Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (8 page)

“No, I wasn't… I—”

He took her arms again, and this time there was no tenderness in the touch. “Look. If you're going to nail him, you've got to get tough. He knows about those dreams. My sister had them, too. He takes them, and he stomps them like eggshells. So I need to be sure where you stand, Allison. Are you going to go soft now that you've seen him again? Are you going to start blaming yourself instead of him? Because if you are, I'm going to handle this myself, my own way.”

“Yes,” she said. His fingers were strong and her arms stung, distracting her. “I mean, no. No, I'm not going to go soft.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Then stop trying to make this your fault. Get mean. And let's go get this guy.”

 

W
HEN SHE'D LEFT HIS HOUSE
yesterday, Lincoln had promised that he'd call the next morning. While she waited, trying not to fret—what if he didn't call? —she spent a few hours helping Moira, her uncle Roddy's wife, with the Hideaway's biweekly shopping.

It was a huge job and Moira handled it like a commander in chief. She deployed the twins to bring back the basics, like bread and milk and eggs, while she negotiated the best marbled cuts of meat and the freshest fish.

Each of them pushed a separate cart, as did Allison, and before they hit the checkout line all four wagons were overflowing. Apparently even a small restaurant in a small hotel went through a shocking amount of food.

They were loading everything into the white hotel van, with O'Hara's Hideaway written on the side in red script, when Allison's cell phone finally rang.

Relief flooded through her when she saw the caller ID. It was Lincoln. She hadn't failed after all.

The twins were watching alertly. She dug the phone out of her pocket and, with an apologetic smile, turned sideways for at least a little privacy.

Lincoln sounded edgy. He wanted to talk, he said. Did she know The Boathouse? It was a little café at the edge of the marina.

She told him she knew it. That wasn't technically true, but she could glimpse the masts bobbing in the marina just beyond the rooftops, and she was sure she could find it. He seemed to be in a hurry and wanted to meet there in fifteen minutes.

She agreed. When she clicked off, she turned to Moira. “I hate to bail out before I help you put all this food away, but is there any chance you could drop me off at the marina? I need to meet someone at The Boathouse for lunch.”

Moira didn't let her intelligent eyes reveal any curiosity. “No problem,” she said. “Ordinarily I do the shopping alone anyhow if the girls are at school. And The Boathouse isn't far. I can have you there in about ten minutes.”

“Can I go, too?” Flannery slipped her hand into Allison's and smiled up at her, confident that she would say yes. As usual, Fiona was silent, but her big green eyes were locked on Allison, waiting for the answer.

Allison wondered what Lincoln would say if she arrived with twins in tow. She had a sudden mental picture of his face hardening, which took her breath away. Her subconscious had known this all along, but her conscious mind had blocked it.

Lincoln didn't really much like kids.

Moira stepped in. “Of course you can't go, you pests. First, Allison hasn't invited you. Second, you have skipped violin practice for three days straight. As soon as we get home, you're going straight to the garage.”

Flannery groaned. “Mom!” But when Moira stared at her with a look even Allison could read, Flannery
gave up with a heavy sigh. “She makes us practice in the garage. Can you believe it?”

“She'd believe it if she ever heard you play,” Moira said, laughing. “Now get in the car and stop pestering your cousin.”

Allison felt terrible, but she knew she couldn't give up this chance to be alone with Lincoln. “Tell you what. I'll take you both somewhere tomorrow, just the three of us. How about that?”

Fiona nodded eagerly, but Flannery was more cynical. “Grown-ups always say that. Daddy promises all kinds of stuff, but then he always has to work. Do you really mean it?”

Allison smiled. “I really do. I'm on vacation right now, so I have lots of time. I promise.”

Flannery tilted her head. “Invoke the O'Hara oath.”

“Fannie,” Moira broke in wearily. “Leave her a—”

“What's the O'Hara oath?”

“Raise your right hand.” Flannery nodded solemnly when Allison complied. “Repeat after me. ‘I swear by my O'Hara blood and my uncle Rory's rump—'”

Moira groaned. Even Fiona giggled. But somehow Allison managed to keep a straight face while she repeated the words.

“That I will take Flannery and Fiona somewhere fantastic tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” Moira put in firmly. “Weekends are too busy, as you very well know. Maybe Monday.”

