Do-Over (11 page)

Without too much more effort, she could love this man, Cara thought. Oddly, the thought didn’t terrify her as it should.

It did, however, stay with her through their kiss and its abrupt ending when Vic Mancini barged into the kitchen and then stammered an apology. The feeling lingered during the morning’s meetings, and seemed to expand in her heart every time she allowed herself to look at Mark.

She could most definitely love this man, and that was the last thing he needed to know.

A
FTER LUNCH
, M
ARK
was delayed by a phone call, leaving Cara and Nicole alone in the conference room. Cara took the opportunity to ask a question that she’d
long wanted to ask another fast-track professional, but didn’t dare at Saperstein, Underwood, where she was supposed to know everything.

“How do you have it all—career, husband and a family?”

Nicole laughed as she settled back into a chair, then turned it and propped her feet on the one next to her. “All? On a good day I have about a third of it.”

“Really. No jokes. I’m curious because I’ve been making such a god-awful mess of that stuff, myself.”

“Cara, I don’t have it
all,
” she repeated, her face dead earnest. “I have the advantage of money, which means I’m going to hire a nanny to help with this guy,” she said, settling a protective hand over her burgeoning belly. “But I’ve made compromises. I’m going part-time at work after the baby comes, and I know I’ve lost a shot at Senior VP for the next few years.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

She smiled. “Well, I’m competitive, which I think you can relate to, so it bothered me for about ten minutes. Then I decided that I was much better off having a healthy family life than taking on more work responsibilities. When I’m ready to return full-time, I’ll get back on track.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Then I’m a really good liar. But it’s like this deal with Newby. If it’s worth it to you, somehow you find a way.”

Which was the wrong analogy to choose, given Cara’s current disenchantment with all things Newby.

Nicole didn’t seem to notice. She’d developed a Cheshire cat grin. “So, you and Mark, something’s in the air…”

Cara shifted a little in her seat, uncomfortable with the topic. “Thwarted hormones, mostly.”

“No wonder Mark’s so stressed. He’s never been very good at having anything thwarted, let alone
that.
”

“I’ll bet,” Cara muttered.

“Between you guys and what his mother’s going through, Mark must—”

Cara was zapped by a jolt of anticipatory dread. “His mother?”

Nicole’s gaze became guarded. “Sorry, I think I just spoke out of turn. After seeing the two of you, I assumed…”

“It’s okay,” Cara said quickly, as though she could fast-talk her way past Nicole’s hesitance. “Would you please tell me what’s going on with his mother?”

“Mark must have his reasons for not saying anything. Let’s just let it drop, okay?”

Cara wasn’t crazy about confessing her character flaws to friends, let alone business acquaintances. But this mattered, so she went with her instincts and opened up.

“Here’s the problem, Nicole. I haven’t been much of a friend to Mark. I’ve been starring in a ‘poor me’ show since he joined the firm. If there’s something going on with his mother, I really need to know.”

“So the way you feel about Mark is more than hormones?”

“On my side, at least,” she said eventually. To make the admission aloud stung.

Nicole smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t try to lie to me because I already knew the answer.” She paused a second before saying, “Mark’s mom had a stroke a few months ago. She’s making a pretty solid recovery,
but Mark’s dad hasn’t exactly been a model of devotion. That’s why Mark decided to move home.”

“I see,” was all that Cara could say to work past the guilt that was unpacking and settling in for a long visit.

“Mark mentioned that you’re coming for cocktails and an early dinner on Saturday before I take off.”

“Did he?” she replied, not even half listening.

“You’ll meet Frances, his mom, then. She’s incredible.”

Cara nodded absently. She had always thought that these life-changing moments would come with appropriate notice from the gods. A chorus of trumpets would have been nice, or maybe some shimmery sort of good fairy lady appearing to visit wisdom upon her. Instead, she felt as if she’d taken a kick to the teeth.

Not once had she asked herself why Mark Morgan might have thrown away the perfect setup and returned to Detroit. In fact, she couldn’t recall being even remotely curious. She’d been so damn egocentric, thinking of only how
her
life was being trashed and how hard
she
was working.

