SUSAN MEIER - The Spanish Millionaire's Runaway Bride

The conversation died as he drove them to one of the big-box stores. As they got out of the convertible and headed for the door, she realized she was okay in her jeans and canvas tennis shoes, but in his expensive white shirt and black trousers he looked like he’d just stepped off the Las Vegas strip—at one of the better hotels. People were going to stare.

The automatic doors opened as they approached. When they walked inside, he got a cart.

She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“I need clothes for three or four days.” He nodded at his shiny handmade Italian loafers. “I’m not wearing these anymore. I want tennis shoes. Even with two of us to carry things, there’ll be too much for us to tote around.”

“I’m not talking about the clothes. What are you doing being so familiar with a shopping cart at a retail store?”

He laughed. “I came to this country a few years ago. And I’ve been exploring ever since. I don’t shop at stores like this often but I’ve investigated them.”

It was a real struggle not to laugh, then she wondered why. If she moved to Spain, she’d probably investigate things, too. At least she hoped she would. Lately, she was beginning to realize she didn’t know herself at all. Oh, she knew she was kind, a decent human being. But she’d taken a job at her dad’s vineyard that wasn’t even remotely challenging. She’d let it blow by her that her dad had thrown her and Charles together. And she’d been complacent with Charles. Where was the little girl who’d wanted her life to be an adventure?

She didn’t even have to wait for the answer to pop into her head. That little girl had grown up and realized she had only one parent and if she displeased him she’d be all alone.

That was really the bottom line to her battle. Her dad was her only family. She loved him and didn’t want to fight or argue. But she was an adult now, not a little girl, and she couldn’t let him go on telling her what to do and how to do it. She had to take her life back.

Still, her dad was a brilliant, powerful man, accustomed to getting his own way. Could she make him see he was suffocating her? And if she did, would he stop? Could he stop?

Or was the real solution to her problem to leave? Permanently. Pack her bags. Get an apartment. And never see him again.

The thought shot pain through her.

That’s why she needed the few days. To adjust to the fact that the conversation she needed to have with her dad just might be their last.

* * *

Riccardo recognized that his familiarity with the store totally puzzled Morgan, but within minutes he was preoccupied with getting himself enough clothes for what would probably be another four days on the road.

They returned to the rental car, drove back to the highway and were on the road for six hours before they stopped to get a late lunch. They drove and drove and drove until afternoon became evening and evening became night and—honestly—his backside hurt.

“I think we should stop for the night.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“I thought I’d shower and put on clean clothes, then we could get something to eat.”

“Sure.”

Her one-word answer didn’t annoy him. It simply made him feel funny. After almost two days together, hearing bits and pieces of some of the most emotional, wrenching parts of her life, it seemed weird that she was back to behaving as if they were strangers. It was good that she was no longer calling him her jailer, but he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. He’d thought through her scenario—her dad grooming her fiancé and her fiancé being clueless—and nothing about that screamed running away and needing almost two weeks to get your head straight before you could go home.

Something bigger troubled her.

Except for the times they’d found radio stations, the inside of the car had been silent. She’d had plenty of time to confide in him. But she hadn’t.

When they reached another hotel chain at a stop just off the highway, they got out of the car, registered and went to their rooms.

Showering, he told himself that it was stupid, maybe foolish, to want to hear her full story. Once he dropped her off at her father’s vineyard, he’d probably never see her again. At the same time, he thought it was cruel to put her in a car and drive her home, and then not say anything to her beyond “where do you want to eat?” If they’d flown, they could have stayed silent for the hours it would have taken to get to Monroe Vineyards. But driving was a whole different story. The long days of nothing but static-laced music or the whine of tires should be making her crazy enough to talk if only to fill the void, but she kept silent.

He stepped out of the bathroom and put on a pair of his new jeans, a big T-shirt and tennis shoes. They had dinner at the diner beside the hotel, where she focused on eating her salad, not talking, then he went back to his room and fell into a deep, wonderful sleep. He woke refreshed, took another shower, put on clean clothes again and firmly decided Morgan’s life was her life. Her decisions were hers to make. He wasn’t going to ask her about either.

Just as he was about to pick up his wallet and the rental car keys, his phone rang.

He looked at the caller ID and saw it was Colonel Monroe.

He clicked to answer. “Good morning, Colonel.”

“I’d expected to hear from you yesterday.”

“Things weren’t exactly cut-and-dried with your daughter.”

The Colonel sighed heavily. “What did she do?”

Not about to admit how easily she’d duped him, Riccardo turned the conversation in a different direction. “You know she bolted from her wedding for a reason.”

“What reason? Seriously? What could be important enough that she’d humiliate herself that way?”

He’d never thought of the fact that a runaway bride humiliated herself. Especially not with Cicely. He’d only seen his side of the story—that two days before his wedding the woman who was supposed to love him told the world she didn’t by calling off the wedding. It had been humbling, but worse than that, it had hurt. Hurt to the very core of his being. He’d seen himself as her knight in shining armor. The real prince she was supposed to marry. The guy who would make her life wonderful. And in the end, she’d thrown it all back in his face and left with the man who had crushed her. She’d proved that good guys don’t win. Bad guys do.

“You think she humiliated herself?”

“Sure, Charles and I might be left holding the bag, but we’re also the ones talking to confused guests. What we’re hearing is that everybody thinks she’s a little crazy or selfish...or both.”

He pictured the small town of Lake Justice, filled with concerned friends and neighbors, all expressing sympathy to Charles and questioning Morgan’s sanity. But he knew Charles had hurt her. Now the idiot was sucking up sympathy, at the expense of Morgan’s reputation.

“She’s got a lot of explaining to do, and I sure as hell hope she’s got a reason that doesn’t make things worse. She already looks like a fool. Has she said anything?”

Riccardo winced. If she looked like a fool it was because Charles and her dad had made her into one. At least Riccardo wouldn’t betray her trust.

“No. She hasn’t really said anything.”

“This is so not like her. None of it is. She was always so quiet and so quick to do what needed to be done.”

Another picture began to fall into place in Riccardo’s head. A picture of Morgan taking orders from her famous, powerful dad. Never arguing. Never complaining. Just falling in line.

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