Flannery wrinkled her nose. “Okay. That I will take Flannery and Fiona somewhere fantastic on Monday.”

Allison repeated the words faithfully.

The twins exchanged awed looks. “She really did it.”

“The O'Hara oath,” Moira explained, “is unbreakable. If you try, the fairies will spirit you away and feast on your bones.”

“Mom,”
Fiona said urgently. “Don't call them that. You know Grampa said they have to be called the ‘good people.'”

“Sorry.” Moira rolled her eyes over her daughter's head. “Grandpa tells far too many stories about the ‘good people,' if you ask me.”

“Anyhow,” Flannery said with a this-is-the-last-word tone in her voice. “No one breaks the O'Hara oath and that's that.”

Allison grinned as she got into the van and buckled up. The O'Hara oath didn't scare her. She wasn't afraid of becoming fairy food. She had no intention of breaking her promise.

Nope. The truth was, she liked the oath. And, more importantly, she liked having O'Hara blood to swear on.

T
HE
B
OATHOUSE RESTAURANT
was perched so close to the edge of the marina it seemed in danger of toppling into the water. Or it would have been, if there'd been enough room for anything to fall between those close-packed pleasure crafts. At least a hundred boats, some as big as yachts and others no more than glorified canoes, nosed up to the docks like remora fish suctioning themselves onto a shark.

Allison took her seat at Lincoln's table, which was the best, of course. Right up against the railing. She was near enough to the first slip, which held a boat named
Last Laff,
to count the minnows in the owner's bait box.

“Thanks for getting here so quickly,” Lincoln said while she unfolded her napkin. “I know it was short notice.”

Heck, yeah, it was short notice, so short it was downright insulting. Like getting a summons from your boss—
Hey you, ten-hut, front and center in fifteen minutes.

But living with her father had taught Allison how to hide her emotions, so she just smiled. “No problem at all,” she said. “I was glad you called.”

She sounded sincere—which pleased her. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as she'd feared. To her surprise, she wasn't nearly as unnerved by the sight of Lincoln as she had been yesterday.

The first is the worst.
That's what their longtime housekeeper, Loretta, used to say whenever Allison had to do something unpleasant, like eat a bowl of okra or read a boring chapter in her history book.
Just hold your nose and get started, honey,
Loretta would say.
The first is the worst.

“You sound surprised. But I did tell you I'd call,” Lincoln reminded her.

She somehow managed not to snort—was he implying that he always did whatever he promised to do? It was a little too soon to be trying that tack, especially with her.

“Anyhow,” he said quickly as if the thought had occurred to him, too. “I ordered you a Caesar salad. They're good here. I hope that's all right.”

“Of course.” Boy, he really was in a hurry, wasn't he? She wondered if he had a date with Janelle Greenwood later. The anxious feeling crept back in. “You know what I like.”

“Good. Well, then, I think we should talk, don't you? About what you said yesterday.”

She nodded. “I meant what I said, Lincoln. Every word of it. I love you. I want to prove that to you. Just tell me how.”

Behind his neutral expression, he was studying her. His fingers thrummed against the tablecloth, which was a thin cotton designed to look like a brightly colored beach towel.

“I know it won't be easy to make you trust me again,” she went on, feeling her way, trying to read his body language, the tiny, involuntary muscles in his face. “But I have to try. When I think of how strong our—”

She almost said “love” again, but decided against it. She'd always possessed the WASP reserve her father instilled in her, even when she and Lincoln had been in bed together. If she started shouting gooey love talk from the rooftops, he'd know she was acting.

“When I think how strong our feelings were, I can't help hoping that you want to try, too. Surely you don't want to lose all that, just because I made one mistake?”

He began to answer, but just then a Jet Ski at the edge of the marina powered up, filling the air with noise and the smell of gasoline. The two excited teenagers aboard shrieked an adrenaline-soaked sound, circled once, then roared out to open water.

Lincoln watched them go, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if the clamor and the stink offended him. A tiny ripple of relief, the first she'd felt since the jilting, made its way through her veins.

Maybe she had been lucky, after all. She might have to face loneliness again. She might have to postpone the family she longed for. But at least Amanda Anne and Michael Joseph would not have this man for a father.

