Good. Flynn slammed the door to his Jeep and stalked up to the steps to the front door.

      Miranda opened it herself. She was wearing a long blue robe that zipped up the front, her hair and makeup neatly fixed. She blinked when she saw him.

      “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need to see Emma.”

      “I’m sorry. Do come in.” She held the door wider and stepped back. “We’re all in the breakfast room. Would you like to join us? There are muffins left, and I think some eggs, too.”

      “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.” The poor lady’s fingers were nervously pleating the blue silk of her robe. Flynn did his best to look reassuring. “I imagine you can guess why I’m here.”

      She nodded jerkily. “The picture.”

      “Yeah.”

      “Emma thinks she has to leave. To just—take off. I hope you’ll help me convince her the situation isn’t that serious.”

      Either Miranda was living in a fantasy world, or Emma hadn’t leveled with her. “Even if Shaw doesn’t read the tabloids himself, odds are that someone he knows does. All it takes is for one person to mention it to him.”

      Her lips tightened. Without another word, she turned and led the way down a short hall.

      The breakfast room was a small, sunny place. Lots of wood, painted white; lots of undraped windows with frilly things at the tops. The cushions on the chairs were green and yellow, and matched the frilly things at the windows.

      Kane sat at the white table. The plate in front of him held only crumbs. He looked up when Flynn entered, his level gaze unsurprised. “You’ve seen that damned picture, I guess.”

      Flynn nodded. He was looking at the other occupant of the room, who was wearing a red cotton nightgown that buttoned up to the neck. Emma’s plate held a dismembered muffin and some scrambled eggs she’d stirred around. Her hair looked like she’d stuck her head in a blender.

      Her face was a little fuller, he noted with satisfaction. He couldn’t tell about her arms with that enveloping nightgown, but he thought she’d put a little weight on. Good.

      “Flynn! What are you doing here?” Her eyes were wide and startled.

      “Having coffee,” he said, going to the hutch where a pot sat on a warmer. “Then we’re going to get some things straightened out.”

      “What’s to straighten out? I’ve got to leave, that’s all.”

      “Yeah, I’m afraid you do.” He brought his cup over to the table and sat across from her. She looked cute with blender hair. He wondered if her breasts were that full all the time, and wished she was wearing something clingy so he could see the shape of her breasts better….

      Damn. What was wrong with him?

      Miranda frowned. “Even if this man does come looking for Emma, she doesn’t have to leave. Kingston Estates has security.”

      “A bored security guard or two won’t slow Shaw down, I’m afraid, if he’s determined to get to Emma.”

      “What do you know that we don’t?” Kane asked.

      “That’s what we need to get straight.” He sipped his coffee appreciatively. “This is great coffee, Miranda. You grind it fresh?”

      “I—yes.”

      “There’s a little place on Esquivel that has some good blends. The beans are shipped vacuum-sealed. You might want to try it some time.”

      “You came here to talk about coffee?” Emma said sweetly.

      “You want to get right to business? Okay. What have you told them about Steven Shaw?”

      “Everything necessary.” She met his eyes steadily, but her fingers fidgeted with the handle on her coffee cup. “I don’t see what you’re doing here. Why you’ve involved yourself in this.”

      “Damned if I know.” He couldn’t stand to think of the scumbag getting hold of her, that was all. “Except that I’m pretty sure you’ve held back a few important facts from your mom and your brother, here.”

      Those curvy eyebrows of hers sailed up haughtily. “Such as?”

      “Did you tell them you needed stitches after the last time you saw Shaw? Did you mention that after beating you, he locked you in the bathroom and you had to break out before you could get medical care?”

      In the silence that fell, the small, dismayed noise that Miranda made sounded very loud. Flynn noticed that the knuckles on Kane’s fists were white. He sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

      “You talked to Mindy. You must have. No one else—” She shook her head. “I trusted her.”

      “Who’s Mindy?” Kane asked.

      “My friend. We worked together at the florist’s in San Diego and she helped me get away. I can’t believe she told Flynn everything.”

      “She didn’t tell me. She told a colleague of mine. I told you I’d checked out your boyfriend—excuse me, your former fiancé—after I got that call from Mathers.” He watched the expressions fleeting across her face. Dismay, maybe shame. Disbelief. Anger. “If it makes you feel any better, Sam had a hell of a time getting her to open up.”

      “Mindy knew better than to talk to a P.I.”

      “Ed’s good at getting people to trust him.”

      Her words came out flat. “So is Steven.”

      He nodded. “That’s why you ran, isn’t it? Instead of going to the cops for help. Because you didn’t trust the San Diego P.D.”

      “He’s got buddies on the force.” She pushed back her chair and stood.

      Kane