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

“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.

She then slipped out again and into her own room, where she threw herself down on the bed and tried to regulate her breathing and calm her pulse. That had not been a fun few minutes she’d just gone through. She didn’t want that to happen again. That probably wasn’t Carl who’d stopped at the door and then left. Whoever it was would likely be back though.

She pulled the article she’d stolen out from under her shirt and looked at it. She had to show this to Marc.

But she needed to get cleaned up first. Rising from the bed, she pulled off her rumpled clothes and put on a fresh pair of designer jeans and a soft blue sweater. Then she stopped to take a closer look at the article.

It was dated nine years before and seemed to have been printed in a county newspaper. Gold Doubloons Show Up along the Central Coast. The article claimed that a stash of the ancient coins must have been found lately, since coin dealers were reporting that people from the area were selling them in numbers that hadn’t been seen for years.

“Nine years ago?” she muttered, frowning. How could that have any impact on today? She should have taken more of the articles. Too late now. She wasn’t going back there.

Folding the article, she stuck it into a pocket of her jeans, then turned to look at where she’d stowed her suitcase under the bed. Reaching down, she pulled it out, found her key and unlocked it. With her hand, she felt along the lining. It was still there—the little bag of Spanish gold.

Her heart started pounding again. Could it really be a part of the treasure? What else could it be? And why had she found it among her mother’s possessions just a few weeks before?

She shook her head. “Daddy, Daddy, what did you do?” she whispered to herself. Then she closed the suitcase and put it back under the bed, pushing it far enough back so that no one would notice where it was unless they were down on their hands and knees, looking for it. She couldn’t really think of more she could do.

With a heartfelt sigh, she started downstairs. Detouring into the kitchen, she snagged a sandwich on her way out. Suddenly, she was ravenous.

At the doorway, she looked down on the little party on the terrace. Marge and the Texan were having a loud argument. Phoebe and Frank seemed to be taking sides—against each other. Lyla was pouting and playing up to Jimmy. Somehow she had to get past this nightmare bunch and find Marc again.

“Hey, you,” came a half whisper from across the hall.

She whirled, and there he was, just coming out of the library.

“This way,” he said with a jerk of his head. She followed him to a small French door at the end of the sitting room. A moment later they were slinking down a garden path and into the eucalyptus trees.

“You read my mind,” she told him. “I was not looking forward to joining that group.”

“You’re wise beyond your years,” he said, glancing back toward the house. Then he looked back at her, his blue eyes sparkling. “Have you ever been to the car barn?”

She had not, though she remembered hearing about it years before. The car barn had been Ricky’s domain and Ricky’s hobby was race-car driving.

“Never,” she said.

“Until now,” he told her. “Let’s go.”

It was a long walk and they weren’t in any hurry. Stone benches had been set out here and there many years ago. They spent the next fifteen minutes remembering other times they’d been this way.

“The trees weren’t quite so thick then,” she recalled, looking up at the tall redwoods around their path. “You could see the ocean from here.”

He nodded. “I remember when you could see the whole coastline from here, all the way down to the caves and up to the village.”

“I wonder if Carl is back from the caves,” Torie mused. Then memories of the newspaper article popped into her head. “Oh! I’ve got something to show you.”

She pulled out the clipping. “What do you think of this?”

They stopped and sat on a nearby bench. He read the whole thing before he said a word.

“So where did this come from?”

She couldn’t avoid the guilty look her face took on. “I took it from Carl’s room. He had a stack of them, and some old insurance papers in a folder.”

“And this is all you got?”

She nodded. “I just snatched it up and ran like a rat.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, then shrugged.

“I remember this,” he said. “I wasn’t here, but a friend sent me this article when it first came out.” He shook his head as though dismissing the importance of the clipping. “I thought at the time that either someone had a fertile imagination or a new stash of doubloons had been found.”

He looked into her eyes and she frowned. Somehow his show of earnest common sense was ringing false with her. Was he trying to con her for some reason?

“Shangri-La isn’t the only large estate along the coast you know,” he said somewhat defensively. “There are plenty of cave networks too, along with hidden canyons. Back in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Spanish were all up and down this coast. I’m sure there were many places that were used for hiding various treasures, and I’m sure most people who find them keep it pretty quiet.”

“But they have to let others know when they go to coin brokers to try to cash in,” she noted.

He nodded. “Sure. And that doesn’t happen very often. Mostly, people would rather keep the treasure for themselves. To people like my father, the historical value is more important than the cash you could get for it.”

Was that understandable? Maybe. “Where did the Don Carlos Treasure originally come from?”

“My grandfather, William Canford Huntington. He found it in the thirties. He was trying to map the caves and ended up breaking down a ledge to be able to reach further in. Behind that ledge he found a pile of gold doubloons and other coins, along with some jewels. The bag they had been in had been eaten away, but the coins were bright and shiny as they’d ever been.” He smiled, remembering the stories he’d heard. “But you must have seen it. My father had it in the display case in the library for years.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I ever saw it.”

“It was right in the house all the time I was growing up.”

“That must have been quite an exotic display. But I never went into your house. I wasn’t a guest, you know.” She blinked with mock innocence. “Just a humble servant’s child.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned.

“It was stupid, of course, to have it just sitting there. It should have been in a security deposit box at the bank. But you can’t show it off if it’s not there.”

“Ah, vanity.”

“Vanity and greed.”

He rose and held out his hand to pull her up. She took it, looking into his face to see if he’d had any new thoughts about her.

Just checking, she told herself. But she was disappointed once again. The man just didn’t feel the things for her she felt for him. Pity.