As soon as the words formed in her mind, his expression changed completely, leaving her to wonder if she'd misinterpreted it all along. He smiled at the diminishing Jet Ski, then turned to her.

“They're fun, aren't they? Maybe, if we stay here a while, we should rent one. Although it's been a while
since I've driven one of those things. I'll probably break every bone in my body.”

She felt confused. This smile was the one she remembered—playful, self-effacing, lighthearted. Its warmth radiated toward her and she felt her own lips smiling instinctively in return.

“Let's risk it,” she said. “I'll bet we wouldn't break all our bones. And even if we did, it would be worth it.”

“Would it? That doesn't sound like you, Allie,” he said softly. “You weren't ever much of a risk-taker.”

“I know. But look what playing it safe cost me. It cost me the man I planned to marry.”

“Allie—”

“Lincoln, please believe me.” She leaned forward and put her hand over his. He was wearing the signet ring she'd given him yesterday—a good sign, surely. Its heavy gold face was cold against her warm palm. “I've learned from my mistakes. I've learned that some risks are worth taking.”

The waitress set two large bowls full of Caesar salad on the table and placed a bread bowl in between. “Anything else right now?”

Lincoln shook his head. “No, we're fine, thanks.”

The waitress walked toward the next table, tucking the tray under her arm. Allison watched her go—when suddenly a movement behind Lincoln's shoulder caught her eye. Her gaze shifted briefly, and she gasped before she could stop herself.

At the table right behind them, a man had just been seated. It was Mark Travers.

She told herself she shouldn't be surprised. She'd
sent him a text message on the way to The Boathouse, letting him know what Lincoln had suggested.

She hadn't been asking Mark to come. She'd merely been sharing her triumph that Lincoln had nibbled at the hook. And yet here he was.

Their gazes locked. Her cheeks flamed and she fought the urge to pull back her hand from Lincoln's, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.

But that didn't make sense. Romancing Lincoln was exactly what she was supposed to be doing. In fact, Mark looked quite pleased. He gave her a discreet thumbs-up before reaching for his menu.

“What's wrong?” Lincoln frowned. He started to swivel in his seat.

She grasped his hand tighter, holding him in place.

“Nothing's wrong,” she said. “It's just that you haven't said anything and I don't know what you're thinking. Talk to me, Lincoln. Tell me what it will take to get you back.”

“Allie, I don't know if—”

“Give me a chance to show you how much I care. I know! I'll buy a boat, Lincoln, just like the one we rented at the Cape. You loved that boat. We could sail off on it together. It would be just the two of us, just us and the ocean and the stars. It would be wonderful. Out there, I really think we could find our way back to each other.”

He shook his head. “Allie, listen to me. It's not that easy. We can't just go right back to where we were…before.”

Frustrated, she searched for another hunk of bait to dangle. She had to be careful. A few monetary tempta
tions made sense—after all, she was supposedly trying to prove that the prenuptial agreement had been a mistake, and that she trusted him with all her assets.

But if she just kept listing goodies, one after another, like a mother trying to get a picky child to eat, he'd see through it soon enough. He might be a liar and a thief, but he wasn't an idiot.

“All right,” she said. “I understand. I'm willing to wait, as long as you tell me there's still a chance.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course there's still a chance.”

Her sigh of relief was only partly fake. She really was glad to hear his answer. She couldn't read him. She couldn't tell if he was just playing hard to get, testing her, or whether this plan was doomed because he had found a younger, prettier,
richer
target.

“But I want us to take it slowly,” he went on. “We both need to think. We need to spend time together, sort things out. We can't rush into this again. We don't want to make any more mistakes.”

“No,” she agreed humbly. “Of course not.”

“Have you told the O'Haras about us? About the…the wedding, I mean?”

She shook her head. “I've only just met them after all these years apart. We're still like strangers, really. It isn't something I felt comfortable sharing.”

He seemed pleased. He probably feared that the O'Haras would prove to be just as thorny, as overly protective, as her father's lawyer.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell them anything yet,” he said. “We need to work this out together, just the two of us. With no outside interference.”

“Of course,” she said again. She bit her lower lip, trying to find the perfect tone to take with this last question. “Lincoln, can I ask you one more thing?”

