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

He had to stop. It was becoming obvious that she wasn’t going to stop him and he’d counted on that. He’d have to do it himself.

“Torie.” He tried to pull back.

She whimpered when his mouth left hers and she reached with her warm, provoking hands to slide against his skin and lure him back.

“Torie.”

“No,” she whispered, flattening against him. “No, don’t leave me.”

“Torie, we have to stop.”

“No.” She shook her head, her eyes tightly closed, as though that would make his common-sense thoughts go away.

“Yes, Torie. We have to stop.”

She still pressed against him, her face to his chest. Her sigh was deep and heartfelt and he began to stroke her hair. In moments, she was asleep.

He held her there, taking in her fresh scent and her soft feel. An emotion swept through him and he wasn’t sure he knew exactly what it was—but it touched his heart. He knew that. A part of it contained a tug on his sensual responses, but there was more. He felt the warmth of affection, the strength of protectiveness, and he couldn’t stop looking at her and how pretty she was.

Still, it was all crazy. He’d been in love and it never came to anything good. It usually meant a certain type of heartbreak. It had been a good five years since he’d even chanced it, and he’d vowed never to let it happen again. So he was okay. He was protected, inoculated against the disease. He wasn’t going to worry about it.

But he was going to enjoy this. This, he could handle.

So he sat there and held her and waited for her to wake up. And he thought about his situation.

Why was he here? What exactly did he want out of all this? He wanted to save Shangri-La. That was it. He wanted his home to stay in the family. And since he was the only real Huntington left, that meant he wanted to keep it himself.

He’d tried to talk to Marge about him becoming caretaker while she went off and did what she felt she had to do, but she didn’t want to hear about it. Marge wanted money. She wanted enough cash in hand to leave the country and live on for the rest of her life. If she could get that from any of these people she had gathered here, she would be gone like a flash. And he just didn’t have that kind of a bankroll.

So what were his options? Few and far between—not to mention, weak. If the fortune-hunter crowd was right and the Don Carlos Treasure was hiding on the estate somewhere, things would be different. But he didn’t believe that for a minute. His father’s suicide note had been stark and emphatic. He thought the treasure was cursed and he wanted it at the bottom of the sea. Marc had no doubt his father had done what he said he would do.

So why was he helping Torie? Why was he letting her dream? Maybe because her dreams connected with his own in an odd way. She wanted to prove her father didn’t steal the treasure. He wanted to know what had actually happened. She wanted to clear her father, he wanted to exonerate his own. And maybe help to fix something that had haunted his family—if it could be fixed.

And that was why he wanted to help her find the journal. Who knew? There might be something written in there that could clear up a lot of questions—and put some ghosts to rest.

But that was a pretty slim thread to put his hopes on and he didn’t really expect anything even if the journal was found.

He looked down at Torie’s pretty face, her lashes making long shadows on her cheeks as she slept. He had to smile. To think that chubby little girl throwing apple cores on his car had grown up to be something like this—and possibly his only hope at getting to the truth. That made his grin wider.

Still, he wasn’t sure about her. There was a huge element of distrust in his gnarled soul. He’d been lied to one too many times. He didn’t trust anyone and, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit she hadn’t proved herself at all. She’d just become so appealing to him that he was willing to give her a pass—for now.

Wasn’t that it?

CHAPTER NINE

TORIE was somewhat surprised to wake up alone in the back seat of an ancient luxury car, but she stretched and yawned and smiled. She was still a little fuzzy in the head, but she knew that something good had happened. And then she remembered what it was and she sat up straighter and sighed happily. Now the only problem would be if Marc regretted it.

She wondered where he was, but then she heard someone rummaging around in the storage room at the end of the hall and she assumed it was him. She sighed. There wasn’t much point in sitting here waiting for him to come back as though she was hoping for a rerun. Something told her that wasn’t going to happen.

She ran her fingers over the leather seat and turned to look at the beautiful dashboard with its hand-rubbed mahogany trim. They just didn’t make them like this anymore. There was even a long shelf just under the dashboard, running the width of the car. Ladies probably stored their long kid gloves there after the party was over. She smiled at the thought, and then her gaze sharpened. There was something pushed far back into the shelf. You could hardly see it but when she bent low, she could just make it out. It looked like a small notebook of some kind. Maybe the sort of thing people wrote their mileage down in. Or...

Her heart began to beat like crazy and her breath choked in her throat. A journal? Her father’s journal? She pushed forward to the front seat and leaned to reach for it. And at just that moment, Marc came back into the room.

“Hey sleepyhead,” he said, carrying a couple of cans of car wax in and stowing them away on a shelf.

She jerked back, pulling her hand in and turning scarlet. “Oh, uh...hi.”

He grinned at her, probably thinking her pink cheeks were the result of her thinking about the snuggle they’d shared. But that was just as well, because she suddenly realized she wasn’t going to tell him what she’d just seen. If it turned out to be the journal, she wanted a little time to see what it had in it. Who knew what sorts of things her father might reveal in something like that?

“Find something?” he asked curiously.