He had returned home out of love for his mother. How many men would have the self-confidence and self-knowledge to do that? How many women, for that matter? She had come to view her weekly family dinners as a messy imposition on her work schedule. He had changed his life for his. She thoroughly sucked as a human. Hell, she hadn’t even evolved to the point of primordial ooze.

Mark returned, and she found herself really looking at him for the first time. Not just noticing how hot he
was, or the way he wore his confidence, but at the person beneath all that external stuff.

“Ready to start?” he asked.

Both Nicole and she said they were, but Cara had another voyage in mind, too. She foresaw a tough climb before she was evolved emotionally, but she knew that she was ready. After all, the prize at the top was the very best.

B
Y THAT SATURDAY EVENING
, Mark was convinced that the Cara Adams he knew had been subjected to mind-control experiments or kidnapped by aliens. Instead of the bash-though-all-defenses tack she usually took, she was sitting back and watching, which was supposed to be his job. It wasn’t a bad change, mind you, just kind of creepy in its sudden onset.

She’d never grilled him on his relationship with Nicole, as he’d expected her to. Though the fact that Nic looked about ready for her own zip code might have had something to do with that.

When he’d told Cara of his plans for dinner at Lakewind, complete with his only partially recovered mother in attendance, she’d scarcely batted an eyelash. Instead of delivering a diatribe on business protocol, she’d simply asked if the dinner was to be formal or casual. He’d ended up so suspicious of her actual intent to attend that he’d told her he’d pick her up at her place. She hadn’t fought that, either.

Strange. Very strange.

The only Cara-like behavior he’d seen was her refusal to let him see inside her apartment, but that could be because she was never home long enough to clean it.

Now, as they turned off the main road and onto his
private one, she began to look around, practically rotating in her seat.

“What’s up?” he asked, fighting back a smile. He could remember being like this when he was a kid and his parents gave in to his whining and took him to that most plebian of all places—Disney World. The trip had turned out to be one of his favorite childhood memories.

“Okay, I know you weren’t exactly poor, but this is incredible. How old are the trees lining the drive?” She didn’t give him the chance to work up some B.S. answer. Instead, she said, “I’m having an Audrey Hepburn moment. Her movies are like comfort food to me. I watched a few the other night, and you know what this reminds me of?”

“A guerilla-training camp for preppies?”

“No.
Sabrina.
You know, with William Holden and Humphrey Bogart?”

Not only a chick flick, but one in black-and-white—the double kiss of death. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“How long is this road? Shouldn’t we be across the lake and in Ontario by now?”

“The house is around the next bend.”

She nodded. “Okay. Anyway, Sabrina was the chauffeur’s daughter and lived above this incredible garage.”

Mark bypassed the loop of drive leading to the front entrance and continued to the back.

“Oh, my God. One like that. You guys don’t have a chauffeur, do you?”

“My father does. His name’s Paddy and if it makes you feel any better, he lives a couple of miles away, in his own house. Are you nervous or something?”

“Your father actually has a driver? No, I don’t think that piece of news is helping at all. Not that I’m admitting
to nervousness to begin with. What have I done to make you think I’m nervous?”

“You haven’t stopped talking since we pulled past the gates.”

“Oh. Okay, point taken.”

Mark parked the car, then walked around to Cara’s side and opened her door.

“Just give me a second,” she said while flipping down the visor and checking her hair and makeup. She looked perfect to him, but then again he was biased. “Anything I should know before we go inside?”

Since she still hadn’t left the car, he was pleased to hear that they would be going inside eventually. He held out his hand and waited for her to grasp it.

“That man in the doorway who’s wondering if you’re ever getting out of the car is Jerome,” he said. “Unfortunately, he’s not my father.”

She took his hand and eased from the vehicle, testing the ground with her foot as though there might be quicksand. “Okay…Jerome, who isn’t your father. Anything else?”

He closed the car door so she couldn’t change her mind, then led her toward the steps. “I’ve already told you about my mom and her troubles with words. If she gets frustrated and starts throwing things, don’t worry. Her aim stinks.”

Cara stopped on the bottom step.
“What?”

“I’m joking.” He squeezed her hand. “Pretty much everybody who has come into the house has come out alive.”

“Yeah, well, I’m always one to buck a trend. And this, Morgan, is no house.”

