Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (16 page)

After that, nothing but pain. So much pain he'd been sure he'd die and had thought that was fine. Both legs broken. A fractured jaw. A ruptured spleen.

His mother crying, his father's face frighteningly blank.

And, then, the news that had seemed so surreal to a
seventeen-year-old. His legs would mend, the doctor said. But, in a profound, invisible way, he had damaged himself beyond repair. Permanently.

A dark, new word moved into his life on a wave of cold fear, although it would be another ten years before he fully understood its evil power.

The word was
sterile
.

“Why, Mark? Help me understand why you're so sure there's no chance for us.”

“Because the one thing you want, I can never give to any woman.”

He heard the anger in his voice. He'd accepted this years ago. He'd ceased to care. So, yes, he hated her at that moment for making it hurt again. “I'm incapable of fathering children, Allison. Is that plain enough for you?”

T
WO DAYS LATER
,
Allison's face, back and both knees were peeling like old, cheap paint. It itched so much it drove her mad, but it was convenient in one way. She told Lincoln it was terribly painful and he was gentleman enough to refrain from any attempts to seduce her.

Or perhaps he wasn't particularly turned on by women who flaked apart in his hands.

Either way, it was a relief. Ever since the other night, when she had realized how she felt about Mark, she'd found even the thought of any physical intimacy with Lincoln repulsive.

She knew she wasn't ever going to have Mark—he'd made that painfully clear. And it was all her fault. If only, this one time, she'd been able to imitate her father's frigid facade, maybe she could have fought past Mark's resistance.

But she hadn't. Ripley Cabot would have been ashamed of the quick tears that had welled in Allison's eyes when Mark told her about his accident. “Tears are weak, Allie,” her father had always said if he caught her crying. “They just make things worse. If you've got troubles to solve, try sweat.”

Unfortunately, Mark's tragic revelation had caught her completely off guard. Her reaction had been all O'Hara, no Cabot at all.

Mostly, the tears were for Mark, of course, for the doors that had closed for him that long-ago day, the joys that were forever denied him.

But some of the tears were selfish.

She realized, as she fought to keep the tears from falling, that Mark was right. She was a bigger fool than she had ever admitted, even to herself.

It was bad enough that, just weeks after discovering Lincoln's betrayal, with her heart only halfway healed, she had recklessly let herself fall in love with Mark.

It was even worse to realize that the accusation he hurled at her, that she wanted a DNA donor far more than she wanted a lover, was at least partly true.

If she looked into her own heart, she would see that the images of Amanda Anne and Michael Joseph had begun to blur a little and change. Now, when she pictured them, their soft baby hair was dark, not blond. Their eyes were brown, not blue.

Oh, yes. She was a fool. Or worse. Probably she should leave this island immediately and seek the help of a psychiatrist, who might be able to unearth the reasons why the fantasy of infants in her arms was so dangerously potent.

But a hundred years of therapy wouldn't change anything with Mark. After he saw those tears, nothing she said had made any difference. No promises, no protestations. Not even the physical desire, the longing to
make love, which clearly ravaged him as much as it did her, had any power to change his mind.

Finally, accepting defeat, she'd returned to her room. She hadn't seen Mark since, except across a room or a hallway that might as well have been a gulf of raging, unbridgeable waters.

So, trying to implement her father's advice, she'd spent her time working on Lincoln. With the sunburn as an excuse, she denied him kisses and hugs, but she kept him happy in other ways.

His favorite ways. Constant flattery, attention, gifts and treats.

Today, the gold-ribboned gift she brought was special. It came with a secret agenda. She was going to use this gift to do something for Mark, if she could.

The gift was a money clip, gold and onyx with a sprinkle of high-quality diamond chips forming the letter
G.
It was an exact match for a pair of cuff links she'd given him the last time they were engaged.

He'd picked the cuff links out himself. At the time, she'd forced herself not to notice that they were ever so slightly garish—just the way she'd forced herself not to notice any of the relationship's troubling signs.

“Open it now,” she said eagerly, pressing the box toward him. It was Saturday, and they had a reservation that evening at The Mangrove. But her secret agenda required that they be here, at his borrowed mansion, when he opened it.