“No. No.” She shook her head and tried to smile.

“I’ve been out looking through the shelves.” He gestured toward the storage room. “I didn’t find anything either.”

She gazed at him out the car window. “Thanks for letting me take a little nap,” she said cheerfully. “I hate to be a girl who can’t hold her liquor, but better to sleep than to do something crazy.”

He grinned again. “Oh, I don’t know. Crazy can be good too.”

She gave him a look and laughed, and he turned back to the storage room, disappearing in through the door.

She reached out quickly and grabbed the little notebook, and then her hands began to tremble.

Her father’s little leather journal. His name was embossed on the front cover in gold—Jarvis Sands. And inside was the handwriting she knew so well. She flipped through it quickly. There was someone else’s handwriting on the last few pages. She only had to read a couple of lines to realize it had to be Marc’s father who had added his thoughts.

But Marc was coming back. She could hear him approaching the doorway. Quickly, she closed the journal and jammed it down deep into the back pocket of her jeans.

She had the grace to flush again as he came out and smiled at her. The guilt made her look and feel nervous. But he would just think she was still shaky over what they had shared. She wasn’t going to show the journal to him until she knew for sure what it revealed. She just couldn’t see any way around it.

A few minutes later, they left the car barn and walked out to the cliff that overlooked the ocean. The sun was low in the sky. The people back at the house would be preparing for dinner about now. They were going to have to decide what they were going to do.

But not yet. For now, they found a fallen tree and sat on it while they watched the sun move toward a sunset. He made no move to get closer, and she knew instinctively that he wasn’t planning to kiss her again. Did he regret doing that earlier? Who knew? It made her a little sad to think that he might. Still, there was nothing she could do about it now.

“What a beautiful view,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Think of being a local Native American in the nineteenth century and watching Spanish galleons come sliding into the harbor,” he said. “We had an archeologist doing a paper on this area one year. He found evidence that lots of ships stopped along this part of the coast. Can’t you just picture how that would have been?”

Yes, she could picture it. She’d lived her Spanish-era fantasies on her own on the beaches and in the caves from early on. Such a great place for a child to grow in.

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked hard, angry with herself for letting it get to her again. She stared out at the ocean, throwing her head back to feel the wind in her hair. She was filled with sadness and a wave of nostalgia. She’d been so happy here as a child—despite any latent insecurities. The mood in the fresh ocean air was filled with peace and a sense of well-being. Life had been like that here—right up until the day her father had been accused of stealing.

That was the dividing line. Everything had begun to fall apart on that day and it had only gotten worse since.

She’d had good times with friends and success in her job. She couldn’t claim it had been all angst and torture since her fifteenth year. But her father’s agony had been a dark cloud over her family.

His eventual suicide and her mother’s breakdown had only made things worse. She felt as though her heart and soul were restless, looking for answers, aching for closure. Could she ever find happiness without knowing? It felt to her as though that would be impossible.

Rising, she rose and walked out to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the rocks below. Then she turned to watch Marc in the gathering gloom.

“So tell me this,” she said. “What was the official story? What did you hear at the time? What do most people around here believe happened?”

He looked back at her coolly. “About what?”

Her eyes narrowed. “About when my father was fired.”

He sighed. It was pretty plain he didn’t really want to go over it. But he did.

“Okay. Here’s how I remember it. I was in premed at UCC, living with a couple of friends in an apartment off campus. It was a Sunday, late at night. My father called to tell me the Don Carlos Treasure had gone missing.”

“Wait. What were the circumstances?” Walking back, she sat beside him again. She wanted to be sure she got this right. She might never have another chance.

“Circumstances?” He shrugged and thought back. “I’m not sure.”

“Here’s what I remember,” she said. “And believe me, I’ve gone over this in my mind a thousand times. My family and I had been gone that weekend. We were up in Monterey to see the aquarium. Your father was at some geology lecture in Los Angeles and your mother was off on a trip with friends. Palm Springs or somewhere like that. Ricky was at a comic-book convention in Oregon.”

He shook his head, his gaze hooded. “I don’t remember all that, but you were there. I wasn’t.”

“That’s just it. None of us were there. When we got home, no one else was back yet. Even the rest of the staff was gone. No one else was due back until Monday morning. But about an hour later, my father went up to the house to get back to work. Even though he didn’t have to.” She almost rolled her eyes. “He always had that darn sense of responsibility toward the place—and toward your father. He wanted everything perfect for when Mr. Huntington got home.”

Marc nodded and almost smiled. “That is how I remember him. I know my father had a lot of affection for him at the time.”

She nodded too. “Your father got back unexpectedly about eight. My father went out and met him on the drive. He told him the treasure was missing. He’d gone into the library and saw that the display case was empty. He’d been searching for the last hour, in a panic, hoping someone had just moved it. Your father rushed in and they both spent rest of the evening searching.”

Marc frowned. “Didn’t they call the police?”

She shook her head. “My father came home about midnight and told us what had happened. He said Mr. Huntington didn’t want to call them until he’d talked to everyone, just to make sure someone hadn’t borrowed it and was bringing it back. He didn’t want to start a scandal.”

