Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (5 page)

The old man, who Mark deduced must be Stephen, kept his hands on Allison's shoulders, but moved her a few inches out, so that he could feast his eyes on the prodigal granddaughter. Mark couldn't think of another
way to describe the wistful, half-starved expression the old man turned on her.

“You're so beautiful, child,” he said, his voice husky. “And so like your mother. You might be our Eileen, come back to us after all these years!”

“Do I really look like her?” Allison's voice sounded stiff, an odd contrast to her eyes, which were wide and shining. “I—I would like that.”

“You're the spitting image.” He grinned, the movement folding deep, comfortable creases into his cheeks. He probably smiled as much as he cried, which was obviously a great deal. The whole lot of them needed pockets sewn onto their shirtsleeves for holding their hearts.

“Yes, you've got her sweetness,” her grandfather continued. “And not a whit of your father's arrogance, thank God.”

“Stephen!” The old woman batted his shoulder.

“It's true, Kate, and weren't we all thinking it?” Stephen was gleefully unrepentant. “I'm sorry for your loss, Allie darling, and I know you loved your father with a good heart. But the man never liked me and I never liked him and there's no use pretending any different just because he's dead.”

“No,” Allison said, no doubt overwhelmed. “I understand. I'm sorry I haven't come sooner, but—”

“None of that, now, none of that!” He hugged her again. “Aren't you here now? And isn't that all that matters? Let's get you settled. We'll have to call your uncle in and Moira, too. They'll be wanting to hear all about you.”

“Grampa.” The twin with the backpack tugged at Stephen's sleeve, pointing at Mark and whispering. “Grampa, what about
him?
”

“Who?”

Mark realized wryly that he might as well have been invisible. “I think she means me,” he said with a smile. “I'm Matt Travis. I have a reservation, as well.”

The second little girl, apparently the more confident of the two, stared at Mark while chewing the nail of her pinky finger as if it were her afternoon snack. “Are you Allison's boyfriend?”

Allison shook her head quickly, flushing again as she had to trot out her rehearsed lie. “No, no! Matt and I…we just happened to be on the same plane. We just shared a cab from the airport.”

“Well, come on in, son,” Stephen said, waving his hand expansively. “We'll get your room eventually, but you may have to wait. You've stumbled into a family reunion, as you see, and family comes first.”

“Of course,” Mark agreed.

“And our poor Allie, she's like a miracle, showing up here,” Kate O'Hara said as if she owed Mark a better explanation. “She's lost her dad, you know, so we're her only family now.”

The nail-chewing little girl stared up at Allison, frowning. “Your father's dead? What happened to him?”

Kate hushed her granddaughter with a soft hand. “You remember, now, don't you, Fannie? We talked about it. Her father had a heart attack, poor man.”

The little girl nodded slowly. “That's right. I do remember, because Grampa said it was ironic, and I asked him what ironic meant, and he said it was when someone who didn't have a heart in the first place—”

“Flannery Teresa O'Hara, that is enough!” Stephen's creased cheeks were pink. “Get your cousin's suitcases and bring them inside.”

“I'll get my own,” Mark said unnecessarily, as once again no one seemed aware of him, except Allison, who looked over her shoulder, her green eyes staring helplessly at him as she was swept into the hotel lobby on a wave of laughter and eager questions.

She looked terrified—and cute as hell.

He smiled as he hoisted his garment bag over his shoulder and paid the patient cabbie.

This might, he thought, be more fun than he'd expected.

 

B
Y THE TIME
Allison got a minute alone she was exhausted. She had answered a million questions, received a thousand hugs and kisses, and listened to more stories about her mother than she'd heard in her entire lifetime.

Her father's prohibition against public displays of emotion would have made no sense to this family, who seemed to recognize zero distinction between “public” and “private” behavior. They laughed until the sound bounced off the walls. They interrupted each other without apology. They broke spontaneously into song, then stopped when tears choked off the tune. Tempers flared like matches and died as quickly.