His face tensed, immediately guarded. “What?”

“There isn't… I mean, when you didn't show up at the church, I had to wonder. There's no one else, is there? No other woman?”

Mark's table must have been close enough for him to hear their conversation. Though he was reading his menu, his body was unnaturally still, his head tilted toward them. She wondered if he was waiting for the answer as eagerly as she was.

“I'm going to be completely honest with you, Allison,” Lincoln said. “I have been dating someone. But not while you and I were engaged. I met her a couple of weeks ago, after I came back to Sole Grande.”

She tried to look shocked. “You did? So soon after…after me?”

“You hurt me, Allie. I was feeling pretty low. Company helped.”

Mark's menu twitched and Allison could see that his grip on the cardboard was tense. She felt the same indignation tightening her own muscles. Man, that took a lot of nerve, blaming his seduction of Janelle Greenwood on Allison.

She dragged her gaze away from Mark, though frankly it was comforting to know he was there. It made the whole experience more like a
Mission: Impossible
escapade and less like a groveling humiliation.

She swallowed her annoyance, hoping Lincoln
would interpret her tension as jealousy, or perhaps just fear of losing him.

“I guess that's fair enough. But this woman. Do you…do you love her?”

He shook his head and his blue eyes narrowed, shining slightly, as if from too much repressed pain. He started to speak twice before he managed to do so.

“Of course not,” he said. “How can you ask me that, Allie? How could I fall in love with anyone when I'm still in love with you?”

Behind them, Mark shook his head helplessly. He caught her eye.
Wow,
he mouthed. He shook his head again.
Wow.

She had to agree.

Much as she hated to admit it, Lincoln Gray was
good
.

 

M
OSTLY
, when Daniel was at The Mangrove, he would do anything they asked. Someday he planned to have his own hotel and he needed to learn as much as he could.

Sure, he'd grown up at his family's place, but O'Hara's Hideaway was small potatoes. Not small as in cheap or trashy, more like what was called a boutique hotel. But still, you had to know how the big boys did it. You had to think like a major-league player if you ever expected to climb out of the farm team.

So it didn't matter what the bosses wanted—a substitute coach for the kiddy tennis clinic, a pilot to glide the electric boat around for a moonlight cruise, a cabana boy, a rush room-service delivery or even just some
poor schmuck to empty trash cans in the bar—Daniel was there.

He got a reputation as the go-to guy, because he always said yes. He was pretty proud of that—especially since, at the Hideaway, his grandfather's nickname for him was “milk dud,” and his dad called him “slacker Dan.”

The plan had backfired on him today, though. Today Mr. Marley needed someone ASAP to pick up shards of glass in the first-floor ladies' lounge, where a giant mirror had inexplicably decided to jump off the wall.

He still said yes, of course, but
damn it
. He hated bathroom duty. Especially the ladies' bathroom. No matter how many signs he set up announcing it was out of service, some gorgeous chick inevitably came barreling in, squealing in shock when she saw him there looking totally geekville with his mop or his plunger or whatever.

Today was no exception. He'd just managed to sweep up the last of the glistening slivers—which had a tendency to hide in the grout between floor tiles—when, just like clockwork, a woman came busting in. Couldn't possibly read the sign, of course not. Having a lipstick emergency, no doubt. Or else in some white-hot heat to brush her hair.

But for once he was wrong. This one was crying, or maybe puking. She had a big tissue held up to her face and her head was bowed.

Oh, man.
He felt himself going hot all over. It was Janelle.

She went straight to the first sink and began to run some
cold water. She didn't even seem to notice him there. But when she started splashing the water on her face, she looked into the mirror and
boom
. She saw him.

What the heck was he supposed to say? “Hi” would be retarded, as if he didn't understand what was so weird about the whole scene. “I'm sorry,” which felt the most natural, was too pathetic. He didn't need to apologize for doing his job. And he
had
put out two signs.

“Oh, Danny. I'm so glad it's you,” she said, solving the problem in the nicest possible way. She pulled off about six paper towels, soaked them under the running water and pressed them against her cheeks. She tried to smile at him in the mirror. “I'm sorry to interrupt your work. I was—I wasn't thinking, and…”