Fortune's Mergers

Fortune’s Mergers

Merger of Fortunes

Peggy Moreland

Back in Fortune’s Bed

Bronwyn Jameson

Fortune’s Vengeful Groom

Charlene Sands

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Merger of Fortunes

About the Author

PEGGY MORELAND published her first romance in 1989, and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Peggy is winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award, and a two-time finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award. Her books frequently appear on the USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. When not writing, Peggy can usually be found outside, tending the cattle, goats and other animals on the ranch she shares with her husband. You may write to Peggy at PO Box 1099, Florence, TX 76527-1099, or e-mail her at [e-mail].

To Kathy Combs and Mary Crawford, the two saps who were left out of the book I dedicated to my college buddies. You may have been overlooked, but will never be forgotten!

One

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Case Fortune murmured in disbelief. He would’ve thought librarian-attire would be a pre-requisite for writing kids’ books. Horn-rim glasses, sensible shoes, a dress that covered chin to ankle. That kind of thing.

He glanced up at the banner that stretched from one end of the bookstore’s children’s corner to the other to make sure he was at the right place: Signing Today! Gina Reynolds, Award-Winning Author of TALES FROM TOADSVILLE.

Toadsville, he thought, swallowing a laugh. What kind of woman wrote stories about toads? A nerd, he decided, and shifted his gaze back to the woman in question.

But Gina Reynolds didn’t look like any nerd he’d ever seen before. At the moment she was perched on a child-size chair holding a book open, so the children scattered on the floor around her could see the illustrations as she read the story to them. Seated as she was, her legs appeared incredibly long, their length enhanced by the short black skirt that hit her above her knees and the black leather boots that came just short of reaching them.

Her style of dress wasn’t the only contradiction to Case’s preconceived image of Gina Reynolds. Long strawberry-blond hair framed her face and tumbled in soft waves over slender shoulders. A faint sprinkling of freckles speckled her nose. Her eyes, a stunning leaf-green, sparkled with animation as she read to the children in a voice that changed tone and depth to match the personality of the characters in the story.

Case hadn’t come to the signing expecting to find a raving beauty—and he hadn’t—yet there was something about her that encouraged a man to take a second look. Whether it was her physical attributes or her voice that demanded that second look, he wasn’t sure, but the sound of her voice had him moving to brace a shoulder against the end of a bookshelf to listen, as enthralled as the children with her storytelling skills.

When she read the last page and closed the book, the children let out a collective sigh of disappointment, then immediately began clamoring for her to read another. A woman—probably the manager of the bookstore—quickly stepped into the circle of children to intervene.

“I’m sorry, children” she said, with regret, “but that’s all the time Ms. Reynolds has to read to you today. If you’d like her to sign copies of your books, please form a line against the far wall.” She turned to smile at Gina. “I know that Ms. Reynolds will be happy to personalize each one.”

With surprising gracefulness, Gina rose and moved to sit behind the table set up for her, where stacks of her books were displayed. Children scrambled to form the requested line, which quickly stretched from one end of the store to the other.

Though irritated that he would have to wait a little longer to introduce himself, Case wasn’t giving up. He needed Gina’s assistance in bringing a merger to fruition, and wasn’t leaving until he’d at least had the opportunity to discuss it with her. Seeking an inconspicuous spot, he slipped between the aisles of books and pretended to study the titles, while waiting for the kids to clear out.

When the last kid in line turned away, Case made his move. Quickly crossing to the table, he picked up a book from the display. “Would you mind autographing one for me?” he asked.

Bent over to gather her purse from beneath the table, she glanced up, a friendly smile ready. Though her smile remained in place, it lost some of its warmth when her gaze met his—and that surprised him. He didn’t know her and was sure that she didn’t know him, yet it was definitely dislike—or, at the very least, disapproval—that darkened her eyes.

Straightening, she accepted the book and laid it on the table in front of her. “And who would you like it inscribed to?” she asked as she flipped open the front cover.

“Case Fortune.”

She glanced up in surprise. “You?”

“Is that a problem?”

Blushing, she quickly shook her head. “Of course not. It’s just that … well, you’re the first adult male who’s ever requested an autographed book.”

He shot her a wink. “I’ve always prided myself on being ahead of the curve.”

Instead of the smile he’d thought his teasing comment would draw, he received a frown.

Bending her head over the open book, she scrawled an inscription, then closed the cover and handed it to him. “You pay the clerk at the register,” she informed him curtly and reached for her purse again.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

Before he could get to the real reason for his visit, the manager called from behind the checkout counter, “Ms. Reynolds? I’d like to speak with you before you leave.”