“Okay,” he said as he tugged off the ribbon and flipped open the black box. “Very nice!” He held up the
clip and admired it under the chandelier. “It's part of the same set, isn't it? It matches my cuff links.”

She nodded. “I loved the way they looked on you. Could you wear them tonight? Do you have them here with you?”

She tried to sound natural, as if she just wanted some reassurance that he had cherished a gift from her enough to keep it near.

But the truth was, she wanted to know if he had brought any valuables with him. If so, she wanted to know where he kept them.

“Of course I have them. This is my permanent address—at least for the summer. Mrs. Jerrald's safe is better than a bank.”

She smiled. So Mrs. Jerrald had a safe.
Excellent
.

“I'd love to see you wear them,” she said. “It would feel so right. Just like old times. Is it too much trouble?”

She toyed with the money clip, trying to keep her thoughts innocent so that nothing would show on her face. He knew her net worth, so surely he wouldn't for a minute believe she was casing the joint to see where Mrs. Jerrald's geegaws were stashed.

But still he hesitated. She started to feel insulted, but she reminded herself that, since he couldn't be trusted, he probably found it hard to trust anyone else.

Eventually, common sense prevailed, and he chucked her under the chin indulgently. “Of course it's not too much trouble. Wait here. I'll be right back.”

She nodded, trying not to be disappointed that he hadn't let her tag along. That really had been too much to hope for, she admitted.

She glanced around for another strategy.

She got lucky. The large foyer was full of man-size silver and gold vases, statues and rococo framed mirrors. She stood with her back to Lincoln, as if enjoying one of the vases, but actually she could follow his every movement in the mirror, which was reflected in the vase's gleaming silver surface.

As he exited the marble foyer, he glanced over his shoulder one last time, but seemed content that she wasn't watching him. He entered the study, another satisfying moment. If she'd been required to guess where the safe was kept, she would have guessed it was in that wood-paneled study.

Behind the big boring seascape, to be exact. She had to bite back a little gurgle of satisfaction when Lincoln headed straight for the painting. See? All those Nancy Drew books she'd read as a child hadn't been as much of a waste as her father had always contended.

Lincoln cocked the picture about eight inches to the left and it stayed in place, obviously engineered to do so. The safe behind it was clearly outlined, with a large round combination dial inset into the paneling.

Allison turned—he wasn't watching her—and she needed a clearer view than even the glossiest silver could provide.

With his back to her, Lincoln started to twist the dial.

Darn
. His hand obscured the numbers, and Allison would have needed binoculars to read them anyhow. She considered trotting after him into the study, all wide-eyed naiveté, pretending to be too eager to wait. It was risky, but how else could she learn what she needed to know?

Suddenly, he paused, his fingers still on the dial. He tilted his head and she could sense the uncertainty in his posture. Either he felt her eyes on him, or he had forgotten the combination.

He swiveled a little to his right, where Mrs. Jerrald's large white-pine desk sat, its surface clear, awaiting her winter return. Lincoln slid the long center drawer open an inch or so and ducked his head, as if to read something in the pen well.

The combination.

She let go of the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and turned away. She pumped her fists at her side, like an athlete who had made one lucky score and was determined it wouldn't be her last.

There was very little she could give Mark to show how much she cared for him—and how grateful she was for his help. So far, he had rejected everything she offered.

But somewhere in that safe might be the one thing he wouldn't turn down.

The Travers Peacock.

 

D
ANIEL'S DAD
had given him a cell phone when he started high school. He'd wanted to take it away, during the car incident, but Daniel's mother had protested. Now that they knew Daniel was an idiot, she'd said, he needed a cell phone more than ever. How else would he call for help when he got in another jam?

But he was supposed to use it for emergencies only. No chitchat. No text messages to help pass a dull day at work. U bored? Me 2. He abided by the rules—what
choice did he have? The cell phone bills were so detailed they must have been designed by Big Brother. You made a two-second call and sirens started blaring.

Which was why he was shocked to come back up to his room after chores and find a voice message waiting for him.

He checked the number first. It was an out-of-state area code, one he didn't recognize. The only person he knew out of state—other than family—was Beth. And she wouldn't call him.

Would she?

As he tried to decide how he'd feel about that, he called in to retrieve the message.

