Fortune's Vengeful Groom. Charlene SandsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CONTENTS

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Coming Next Month

      One

      “It’s a stroke of brilliance, Eliza. The place looks great. Nobody does a fund-raiser like you,” Nicole Appleton whispered into Eliza’s ear.

      From up on stage, Eliza Fortune smiled with satisfaction as her gaze traveled around the large ballroom filled with invited guests, the men dressed in authentic three-piece suits and the women in elegant gowns of the Old West. She’d designed and decorated the ballroom for the event. “Thanks, Nic. It was a labor of love.”

      “Well, you’ve outdone yourself this time. Everyone is having a wonderful time and your Basket Dinner Auction idea is going over well. You’re raising thousands of dollars for the reparations to the Old West Museum.”

      The auctioneer announced another dinner basket to be auctioned off. Chloe McMurphy stepped up to the podium and lifted the flap on her basket, retrieving a pledge card to give to the auctioneer. “This lovely young lady will provide dinner for two, three or four. Her specialty is fried chicken and the best dumplings in Minnehaha County. And an added bonus of home-baked apple pie. Now that’s what I call a real fine South Dakota meal.”

      Eliza tensed suddenly and glanced at her friend with apprehension. Only she and Nicole remained up on stage. All the other dinners had been auctioned off. “I hope someone bids on my basket.”

      “You’ve got to be kidding. Who wouldn’t want to have a dinner cooked expressly by Eliza Fortune? At the Fortune estate, no less. I bet your dinner pledge goes for the highest bid of all.”

      Eliza scoffed. “Only if my father or brother decide to take pity on me. My family’s out there somewhere and they know I’m not the best cook.”

      “Won’t matter,” Nicole said adamantly. “You’re gonna raise a lot of money tonight—and not from Nash or Creed Fortune. Everyone knows how dedicated you are. They saved the best for last. And that’s you.”

      She mouthed a silent thank-you to her friend, then took note of Mr. Phillips at the podium crooking his finger at Nicole. “Oh, look. It’s your turn to go up to the podium, Nic. Good luck.”

      And as her friend approached the auctioneer carrying a white wicker basket adorned with a large red taffeta bow, Eliza settled back on the wooden bench seat to wait her turn.

      Being a benefactor, as well as Sioux Falls Historical Society chairwoman, she’d had no trouble convincing Siouxland’s Old West Museum’s president to donate some of their Western gear to help her transform a chandelier-ensconced ballroom into a springtime scene straight out of the Old West. Lariats, silver saddles and wagon wheels filled the perimeter, while bound sheaves of grain and husks of corn draped the walls. The dinner tables, though set with elegant china, rested on blue gingham tablecloths with tall, lumbering sunflowers as vibrant centerpieces. A sunrise backdrop and a large buckboard wagon filled with straw sat upon the stage just behind Eliza.

      When all was said and done, Nicole’s bid ranked up there with the highest so far. Her dinner pledge of roast lamb and potatoes with carrot soufflé and crème brûlée for dessert garnered over three thousand dollars. Eliza joined the group in applauding the generous bidder.

      “And now, ladies and gentlemen, you have the distinct honor of bidding on Miss Eliza Fortune’s dinner basket. As you all know, Miss Fortune has worked tirelessly to put on this fund-raiser and it looks like she’s made it a tremendous success.” Mr. Phillips reached for Eliza’s hand and guided her to the podium. Eliza handed him her pledge card from her gold-trimmed basket and stood as he read her offering. “Ah, I see the winner will have a great treat in store for them. Eliza has pledged to cook any meal of your choosing, beginning with hors d’oeuvres and ending with a decadent dessert with as many courses as you desire. So let’s begin the bidding at five hundred dollars.”

      Eliza stood smiling at her guests, while inside a tremor of apprehension coursed through her body. And only once the first bid was announced for five hundred dollars—not by her father or brother—did she finally relax. As the bidding continued, she grew more and more confident.

      “We have a bid for thirty-five hundred dollars. Do I hear four thousand? Anyone for four thousand dollars?”

      Pleased that she’d garnered a respectable sum of money, Eliza was ready to walk away from the podium. She needed to coordinate the country band’s performance on stage so the dancing could begin.

      “Going once, going twice for thirty-five hundred dollars and…”

      “Thirty-five thousand dollars.”

      “I’m sorry, sir,” the auctioneer said, “we already have a bid for thirty-five hundred dollars.”

      “I said thirty-five thousand dollars,” a commanding voice echoed from the back of the room.

      All conversation stopped in the grand ballroom, as heads turned in the direction of the voice.

      Eliza stood perfectly still. Her smile faded, while her heart pounded up in her ears. She knew that voice. She would never forget the low, raspy timbre that would send her nerves spiraling out of control. She shut her eyes briefly, willing her body to calm.

      It couldn’t be, she told herself.

      But she knew better.

      She had always known that this day would eventually come.

      Mr. Phillips glanced at Eliza with a baffled expression, but when she offered no help, he turned back to his task. “Uh, sorry, sorry, indeed. The bid stands at thirty-five thousand dollars,” he emphasized. “Going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman in the back of the room!”

      Just like that, Reese Parker stepped into her line of vision.

      And back into her life.

      After six years.

      Their gazes locked from across the room. For a long moment they just stared at one another. His eyes held no warmth, his face no joy. He hardly looked like the gentle jeans-clad rodeo rider she’d met one summer in Montana.

      Oh, he was as handsome as she remembered. Maybe more so now, with a chiseled jawline and dark, piercing eyes. But this man looked as though he belonged here amid South Dakota’s wealthiest patrons, dressed in a dashing ink-black Western tuxedo with lines cut to perfection. A golden nugget clasped the bola tie that lassoed his neck and settled into a single-breasted brocade vest. A black felt Stetson