“I’ll be right there,” she replied, then rose and said to Case, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Irritated by the obvious brush-off, Case pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and followed her to the front of the store. He tossed a credit card on the counter, but kept an ear cocked to the conversation transpiring between Gina and the manager, and overheard the woman congratulate Gina on receiving the Newbury Award. While he continued to listen, he noticed a photo on the wall behind the register of the woman with Gina. The plaque beneath it read “Susan Meyer, Manager.”

After signing the credit slip and accepting his autographed book, he approached the two women.

“Ms. Meyer?” he asked hesitantly.

She glanced his way. “Yes. May I help you?”

He extended his hand. “Case Fortune.”

Her eyes shot wide at the Fortune name. “Oh, Mr. Fortune,” she gushed and pumped the offered hand enthusiastically. “It’s an honor to have you in our store.”

“The honor’s mine,” he said humbly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing you say that Ms. Reynolds won the Newbury Medal. I’m not familiar with that award. Is it a prestigious one?”

She pressed a hand over her heart. “Oh my, yes! The American Library Association presents it to the author they feel has made the greatest contribution to American literature for children.” She angled her head to smile fondly at Gina. “And this year they’ve chosen our Gina. We’re all so proud of her accomplishment.”

“I should think so,” he agreed, then turned his attention fully on Gina. “I suppose you’ve been swamped with parties celebrating your success.”

Color seeped into her cheeks. “Well, no. Not exactly.”

“An oversight I hope you will allow me to rectify by permitting me to take you out for cocktails.”

Her face went slack. “Cocktails?”

“It seems appropriate.”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t. I appreciate the invitation, I do, but I need to stay and help Susan clean up from the booksigning.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Susan fussed. “You’re our guest. My staff and I will put everything away.” She pushed out her hands, shooing the two toward the store’s entrance. “Go and celebrate,” she ordered Gina. “It’s not everyday you have the opportunity to toast your success with such a handsome man.”

Henri’s, the restaurant Case had chosen for Gina’s celebration, was not only located near the bookstore, it was reputed to be one of the finest in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. During the weekday, businessmen crowded the interior, networking while partaking in the infamous two-martini-lunch. In the evenings, it was no less busy, as many of those same businessmen returned to entertain their clients, plying them with pepper-crusted tenderloin or smoked salmon—Henri’s signature entrees—accompanied with select wines from Henri’s wine cellar. Friday and Saturday nights a different atmosphere prevailed, one created for couples seeking a quiet, romantic dinner. Gina knew this because her father had often brought her mother to Henri’s on Saturday nights, a ploy he’d used to charm his way back into her good graces, after having ignored her all week. Many of his cronies did the same.

She stole a glance at Case, wondering if he used Henri’s for that purpose. He wasn’t married, thus had no wife to placate, but he had plenty of lady friends who might feel similarly slighted. She was aware of his bachelor status, as a week rarely passed that his picture didn’t appear in the newspaper’s society section, with a different woman on his arm each time. Trophy dates, eye candy. Whatever a person termed his choice in women, the man obviously didn’t lack for female companionship.

So why had he insisted upon taking her out for cocktails? she asked herself, studying him beneath her lashes. She didn’t believe for a minute that it was because he wanted to toast her success. Men like Case Fortune did nothing that didn’t benefit themselves in some way and he had nothing to gain from her winning an award.

Frowning, she continued to scrutinize him as he and the waiter went through the opening-the-champagne-bottle ritual. She hated to admit it, but he was better looking in person than in the photos she’d seen of him in the papers. Razor-cut, dark-brown hair; finely chiseled features. The leather jacket he’d draped over the back of his chair looked Italian, as did his tailored dress shirt. Probably were, she thought with more than a little resentment. He had the money, the style to wear whatever he wanted. Why settle for anything less than the best? Her father certainly never had.

The reminder of her father was enough to have her glancing at her wristwatch, wondering how long she’d have to stay before she could make a graceful exit. Five minutes? Ten?

“Your champagne, madam.”

Startled, she glanced up to find the waiter offering her a flute of champagne. She forced a smile for his benefit and accepted the glass—all the while silently cursing the bookstore manager. With Susan all but pushing her out the door, there was no way she could’ve refused Case’s invitation without appearing rude and ungrateful.

“To many more Newburys in your future.”

She looked up to find that Case had his flute lifted in a toast. Murmuring a polite, “thank you,” she took a cautious sip of champagne. She didn’t particularly care for the bubbly beverage. It was her father’s signature drink, reason enough for her to dislike it.

She shuddered at yet another reminder of her father and set the glass down, knowing Case was the one responsible for bringing him to mind.

He looked at her in concern. “If you don’t care for the champagne, I can ask the waiter to bring you something else.”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m really not much of a drinker.”

He nodded, then his expression turned curious. “You know, I’m surprised we haven’t met before. Living in the same town, and all, you’d think our paths would have crossed at some point.”

