Otherwise Engaged (8 page)

It had to do with that old, faded photograph of Chuck, hanging up near the cash register. He stood next to a younger, only slightly slimmer Millie, gazing unsmilingly and so seriously into the camera, as mysterious and full of secrets as he ever was. He seemed to watch Molly every time she so much as set foot in the store.

Chuck had always had so many secrets. But today Molly had one of her own—one she was trying to hide even from herself. One having to do with
Fantasy Man’s
Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year, no less. The sad truth was, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Pres Seaholm all day.

It was all about sex. Had to be. After all, it had been three years since she’d been with a man. Longer, Molly thought, glancing up at the photo of Chuck.

She grabbed a shopping cart and headed toward the back of the market, where the fresh produce was displayed. She had to stop thinking about Pres Seaholm and remember to get another box of cornflakes. This morning, Zander had
opened the box to discover it had been infested with fire ants and …

A flashbulb went off in her face.

“Molly Cassidy?”

“Excuse me, Miss Cassidy, will you comment on Preston Seaholm’s statement that you are allegedly
not
his fiancée?”

“Miss Cassidy, we’ve had a tip that Mr. Seaholm was seen entering your house by the back door last night at eleven-fifteen P.M. Can you tell us what you and he did until he left at approximately quarter to midnight?”

“Miss Cassidy, what exactly
is
your relationship with Preston Seaholm?”

Another flashbulb went off, and Molly had to laugh. “You’re taking pictures of me
grocery shopping?
Get a life, guys. Come on. …”

“Enough!” Millie was bellowing. “That’s enough! I won’t have this in my store! I demand that you leave—not you, Molly. But everyone else—out. Get out!”

“Miss Cassidy,
On-line Entertainment
is willing to offer you fifty thousand dollars for an exclusive television interview, providing your perspective on Merrilee Fender and Preston
Seaholm’s divorce,” one of the reporters said to Molly in a low voice.

“But I don’t even
know
Merrilee Fender,” she started to say.

But just as quickly as the reporters had descended upon her, they turned.

Pres Seaholm had come into the store.

Millie was standing up on the checkout counter, shaking with anger and threatening to call Liam Halliday, Sunrise Key’s sheriff.

The reporters began calling out Pres’s name, adding to the noise and chaos, asking
him
their ridiculous questions, every one of which he ignored.

Molly could do nothing but stand and stare.

Pres was wearing a dark-colored business suit, complete with gleaming white shirt and power tie, and that, combined with his slicked-back hair and the tight expression on his face, made him look completely, thoroughly formidable. His eyes were all but shooting sparks as he searched the room, softening only slightly with relief as he found Molly and met her gaze.

He pushed his way none too gently through the crowd.

“Are you all right?” He ignored the reporters, speaking to her as if she were the only person in the room.

Molly nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just … it’s silly.” She shrugged, suddenly intensely aware both of the warmth of his hands on her bare arms and of how happy she was to see him. She smiled foolishly up at him. “I mean, if they really want to take pictures of me buying zucchini …”

Flashbulbs were going off again, and Pres pulled Molly with him toward the back of the store, trying to shield her from the cameras. Millie Waters had moved toward the back delivery door, and she closed and locked it behind them as soon as they went out.

And just like that, they were suddenly, blessedly alone.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Molly nodded again.

It had to be nearly one hundred degrees out there in the little alley behind the market. Pres felt the dark fabric of his jacket absorbing the heat of the brilliant afternoon sun like some kind of black hole. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about
anything but this woman who was gazing up at him with such a mixed expression on her face.

She might not be willing to admit it, but a substantial part of her was as glad to see him as he’d been to see her. Pres knew that without a doubt. And he knew in that instant, if he pulled Molly into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers, she would kiss him with the same unrestrained passion.

But he couldn’t forget that it would be only a matter of moments before the reporters found their way into this alley.

And he couldn’t forget Molly’s son.

“Where’s Zander?” Pres asked, his voice sounding raspy in the stillness. He took her hand and tugged her along with him toward the end of the rank-smelling little alley.

“He’s over at the Congregational church. The Sunday school’s organizing a musical revue, and he volunteered to help. Why?”

