Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (6 page)

She leaned against the closet door, letting the dress drape over her arm.

“I've been thinking about that a lot,” she said. “I've decided that the only way is to be very straightforward. I'll go to his house, probably tomorrow, and talk to him. I'll have to tell him I still love him, and I understand why he didn't show up at the church.”

“Which is?”

“Because I hurt him when I insisted on the prenup. I made him feel that I didn't trust him. I'll tell him that I'm going to prove that I do trust him. I even brought the prenup with me. I'm going to start by tearing it up.”

“Nice touch.”

“I thought so. I'm bringing a present, too. You gave me the idea when you told me how he stole your sister's brooch.”

Mark smiled. “You have a tacky peacock in your family, too?”

“No, but it's a rather nice gold signet ring. Expen
sive as hell. I'm going to tell him it's a family piece, though actually I picked it up at Tiffany's last week. And then I'll tell him how much I love him, how empty my life is without him.”

Mark whistled softly. “That's a pretty big piece of humble pie. You sure you're going to be able to choke it down?”

She nodded. “Without blinking.”

He rested his temple against his knuckles and gazed at her appraisingly. “Well, you sound ready. And the jewelry is a nice touch—it might even provide a chance to see where he puts it for safekeeping. Maybe it'll turn out to be the same place he keeps the peacock.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But remember, it's a long shot.”

“This whole thing is a long shot,” he said. “Have you decided exactly how far you're actually willing to go to pull it off?”

“All the way.” She lifted the blue dress and started to hang it back in the closet. It would have to do for that first meeting with Lincoln. She wasn't going to try to compete with a knockout on looks alone. She had her own knockout punch—her checkbook.

Mark was still watching her. “You're sure about that?”

“Absolutely sure. I'll kneel at his feet. I'll tell him he is the Sun God and the Moon King rolled into one. I'll produce my bank balance and open up a credit line for him at Saks. I mean it. I'll do whatever it takes.”

“Will you go to bed with him?”

She stopped, the hanger frozen an inch above the rod.

She stared over her shoulder at Mark, who looked genuinely curious.

Damn it.

She was an idiot.

She really hadn't thought of that.

D
ANIEL
O'H
ARA HATED
the rain. Whenever one of those typical Florida afternoon thunderstorms broke loose, the pro shop at The Mangrove filled up with wet, irritable tourists who seemed outraged to discover that their vacation package hadn't come with a sunshine guarantee.

Daniel ordinarily liked this part-time job okay—it was laid-back and it was fun to see all the new equipment first. Besides, he'd do anything to get a few hours away from the Hideaway and from his parents. Ever since the trouble last winter, they watched him like a hawk.

But he didn't like it when it rained. The guests needed someone to take their frustrations out on, and the seventeen-year-old nobody behind the register made the perfect target.

And, of course,
he
had to treat
them
like royalty, even though they smelled rank and they dripped all over the merchandise, because, of course, they'd stayed out on the golf course too long, as if ignoring the rain would make it go away. They pawed the clothes, swung the clubs and tried on cap after cap. They bitched about everything and never bought squat.

He was trying to explain to Mr. Inkerfino that they didn't carry these microfiber, herringbone golf shorts in a four-X—without implying that people who wore four-X probably shouldn't even be on a golf course and definitely shouldn't be wearing herringbone—when he caught a whiff of jasmine and sandalwood above the sweat.

His heart did a pole-vault jump. That was Janelle Greenwood's perfume. It was probably the only perfume he'd recognize with his eyes closed.

“Hi, Danny,” she said from behind him.

He handed the three-X shorts to Mr. Inkerfino, then turned, smiling. “Hi, Ms. Greenwood.”

She tilted her head, giving him a mock stern look. “Ms. Greenwood?”

He shrugged, hoping the flush he felt around his chest didn't make its way to his face. He had a zit right near his hairline and his freckles would probably light up like a Christmas tree. His stupid sensitive skin was one of the eight million reasons he hated being a redhead.

For the freckles, his grandfather said he should swab them with the blood of a hare or distilled water of walnuts. When he was a kid, he had begged his mom to make some kind of rabbit dinner, in the hopes that he could get hold of some blood. The walnut thing just didn't make any sense to a ten-year-old at all.

She'd refused, so he had the damn things still. The sign of a true Irishman, his father assured him proudly.
Yeah, right
. Freckles and blushes and acne.
Real sexy
.

“Ms. Greenwood?” Janelle said again, softly.

Last time she was in the shop, she'd asked him to call her Janelle. Anything else was silly, she'd said, considering that she was probably only a few years older than he was. But his manager, Mr. Beaner, was a real stickler and he would have fired Daniel if he heard him getting chummy with a customer.

“Umm…well… Hey, that's your new tennis dress, isn't it?” Daniel hoped she'd be willing to change the subject. He'd helped her pick the dress out yesterday and it looked really hot on her. “Did you get rained out?”

