A Proposal Worth Waiting For: The Heir's Proposal / A Pregnancy, a Party & a Proposal / His Proposal, Their Forever. Raye Morgan

up made her laugh out loud.

      “No,” he protested, half laughing himself. “I was pretty popular at it.”

      “I’ll bet.” She could see the young girls swooning now.

      He rolled his eyes at her amusement, but he went on.

      “So when I got out, I started looking around at opportunities. But my mind kept going back to Shangri-La.”

      “Of course,” she murmured. Her mind did too. All the time.

      “I started wanting to come home. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to pull at me.” He turned to look at her more closely.

      “You know, this is a wonderful place. There are a lot of options right here on the land. My grandfather made his fortune as a breeder of racehorses. My father spent a few years developing a world-class vineyard, selling his grapes to the best wineries along the coast.”

      “I remember that.”

      He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “What do you think of me putting in a winery right here?”

      “It would take a lot of start-up money, wouldn’t it?”

      He nodded. “Yes, it would.” He shrugged and the faraway expression was back in his eyes. “Aw, what the heck. No point living in dreamland. Marge is going to sell, come hell or high water. She’s got that look of determination in her eyes. She wants out of here. And I don’t have the resources to stop her.”

      There it was again, that note of pain the tore at her when she heard it. “Will she give you a part of the proceeds if she does sell?”

      “Why would she do that?”

      She shrugged. “Maybe because you’re like a son to her. Stranger things...”

      His laugh was short and cold. “Not Marge. She wants to take the money and run. And she really doesn’t owe me anything. She’s the lonely widow. I’m the ne’er-do-well stepson. Never those minds shall meet.”

      “It just seems...”

      “Community property,” he said shortly, pulling himself upright and starting back toward the car. “I’m not a part of that.”

      She followed behind, kicking her feet into the dirt. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

      “My only claims are emotional and courts don’t much care.” He turned to look at her. “Besides. I’m a grown-up. I should be making my own way in the world.”

      She stared at him, suddenly realizing that he was as much stymied by Shangri-La as she was. She couldn’t move on with her life because these unanswered questions haunted her.

      And he was no better. He couldn’t stop loving Shangri-La, even though he had no hope of ever running the place as his father had done, and his grandfather and all the Huntingtons before that right into the days when Spaniards roamed these hills and tall ships cruised the coast.

      They were a pair, lost and lonely, wandering in the wilderness, looking for a home.

      “Making your own way is one thing,” she said softly. “Losing your home is another.”

      They’d reached the car. He pulled her door open and held it. She appraised his tousled hair, his clear blue eyes, his incredible handsomeness, and she felt a surge of emotion. Was it affection? Or the sense that they were kindred souls who ought to join forces to fight the darkness? Whatever it was, the impulse took hold and she went on her toes, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth.

      “Thanks, Marc Huntington,” she told him, smiling at his startled look as she stepped away again. “Thanks for helping me get home that day with Snowcone in my arms. Thanks for being here to help me now.”

      “Anytime,” he murmured.

      But he didn’t reach out and pull her into his arms as she had secretly hoped he would do, and his eyes were hooded, giving no hint at what he thought about what she’d done.

      They rode in silence all the way back to Shangri-La, but she didn’t regret that kiss.

      * * *

      The group was lounging sleepily on the patio furniture arranged casually on the terrace, enjoying the scenery. The sound of the surf in the distance, the cries of seagulls, the platoons of dignified pelicans swooping past—all very seductive selling points for Marge.

      Torie hurried past, giving them all a wave after she noted that her fake “husband” wasn’t with them.

      Marge glanced up and scowled. “Where’ve you been?” she demanded.

      Torie stared right back. “Out,” she said with an artificial smile. “Looking for facts. Looking for truth.”

      “Truth,” Marge said in mock disgust, but she was looking more sharply at Torie, as if she was beginning to see something familiar about her. “Good luck finding any of that in this world,” she muttered.

      Torie turned her back and headed for the stairs, wondering what it would be like to get that woman in a small room with third-degree lights shining in her lying eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few grizzled old investigators to help her crack the woman’s defenses. She smiled to herself.

      “Oh, Carl said to tell you he was exploring the caves again,” Lyla called after her.

      “Thanks,” she called back, taking the stairs quickly. And then she paused, looking at Carl’s closed door. If he was out at the caves, this was a perfect opportunity to take a look at what he might have in his bedroom.

      Should she? Why not.

      After all, she was looking for facts, wasn’t she? And Carl was looking for something else. She had a feeling she knew what that something was, but it would be good to confirm it. And anyway, she wanted to know what he was up to.

      She looked up and down the hallway. There was no one coming. Quietly, she slipped into the room.

      Carl seemed to be a very neat man. No discarded clothing littered the floor. Nothing was hung on the chair. His suitcase was closed and propped against the desk. Papers were stacked neatly on the nightstand and she looked through them quickly. They seemed to be old insurance claims and she didn’t see anything interesting on them. The corner of his briefcase was barely visible under the bed and she pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a sheath of newspaper clippings. The first one to catch her eye bore the headline: Gold Doubloons Show Up Along the Central Coast.

      Gold doubloons. That was what the Don Carlos Treasure had been mainly made up of. She snatched the clipping, stuffed it under her shirt, and prepared to leave. The last thing she wanted was to be found sneaking around in Carl’s room. Just the thought gave her the shivers.

      And that was the moment she heard footsteps coming down the hall toward where she was.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      TORIE’S heart began to hammer and her breath seemed to be stuck in her throat. She glanced around the room, zeroing in on the closet, the only place where she might hide in. But if she got caught in there, it would be ten times worse than just hanging out as though she was waiting for him.

      Quickly, she sat down on the bed and stared at the door. If he came in, she would have a story ready. “Where’s that map?” she would say. “I thought it might be here so I could work on it.”

      He wouldn’t believe her, but at least she’d have a cover story.

      The footsteps paused, as though someone was about to knock. She bit her lip and held her breath. A shriek of laughter came from downstairs and someone called. She couldn’t tell who it was or what they were saying, but it seemed to get to her visitor. He—or she—seemed to turn, and the steps went back toward the stairs. She let her breath out slowly, listening intently.