“Come on, I’ve got a car waiting.”

Molly stared. A car, indeed. It was a stretch limousine, black and sleek, complete with privacy glass. “It matches your suit,” she said.

“I had a business lunch over on the mainland.”
Pres opened the door for her and all but pushed her inside. The seats were covered in real leather. There was a TV and a VCR and a bar and even a computer. “When I left the meeting, my driver had picked up a newspaper for me. That’s when I saw this.”

Pres handed her the newspaper, open to the lifestyles section, as he climbed into the limo after her. “Drive, Lenny,” he ordered the driver through an intercom before he even shut the door behind him. “To the Congregational church.”

Molly stared at the picture in the newspaper. Zander was in that picture, wearing his favorite superhero T-shirt and his cutoff jeans. He was standing next to Pres, who was sitting in a beach chair, eyes covered by a pair of aviator sunglasses, hair blowing in the ocean breeze. They were both smiling at each other—laughing, really. It was a nice picture. A
really
nice picture.

Except it was on the front page of the B section of the
Florida Sun Times
.

Molly read the caption aloud. “‘Practicing for Father’s Day? Sunrise Key resident and
Fantasy Man
magazine’s currently reigning Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year, Preston Seaholm, relaxes on
the beach this morning with Alexander’—Lord, where did they get his name?—‘son of Molly Cassidy, whom the billionaire insists is
not
his mysterious bride-to-be. Sure, we believe you, Pres.’”

She looked up at Preston, his desire for haste suddenly making sense. “Oh, my God. You think the reporters might know that Zander’s over at the church?” She leaned forward and pressed the intercom button. “Drive faster, Lenny.”

“We’re almost there,” Pres said.

Molly turned, watching out the window. She could see an
On-line Entertainment
news van in the church parking lot.

“Damn.”
Pres’s jaw was tightly clenched. “Molly, I am
so
sorry about this. This morning when I was talking to Zander, I didn’t stop to think—”

Molly reached over and took his hand. “Frankie Paresky’s in charge of the kids while they’re at the church. There’s no way she would let a news team within twenty feet of Zander.”

Lenny pulled the limo up alongside the main entrance to the church. Molly could see the reporters
and camera teams climbing out of the air-conditioned comfort of their cars and vans.

She scrambled for the door, but Pres was there first. “Why don’t you wait here?” he asked. “Let me go in and get him.”

“No way.”

“Molly, if they get footage of us together, they’re going to assume—”

“What? That in a town of only six hundred and fifty-seven people we wouldn’t have happened to have met? We’re friends, big deal.”

“You’re in my limousine.”

“So? We’ve both still got our clothes on, and unless you’ve got your clothes off, it doesn’t count. Didn’t you know that?”

Pres shook his head. “Molly—”

“If they can’t believe we’re just friends, that’s their problem.”

“It’s
our
problem, and you know it. And it looks as if it’s become Zander’s problem now too.”

Molly’s face hardened as she looked out the window at the brick church. “How could they do this to a kid? Doesn’t it occur to them that he might get scared, with questions being shouted at
him and those big TV cameras? With all that noise, Zander wouldn’t even be able to hear what anyone’s saying. He’s only ten years old, and he’s hearing-impaired, dammit.” She looked back at Pres, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I want my kid.”

Pres knew with sudden extreme clarity exactly what he had to do. He’d gotten Molly and Zander into this, it was up to him to get them out. “I’m going out first to run interference with the reporters,” he told Molly. “You go to the church’s kitchen door. Bring Zander right back out and into the limo.” He keyed the intercom button. “Lenny, as soon as Molly gets out, back around and pull as close as you can to the kitchen door. Then wait for my signal, okay?”

Molly nodded.

Pres smiled, a hot, fierce smile not unlike the one he’d given her up on the roof during the thunderstorm. “Let’s do it.”

In a flash, he was out of the limo, moving to intercept the news teams.

Molly followed him out into the sweltering humidity of the Florida afternoon and hurried toward the far church door.

“Mr. Seaholm! Mr. Seaholm!” Over her shoulder, Molly saw the crowd of reporters seem to swallow Pres up. She could see only the reddish-gold glint of his hair as it reflected the late-afternoon sun.