“Yeah,” she said, but she didn't seem upset at all. She was the only one in here who wasn't pissed off. “Saved by the storm, thank goodness! I was behind five-love. I told Lincoln I was hopeless and I think he's finally beginning to believe me.”

Daniel felt the edges of his smile sag. Lincoln Gray was everything Daniel wanted to be—blond, blue-eyed, sophisticated, rich, funny…and, most of all, old enough to interest Janelle Greenwood.

And boy was she interested. Ever since Gray had arrived in town a couple of weeks ago, Janelle had hung out with him 24/7.

Not that it changed Daniel's life any—except maybe his fantasy life. He still slaved four days a week at the Hideaway, doing all the grunt work his parents could think of, and then three days a week here at The Mangrove. He still had to take orders from Bart Thomas, the kid who'd owned this job for two years but was leaving it to go off to Duke on a baseball scholarship in the fall.

Bart was a jackass. He was only eighteen, ten months older than Daniel, but his attitude was so patronizing it made Daniel want to knock his straight white teeth down his throat on a daily basis.

In fact, that's why Daniel had first noticed Janelle—why he'd first begun to get this crazy crush on her. She'd been browsing through the shop a couple of weeks ago, just killing time before her massage, she'd said. Bart was bossing Daniel around, as usual, being a real jerk, telling him to inventory the golf tees, for God's sake. It had been tougher to take than ever, with this hot woman listening.

But suddenly Janelle had come over to the counter and given them each the slow once-over. Then she'd looked Daniel right in the eye, as if Bart didn't exist, and asked him if he'd be willing to give her some advice about a tennis outfit.

Bart had nearly choked on his surprise. He'd tried to horn in, but Janelle dissed him so completely that he finally had to go back behind the counter.

It was the sweetest moment so far this summer. Daniel had been paying for it ever since, but it was worth it. From that moment on, Janelle Greenwood had been like a goddess to him. And not just because of her body.

Although her body was awesome.

For a whole week, he'd dreamed. Maybe when she looked at him, she saw more than a teenager with nerdy red curls and zits. Maybe, like a princess in a story, she could see beyond all that. Maybe she saw the man he was ready to be, if only the world would let him.

But then Lincoln Gray came to town. And Daniel had to wake up.

“Lincoln thinks I need a new racket,” she said now with a wry smile. “He thinks I'd get more power with a different style. Frankly, I think what I need is a new sport. Like maybe croquet?” She laughed. “But he loves tennis, so…”

“If you're having trouble with power, maybe your racket is just strung too tight,” Daniel suggested. “We could restring it for you and see if that works. It would cost a lot less than a new racket.”

He felt himself flushing again, realizing how moronic that was. As if these people gave a damn about the expense of anything. Janelle might act normal, but no one “normal” stayed at The Mangrove. Normal people didn't get daily mud wraps and seaweed facials or run up four-digit tabs at the pro shop.

“That's a good idea,” she said as if she really thought so. “Here's Lincoln.” She reached out her hands, as if that would bring him to her faster. “Let's tell him.”

Daniel watched mutely as a tall, elegantly slim blond man made his way toward them, smiling and backslapping almost everyone in the crowd. Lincoln was so handsome, all sunshine-gold from being outdoors and toothpaste-ad smile. Daniel's stomach twisted and growled, the same way it did when he was trying to digest greasy pizza. He hoped Janelle didn't hear it.

“Janie! I wondered where you'd disappeared to! We should go get a table before the rush, don't you think?” Lincoln did the back-patting thing to Daniel—he was a real equal-opportunity charmer, millionaires and
nobodies got the same toothy grin. “Hey, Danny. How's it going?”

Daniel smiled back. He couldn't help it. It was his job, for one thing. And for another, Lincoln was hard to hate.

“Fine,” he said. “Busy.”

“Lincoln, Daniel had a great idea. He said maybe I don't need a new racket. He says I should just have my racket strung a little looser and then maybe I'll get the ball over the net.”

Daniel tensed, wondering how Lincoln would take hearing that one of the staff peons had dared to override his idea. And Daniel hadn't said that, exactly. He'd seen Janelle play—you could just see court ten from the stockroom window—and he knew that her problems were bigger than racket tension. She needed about six months of lessons, and Daniel would've loved to offer to teach her. He played tennis well. It was the one thing his lanky body was suited for.

Lincoln eyed Daniel thoughtfully, his blue gaze a little less sparkling and friendly than usual. Then he looked at Janelle, who was still smiling, apparently unaware that Daniel had just overstepped the all-important line, which, though invisible, was electrified.

“You know, that's a great idea,” he said, shocking the hell out of Daniel. “Good thinking, Danny. Let's do it.”