He bent down from his vantage point on the next step up and gave her a quick kiss—an appetizer. “But you, Adams, are no coward. Now, relax.”

Cara’s Rule for Success 11:

Never sleep with anyone who

could be your future boss…

but if you give into temptation,

make sure you do it with style.

R
ELAX
?
M
ORGAN HAD
to be kidding. The last time Cara was in a place like this, it had been a museum with red velvet ropes to keep the commoners’ grubby paws off the furniture.

At least Jerome was a comforting slice of reality. There was no pretense about him, just an appraising look followed by a warm welcome. It seemed she had passed muster, and she was glad for it.

He led them through a kitchen that was pretty much a chef’s orgasm, then to a room he called the library. Cara called it bigger than her entire apartment. It totally intimidated her with its leather-bound elegance.

“Your mother’s with Nicole, helping her pack,” Jerome said to Mark.

He winced. “What you mean is they’re dissecting my personal life.”

The older man laughed. “You weren’t raised a fool,
were you, kid?” He smiled at Cara. “Have him pour you a drink. You’re going to need it.”

“That’s an understatement,” Mark muttered.

“Once you’re anesthetized, why don’t you show Cara around?” he suggested to Mark. “I’ll find you when the ladies come downstairs—though it might be a while if they’re discussing your faults.”

Mark grinned. “Yeah, and I love you, too.”

Jerome winked at Cara. “Don’t let him get you into that boathouse,” he said, then left.

“Is there something wrong with the boathouse?” she asked after Jerome had closed the room’s French doors behind him.

Mark’s smile had a sexy curve to it. “Not really. So what would you like?” he asked, gesturing at a small bar set up on what looked to be a glossy and very expensive antique chest of drawers.

“A double shot of tequila, straight up, but I’ll settle for whatever white wine is in that chiller. Now tell me about the boathouse.”

He poured her a wine, then while he dropped a few ice cubes into the bottom of a tumbler and added a healthy measure of Scotch, he said, “When I was a teenager, the sole idea that kept me sane through all that adolescent crap was luring my girlfriend-of-the-month out to the boathouse and finally losing my virginity.”

Okay, she knew he had to have been a virgin at one point, but imagining Morgan without his hot-shit smile was impossible.

“And?” she prompted as he handed her the wine.

“Jerome would let me get out there, but it was like he had radar. Just as things were going to heat up, he’d show up with a tin of chrome cleaner and a rag.”

He picked up his drink and headed toward the doors Jerome had closed. Cara followed.

“It would be about ten at night,” Mark said, “and he’d tell the girl and me that he needed to buff the cleats on the vintage runabout down in the well. After a while I realized the only fittings getting polished on Jerome’s watch were that damn boat’s.”

She raised her glass in a sketchy toast. “So the heir of the manor didn’t have his every whim indulged. That’s comforting.”

His laughter was good-humored. “I’m glad you’re amused, but back then, the local heir wasn’t.”

“I’ll bet. You know what your problem was, Morgan? You strayed from the norm. You should have stuck to conventional locations like the back seat of a car or the sofa when Mom and Dad were out, but I don’t suppose that’s how you did things here in Camelot.”

That smile came back, and Cara’s knees grew a little lazy on the job.

“I got it right, eventually. How about you?” he asked as they paused in front of the doors.

“Nothing so exotic as boathouses and butlers, or whatever Jerome is. Mine was the standard collegiate loss-of-virginity, freshman year in my dorm room. My roommate was out in the hall, knocking on the door. Believe me, it was nothing to write home about.”

He leaned forward and kissed the one spot on her neck that made her susceptible to any suggestion, no matter how insane. “Why don’t we go out to the boathouse and see if we can replace those memories?”

Okay, almost any suggestion. “How about you give me my tour, then I bad-mouth you with your mother and your old girlfriend?”

“It goes without saying that I like my idea better.” He opened the doors and ushered her through. “I’m going to give you the five-cent tour, unless you want more.”

“Five cents is pretty much all the room I have in my budget,” she said. And she had even less stamina remaining for her middle-class psyche to cope with this old-money paradise.

“You’ve seen the kitchen and the library, and you’ll be skewering me in the dining room, so let’s move on to the front salon.”

