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

as clean as it had been when Ricky had last been working there. There were six bays, four of them filled with cars. Two of the cars were elegant models from the twenties or thirties, one restored and the other in the process of being so, both beautiful reminders of a bygone age.

      “This one’s an Auburn Boattail,” Marc told her proudly. “I helped Rick with it a lot. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

      “Gorgeous. Like something from an old movie.”

      He nodded. “The other’s an old Mercedes. Both these cars were my grandfather’s. When he realized how good Ricky was with cars, he gave them to him, along with this place. Ricky spent all his time here. In fact, most of the time over those last few years I think he lived here.”

      Opening a side door, he revealed a small room with a cot and some bedding.

      “Ricky’s apartment,” he said with a smile. “He even had a small cook stove and a lot of supplies over there in the cabinets.”

      “And an ancient microwave,” she noted, pointing it out.

      “Right. I can just imagine the gourmet feasts he was able to serve up in this place.” Marc’s eyes had a faraway look. “Ricky and I were never real close. But he was my brother. And I miss him.”

      His voice cracked just a little bit in the last sentence and he made an impatient move, as though he could erase it. She had a lump in her throat. She was finding herself in tune with him more and more, feeling what he was feeling. Or at least, trying to. Maybe she ought to cut it out. Before she knew it, she was going to get herself in too deep.

      She tried to remember Ricky. He was taller and thinner than Marc, and a few years older. He always seemed preoccupied and she had the feeling he never really saw her at all. She was invisible as far as he was concerned. He was always thinking about cars and he obviously had zero interest in younger kids of any type. She never took it personally.

      Not the way she took Marc’s lack of interest. His hurt.

      “I think my father came out here to see what Ricky was working on,” she said slowly, thinking back. “I remember him talking about it. I think he liked Ricky a lot.”

      He nodded.

      “Marc, what happened to Ricky? How did he...?”

      A spasm of pain crossed his face, but only briefly. “What would you guess?” he said shortly. He waved toward the other two cars, a souped-up Mustang and something else she didn’t recognize that was also kitted out. “Amateur race car driver dies in crash. Some make it to the pro level, others die trying.”

      His voice was bitter. She glanced at him quickly, but he turned away.

      “At least he was doing what he loved,” she tried tentatively.

      He swung back and glared at her. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? People say it every time and it doesn’t help anything at all. It’s so lame.”

      She winced. He was absolutely right. “I’m sorry. I was just trying...”

      Now her voice was breaking and he groaned and reached for her, pulling her in close and burying his face in her hair. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said gruffly. “You’re a sweetheart and I don’t need to be yelling at you.”

      She raised her face. It felt so good in his arms and she wanted to stay there forever. Was he going to kiss her this time? There had been so many chances and he’d passed them all by. She wanted to taste him so badly. Couldn’t he read that in her eyes?

      He looked down. There was something smoky in his gaze, something sensual, an awareness and a sudden flash of something that might be desire. She caught her breath and yearned toward him. He leaned closer, his lips almost there.

      And then his face clouded and he seemed to pull himself back with a jerk, even pulling his hands from her shoulders. Turning, he walked toward the cars.

      She closed her eyes and drew in a deep, deep breath. When would she ever learn?

      They spent some time looking at the cars and he told her a bit about them. Fifteen years had passed since Ricky’d left them here, and they were hardly even dusty.

      “It almost feels as though he might walk in that door any minute,” Marc said. “Everything looks so much the same.”

      She nodded. “I’m glad you brought me here,” she told him. “I’m glad to know more about your brother. The picture is more complete that way.”

      Marc was rummaging around in a cabinet. “Hey, look at this,” he said, pulling out a wine bottle. “From the Alegre Winery. Bottled in 1994. Made with our grapes.”

      She laughed. “If only we had some wineglasses.”

      He produced them with a flourish out of the same cabinet. There was even a corkscrew. He started to open the bottle, then looked around.

      “We can’t just drink it here on the floor of a working garage,” he said. “We need a little elegance.”

      The Mercedes from the 1930s had that in spades. He opened the door, pulled forward the back of the passenger seat, and escorted her into the beautifully upholstered back seat, then went around to the driver’s side and slipped in beside her, bottle and glasses in hand.

      The crimson wine poured into the crystal glasses and sparks of light and color flew around the room. Torie raised her glass and he met hers with his. They clinked, looking into each other’s eyes. Suddenly there was an air of excitement trembling in the atmosphere.

      “To Shangri-La,” she said. “And all it’s glory.”

      “To truth,” he countered. “And to us finding it soon.”

      She bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about that right now. She was here in a beautiful, luxurious car, the sort of car rich people drove to mansions in the old days, the kind of car movie stars stepped out of to begin their walk on the red carpet in front of movie premiers. She could smell the leather, see the gleaming paneled wood, feel the soft seating, and here in her hand was a gorgeous glass of wine.

      But best of all, she was in touching distance of the man she had always been almost in love with. It was a magic moment and she didn’t want to waste it on painful subjects.

      Sipping the wine, she let the bite of it warm her throat and she smiled at him. She wasn’t a drinker. This was going to go to her head right away. She ought to be careful.

      “More?” he asked, holding up the bottle.

      “Lovely,” she answered, surprised to see that her glass was empty. She’d never had wine so delicious before. And she seemed to be thirsty.

      They talked softly for a few minutes, going over their day, their ride to the village, their stop to view the wildflowers. She told him about a friend who ran marathons and he told her about a friend who raised Siamese cats. Their bottle was empty, but he produced another.

      And then he told her, looking deep into her eyes, “You know what your biggest problem is?”

      The fact that you won’t kiss me? But she couldn’t say that aloud, even though the wine was making her feel giggly.

      “No,” she said, melting in the thrill of his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”

      He suddenly seemed very wise. “You trust too much.”

      She reared back, not sure she liked that. “In what way?” she asked carefully.

      He looked at her as though trying to decide something. Finally, he reached out, cupping her chin in his large hand, as though he meant to study her face, and she let him, though her heart was fluttering in her chest like a lost bird. When he finally finished his thorough observation, she sighed as he drew away again.

      “You trust Carl to bring you here, even though he’s probably a crook,” he said quietly. “You trust things people tell you as long as they’re