She lifted a shoulder. “No surprise, really. I went away to boarding school and college, and only returned to Sioux Falls a couple of years ago.”

“I guess that explains it,” he said, then smiled. “I do know your father, though. In fact, I’m one of his biggest fans. He’s built Reynolds Refining into a force to be dealt with in the world marketplace. His company is both well managed and financially sound, which says a lot in today’s economy.”

Bored with the conversation, she looked away. “I wouldn’t know,” she said vaguely.

“You don’t stay abreast of your father’s business?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Rather than answer, she glanced at her watch again. “I really should go.”

He lifted a brow in surprise. “But we haven’t finished our champagne yet.”

She laid her napkin on the table and gathered her coat. “Like I said, I’m not much of a drinker.”

Bracing his arms on the table, he leaned to peer at her intently. “I get the distinct impression that you don’t like me.”

Embarrassed that she hadn’t concealed her feelings better, she avoided his gaze as she pushed her arms through her coat sleeves. “Not you personally,” she said uneasily. “Men like you.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

Annoyed that he wouldn’t let the subject drop, she grabbed her purse. “I really do need to go. Thank you for the champagne.”

He placed a hand over hers, stopping her.

“I’d like to see you again.”

His eyes were an incredible blue and fixed on hers with an intensity that she found difficult to look away from. “I-I don’t go out much. My work takes most of my time.”

“You have to eat, don’t you?”

“I usually have my meals at my desk.”

“May I at least call?”

She panicked for a moment, unable to think of a polite way to refuse, then rose, dragging her hand from his. “Sure,” she said, and forced a smile. “Thanks again for the champagne.”

Before he could say anything more to delay her, she turned and strode away.

Case Fortune wouldn’t be calling her, she thought smugly. He couldn’t.

Her phone number was unlisted.

“Have you made any progress with the Reynolds merger?”

Case reared back in his desk chair, stifling a sigh, as his brother Creed took a seat opposite his desk. Although he would’ve preferred his brother hadn’t brought up what was turning out to be a sore subject with him, he couldn’t really blame him for asking. It was Dakota Fortunes’ money that was tied up in the purchase, and as co-President, a position he shared with Case, Creed had as large a stake as Case in the merger’s outcome.

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I’m working on it.”

Creed swore under his breath. “Dammit, Case. Do I need to remind you how much we’ve got riding on this merger?”

“I’m fully aware of what our investment. Can I help it if Reynolds has gone soft on the deal?”

Creed rose to pace, dragging a hand over his hair. “Surely there’s a way to force his hand.”

“I’m working on the daughter. She’s the cog in the wheel. Reynolds has decided to leave the company to her, instead of selling it to us, as he’d agreed.”

Creed stopped to peer at Case. “Daughter? I didn’t know Curtis had any kids.”

“Neither did I, until he told me he’d changed his mind about selling to us.”

“Does she have any business experience?”

Case snorted a laugh. “Hardly. She’s an author. Children’s books, no less. As far as I can tell, she has no interest in the company at all.”

“Then why does Reynolds want to leave it her? You know as well as I do how volatile the oil and gas industry can be. If she gets hold of the refinery, she’ll bankrupt it in a month.”

Case scowled, having already considered the probability. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” He opened his hands. “But what can I do? Reynolds has decided he wants to leave it to her as a legacy of sorts.”

“You’re going to have to force his hand. Make him go through with the merger.”

“I’m working on that,” Case assured him. “The daughter’s the key. It’s just a matter of persuading her to convince her old man that she doesn’t want the company.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

Case folded his hands behind his head, his expression cocky. “Don’t worry, little brother. I know how to handle women.”

Creed rolled his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said, and turned for the door. “For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to.”

When the door closed behind Creed, Case dropped his hands and frowned, the confident act no longer necessary. The truth was, he’d been blowing smoke when he’d told his brother he could handle women—at least, this particular woman.

How the hell was he going to persuade Reynolds’ daughter to help him, when he couldn’t even talk to her? he asked himself. The woman had outfoxed him. A nerdy writer of children’s books had duped Case Fortune, a world-class negotiator.

He huffed a breath, as he recalled the innocent smile Gina had offered him when she’d given him permission to call. Hell, the woman had known damn good and well he wouldn’t be able to call. Not when her phone number was unlisted.

Getting her number wouldn’t be all that hard, he reminded himself. A few calls to the right people and he’d have the number quickly enough. But he couldn’t chance obtaining it that way. The minute she heard his voice, she’d know he’d acquired her number by dubious means, which would give her even more reason to dislike him.

And she disliked him enough as it was. Or, rather, men like him, he remembered her saying. And what the hell did that mean, anyway? he asked himself in frustration. What kind of man did she think he was? Some kind of pervert?