The kitchen door was locked, but she could hear the bolt being thrown back. The door creaked open and Frankie Paresky pulled her inside, into the church kitchen, quickly locking the bolt behind her.

“He’s all right,” Frankie told Molly, before she could even ask. “Zander was out on the playground with the other kids when the reporters first arrived. One of the older girls ran to get me, and I came screaming out of the kitchen. I think
I
scared Zander more than the reporters did!”

“Mommy!” Zander ran toward her, and she caught him in both arms, picking him up and holding him tightly. He didn’t object to being held like a baby. He just hugged her.

“They were asking him questions they shouldn’t’ve been asking a little boy.” Frankie spoke in a low voice, her dark eyes blazing. She smiled suddenly. “I told them exactly where they should go and what they should do when they get
there, and I’m afraid my language wasn’t exactly biblical.”

Zander lifted his head. “She said they should—”

Frankie slipped a hand over the boy’s mouth. “Thanks, Zander, we won’t repeat it.”

He wiggled free from Molly’s arms. “Mom, did you know Frankie is a private eye like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Exactly
like Sherlock Holmes,” Frankie added. “Except he’s a guy, and I’m not. And he lives in England and I don’t. And he lived a hundred years ago, and I live now. And he’s a fictional character, and I’m not. … At least I
hope
I’m not …”

Zander laughed.

Molly hugged him, grateful that he was still able to smile, and knowing much of that was due to Frankie Paresky’s upbeat, irreverent attitude. “Thank you so much.”

Frankie nodded. “Zander’s a good kid. It was my pleasure.”

“We better get out of here. We’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Sure you don’t want to wait until that scum leaves?”

“Pres’s limo is right outside.”

“His limo?” Frankie’s eyebrows went up. “Preston Seaholm’s limo. Well, well. Are you sure there’s no truth to all these rumors about a wedding?”

Zander looked at her, and Molly made a face at him.

“I’ve had maybe six conversations with the man,” she told Frankie. “That’s hardly enough to base an entire lifetime relationship on.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Frankie said. “Maybe a little flaky at times, but who isn’t, right? You could do far worse than a billionaire, you know.”

“See you on Sunday,” Molly repeated as she unlocked the bolt and opened the door.

There was the limo, mere feet from the church. Molly quickly opened the door and pushed Zander in, climbing in after him.

Her son was in total awe. “Whoa. What is
this?”

“Pres’s limousine.” She tried to say the words casually.

“This is
awesome! Pres
is
awesome!”

“Please fasten your seat belts.” A voice—it had to be Lenny’s—came from a little speaker in the ceiling. “I’m waiting for Pres to give me some sort of signal. When he gives it, we’re going to move fast, so hold on.”

Waiting for Pres
. Pres was on a first-name basis with his limo driver. Why didn’t that surprise her? He was on a first-name basis with everyone else in town—including her ten-year-old son.

Molly fastened her own seat belt as Zander strapped himself in. Leaning forward, she could see the reporters and cameras. She saw Pres break free of the crowd and start running toward them.

“That looks like a signal to me,” Lenny said, and he stepped on the gas.

Molly leaned toward the door, pushing it open just as the limo screeched to a stop. Pres threw himself inside, and they were off again.

Zander was all eyes, taking in Pres’s designer suit and slicked-back hair.

Pres flipped on the intercom. “Take us back to the resort, Len.”

Molly raised her voice. “Make that the Kirk Estate, Lenny. Zander and I want to go home.”

“Take the scenic route,” Pres countered, then
turned to face Molly, evenly meeting her gaze. “There’s probably already a crowd of reporters waiting for you at home. I’d feel a lot better if you stayed in a suite at the resort—as my guest—until this dies down.”

Molly’s heart was in her throat. Stay at the resort … She could just picture the two of them being shown into some elegant hotel suite. “Oh, that’s really going to make things die down—me and Zander staying in some fancy suite, living under your roof?”

He smiled at that. “It’s a really large roof. Besides, I don’t live in the main resort building. I have a bungalow on the edge of the property. Although I’d like it if you’d allow me to join you for dinner. We could order room service—it would be very private.”