When they finally remembered that she'd been traveling all day and might need to freshen up, en masse they took her to her room, introducing her to other guests they passed in the halls, as if she were the queen.

The room was large and lovely, done in shades of blue, but Allison didn't take time to appreciate its elegant details. She didn't even unpack. As soon as the last kiss was blown, she closed the door, kicked off her pumps, lay down on the bed and promptly fell asleep.

She woke much later to a dim room and the sound of someone rapping on her door. Her heart pounded, and, lifting up on one elbow, she tried to remember where she was. In the semidarkness, everything looked alien.

The rapping sounded again. She stared at the door, hoping it wasn't the twins. Though Fiona was quiet and spent most of her time clutching the straps of her backpack and watching with wide, green eyes, Flannery was a real pistol who possessed an amazing talent for asking the most embarrassing questions. “Why aren't you married?” “Don't you think Mom is getting fat?” “Do you think Daniel's girlfriend broke up with him because he's gross?”

On the other hand, if it was the twins at the door they wouldn't give up, so she might as well answer it. She pressed down on her curls with both hands and, hoping for the best, made her way barefooted to the door.

“Hi.” It was Mark. He leaned his head into the room, scanning the gloom. “Have you been sleeping this whole time?” He smiled. “Did the lovefest wear you out?”

She nodded. “It was a bit much for me.” She flicked on the overhead light, squinted and waved him into the room. “Compared to this, I've lived a pretty quiet life.”

That was an understatement, of course. She and her father had never talked much. He'd disapproved of chatter about people, which he deemed vulgar and simpleminded. He'd preferred ideas, he said, and he particularly liked politics. But to a teenage girl, the diplomatic crisis of how boy A was going to break up with girl B was the only political issue that counted. By the time Allison was old enough to have anything to say, the pattern of silence had been set.

She offered Mark the only chair, then sat on the edge of the bed, glad she hadn't removed more than her shoes before falling asleep. Her hair was a mess, she knew, and probably she'd rubbed her lipstick off on the pillow, but at least she was marginally presentable.

“I think I could have slept for a week. I'm not used to being the center of so much attention. And all that hugging and kissing.” She rubbed sleepy dust from the corners of her eyes. “I'm not used to—”

She broke off, realizing what that sounded like. But it was true. She wasn't used to being touched that much.

“I can imagine,” Mark filled in smoothly. “I, on the other hand, am not used to getting so
little
attention. I bet not a single thing got done in this hotel today. The minute you showed up, it officially became Celebrate Allison Cabot day.”

She groaned. “I know. It was sweet but so embarrassing. It makes me feel like such a fraud.”

He laughed. “Why? You're not the one here under an assumed name. That's me.”

“It's almost as bad. They're automatically assuming I'm one of them, but I'm not. I'm not comfortable with all that emotional abandon. It feels as if I've landed on another planet. I don't know what to say or what to do.”

“I didn't hear anyone complaining. They couldn't stop singing your praises. When they weren't singing ‘The Rose of Tralee,' that is.”

“Yes, well, today they are probably willing to write off my stiffness as temporary shyness. Wait until they discover it's not temporary anything. It's just who I am.”

She felt hollow. She touched her mother's ruby ring, which she'd put on to cover the untanned band of skin where her engagement ring used to be. The ring didn't quite fit. Her mother's fingers must have been smaller than hers.

“Wait until they see how much Cabot blood is in me after all.”

His gaze flicked from her face to her hand, then back again. “Time will tell, I suppose,” he said mildly. “Meanwhile, if you're up to it, we should probably formulate our game plan.”

“Yes, we should,” she agreed, ordering herself to shake off the ridiculous self-pity. Just that morning she'd feared that the family would reject her and had only dared to hope for a civil reconciliation that might make her feel a little less alone in the world. Now that wasn't enough? She needed to be one of them?

Ridiculous. She should be satisfied to know that the
O'Haras were loyal and forgiving, and glad to be back on speaking terms. She was in Florida primarily to take care of Lincoln Gray and it was time she turned her attention to that mission.