He handed over a racket he hauled around in a 12-pack Babolat bag, one of the most expensive they carried here in the pro shop. Bart had encouraged Lincoln to buy it a few days ago and the big selling point had been that tennis pro Rafael Nadal used a similar one.

“I'm not sure why I bought such a big bag,” Lincoln said with a self-effacing smile as he noticed Daniel's gaze. “I think your partner Bart is too good a salesman. He had me thinking I'd play like Nadal if I owned this thing. Which Janie can tell you is absolutely not the case.”

Janelle laughed and slipped her hand into the crook of Lincoln's elbow. “Compared to me, you do,” she said.

Lincoln laughed, and as Daniel took the racket he found himself laughing along. As he'd said before, Lincoln was hard to hate. Every time Daniel got close, the guy did something human.

He was either the slickest con artist on the planet or he was the only truly humble, friendly millionaire playboy in the history of the world.

For Janelle's sake, Daniel hoped it was the latter. If he couldn't have her—and short of getting struck by a miraculous stroke of love-lightning, he definitely couldn't—he still wanted her to be happy.

That surprised him, too. Sure was different from how he felt when his last girlfriend, Beth Miller, dumped him for a no-neck football player.

Maybe, he thought, as he trotted back to restring the racket, he was actually growing up.

Bummer.

 

A
S SHE GOT OUT
of her car in front of Lincoln's borrowed mansion, Allison's dress snagged on a loose piece of chrome. A blue loop of thread dangled from her left hip. Cursing under her breath, she smoothed the
surrounding fabric. Maybe it would slide back into place.

Of course, it wouldn't. She fought the urge to rip the darn thing out, blew a damp curl out of her eyes and took a deep breath. From the moment she got up that morning, she'd been jinxed. First, she'd overslept. Then she realized she'd forgotten to pack the only styling mousse capable of handling this humidity. Now her hair kinked up if she so much as glanced out the window. Then Flannery and Fiona had cornered her about coming to their dance practice this afternoon. Fiona had fingered the straps of her backpack nervously and done all her begging with her eyes. Flannery had hopped in place and pleaded in a piercing falsetto.

It was adorable…and successful. Allison had promised to be back by one o'clock.

Great
. As if it weren't daunting enough to have to convince Lincoln of her sincerity, humility, generosity, desperation, adoration and poor-little-rich-girl naïveté. Now she was going to have to do it all in about ninety minutes or less.

With frizzy hair.

And a bra at least two sizes smaller than Janelle Greenwood's.

But she refused to think negatively. She opened her purse to be sure she'd remembered the heavy signet ring and repeated her private hook-Lincoln mantra.

I'm rich enough, I'm dumb enough and, doggone it, bigamists like me.

That made her smile, which settled some of the butterflies. She tossed the strap of her purse over her
shoulder, marched up to the door and pressed the bell before she could change her mind.

Lincoln answered it in two seconds, as if he'd been standing there waiting for it to ring. To her dismay, he was dressed in tennis whites and had his car keys hooked through his index finger. So much for her expensive private detective who had assured her that Lincoln never left the house before noon.

“Allison? My God.
Allison?
”

It was actually quite gratifying. His mouth seemed frozen in the half-open position. Why hadn't she ever noticed the fishlike quality of those full lips?

“Allison?” It seemed to be the only word he could speak. She could almost see the wheels of his brain spinning helplessly, trying to find traction.

He backed up subtly, gripping the door with white, flattened fingertips as if he had to fight the urge to slam it and run. She almost laughed. What did he think? That she had a little pistol in her purse and planned to shoot off his privates?

Did he really not know her any better than that?

But she couldn't just savor the moment. The only humiliation her script called for right now was her own.

She glanced at his tennis bag, which was on the floor next to the door. “Have I caught you at a bad time? I'm sorry I didn't call first, but I was—” She broke off and tried to look flustered. “I guess I was afraid you would tell me not to come.”

His fingers relaxed a little. “I don't understand,” he said. “I mean, what…? After everything… Why
have
you come?”

“I had to. I had to see you. I have to talk to you.”

Even before she finished the sentence, he was already shaking his head. “I don't think that's a good idea. I'm sorry about what happened, Allison. I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But—”

“No,” she broke in, keeping her eyes wide and innocent. “Honestly, I'm not angry.”

He frowned. “All right. Hurt, then. Or betrayed. Whatever word you want to use, I understand how you must feel. But what's done is done, Allison, and there's no—”

She put out her hand and touched his arm. “Lincoln, please. You don't understand. I've come all this way. Won't you let me in, so that I can explain?”

“There's nothing to say. Look, it's over, and really it's for the best. It wouldn't have worked out between us. Besides, you're right—this isn't a good time.” He twisted his wrist to look at his watch. It had the added effect of releasing her grasp. “I'm expected somewhere in twenty minutes.”