Fortune's Prince. Allison Leigh
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It was his.
“You’re a freaking idiot,” he muttered to himself as he crossed the room and yanked the white sheets that were twisted and tangled and as much off the bed as they were on into some semblance of order. He’d have changed the sheets if he owned more than one set.
Once she was gone, he’d have to burn the damn things and buy different ones. For that matter, he might as well replace the whole bed. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since learning she’d gotten engaged to that other guy within hours of leaving his arms. He was pretty sure that sleeping was only going to get harder from here on out.
He realized he was strangling his pillow between his fists, and slapped it down on the bed.
It was summertime, so he hadn’t personally been bothering with much more than a sheet, but he unearthed the quilt that his mother had made for him years earlier from where he’d hidden it away in the closet after Carrie left him, and spread it out on top of the sheets. It smelled vaguely of mothballs, but it was better than nothing.
Then he shoved the ragged paperback book he’d been reading from the top of the nightstand into the drawer, effectively removing the only personal item in sight, and left the room.
He went back downstairs.
She was still sitting at the table in his kitchen, her back straight as a ruler, her elbows nowhere near the table. She’d finished the sandwich, though, and was folding the paper towel into intricate shapes. Not for the first time, he eyed her slender fingers, bare of rings, and reminded himself that the absence of a diamond ring didn’t mean anything.
When she heard him, she stood. “I should go to Aunt Jeanne’s.”
“Yes.” He wasn’t going to lie. She’d already done enough of that for them both. “But it’s after midnight. No point in ruining someone else’s night’s sleep, too. And since Horseback Hollow isn’t blessed with any motels, much less an establishment up to your standards,” he added even though she was too cultured to say so, “you’re stuck with what I have.” He eyed her. “Bedroom’s upstairs. Do you have enough stuffing left in you to make it up them, or do I need to put you over my shoulder?”
Her ghostly pale face took on a little color at that. “I’m not a sack of feed,” she said, almost crisply, and headed past him through the doorway.
His house wasn’t large. The staircase was right there to the left of the front door and his grandmother’s piano. She headed straight to it, closed her slender fingers over the wood banister and started up. The ugly shirt she wore hung over her hips, midway down the thighs of her baggy jeans.
He still had to look away from the sway of her hips as she took the steps. “Room’s at the end of the hall,” he said after her. “Bathroom’s next to it.”
Manners might have had him escorting her up there.
Self-preservation kept him standing right where he was.
“Yell if you need something,” he added gruffly.
She stopped, nearly at the top of the stairs, and looked back at him. Her hair slid over her shoulder.
Purple shadows, ghostly pale and badly fitting clothes or not, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and looking at her was a physical pain.
“I need you not to hate me,” she said softly.
His jaw tightened right along with the band across his chest that made it hard to breathe. “I don’t hate you, Amelia.”
Her huge eyes stared at him. They were haunting, those eyes.
“I don’t feel anything,” he finished.
It was the biggest lie he’d ever told in his life.
* * *
Amelia’s knees wobbled and she tightened her grip on the smooth, warm wooden banister. Quinn could say what he wanted, but the expression on his face told another story.
And she had only herself to blame.
No words came to mind that were appropriate for the situation. Even if there were words, she wasn’t sure her tight throat would have allowed her to voice them. So she just gave him an awkward nod and headed up the remaining stairs. Because what else was there to do but go forward?
There was no going back.
He’d made that painfully clear more than once and her coming to Horseback Hollow to see him face-to-face hadn’t changed a single thing.
At the landing, the room he spoke of was obvious. Straight at the end of the hall.
The door was open and through it she could see the foot of a quilt-covered bed.
She pushed back her shoulders despite her weariness, and headed toward it. If she weren’t feeling devastated to her core, she would have gobbled up every detail of his home as she walked along the wooden-floored hallway. Would have struggled not to let her intense curiosity where he was concerned overtake her. Would have wondered how each nook and cranny reflected Quinn. The man she’d fallen head over heels in love with on the foolish basis of a few dances at a wedding reception.
And a night of lovemaking after.
The thought was unbearable and she pushed it away.
She’d deal with that later.
She stopped at the bathroom briefly and shuddered over her pallid reflection in the oval mirror that hung over a classic pedestal sink when she washed her hands. It was no wonder he’d stared at her with such horror.
She looked hideous.
Not at all the way she’d looked the night he’d stopped next to her at Toby’s wedding reception, smiled quietly and asked if she cared to dance. She’d looked as good that day as her gawky self was capable of looking.
But when Quinn took her in his arms and slowly circled around the outdoor dance floor with her to the croon of Etta James, for the first time, she’d felt beautiful. All because of the way he’d looked at her.
Tears burned behind her eyes again and she quickly left the bathroom behind, hurrying the remaining few feet into the bedroom. She shut the door soundlessly, leaned back against it and slid down it until her bottom hit the floor.
Then she drew up her knees and pressed her forehead to them.
He believed their lovemaking had been some sort of last fling for her, before settling down with Jimmy, whom she’d been seeing during the months before she’d spontaneously attended Toby’s wedding. Quinn had accused her of that during that dreadful phone conversation. In the weeks since, he’d obviously not changed his opinion.
So how was she ever going to be able to tell him that she was pregnant?
With his child?
If he accused her of lying about that, too, she wasn’t sure she could survive it.
She sat there, her sorrow too deep for tears, until her bottom felt numb. Then feeling ancient, she shifted onto her knees and pushed herself to her aching feet. The boots she’d borrowed from Molly, one of her mother’s junior secretaries whom Amelia trusted, were too wide and too short. They, along with the ill-fitting jeans and the shirt, belonged to Molly’s teenage brother as had the other set of clothes she’d started out in. They’d been left, shoved deep in the rubbish, at the airport in Dallas alongside the blond wig and the knapsack in which she’d carried their replacements.
She dragged her passport out of the back pocket and set it on the rustic wooden nightstand. Even though Molly had helped with the disguises, neither one of them had been able to think of a way around traveling under Amelia’s own name. Not with security standards being what they were. All she’d come with had been the passport, her credit card and a small wad of American currency tucked among the well-stamped pages of her passport. Molly had insisted on the credit card, though Amelia had wanted to leave it behind. She knew cash was untraceable,