“
Front salon?
Jeez, when we were kids, we thought we’d hit the big time when we moved to a house with both a living room
and
a family room.”

He led her down a broad hallway with entries leading to rooms she figured she also wouldn’t know the names for, and then stopped at a set of open carved mahogany doors.

“I don’t know if you’re much for the Arts and Crafts era,” Mark said, “but my mom has kept this room true to its—”

He drew to a halt. Cara pulled up short behind him. Her wine was threatening to slosh over the sides of its fancy glass, so she had a sip. When she looked up, she saw what had seized Mark’s attention.

This man, as opposed to big brown bear Jerome,
had
to be Morgan’s father. Cara felt as though she’d been given a glimpse into a crystal ball and was seeing Mark years from now. She smiled at a sudden flash of memory the sight brought, one of her sister—premarriage, kids and possession by Martha Stewart—saying, “Never get serious with a guy until you’ve seen his father. It can be brutal.”

If that was the case, Cara had to admit the view wasn’t bad. A little starchy, maybe, but…

“Dad,” Mark said.

“Mark.”

Nicole’s earlier words about Morgan’s dad were beginning to come clear. There were no “warm and fuzzies” between these two. Cara snuck in another swallow of wine to steel herself for the all-Morgan showdown.

“So you’ll be joining us for dinner?” Mark asked.

“Prior commitments.”

“Of course.”

“Are you going to introduce me to your companion?”

Cara moved forward until she was even with Mark. When he glanced at her, she had the weirdest feeling that he’d forgotten about her.

Recovering with rich-guy aplomb, he said, “This is Cara Adams. Cara works with me at Saperstein, Underwood.”

She offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

The older man hesitated a fraction. The pause chipped at her composed facade.

“Adams…the banking Adams?” he asked, gingerly shaking her hand.

“No, the work-on-the-assembly-line-at-Ford Adams,” she corrected.

“Ah,” he said with the slightest curl of his upper lip.

Ah.
One slender syllable that could carry the sort of condescension it took generations to develop. Cara felt a surge of recklessness. She gave him a cheery smile.

“Well, actually, that’s only when we
have
to work.
Mostly, we Adams dream up ways to skirt the rules at the Unemployment Office,” she lied.

Mark shot her an “oh, really?” look. She wasn’t sure whether he was amused or wanted her to shut up, and just then, she didn’t care.

“How interesting,” drawled his father. “Shall I tell Jerome to keep an eye on the silver?”

For the sake of some last-gasp diplomacy, she decided to interpret his words as a joke.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Polishing silver takes way too much effort.”

“Indeed.”

It was a plus that he was a man of few words.

“Well, I guess we’ll be on our way. Mark has promised to show me where the family jewels are hidden.”

Her comment elicited another “indeed” from Mr. Morgan the Elder, and what sounded like a suppressed laughter from Mr. Morgan the Younger.

Mark had her down another hallway and to a room she assumed was the rear salon before he asked, “With all that scheming and fraud, how did you ever squeeze in the time for law school?”

At least he was smiling. She probably owed Mark’s dad an apology but she’d sooner eat ground glass than do it. Mark, however, was another matter. “I’m sorry, it was nerves. He pushed a few buttons.”

“That’s Dad’s specialty. But do me a favor, don’t judge all Morgans based on what you saw in him.”

“I wouldn’t. Besides, you’ve already been judged.”

“And how did I rate?”

“Higher than I ever thought possible,” she said, but then added a tart “considering” just so his ego wouldn’t swell.

Mark took her glass and, along with his, set it on a
low table next to this fussy-looking sofa Cara had to wonder if anyone actually sat in.

“I need another appetizer,” he said as he neared.

“A what?”

He framed her face with his hands. “This.”

His kiss was a tease of warmth and whisky, too soon gone. “Don’t ever let my father intimidate you.”

Her heart picked up. Implicit in those words was that he’d have opportunity to so. This was new territory, talk of something past this moment…talk as though they were a couple. She wasn’t opposed to it, so much as not able to get her arms around the concept.

