She had to up the ante, Gloria thought. Otherwise her sisters weren’t going to give this the attention it needed. She firmly believed that men were the distracting force. Worse, they were the destructive force. If she and her sisters were going to accomplish anything with their lives, they had to remain focused.
“Right,” Gloria said firmly. “And do you know why you’ll ignore him?”
“Because I’ve finally gotten some sense in my head?” Christina guessed.
“No, because if you don’t ignore him, you’re going to have to do something drastic in reparation, something you don’t want to do.”
“What wouldn’t you want to do?” Sierra asked.
Thoughts flew through her brain in rapid-fire succession. “Put on a French maid’s costume and clean up your apartments.”
Christina’s mouth fell open. “So if you fail, you’d be willing to fly in from Denver to—”
“Not from Denver,” Gloria corrected. “From here.”
Christina’s look of surprise only intensified. “You’ve moved here?”
Gloria grinned. Since her mother had cut her off when she’d tried to share her news, her sisters were going to be the first to know. “In the process.”
Christina’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. Me, too.” When the other two looked at her in stunned shock, she shrugged. “I got homesick for Papa’s cooking.” It was a handy enough excuse. Their father owned and operated Red, a restaurant whose patronage came from miles around just to sample the food.
“Okay, so it’s agreed.” Eager to get this on track and settled before the conversation could veer off again, Gloria held up her hand as if to take a solemn oath. “I promise to become a servant to each of you for the length of—” Again she paused before continuing. “One day each if I go back on our bargain.” She looked at Sierra. “Your turn.”
“Um…okay, I’ll cook each of you a fantastic meal.”
“You mean, you’ll order take-out.” Christina laughed.
“No, really, a great meal. From scratch,” Sierra promised. “And you all know how I hate to cook.”
“Sounds fair,” Gloria commented. “Tina?”
Christina sighed, obviously trying to think. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll wash cars for a whole day at the car wash. You can put up signs if you want. And I’ll donate the money to charity. Satisfied?” she asked Gloria.
“Satisfied,” Gloria announced, grinning. Then she looked from one sister to the other. “We all agreed?”
Christina shrugged her shoulders good-naturedly. “Sure, why not? Agreed.” She took a sip of her wine to seal the bargain.
Sierra echoed the word, “Agreed,” then took a sip herself. She grinned at Gloria. “Moving here, huh?”
The second the announcement had come out of her mouth, she’d known it had felt right. “Just as soon as I can find an apartment.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Sierra told her. The other two looked at her. “I know this really nice place. A friend of mine is relocating to the east coast. She’s looking for someone to sublet the place. Interested?”
“You bet,” Gloria enthused. And then she looked at her sisters again, a warm feeling spreading through her limbs. This was what she’d missed. What she needed.
Christina put it into words for her. “Wow, the Mendoza girls, back together again. Who would have thunk it?”
Gloria laughed, then turned and glanced toward the door. Crossing to it, she knocked loudly. “Hey, Mama, you can open the door now. We’re friends again.”
Christina came up to join her with Sierra bringing up the rear. “Think she can hear us?”
“She’s a mother, of course she can hear us.” As if to give credence to her words, the door flew open and Maria walked in, beaming at her daughters. “Especially when she’s only two inches away,” Gloria concluded.
They laughed and hugged, a human knot of arms and warmth, just like when they were small.
And at that moment, Gloria had never felt happier. She was home.
Chapter Two
Jack Fortune walked out of the third-floor office and headed back toward the elevator. He punched the up button, which was already lit, impatience tap-dancing through him like the feet of a troop of dancers doing an Irish jig. He was not a happy man and his displeasure had nothing to do with his fighting off the lingering effects of jet lag that had attached themselves to him less than two hours ago when he’d made the flight in from New York’s JFK.
It was what lay waiting for him in the immediate future that bothered Jack.
He seldom resented doing practically anything his father asked of him. He had more than a healthy respect for Patrick Fortune, both as a businessman and as a human being. If children were allowed to preselect their father, he knew that he sure as hell couldn’t have asked for better than the one he had. He would have done anything in the world for his father without hesitation.
But this wasn’t for his father—not really. No. He had been pulled away from his enormously busy schedule at the New York office of Fortune-Rockwell Bank to help out some friend of his father’s daughter set up shop in San Antonio. The whole thing had sounded rather slapdash when Patrick had called him about it the day before yesterday, asking him to fly out to lend his business acumen to this so-called enterprise.
Jack punched the button again, frowning. This was undoubtedly some bubbleheaded female who thought just because she had a whim, she could make a go of a business. Probably didn’t even know the first thing that was involved in such an undertaking.
Jewelry-making, for God’s sake. What was his father thinking? The woman had probably gotten some kit from a craft store for Christmas and thought she was going to take the market by storm because she could string together ten beads or whatever.
He’d dearly wanted to say as much when his father had called to drop this little bomb in his lap, but he’d held his tongue out of respect and out of love.
Jack shifted his six-foot-two-inch frame. Where the hell was the elevator, anyway?
Damn, his father should know better, he thought. Hadn’t he told him more than once that he was a vital member of the Fortune-Rockwell team? If he was so vital, then he should remain in the New York office, not have to come gallivanting out to San Antonio to hold some novice’s well-manicured hand.
Once upon a time, his father would have known that. But lately, Jack thought, concern nibbling away at him, his father was showing signs of slowing down. Whenever they spoke, Patrick Fortune would talk about “smelling the roses” and all that stuff people who’ve had a near-death experience say. Except that, at seventy, his father seemed as strong as ever. And when he’d asked him if there was something wrong, if he was perhaps not feeling well, his father had heartily said no, laughing at the very notion. Patrick Fortune had said that for the first time in his life, there was nothing wrong. That he’d finally had the good fortune—no pun intended—of seeing life the right way.
It seemed to Jack a case of too much denial. The more he thought about it now, the more convinced he became that there was something wrong with his father. The dynamo who had helped build up and was now in charge of Fortune-Rockwell Bank didn’t stop to smell roses he could have delivered to him, nor did he take key personnel and ship them off to San Antonio because some chicklet’s mother asked him to.
From what he’d gathered, not only had his father agreed to help get this Gloria Mendoza Something-or-Other’s business up and running, but he’d