Michelle Major – A Fortune In Waiting (страница 2)
Now that he knew that man was Gerald Robinson, the ridiculously successful and wealthy technology mogul, he was more determined than ever to prove that he’d been better off never knowing his father as a boy.
“You were the one he hurt,” he answered. “Gerald Robinson is nothing to me. I don’t have a thing to prove to that man.”
He said the words with conviction, even though he and his mother both knew they were a lie.
Anita placed a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. “You’ll do well in America,” she murmured, “and I know it will be lovely to visit with the other Fortunes again.”
Keaton nodded. As bitter of a pill as it was to learn that Gerald, who had years ago faked his death as Jerome Fortune so that he could start a new life, was his biological father, Keaton had enjoyed getting to know his half brothers and sisters. He’d always envied his mates who came from big families, and being a part of the Fortune clan—despite his feelings for Gerald—filled a bit of the void inside him.
“You two lovelies had better get seated,” a voice called from the hallway that led to the flat’s kitchen, “Or you’re going to miss the whole of the Christmas feast.”
Keaton took a breath and smiled, watching his mother do the same. Lydia Miles, one of Anita’s close-knit circle of friends, beckoned to them.
Keaton might not have had a large family growing up, but he’d never lacked for love. His mother had cultivated a group of women, her own little village of mother hens, and Keaton had been at the center of their sweetly smothering love and attention.
As he followed his mother into the kitchen, he was accosted on all sides by this brigade of pseudo-mums. They kissed and hugged and pinched his cheek as if, at six foot two, he didn’t tower above the lot of them.
“I’ve made your favorite pudding,” Mary Jane told him.
“And I’ve brought prawns,” Lydia added.
Not to be outdone, Jessa held a plate under his nose. “Don’t forget my pigs in a blanket.”
Keaton laughed and plucked one of the bacon-wrapped sausages off the tray. “I’m going to need to loosen my belt a notch after this dinner,” he said and popped it into his mouth.
“Ah, dearie,” Lydia said, patting him on the shoulder. “Word on the street is you have plenty of notches to go around.”
Keaton promptly choked on the sausage, and the women gathered even closer to take turns gently slapping him on the back.
“Give him some room,” Anita shouted with a laugh. The other women backed away and his real mother handed him a glass of water.
“There are no notches on my belt,” he muttered, clearing his throat.
His mother raised a brow.
“At least not recently,” he amended.
Ever since discovering that Gerald might have a whole passel of illegitimate Fortunes from various dalliances with women over the years, Keaton had curbed his own dating life until it was nonexistent. He was careful with women—both their hearts and in the bedroom—and had remained friends with almost all of his ex-girlfriends. But he still wanted there to be no mistaking the fact that he was nothing like his womanizing father.
Part of why he’d taken the position with the firm in Austin was to work with his half brother Ben on tracking down other children sired by Gerald. Keaton was determined to make it clear that he hadn’t inherited the “ship in every port” tendency of the elder Robinson.
“Sit down,” his mother said, pushing him into a chair at the head of the table. “We can talk about your plans to settle down while we eat.”
“I have no plans to settle down,” he argued, earning a round of reprimanding tsks from the other women. “Sorry, ladies.” He grabbed the wineglass that sat to one side of his plate and took a fortifying gulp. “I’m focused on work right now.”
“Work doesn’t warm you under the covers on a cold winter night,” Lydia mused.
“And you’re such a lovely chap.” Mary Jane beamed at him.
Jessa nodded. “A true catch, Keaton. That’s what you are. And those of us who love and adore you aren’t getting any younger.”
Although he had a feeling he’d regret it, he asked, “Why would you need to get younger?”
His mother dropped into the chair next to him and took his hand. “We love you, darling. But we want some grandbabies to spoil.”
Keaton stifled a groan and took another drink, hoping his mother had more than one bottle on the ready. This was going to be the longest Christmas night of his life.
“Y’all back away from that poor man or else his supper’s liable to get cold.”
The two waitresses who had been leaning over the counter at Lola May’s Homestyle Restaurant slowly straightened.
