Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (12 page)

In answer she gave him a grateful smile and then seemed to recognize him.

“Oh,” she said with small frown, as if something about the memory troubled her. “Hi, there! I think we met the other day. In the dress shop. I think you were with your—” she glanced oddly at Lincoln “—your girlfriend?”

Mark stuck to the script he and Allison had con
cocted at the beginning. Telling just one clean, consistent story seemed the safest.

“No,” he said. “She's one of the other guests at the hotel where I'm staying. I was buying something for my girlfriend back home, so we rode together.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Oh. I see. Did she buy that red dress? It looked wonderful.”

“I'm not sure,” Mark lied. It might seem suspicious if he were too interested in some stranger's wardrobe. “She was having trouble making a decision, so I ended up walking back to the hotel alone.”

“Come on, people,” Lincoln interrupted. “There's plenty of time for chitchat while we play.” He put his arm around Janelle's shoulders, staking his claim in no uncertain terms. “We need to get going or we'll miss our tee time. You coming, Will? Travis?”

Travis? Oh, yeah. Mark was having a little trouble getting used to his pseudonym. “Sure. I'm ready.”

This was exactly the scenario he'd hoped for, but even so it was a long morning. Mark didn't much like golf and he sure as hell didn't like Lincoln Gray. Still, he lived by the old saying that knowledge was power.

Whenever Mark's firm took on a new client, he spent a couple of weeks in what he called immersion. That meant he pretty much lived in the client's pocket. He ate in the company cafeteria, walked the factory floor, sat in the office and listened to phone calls and observed the workday rhythm. He met the spouse and the kids and Fido. He even checked out the home-video cabinet, to see which movies the family had enjoyed enough to buy.

Did every detail prove useful in the end? Of course not. But some of it did. Sometimes he learned that Mr. Big Shot was henpecked and it was more important to please Mrs. Big Shot. Sometimes he discovered that Ms. CEO segregated her pencils by color, length and eraser depth. That warned him to include her on even the smallest decisions.

Sometimes, unfortunately, he learned that his new client told little lies all day long, from whether he'd sent an e-mail to whether he'd implemented a new safety feature. When that happened, Mr. New Client became Mr. Former Client in a big hurry.

So today's golf match might be boring and the weather hot, but Mark chalked it up to Lincoln immersion. He'd never spent any time with Lincoln before, and he was dying to know what made this guy so irresistible to women.

But even after eight long holes, he wasn't sure he'd discovered very much. Trying to look into Lincoln was like trying to see what was on the other side of a mirror. He just reflected back your own image to you. With Will Denton, an insecure golfer, Lincoln was earnest, suggesting that he put a little draw on the ball here, a little fade there. With Janelle, he was gentle, joking, as if the game was just a lark. With Mark, he was graceful, light on his feet, parrying questions with questions, revealing little while appearing to be completely open.

Just when he was about to give up, on the ninth hole, Mark stumbled onto a couple of interesting facts.

It was a blind hole. Lincoln's initial drive appeared to be sailing as straight as an arrow, but at the last minute
it sliced and disappeared into the trees that lined the fairway.

“Oh, Lincoln.” Janelle shaded her eyes to try to see the ball. “I'm sorry.”

Lincoln had showed nothing but good grace all morning and this was no exception. “Ouch! Sliced that one pretty bad, didn't I? Serves me right. I was already thinking about lunch. And you know what they say about golf, right, Will?”

The balding man frowned. To him, a ball in the woods was no joking matter. “What?”

“They say it's ninety-percent mental and ten-percent mental.”

Janelle laughed, of course. Mark smiled, too, though he'd heard that one about a thousand times.

“I'll help you find it,” Mark offered to Lincoln as they got back in the cart and rode toward the spot where the ball had disappeared. “But why don't you just take a stroke? You could double bogey this hole and still beat all of us.”

“We'll see.” Lincoln shrugged. “I might be able to hit my way out.”

While Janelle and Will chatted in the shade of the cart, Lincoln and Mark climbed down and wandered over toward the trees. Mark, who had seen where the ball entered the foliage, was surprised when Lincoln called out, indicating that he'd found his ball at the outer edge of the woods.

Mark didn't let his reaction show. But he knew full well that, if there was a golf ball lying there, it belonged
to some other poor slicer. Or else Lincoln had dropped it out of his pocket on the sly.

“That was lucky,” Mark said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “You should be able to chip your way out, no problem.”

But either Mark wasn't as good an actor as he believed or Lincoln had some kind of sixth sense for danger. Without so much as glancing over at Mark, he bent down to look more closely at the ball.