And then they reached the car barn. She never would have found it on her own. It was a large, echoing warehouse-sized garage built into the side of a hill. The entry consisted of a set of huge double doors, but they were impossible to make out in the gloomy forest area. Weeds and vines covered it and years and years of branches and leaves and sifted dirt had been built up against it by the wind and rain. Luckily, Marc remembered where it was supposed to be and once he found it, the two of them worked for a good twenty minutes at removing debris before they were able to pull the doors open.

“God only knows what we’re going to find in here,” Marc said as he cleared a path for her. Before going in, he found the fuse box and threw a breaker, making sure they would have lights inside.

What they found when they went in was amazing. The door seemed to have kept the place hermetically sealed and it was like stepping back into past times. The inside was probably 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 nice about it.” His mouth curled in a wistful smile. “Worst of all, you trust me.”

“I do not,” she said stoutly.

He grinned. “Yes you do.”

She blinked rapidly. “Well, at least I give people a chance. You don’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Trust is for suckers.”

She drew back, frowning. “That’s a horrible attitude.”

He shook his head as though she just didn’t understand, and he took her hand in his.

“Let me tell you a little story. Something short and sweet. Something that will give you the picture of the world I live in, and why I think trust is overrated.”

She smiled, her fingers curling around his. For some reason what he’d just said seemed so very amusing. “Lay it on me, baby,” she said, leaning toward him.

A look of alarm came over his handsome face. “Hey. How much have you had of that stuff?”

She giggled. “Sorry. I was just trying to get in the mood.”

Moving with calm deliberation, he took the glass from her hand and put it out of reach.

“See, this is what I mean. If you were smart, you would be very wary of what I might do if you get a little tipsy.”

“Don’t worry,” she said bravely. “I’ve got all my wits about me. Such as they are.” She laughed out loud.

He gave her a baleful look, but he settled back and continued his cautionary tale. “Okay. This happened years ago, when I was young and still a nice guy.”

“Unlike today.” She nodded wisely.

He frowned his disapproval of her chattiness. “Unlike today,” he allowed. “I was in South East Asia. The country doesn’t matter. But I was on a mission. A pretty dangerous situation. And I fell in love.”

Now he had her complete attention.

“Oh,” she said softly.

“The area was beautiful. White-sand beaches. Sweet, friendly people. My mission was to extract something important from the desk of a local plantation owner. My job was to get in and get out. Under no circumstances was I to interfere with local customs or get involved in local affairs. No roiling the waters.”

She nodded to show she understood completely. “And I’m sure you did a very good job of it, didn’t you?”

He stared at her for a moment, then laughed softly. He touched her cheek, looking at her as though he enjoyed the view. “Yes, darling. I always did a good job. But right now I’m talking about the girl I fell in love with.”

“Oh.” She felt so sad all of a sudden and she wasn’t sure why.

His face took on a faraway look.

“She was so beautiful, so tiny, so fragile, like a flower. I was pretty young and I fell like a ton of bricks. She enchanted me. She told me how her family had sold her to the plantation owner because they were desperately poor. They had eight other children to feed. She was one too many.”

“How terrible.”

“Yes. The plantation owner had promised to take good care of her, but he’d lied. She was so unhappy. She told me whispered tales of how cruel he was.”

He shook his head, remembering his naive reaction. “I was outraged. I burned to protect her. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. So I did something very stupid.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yes. Uh-oh. You see, when my mission was complete, I took her with me.”

She’d known he would end up being the hero. “Good for you.”

“No. Not really.” He grimaced. “We travelled for two days and finally reached the city and I got us a hotel room. I had so many plans in my head. I thought...” He stopped, looked at her and his mouth curved in a bitter smile. “Hell, what does it matter what I thought? I woke up at dawn the next day and she was gone. And so was all my money.”

She gasped. “Oops.”

He looked at her and started to laugh. “It’s like you’ve got an alter ego just waiting inside you,” he noted. “She can only come out to play when you drink. Is that how it is?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said very primly, sitting up straight like a good girl.

He laughed again, then shook his head. She looked like an angel, her blond hair flying like gold threads around her face, her green eyes sparkling, her eyelids heavy with the effects of the wine. The need to kiss her came over him like an urgent wave, choking him for a moment. He had to look away and breathe hard a few times to get himself back on track.

“Okay, I’ll wrap this story up. The beautiful girl I thought I was in love with not only stole all my money, she fingered me to the local crime gang. I got away from them, but I took a little memento with me.”

Pulling up his shirt, he showed her the scar.

“See?” he said as she gasped, wide-eyed, at the ugly wound that contorted his beautiful skin just below his rib cage. “That’s what you get when you trust someone.”

Reaching out, she put her warm hand over the damage. And then, without thinking, she leaned down and pressed her lips to it.

As he felt the heat radiating from her mouth, he sucked in his breath, then reached to pull her up.

“Torie, you’d better not...”

She ended up in his arms and all his determination not to touch her melted away like April snow. What had he been saying? It was gone. All he could think about was her warm, wonderful body against his and her hot, tempting mouth so close.

He kissed her. He felt a twinge of guilt. After all, she might not be doing this if it weren’t for the wine. But it was too late to use that as a reason to pull away. He was kissing her and she was the most delicious thing he’d ever had.

She sighed and bent back as though offering him something more than a gesture. Something in that move hit him directly in his natural male response center.

Desire bloomed in him like a small explosion. He wanted her. He wanted his mouth on hers and his tongue exploring her heat, and he was getting that. But he needed more, and the need was beginning to grow in a way he wasn’t going to be able to control. He had to hold her hard against him and he had to touch her breasts and make her cry out so that it would make him even more crazy and... and...