“I spent the afternoon doing some reconnaissance,” Mark said. “The rental cars showed up about three, so I drove around a little. I found Lincoln's house—or, more accurately, the house he's borrowing from his friend. It's quite a place.”

Allison knew about the mansion. Her investigator had supplied pictures that showed a sprawling oceanfront villa complete with tennis courts, swimming pool and a BMW in the circular drive.

“Was he there?”

“I couldn't tell. It's landscaped for privacy. You can probably see more from the beach, but I wasn't curious enough to get out my Inspector Gadget binoculars and stalk around in the heat.” He leaned back comfortably. “I did see Janelle Greenwood, though.”

“You did? At Lincoln's house?”

“No. She's at The Mangrove, the resort down at the southern tip of the island. Luxe to the max, but not particularly well run. The staff has loose lips. I got Janelle's room number and Lincoln Gray's tee time in about ten minutes.”

Allison didn't find that terribly surprising. Mark had an air about him—without even trying, he would blend into luxurious surroundings organically, as if he'd been born there.

It wasn't a superior, down-the-nose air. She knew that one. Her father had it in spades. Mark's panache was
subtler. It was a mix of easy confidence, intelligence and a general satisfaction with life, as if there wasn't much he'd ever wanted that he hadn't gotten, including answers.

Besides, if the staff members he'd approached were female, it would have been almost too easy. The man had sex appeal like Hercules had biceps.

She tucked her bare feet under her and leaned against the pillow. Finally she felt herself truly relaxing. Funny how comfortable she felt around Mark, considering how short a time she'd known him. More comfortable than she had with her own relatives.

But they did have a lot in common. They hated the same person. Apparently it was true—the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

“So…what did you think of Janelle in the flesh? Does the picture do her justice?”

“Not really. She's just as naïve as she looked in the photo, but it didn't show everything. She's actually quite a knockout.”

Allison thought back to the sweet-faced young woman. She was attractive enough, but a knockout? “She is?”

“Yes.” Mark got comfortable in the chair, tilted his head back and grinned. “From the neck down, especially.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Oh brother.”

He didn't look ashamed. “Just stating the facts. Facts that haven't escaped Lincoln's notice, I'm sure.”

She wondered if he was right. Lincoln had always acted as if he found Allison the most attractive woman
in the universe—even though her figure would never snag her a job as a Playboy bunny. Of course,
acting
was the important word. Lincoln had merely been playing the role of adoring suitor. For all she knew he'd been secretly drooling over every double-D that sashayed by.

Or maybe Mark was just projecting. Maybe Janelle's voluptuous body was exactly his type, so he assumed it must appeal to all men.

She fought the urge to adjust her rumpled T-shirt to a more flattering fit. Instead, she climbed off the bed, hoisted up her garment bag and began unzipping it.

“If she's that amazing,” she said, pulling out a handful of hangers, “maybe we should do this rescue as a team. I'll distract Lincoln while you romance Janelle away from him.”

Mark chuckled. “It had occurred to me. But what's the point? Would it really be any better to get her heart broken by me instead of Lincoln?”

“What makes you so sure you'd break her heart?” She arranged some of her dresses in the closet, shaking out the wrinkles. “Maybe you'd fall deeply in love and end up living happily ever after with two-point-five kids and a picket fence.”

He grimaced. “Not in this lifetime.”

She pulled out the last of her clothes, a light blue cotton sundress. This was what she'd planned to wear when she met Lincoln, but when she held it up against her chest and looked at it in the closet mirror, it suddenly looked too tame.

“Why not? If you work quickly, we could have a
double wedding. I could be godmother to your firstborn daughter, and I'd give you a great discount at Lullabies.”

“Sorry. You're trying to sell that fantasy to the wrong guy.”

She could see him in the mirror. He was still smiling, but his voice sounded edgy, and she wondered if she might somehow have offended him.

“And maybe we should talk reality anyhow,” he said, sounding more normal. “When do you plan to make contact with Lincoln? Have you decided what you're going to say?”