“Darn,” he said, dangling his hands between his knees, a study in disappointment. “That's not mine after all. Same brand, but look at that dirt. This one's been here since the Stone Age.”

So that was the first thing Mark learned. Lincoln was good. Really good. He had the animal instincts of a natural-born predator. He knew when to advance, and he knew when to freeze in place, blending in with the jungle behind him. He would never strike unless he was absolutely sure he could do so undetected.

The second thing Mark learned was simpler but no less important.

When it came time for Janelle to sink her last putt, an easy two-footer, Will Denton dared to come up and try to help. He wrapped his short, chubby arms around her from behind and showed her how to place her hands on the shaft.

Some instinct of his own warned Mark to glance quickly in Lincoln's direction. The blond man was watching, unblinking, as focused as a panther. His classic profile was tight with fury. He simply could not,
would not, tolerate another male trespassing on his territory.

When Janelle's putt fell rattling into the cup, Lincoln moved in quickly. He gathered the exultant Janelle into his arms and kissed her roughly. When he let her go again, she stumbled back a step, as if dazed.

It was more than a kiss and she knew it. It was a brand.

Mark smiled as he slid his rented clubs back into the leather bag.

Now that was a fact he could use.

“I
STILL THINK
you should have been Deirdre of the Sorrows,” Flannery complained as she carefully dipped her brush in the white paint. “She's younger and prettier and more romantic.”

Allison kept her face very still. In an effort to turn Allison into Maeve, the legendary Irish queen, Flannery was painting a dove on one cheek and Fiona was creating a shamrock on the other. They would throw a fit if she caused them to mess up.

“But Deirdre sounds like a victim,” Allison explained, trying not to move her lips too much. “Maeve is more exciting.”

“That's absolutely true,” Fiona said. She caught her lower lip and squinted as she worked on the shamrock. “Besides, Fannie, she
had
to be Maeve. Deirdre had blond hair.”

“Big deal,” Flannery shot back crossly. “We could have dyed it.”

Allison groaned, knowing that wasn't an idle threat. She'd already had to draw the line at wearing Fannie's real, live cockatiel on her shoulder.

When she'd agreed to let the girls dress her up as a
heroine of Irish mythology, she'd assumed it would take about half an hour, tops. She figured they'd borrow someone's long dress, make a tin-foil tiara and then maybe sit around calling each other “thee” and “thou” for a while.

That would be okay. She loved playing with the girls, who were smart and eccentric and great fun. Besides, Lincoln had made it clear that he was busy today, so she had nothing better to do.

But she had underestimated how seriously these twins took their dress-up games—and their Irish legends. First, she'd been treated to a campaign speech from each girl, Flannery extolling the virtues of the kidnapped Deirdre of the Sorrows, and Fiona, surprisingly, lobbying for Queen Maeve, who sounded like a gutsy dame.

When Allison heard about Maeve's many husbands and how she could make entire armies fall down in twitching fits of uncontrollable desire, her mind was made up.

Now, two hours later, they were in the family quarters. Allison wore one of Moira's ball gowns under Kate's green velvet opera cloak. Her hair was crazy-curled and topped with a huge rhinestone tiara Fannie had dragged out of her closet.

“Little Miss Conch Shell,” Fannie said cryptically when Allison started to ask. “We don't talk about it.”

Fiona had yanked a strand of ivy from her mom's silk flower arrangement and threaded it through Allison's hair. They'd colored her lips bright red and lined her eyes in thick—and somewhat irregular—rings of black.

When they finished the face art, the girls declared she made a perfect Queen Maeve, but Allison secretly thought she looked like a reject from Cirque du Soleil. And she was sweating like a peasant under the velvet cloak.

Naturally, Mark chose that moment to poke his head into the living room. “Got a minute?”

Then he realized what he was seeing. “Oh,” he said with a grin. “Pardon me, ladies. I was looking for Allison, but I see she's no longer here.”

Fiona rose with tremendous dignity. “No, sir, she is not. May I present you to the beautiful Queen Maeve?”

His dark eyes sparkling with amusement, Mark made his way to the chair where Allison sat, and bowed. She sighed, but she didn't spoil the game. She'd come this far—she might as well go all the way. Besides, the girls were loving it.

Allison held out her hand. “You are welcome, Sir…”

Fannie jumped in place as a great idea occurred to her. “Fergus!” She tugged on Fiona's backpack. “He can be Fergus!”

