The Spanish Millionaire's Runaway Bride. SUSAN MEIER
at the expense of others. When I turned and ran, I lost the girl who would never in a million years hurt another person. So, no. I don’t feel better. I may never feel better again.”
* * *
The next morning, he brought breakfast sandwiches to her room. Morgan suspected that was to keep her moving, but he need not have worried. She didn’t intend to slow him down. She wanted him to trust her again. When they reached the point in the highway when one simple turn would take them to Chicago, she wanted him to be willing to take it.
“Can I help with your suitcase?”
A week ago, she wouldn’t have minded a man being deferential to her. Now? She just wanted to do things herself. To be herself. But she wouldn’t argue something so stupid and risk alienating him. She let him wheel her bag out to the parking lot.
When they had settled in the car, she pointed up the road. “I see a few stores along there. Do you want to drive over and get a pair of jeans? Maybe a clean shirt or two?”
He laughed. “Do I smell bad? Or are you prolonging the trip?”
“Neither.” She pulled in a breath. There was no time like the present to start the campaign to get him on her side. “As I told you last night, I’m normally a very considerate person. Now that the shock is wearing off, part of the real me must be coming back.”
He glanced over. “I get that.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I thought about what you’d said about how you felt when you bolted, and I realized there probably isn’t a person in the world who doesn’t understand the feeling of suffocating when you’re with someone who always has to have their own way.”
Though he didn’t know that her dad was really the one suffocating her, she smiled. “Thank you.”
The conversation died as he drove them to one of the big-box stores. As they got out of the convertible and headed for the door, she realized she was okay in her jeans and canvas tennis shoes, but in his expensive white shirt and black trousers he looked like he’d just stepped off the Las Vegas strip—at one of the better hotels. People were going to stare.
The automatic doors opened as they approached. When they walked inside, he got a cart.
She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
“I need clothes for three or four days.” He nodded at his shiny handmade Italian loafers. “I’m not wearing these anymore. I want tennis shoes. Even with two of us to carry things, there’ll be too much for us to tote around.”
“I’m not talking about the clothes. What are you doing being so familiar with a shopping cart at a retail store?”
He laughed. “I came to this country a few years ago. And I’ve been exploring ever since. I don’t shop at stores like this often but I’ve investigated them.”
It was a real struggle not to laugh, then she wondered why. If she moved to Spain, she’d probably investigate things, too. At least she hoped she would. Lately, she was beginning to realize she didn’t know herself at all. Oh, she knew she was kind, a decent human being. But she’d taken a job at her dad’s vineyard that wasn’t even remotely challenging. She’d let it blow by her that her dad had thrown her and Charles together. And she’d been complacent with Charles. Where was the little girl who’d wanted her life to be an adventure?
She didn’t even have to wait for the answer to pop into her head. That little girl had grown up and realized she had only one parent and if she displeased him she’d be all alone.
That was really the bottom line to her battle. Her dad was her only family. She loved him and didn’t want to fight or argue. But she was an adult now, not a little girl, and she couldn’t let him go on telling her what to do and how to do it. She had to take her life back.
Still, her dad was a brilliant, powerful man, accustomed to getting his own way. Could she make him see he was suffocating her? And if she did, would he stop? Could he stop?
Or was the real solution to her problem to leave? Permanently. Pack her bags. Get an apartment. And never see him again.
The thought shot pain through her.
That’s why she needed the few days. To adjust to the fact that the conversation she needed to have with her dad just might be their last.
* * *
Riccardo recognized that his familiarity with the store totally puzzled Morgan, but within minutes he was preoccupied with getting himself enough clothes for what would probably be another four days on the road.
They returned to the rental car, drove back to the highway and were on the road for six hours before they stopped to get a late lunch. They drove and drove and drove until afternoon became evening and evening became night and—honestly—his backside hurt.
“I think we should stop for the night.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
“I thought I’d shower and put on clean clothes, then we could get something to eat.”
“Sure.”
Her one-word answer didn’t annoy him. It simply made him feel funny. After almost two days together, hearing bits and pieces of some of the most emotional, wrenching parts of her life, it seemed weird that she was back to behaving as if they were strangers. It was good that she was no longer calling him her jailer, but he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. He’d thought through her scenario—her dad grooming her fiancé and her fiancé being clueless—and nothing about that screamed running away and needing almost two weeks to get your head straight before you could go home.
Something bigger troubled her.
Except for the times they’d found radio stations, the inside of the car had been silent. She’d had plenty of time to confide in him. But she hadn’t.
When they reached another hotel chain at a stop just off the highway, they got out of the car, registered and went to their rooms.
Showering, he told himself that it was stupid, maybe foolish, to want to hear her full story. Once he dropped her off at her father’s vineyard, he’d probably never see her again. At the same time, he thought it was cruel to put her in a car and drive her home, and then not say anything to her beyond “where do you want to eat?” If they’d flown, they could have stayed silent for the hours it would have taken to get to Monroe Vineyards. But driving was a whole different story. The long days of nothing but static-laced music or the whine of tires should be making her crazy enough to talk if only to fill the void, but she kept silent.
He stepped out of the bathroom and put on a pair of his new jeans, a big T-shirt and tennis shoes. They had dinner at the diner beside the hotel, where she focused on eating her salad, not talking, then he went back to his room and fell into a deep, wonderful sleep. He woke refreshed, took another shower, put on clean clothes again and firmly decided Morgan’s life was her life. Her decisions were hers to make. He wasn’t going to ask her about either.
Just as he was about to pick up his wallet and the rental car keys, his phone rang.
He looked at the caller ID and saw it was Colonel Monroe.
He clicked to answer. “Good morning, Colonel.”
“I’d expected to hear from you yesterday.”
“Things weren’t exactly cut-and-dried with your daughter.”
The Colonel sighed heavily. “What did she do?”
Not about to admit how easily she’d duped him, Riccardo turned the conversation in a different direction. “You know she bolted from her wedding for a reason.”
“What reason? Seriously? What could be important enough that she’d humiliate herself that way?”
He’d never thought of the fact that a runaway bride humiliated herself.