He stared at her. “Any idea who he had in mind?”

She held his gaze for a long moment before she answered. “No.” She sighed. “The next day, after everyone was back, the police were called. They questioned everyone. And someone accused my father.”

Marc looked at her sharply. “Just because he was the one who was alone in the house at the pertinent time?”

She hesitated. She’d run out of proven facts. Now she was going to venture into speculation. “I think someone gave them more to go on than that. Someone made some things up about my father. Someone who had a reason to need the money and might have stolen the treasure themselves.”

“Need the money,” he repeated softly. “So now you’ve got a motive.”

“Maybe.”

They were both silent for a few minutes, and then Marc spoke, his tone emotionless. “My family was having lots of money problems fifteen years ago. Did you know that?”

“I...no, not really.” To tell the truth, that shocked her.

“Mostly tax issues as I remember it. I had to work full time in college. Marge had to give up some renovation plans she had because we didn’t have the money for it. My father had some property in Hawaii and he sold that. We were scraping the bottom of the barrel for a while there.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

He considered, then turned to look into her eyes. “You don’t suspect me.”

She waved that away. “Of course not.”

“Or my father.”

“No.”

“Or the cook, or Griswold, or any of the staff.”

She shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be any backing to suspect any of them.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ricky?”

“Ricky?” She was shocked at the thought. “No, of course not.”

He knew the name of the person she suspected, but he set that aside. “What about a random theft? A burglar? Someone from the village?”

She shrugged. “Always a possibility.”

He nodded. “And then there’s the obvious one.” He took a deep breath before he said it. “How about your father?”

She winced. “That was what they decided. A few days later, they arrested him. They took him up to the county detention center.” Her voice trembled as she remembered. “It was horrible.”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath, wishing she could blot out the memories of that time. “He claimed innocence. My mother fell apart. I had to withdraw from my school and stay home to take care of her.” She shook her head, holding it together. “I don’t think she ever recovered. Not really.”

“I’m sorry, Torie.” He looked at her, then away, raking fingers through his thick hair. “I feel a bit cut off from all this. I wasn’t there, didn’t know all the details. I wish I’d been more involved.”

She threw out her hands, palms up. “You were away at school. You couldn’t help it.”

“The next thing I heard,” he said, “was that the treasure had been found buried in the caves. Right where the Spaniards had put it in the beginning.” He shook his head. “Seems odd, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” She tried to steady her voice. “There still was no hard proof my father was involved. The police found the treasure, and he was released right after that. But...” She shrugged helplessly. “He was fired anyway. And still under a cloud.”

Marc grimaced and looked out toward the ocean.

“You’d think once the treasure was found, they could have at least given him a chance,” she murmured.

“Be realistic, Torie,” he said a bit firmly. Then he seemed to regret his tone. He turned toward her. “Actually, my father considered your father a good friend as well as the best butler he ever had. I’m sure he tried to find a way to keep him on. I think there were others who counseled that he had to go.”

Her voice hardened. “You mean Marge.”

He hesitated, then coughed and looked away. “When it came to Marge, I’m afraid my father didn’t seem to have much of a defense on anything.”

She took a deep breath, knowing she was going to sound bitter, but determined to let it out anyway. “So because he couldn’t stand up to Marge, we were thrown like refugees into the street.”

His head went back and he frowned at her, but he tried to keep his tone light. “Hardly. I’m sure you drove off in a car.”

She shook her head. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, and I know it was painful. Unfair, too. But things in life are often unfair. Most people find a way to get over them.”

She glared at him. She knew what he was saying was true, and his manner wasn’t cold or lacking compassion, but these hard truths weren’t what she wanted to hear right now.

“What else?” she asked shortly. “What did your father ever tell you about it all? What did he say about my father?”

Marc thought that one over for a few minutes, then raised his head and looked at her.

“My father didn’t say anything about it when I came home that year. It was sort of the big unmentionable. Everyone tiptoed around it.”

“Oh.”

That obviously wasn’t going to satisfy her. He sighed, threw her a rueful smile and dug a bit deeper.

“It wasn’t until about a year later, when Ricky died that he talked to me about it. It was the night after the funeral. He’d had too much to drink and he couldn’t stop crying. Neither could I. It was...pretty awful that night. But at one point, he started talking about the treasure. He said that maybe we should have left it in the caves in the first place. Maybe fate—or the ghost of Don Carlos—had tried to put it back where it belonged.”

She shook her head. “I wish I could buy that.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her sideways. “At that point he had the treasure in a safety deposit box at the bank. No more display in the library case.”

She nodded. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yes.” He sighed and stretched out his arms. The sun was almost gone and it was starting to get cold. “Actually, he blamed all our troubles on that bag of gold. He thought it seemed like a curse on the family. Like nothing good had happened since the treasure was found and brought into the house.” He glanced her way. “He went through the list. My mother dying. His marriage to Marge. The financial ruin he was facing. Having to fire your father. And then, Ricky.”

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