Fiona scanned Mark with narrowed eyes, appraising his potential. “I guess he
could
be,” she said slowly.

“Fergus is the coolest guy,” Fannie said to Mark, clearly eager to recruit another performer. “He is one of Maeve's husbands. He's got this amazing, massive sword. One time he used it to chop off the tops of three hills.”

“Wow,” Mark said appreciatively. “That
is
a big sword.”

“And he's completely sexy. It takes like seven men to satisfy Maeve, unless it's Fergus.”

“Fannie!” Fiona cast a nervous look at the doorway.

“Well, that's in the legend. Grampa said. I can't help it if the legend has some dirty parts, can I?”

“Fannie,”
Fiona said again, this time in a tense undertone. She rolled her eyes dramatically toward the door.
“Mom.”

Sure enough, Moira stood in the open doorway, her hands on her hips and a fire in her eyes, looking Queen Maeve-ish herself. This queen, however, had unkempt red hair and her face had been painted with dirt. She'd clearly been working in the yard.

“Flannery. Fiona. Explain yourselves. You know you're supposed to help me bed out the hibiscus this afternoon.”

This was even more effective than Queen Maeve was in subduing enemy armies. The girls dropped their paintbrushes with a clatter, murmured an apologetic goodbye to Mark and Allison, and streaked through the doorway, heading for the front gardens.

Moira stayed just long enough to give Allison a quick wink. “O'Hara's pest control,” she said. “Always at your service.” And then she followed her chastened daughters outside.

Laughing, Allison leaned back into the high-backed chair that was supposed to be her throne. “You don't know how lucky you are,” she said to Mark. “If Moira hadn't shown up, you would have been wearing green tights and riding a broom-handle steed around the room in no time.”

Mark smiled. “Ordinarily, I wouldn't have minded the tights. But all that talk about Fergus's enormous sword was making me feel just a tiny bit inferior.”

She glanced at his meek expression. “Yeah,” she said, chuckling. “I'll just bet it was.”

She reached up and tried to remove the tiara, but it was stuck. The corkscrew curls Fiona had hot-ironed into her hair had closed around the little plastic teeth like a matted web.

“Argh,” she said irritably. “Ouch.”

“Let me help.” Mark had a better vantage point, standing over her, so she let her hands drop.

He worked a few minutes in silence. To her surprise, he was both patient and deft, rarely causing her even a twinge of pain.

“Why is it,” he said conversationally as he unwound strands of hair, “that every time I see you, you're wearing a crown?”

His crisp white shirt was only inches away from her nose. When he moved his arms, it stretched over his pectoral muscles, which were quite lovely. She remembered how they had felt against her back, out by the pool last night.

“I don't know,” she said. “I guess I'm just trying to impress you.”

The tiara finally pulled free. He backed up and presented it to her with a flourish. “You've definitely done that.”

She dropped the tiara in her lap and touched the painted dove on the side of her face. Though Fiona was quite talented, Flannery was an indifferent artist. No telling what the dove actually resembled. Maybe a ghost? A jellyfish? A white wart?

“Well, there are all kinds of impressions,” she said,
smiling. “I notice you didn't say I'd necessarily left you with a
favorable
one.”

He reached out and carefully unbraided the fake ivy from her hair. “It's more than favorable,” he said. He dragged the last leaf free, then dropped the ivy onto her lap, too. “You know that. I've made it clear enough.”

Suddenly embarrassed, she looked down, fiddling with the tiara. Why did every conversation they have turn flirtatious? This wasn't like her. But every time she saw him, she began to buzz, just a little. The most innocent word developed sensual undertones and the most prosaic question hid a deeper meaning.

“Actually,” he said. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She looked up. “What?”

“My favorable impression. It's a bit
too
favorable, and I've indulged myself in it way too much. I owe you an apology, especially for the other night. I was out of line. I'm sorry.”

She flushed. “It's all right. It wasn't just you. It was both of us. I'm sorry, too.”

He nodded. “Yes, it was both of us. That makes it even more difficult to ignore. But somehow we have to find a way to ignore it, so I thought we'd better talk about it.”

“All right,” she said.

He moved to the mantel and rested his arm along it. It was as if he felt safer having this conversation from a few feet away. “There's no point pretending I'm not attracted to you. I am. No surprise there, of course. Any man would be.” He grinned. “Not necessarily right
at this moment, because frankly you've been a little heavy-handed with the eyeliner, but…”

Allison glanced in the mirror. He had a point. She looked like a raccoon wearing a red fright wig.