Mark’s face was set in serious lines—not the hard ones she saw when opposing counsel was trying to weasel around him, but a deadly earnest look. “I’ve wanted to tell you something for a couple of weeks, now. What you said about me back in law school, that I viewed the rest of you as fodder—you were right. At that point, it was all I knew, with my father as a role model. If you’re a Morgan, you never show weakness. You never open up. But I have a weakness now, Cara, and I want you to know what it is…. It’s
you.
”

Whoa.
Now her heart was pounding as if she’d run a marathon—which was more his gig, for sure. “Mark, I—”

“You don’t need to say anything.” His smile was rueful. “In fact, we’re probably both better off if you don’t.”

She felt impossibly mushy and fluttery inside, a regular stew of a girl. And what these emotions brimming in her heart meant, she’d analyze later, when she could think clearly. Cara traced the line of his jaw, rough with its hint of five o’clock shadow, and
worked on being the person she knew she was deep down inside.

“You know, I think I need a little nibble, myself,” she said.

This kiss was hers—slow, thorough and more than enough to bring to mind thoughts of a boathouse and forbidden pleasures. It might have continued forever, but for someone loudly clearing his throat to announce his arrival.

“Figures,” Mark muttered.

Cara didn’t have to turn to know who stood behind her, and Mark kept her wrapped tightly in his arms, anyway.

“The ladies await you in the dining room,” Jerome said. “That is, if you two can untangle yourselves long enough to join them.”

Mark settled a kiss on her forehead, then whispered, “See? Radar, just like I said.”

A
GUY’S DEFINITION
of hell: Dinner with his mother, his ex-fiancée and his current girlfriend. Mark was two-thirds of the way there. Only Cara’s status as his girlfriend was open for interpretation, and that would be a done deal if they could just find the time to be alone without work jimmying its way between them.

Of the three women at the table, Cara was being the least brutal to his ego, but that wasn’t saying much. The coven had already discussed why in the two-and-a-half years since he and Nic had wisely canceled the wedding that out of sheer apathy they had never quite gotten around to scheduling, he hadn’t dated anyone for longer than a month.

If they’d let him get a word in edgewise, he’d tell them why—to avoid dinners such as this.

On the bright side, Cara and his mother were already fast friends. Maybe now he’d be fully forgiven for not marrying Nic. He’d bet a year’s pay that visions of stupid frilly baby outfits and obscenely expensive toys were responsible for the current soft look in Frances’s eyes.

This was the annoying part of being an only child, and one born late in life, at that. He couldn’t reproduce quickly enough for his mom. And he couldn’t get Cara naked fast enough to please himself. Not that the two thoughts intersected in any fashion.

Mark felt someone’s gaze on him and glanced across the table to see Cara quickly look away. A gorgeous rosy color painted her cheeks. Subtlety was not her forte, any more than clean pure thoughts were his.

He knew he’d spooked her earlier with his talk of weakness—a word lawyers flat-out hated wrapping their lips around, unless applied to the opposing side—but he’d needed to give her back a piece of the power that his father had tried to wrest from her. No doubt about it, in a contest of wills with the old man, Cara could hold her own. But why should she have to?

The rest of dinner passed pleasantly enough. After they’d convinced Jerome they couldn’t possibly eat another bite of his outstanding food, conversation began to dwindle. Nic was semisuccessfully stifling tired yawns. His mother was frowning as though she were thinking through a plan for world peace. Cara was busy drinking him two-for-one through the rest of the Puilly Fuissé. He hoped wine didn’t have the same effect on her as a pitcher of margaritas.

Nic stood and settled a hand over her midsection.

“If you don’t mind, Bonzo here, says I need to get some sleep. I have an early flight.”

Cara and Nic shared an awkward hug.

“Get the Newby deal closed before I reenact
Alien,
okay?” the pregnant woman ordered.

“Absolutely,” Cara promised.

Mark gave Nic a quick kiss on the cheek and promised he’d catch her in the morning before Jerome drove her to the airport.

After Nic headed upstairs, his mother began to meddle.

“Take a walk,” she ordered. She was into directives these days—they contained fewer words. “Sh-show Cara around.”

He knew the only reason she hadn’t mentioned the boathouse was because she didn’t feel inclined to wrestle with the word.

Cara had gone back to the table for her wine. She chugged the last of the glass, then said, “We have a few minutes before I should get home. I’d love to see the gardens.”