“Hi, Daniel.”

It was Janelle Greenwood. Daniel sank onto the edge of his bed.

“I hope you don't mind my calling. Your friend Bart in the pro shop gave me your number. I just wanted to say how sorry I am that you lost your job. I feel as if it was all my fault. I even spoke to your supervisor and tried to explain.”

There was a silence here and Daniel was glad of it. His mind was still reeling and he needed a minute to process what he'd already heard. He wiped his damp palm on the bedspread, then cringed when he saw the oily grass stain he left behind. He'd been working on the lawnmower.

“Anyhow, that's it, I guess. Except…I'm going to miss you.” She sighed here, just a small whoosh of air that he would have missed if he hadn't been hanging on every word. “You're a great kid, Daniel, and it was
really nice to have such a good friend these past couple of weeks. I'm sorry it ended up costing you so much.”

Another silence and then she clicked off. Daniel listened to the cell goddess's automated voice as she told him that was his last message and then invited him to change his greeting, check erased messages, or…

He closed up the phone and tossed it on the bed. He ran his hand through his hair, probably leaving green stains on the red curls, and tried to think.

Thank God he wasn't working in the dining room tonight. He was supposed to go to the movies with Fannie, but he'd pay her off. Fannie loved cash, which was perfect. These days, he didn't have much to spend his money on, so he was loaded.

At any cost, he needed to be free tonight. Because the minute he heard Janelle's voice, he knew he had to see her one more time.

Two hours later, dressed in the khaki slacks and navy-blue jacket he'd worn to his parents' twentieth anniversary party, he arrived at The Mangrove. He was sweating, partly because he'd had to walk, but mostly because he was a nervous wreck.

He wasn't sure why. Losing his job hadn't exactly been the end of the world. If he never saw Bart Thomas or fat Mr. Inkerfino or any of the mental-midget managers again, it would be too soon. The Hideaway was ten times as good as The Mangrove, even if it was a tenth the size. If he wanted to learn how to run his own hotel, his dad could teach him everything he needed to know.

And he could still play tennis here, which was the only good thing about The Mangrove anyway. The Hideaway had reciprocal privileges with most of the hotels on Sole Grande, including this one.

Plus, now that he wasn't on their stingy payroll, they didn't have any right to tell him who he could and couldn't talk to.

Who he could and couldn't kiss.

Was he planning to kiss Janelle? His palms started to sweat again the minute his mind said the word. He wanted to, of course. He wanted to do that, and more.

But did he have the nerve?

He knew her room number, so he didn't have to call up first. He squeezed onto the elevator with a big family who definitely should have been using the one on the pool wing. They dripped all over the carpeted floor, and, by the time they got off, the cubicle stank of chlorine and dirty kids.

It took him a minute or two to remember that he wasn't the one who'd have to clean it up.
Sweet
. He smiled at himself in the smoky glass wall.

The elevator delicately pinged as he reached the ninth floor, and the doors swept open without a single squeak. He liked that. The elevator didn't know whether he was seventeen or seventy, whether he had fifty bucks or fifty million. It had to treat everyone the same.

Number 907 was at the end of the hall, right before the T intersection that took you to 908–922 if you turned left, and 923–931 if you turned right. There was a mirror at the far end, and he watched himself the whole way, plucking at his lapel here, licking a stubborn curl there.

Of course, he'd rather have straight brown shiny hair, the kind the girls loved, the kind God had wasted on that jackass Bart. But overall, he wasn't looking too shabby.

He passed 907 so that he could lean right into the mirror and check his teeth. The fates must have been looking after him, because just as he did, the door to 907 opened, and Lincoln Gray came out.

Daniel's heart tried to claw its way up his throat and out his mouth. Without thinking, he darted to the side, into the hallway that led to 923–931. He flattened himself against the flocked wallpaper.

“Lincoln, please.” Janelle's voice was soft, and made of broken noises. She was crying. “Please don't go.”

“Janie. Don't do this. You know I can't stay.”

“Yes, you can. Allison won't know. She won't care. She doesn't love you. And you don't love her.”

“I do.” Lincoln's voice was flat and dry, a monotone that might have been created out of fireplace ashes. “I'm going to marry her. You know I have to marry her next Saturday.”