He gave himself a shake. Didn’t matter what kind of man she thought he was, it was obviously the wrong kind, and it was up to him to convince her differently.

But how?

A smile slowly spread across his face, the answer so obvious he was amazed he hadn’t thought of it before. Stretching out a hand, he punched the intercom for his secretary.

“Yes, Mr. Fortune?”

“Marcia, call the florist and order three dozen yellow roses to be delivered to Gina Reynolds.”

“Is her name in your personal or business database?”

“Neither. She’s Curtis’ daughter. You may have to dig a little to find her address. Have someone in legal check the county tax records. I’m sure she’s listed there.”

“Will do. How do you want the card signed?”

He considered a moment, then bit back a smile. “Toad lover.”

“Excuse me?”

“Toad Lover,” he repeated. “T-O-A-D. I assume you know how to spell lover.”

“Uh, yes, sir, I do.”

“And ask the florist if they can find a container shaped like a toad to put the roses in. Preferably crystal or silver.”

“Whatever you say,” she said, sounding doubtful. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. More like war.”

The first time the doorbell rang, Gina ignored it. Perched on a stool before her drafting table, she was riding a creative wave, the images in her mind all but flowing off the end of her pencil. If she stopped now, the images might vaporize before she had the opportunity to commit them to paper.

The doorbell rang a second time and she hunched her shoulders against the intrusive sound, trying to block it out. The third time, she muttered an oath and slapped the pencil down. Prepared to hang and quarter the person who dared interrupt her work, she marched to the front door of her loft. Mindful of “safety first,” she rose to her toes to peer through the peep hole.

And saw roses. Yellow roses. What appeared to be a field of them. Curious, she swung open the door and fell back a step, clapping a hand over her heart. “Oh, my word,” she breathed, stunned by the sheer size of the arrangement that greeted her.

“Delivery for Ms. Gina Reynolds.”

The male voice came from behind the roses and obviously belonged to the person holding them.

She strained to peer through the blooms. “I’m Gina.”

“Where would you like me to put these?”

“I’ll take them,” she offered stretching out her hands.

She shifted left and right, down and up, searching for something to grip, but finally gave up.

“Maybe you better bring them inside,” she conceded. “Hang on a minute and I’ll guide you.”

Stepping out into the hallway, she positioned herself behind the delivery boy and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Straight ahead,” she instructed, then warned, “Careful. There’s a large support column on your left. Good,” she praised as he shifted slightly to the right and avoided bumping into it. “My dining table is directly in front of you. You can set the arrangement there.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, the young man deposited the roses on the table, then pulled an invoice from his pocket. “Sign here,” he said, pointing.

“Who are they from?” she asked curiously, scrawling her name.

The boy tucked the invoice back into his pocket. “Beats me. There’s probably a card in there some place. Usually is. If not, you can call the shop. Somebody there will probably know.”

Nodding, she drew a five dollar bill from her purse. “Thank you,” she said. She handed him the tip, then eyed the arrangement dubiously and added, “I think.”

After locking the door behind the delivery boy, she returned to the dining table and began searching for a card. Not finding one among the blooms, she squatted down to see if it was attached to the vase.

“Oh, my gosh,” she cried, when she found herself staring into the jeweled eyes of a silver toad. Charmed by the intricately crafted creature, she spied the card and removed it, sure that she’d find her agent’s name there, along with his congratulations on her receiving the Newbury Award.

“Toad Lover?” she read with a frown, straightening. She turned the card over and read the neatly typed message “Call me. 555-9436.”

Not recognizing the number, she picked up the phone and punched in the digits. She listened to three rings, then heard the click of an answering machine engaging.

“This is Case. Leave a message at the tone.”

She clutched the receiver to her ear, too stunned to move. The tone sounded and she fumbled the phone, in her haste to disconnect the call.

Case sent her flowers? she thought in dismay. And yellow roses, no less, her absolute favorite. How had he known? And the silver toad vase … it was adorable, perfect. She collected toads in every shape and form.

But why would Case send her flowers?

“Doesn’t matter,” she told herself sternly. Whatever his reason, she wasn’t interested. Not in him. Not in the roses. Not in the adorable silver toad he’d chosen to send them in. She was tossing it all out. She wasn’t keeping a gift from Case Fortune.

She stooped to gather the arrangement into her arms and moaned pitifully when she found herself looking into the jeweled eyes of the silver toad. How could she throw away a toad? It would be like tossing out a friend.

Straightening, she snatched up the card and tore it into little pieces. She might keep the arrangement, but she wasn’t calling him. She didn’t care how much she liked yellow roses or how adorable she thought the silver toad vase, she was not calling Case Fortune. Not even to say thanks. Emily Post might have a heart attack over the slight, but etiquette be damned. Gina wasn’t calling Case, nor was she sending a polite note of thanks.