The Pregnant Heiress

“I…I don’t know.” It was a frightening thought. Would Steven be so determined to find her that he would break into Flynn’s office to learn where she was? “He might.”

“Hmm.” His eyes looked very green, very sharp. “Well, I’ll make sure he can’t learn anything from me, even if he is stupid enough to search my office. Since you’re staying with your mother, your name shouldn’t be out where he can find it, like on utility bills. Have you used your social security number at all?”

She shook her head. “Steven used to talk to me about how he tracked people down, so I know better than to do that.” She tried for a smile, but it wobbled. “Which has made finding a job rather difficult.”

“A job?” He drew those thick eyebrows together. “Why in the hell would you be looking for a job? You’re seven months’ pregnant.”

“You do have a talent for stating the obvious.”

“You don’t need money. Miranda is more than willing to take care of you, and the Lord knows she can afford it.”

“I don’t want or need to be taken care of! Good grief, I’ve been on my own since I turned eighteen.” Before that, really, but that’s when she legally took custody of herself.

“Yeah, but you’re broke, out of work and unable to even look for a job because of your psycho boyfriend. You’ve got a baby to think of. I’d say you could use a little help.”

He made her feel small. Small and helpless and incompetent, and she couldn’t stand it. “If you call him my boyfriend again, I swear I’m going to—to—”

“Hit me?” For some stupid, male reason, that amused him. His eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Okay. Have at it.”

“I don’t like violence.” She turned away.

At least he didn’t grab her this time. And she was not the least bit disappointed that he let her go so easily, either.

Emma headed for the dining room, where an array of snacks and desserts had been laid out. At the moment, the room was empty, which was even more appealing than the chocolate raspberry cake.

Well…almost as appealing. She picked up one of the small dessert plates and cut a nice, big slice. Then she stood there and scowled at the piece of cake she’d slid onto her plate.

How dare Flynn Sinclair imply that she couldn’t take care of herself? She’d been on her own for years and years. Maybe the mess with Steven had changed things some. Maybe she had to accept a little help right now. Nothing had changed permanently, she assured herself as she loaded her fork with chocolate cake dripping with raspberry sauce.

Steven would give up eventually. She’d get a job and a place of her own, maybe even here in San Antonio. She’d have her baby, and…

And then she wouldn’t really be on her own anymore, would she?

Emma smiled and rubbed her tummy. Anita, or maybe Adam, was turning somersaults. No, she wouldn’t be on her own anymore. She and her baby would be on their own—together.

It was a lovely thought.

She took a big, gooey bite. The cake was wonderful. And she was going to do just fine. Steven couldn’t find her here. Good as he was, he wasn’t Superman or 007. And Flynn, aggravating as he might be, was no fool. He’d make sure there was nothing in his office that gave her whereabouts away. Just in case.

“Emma,” a woman said from behind her. “Emma Fortune?”

Her name was not Fortune. It was Michaels. Michaels was a perfectly good name, even if it had come from some list kept by a social worker. But whoever was calling her no doubt meant well, so she mustered a smile as she turned, plate in hand.

A flash went off in her face. “What the—”

“How does it feel to get rich overnight?” that voice asked. “What was your first thought when you found out you were a Fortune?”

She blinked, the dazzlement fading to reveal a tall, skinny woman with short black hair, a short black skirt and a tight black top. And a camera. “Who are you?”

The woman grinned. “The person who’s about to give you your five minutes of fame, honey. Natalie Bernstein, of the Texas Tattler.”

Two

Ten days later

The light turned red just in time to make Flynn stomp on the brakes. He pulled to a stop, drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glanced at the tabloid newspaper lying on the seat beside him.

Dammit to hell. The photo on the front page wasn’t flattering, but it was recognizable. No one who’d ever seen that smile would fail to recognize Emma.

And just in case they had some doubts, the fool reporter had printed her name right beneath it. Oh, they’d called her “Emma Fortune” instead of Michaels, but that wasn’t going to do anything more than irritate her. It sure wouldn’t fool the scumbag she’d been engaged to. And the cutesy little rags-to-riches story that went with the photo identified Flynn and gave enough information for a sixth grader to find her.

Steven Shaw wasn’t a sixth-grader. He was a pro.

The light changed. Flynn pulled away quickly.

Take it easy, he told himself as he turned off into the entry to the exclusive Kingston Estates, a gated community where Miranda’s villa was located. Even if Shaw saw that tabloid the minute it hit the stands, he couldn’t get here this fast. But the sense of urgency riding him wouldn’t let up. He slowed, flashed his ID at the man at the gate, then accelerated smoothly.

It was his fault. If he’d stayed with her at the party, he could have gotten that camera away from the party-crashing reporter. If he’d followed his instincts and talked to Ryan before the party instead of waiting until he’d talked to Emma, the reporter would never have gotten in. Ryan would have seen to that.

Of course, Emma could have prevented the whole mess, too, by telling her uncle what was going on—if she weren’t so blasted pigheaded.

When Flynn pulled up in front of the townhome, Emma’s battered Ford was in the driveway. So was an Explorer.

Looked like Kane Fortune was here, too. Good. Flynn slammed the door to his Jeep and stalked up to the steps to the front door.

Miranda opened it herself. She was wearing a long blue robe that zipped up the front, her hair and makeup neatly fixed. She blinked when she saw him.

“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need to see Emma.”

“I’m sorry. Do come in.” She held the door wider and stepped back. “We’re all in the breakfast room. Would you like to join us? There are muffins left, and I think some eggs, too.”

“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.” The poor lady’s fingers were nervously pleating the blue silk of her robe. Flynn did his best to look reassuring. “I imagine you can guess why I’m here.”

She nodded jerkily. “The picture.”

“Yeah.”

“Emma thinks she has to leave. To just—take off. I hope you’ll help me convince her the situation isn’t that serious.”

Either Miranda was living in a fantasy world, or Emma hadn’t leveled with her. “Even if Shaw doesn’t read the tabloids himself, odds are that someone he knows does. All it takes is for one person to mention it to him.”

Her lips tightened. Without another word, she turned and led the way down a short hall.

The breakfast room was a small, sunny place. Lots of wood, painted white; lots of undraped windows with frilly things at the tops. The cushions on the chairs were green and yellow, and matched the frilly things at the windows.

Kane sat at the white table. The plate in front of him held only crumbs. He looked up when Flynn entered, his level gaze unsurprised. “You’ve seen that damned picture, I guess.”

Flynn nodded. He was looking at the other occupant of the room, who was wearing a red cotton nightgown that buttoned up to the neck. Emma’s plate held a dismembered muffin and some scrambled eggs she’d stirred around. Her hair looked like she’d stuck her head in a blender.