“Just say one more thing for us,” Emmalyn, the petite blonde, cooed.
“How about ‘I’ll have mine shaken not stirred,’” prompted the buxom redhead, whose nametag read “Brandi, with an i”—as if customers in Texas needed the clarification.
“I mean it, you two. Get going.” Lola May, owner and namesake of the diner, swatted at the two young women with the corner of a dishtowel.
“Another time, luv,” Keaton told Brandi, earning a girlish giggle as she backed away.
Lola May, who looked every bit of her sixty-plus years but had a mischievous smile that softened her hard edges, rolled her blue eyes at him. She was exactly the image he had of the type of woman who would run a casual, neighborhood diner in Austin, Texas. One part old-school cowgirl mixed with two parts aging hippie.
Her platinum blond hair, with about a half inch of gray roots, was spiked around her pixie face and each of the past three days he’d been in for dinner, her heavy eye makeup had matched her sparkling earrings. The color du jour was turquoise green and it gave her clear blue eyes an almost otherworldly look when she blinked. The lines across her forehead and fanning out from her eyes could only have been put there by years of stress and hard work.
He recognized them because they reminded him of his mother. Although Anita and Lola May on the surface had nothing in common, there was something about the diner owner that helped ease the twinges of loneliness he’d felt since arriving in Austin a week ago.
The diner was directly across the street from the site of the project he’d come to America to manage, and only a few blocks from the apartment he’d rented. It had been easy to slip into the pattern of having dinner each night at Lola May’s lime-green Formica counter.
He forced his gaze not to stray to the woman hunched over a laptop in the corner booth. That particular waitress had nothing to do with the reason he’d so quickly become a diner regular. Or so he’d been trying to convince himself for the past week.
Lola May wagged a red-tipped nail in his direction. “You’ll never get any peace if you keep charming the waitresses with that accent and your cheeky smile.”
Keaton winked at the older woman. “Well, darlin’,” he drawled in an exaggerated Texas accent, “would it make you happy if I sounded more like a local?”
“Stick to 007,” she said, barking out a laugh. “’Cause you sure ain’t no John Wayne.”
He bit back a grin when she slid a plate with a piece of apple pie onto the counter in front of him. “I don’t remember ordering that,” he argued half-heartedly.
“But you’re going to devour it as always,” she shot back then leaned closer. “You’ve ended every meal here with a slice of my pie. Trust Miss Lola May, handsome. I know what you need.”
At the word need, Keaton couldn’t help glance to the corner booth.
“Need and want are two different things, sugar,” Lola May said softly.
“Everyone flirts with me except her.”
Keaton didn’t realize he’d spoken the words out loud until Lola May chuckled. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist over Francesca,” she cautioned. “It isn’t that she doesn’t like you, but our girl gives new meaning to the phrase ‘nose to the grindstone.’”
One side of Keaton’s mouth curved as he watched the gorgeous blonde in the corner blow a wayward curl out of her face before typing furiously on her laptop’s keyboard.
Francesca. He’d heard the other waitresses call her that, and the name fit her. With her mass of golden hair, creamy skin and her lushly curved figure, Francesca looked more like a Botticelli muse than a waitress in a diner near Austin’s trendy South Congress neighborhood.
“She’s taking a full course load over at the university,” Lola May continued, “in addition to her schedule here. I don’t think she’s had a day—or even an hour—off in months.”
“Why does she take on so much?”
“That’s her story, handsome.” Lola May picked up his empty dinner plate and pushed the pie closer to him. “I’ll just tell you she’s a great little gal and deserves better than what—” She paused until Keaton glanced up at her then continued, “Or who she got stuck with in her life.”
Keaton watched as Francesca moved a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the muscles there. Well, if she needed a massage, he’d be glad to...
No.
An image of Gerald Robinson popped into his mind and he willed it away. He’d committed to a moratorium on dating during his time in Austin. It seemed easier to go cold turkey on the dating front than to have temptation constantly beckoning to him. He wasn’t going to take the chance that anyone, especially his new siblings, might confuse him with the man who’d broken his mother’s heart so many years ago.