“But most of the time,” he went on, “you're quite acceptable. Still, we both know that having a—a
fling,
well, it would be a big mistake.”

He shrugged, as if it were no big deal. Apparently he felt this way so often he didn't mind turning off the spigot for now and waiting for the next available female to come along.

Unfortunately, for her this sizzle, this desire, this pure, instinctive chemistry, was very rare.

It was, in fact, unique.

“I promise that there won't be a repeat of last night's mistakes.” His jaw was square, set with determination. “We work together well, I think. As long as we focus. As long as we keep our eyes on the target. On Lincoln.”

“Yes,” she said. “I think so, too.”

“So let's make some plans. I got your message that the beach trip went well. And yet today he was playing golf with Janelle. Very cozy golf. Obviously he's not going to fall into matrimony with you quite as easily as we'd thought.”

She nodded. “I'm not sure what's wrong. I'm doing everything short of jumping into his bed and showering him in gold coins, but the campaign seems to be stalled.”

“Has he mentioned marriage at all? Has he even promised to quit seeing other women?”

“No.” She felt as if she'd let them both down, but she
wasn't sure what else she could have done. “I know we can't play this game forever. We both have lives. We both have businesses. Stealing the two weeks we agreed on is hard enough. Maybe we should face the possibility that we're wasting our time.”

“It's only been a couple of days. I don't think it's quite time to panic yet.”

“Maybe not.” She shook her head. “But, I'm not so sure that I can pull this off, no matter how long we give it.”

“I think you can. He just might need a little push.”

“What kind of push? The only thing he's hinted that he wants is a BMW, but that's a pretty expensive push. And, of course, sex. But I—”

“Not that kind,” he said. “I'm starting to think material things may not be the key here after all. And not sex, either. I spent the morning playing golf with the guy and I definitely got the feeling that what he really loves is the chase. He's excited by a challenge. I think he's turned on by danger.”

“You played golf with Lincoln? With Lincoln and Janelle?” She wondered how on earth he'd managed to set that up. And why? What if Lincoln had recognized him? Mark felt sure he wouldn't, as he'd been out of the country the whole time Lincoln was with Tracy, but Lincoln might have seen a picture of him somewhere. He might have Googled Mark on the Internet, just to be on the safe side.

“That was risky, wasn't it? Getting so close?” She frowned. “Maybe you like danger, too.”

“Absolutely. That's why it was so easy for me to recognize the same trait in him. But the risk was worth it.
I discovered that our friend Lincoln has another little weakness we might be able to exploit.”

“What?”

“Jealousy. He's an extremely territorial beast. I watched him with Janelle today. He hardly noticed she was around until someone else started flirting with her.”

“Was that someone else you?” She tried to sound playful. “I know you think she's gorgeous.”

He laughed. “No, I was already pushing my luck, horning in on their game in the first place. I played it safe. I treated her like my elderly aunt Josephine, who thinks showers are a communist plot. With lots of respect, but from a safe distance.”

Just like the distance he was keeping from her right now. Still, Allison felt better. She was a fool, but she couldn't help being relieved that Mark hadn't spent the morning flirting with Janelle.

“Okay, then who?”

“The fourth guy in our group. Middle-aged guy named Denton. He got a little touchy-feely at the end there, pretending to help Janelle with a putt. I was watching Lincoln and I thought he was going to tear the guy's throat out. Instead, he grabbed Janelle and kissed her until her hair damn near caught on fire.”

“Oh.”

The mental image made her feel a little weak. She had never been kissed like that. Not ever. Lincoln's lovemaking had been restrained and dignified, courtly rather than passionate. Now she realized, with a flash of intuition, that he'd treated her that way because he'd sensed it was what she wanted. She'd given off cool,
prissy signals. She'd acted like a woman who would be horrified if anyone mussed her hair, much less set it on fire.

Allison glanced one more time toward the mirror. A wild, Irish, black-eyed circus queen stared back at her. She looked ridiculous, but she also looked, for the first time in her life, like a woman who might want to be kissed until she went up in smoke.

“Okay,” she said. “So what are you suggesting?”

“Let's show him that you might not be quite the sure thing he thinks you are. Let's put on a show. Scare him a little. Let's make him so jealous he won't dare waffle any longer.”

“Make him jealous? You and me?”

“Why not? I'll pretend I've fallen for you, love at first sight.” She must have looked shocked, because he smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry. I know which of Lincoln's buttons to push and how hard. You won't have to do a thing except sit back, like Queen Maeve herself, and let the two of us fight it out.”