Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (17 page)

“Then give me tonight.” Janelle's pleading twisted Daniel's heart inside his chest, the way his mother might wring the dishwater out of a kitchen rag. “Please, Lincoln. Just one night.”

“Janie. I can't…I—”

Daniel heard Lincoln groan and then he heard them come together, with an X-rated mix of rustling clothes, wordless murmurs and wet, broken breathing.

His heart was pounding now, rejecting the victim status, the wringing and twisting and the pain. He felt
a violent urge to wheel out of his hiding place and confront them.

He wanted to stalk right out there and look her straight in the eye. He wanted to tell her to go back into her room, that she was an idiot, an even bigger idiot than Daniel himself had been over Beth. She didn't need to make herself a tramp, just to please this two-timing jackass.

And he wanted to spit in Lincoln Gray's face.

Instead, because he was a coward, a seventeen-year-old nobody without a car, a girlfriend, a job or even, apparently, a tablespoon of guts, he ran away.

Away, loping silently down the hall, down toward the pool elevator at the other end. Away, as fast as he could, from the sound of that bastard breaking her stupid, stupid heart.

D
INNER WITH
L
INCOLN
had seemed to last forever, but it had been worth it.

Over dessert, with only a tiny bit of prodding, he'd finally agreed to set a date for the wedding. Sooner, he'd said, was best. And he did not want to return to Boston, where Allison's army of cold-blooded lawyers turned her every move into a business deal.

“How about here?” He smiled, as if he knew she'd agree. “Next Saturday?”

She let her spoon clatter onto the china bowl of creamy berries. Was it possible? Had she finally won? Was she was actually going to see this lying heartbreaker go to jail?

She stretched her trembling hand across the table to let him squeeze it. She arranged her face, trying to make her cold-hearted triumph look like the natural blushing enthusiasm of a bride-to-be.

“Next Saturday will be wonderful.” She blinked to imply tears, though she hadn't been able to dredge any up. “Would it be okay if we have it at the Hideaway? Nothing big, of course. I told my grandparents I was hoping you'd ask me and they'll be so thrilled. They're
such simple people. They love the idea of a happy romance.”

That was only partly a lie. She hadn't told anyone anything yet and the O'Haras were far from simple. But Stephen and Kate were born romantics—last night she'd seen them dancing on the beach, all alone in the moonlight, cheek to cheek, when they thought everyone else was asleep.

They were also rascals—Stephen in particular loved a practical joke as much as any twelve-year-old. Occasionally, someone discovered a new reservation in the computer system for Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Or they'd realize that the lobby music had been set to play “Cheeseburger in Paradise” over and over until Kate, who hated that song, erupted.

Stephen always turned out to be the shameless culprit.

So Allison had a feeling that, once the O'Haras learned of the trap, they'd be delighted to help her spring it.

At least…she hoped so. She did have one tiny nugget of anxiety. It was possible that people who indulged in a big family weepfest whenever “How Are Things in Glocca Morra” came on the stereo might be too softhearted to send even a bigamist to jail.

To her surprise, Lincoln didn't offer much in the way of protest.

“If that's what you want,” he said, “I guess it's okay. As long as they don't use this week to try to turn you against me.”

“No one could do that,” she said. She smiled inter
nally. It had become a game, finding ways to say what he wanted to hear without having to lie. And it was definitely true. No one could turn her against him now. She was already dead set in opposition.

After that, she could hardly sit still while he paid the waiter and called the valet for his car. She was desperate to get home to Mark. She now had two exciting bits of news—the location of the safe and, at long last, the wedding date.

Lincoln always drove fast, but tonight nothing was fast enough. As they shot down the tree-lined street toward the Hideaway, she racked her mind, wondering whether a sudden headache or an upset stomach would get her out of the car faster.

She was leaning toward the headache—she'd had a lot of wonky tummies lately and he might get suspicious. But, to her surprise, her loving fiancé didn't seem eager to hang around, either. He dropped her off in the driveway with a quick peck on the cheek, suddenly remembering he had left his credit card back at The Mangrove.

Allison knew it wasn't true—she'd seen him slide it back into his wallet—but she commiserated sweetly. Anything that freed her sooner and avoided the good-night-smooching awkwardness was okay with her.

She waved him goodbye warmly, as a dutiful wife-to-be should. But as soon as his BMW taillights faded around the corner, she yanked off her uncomfortable heels and, holding them by the straps, dashed into the Hideaway.

The elevator was too slow, so she took the stairs. She told herself she was just eager to share her good news. But who was she kidding? She hadn't really talked to Mark in two days and she missed him. It might not make sense—how could you miss someone you'd known only a few weeks?—but she wasn't feeling very logical right now.

She was just feeling happy, because she had an excuse to seek him out.

He didn't seem to be in his room. She knocked several times, unwilling to accept the disappointment. Nothing. Finally she rummaged around in her evening clutch, looking for paper and pen, but the darn thing was too small, and it held nothing remotely useful.

She settled for a lipstick wand and an unused tissue.

“I have news,” she wrote, hoping Mark could actually read the clumsy pink block letters. Then, because she'd run out of room, she signed it simply “A.”

She could have left a phone message, but they seemed all too easy to ignore. In fact, he'd neglected to return her calls twice in the past two days already. Maybe the note, being more personal, would carry more urgency.

The worst part was trying to cram the darn thing under the doorsill. She squatted down, feeding it carefully so that it wouldn't wad up and smear the words. In the end, she left it sticking halfway out, rather than take any risks.

Then she had no alternative but to go on back to her own room and wait.

She didn't take off her party dress or her makeup.
She'd bought this peacock-blue gown with Mark in mind, not Lincoln, and she still hoped he'd get to see it. She sat on the edge of the bed, flipped through some of the paperwork her accountant had faxed her today, not really reading any of it, waiting for the phone to ring.

It was almost an hour before she heard the knock on her door. She jumped up and pulled it open without even checking the peephole.

“Mark!”

But it wasn't Mark. It was Daniel. He was all dressed up, as if he'd been to some family function. He would have looked terrific, except that his expression was dark and hostile.

“Daniel? Is something wrong?”

Stiff-armed, he held out her tissue, the pink, blobby letters looking like the remnants of some hieroglyphic violence. “I found this under his door.”

She frowned, trying to figure out why he would be so distraught. His face was red, except for tense white lines that had formed around his lips.

“I wish you'd left it there,” she said. “I know it looks like trash, but really it was a message for—”

“I know who it was for. Are you having an affair with him?”

She drew back slightly. “With Mark?” She caught herself. “I mean Matt?”

“Everyone knows you're always in his room or he's in yours. We're not spying on you. It's just that in a hotel, everyone knows stuff. And it sure looks to me like you two have a thing going.”

“Danny,” she said, stalling. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking about—”

“I'll bet you're
not
. Because you're supposed to be marrying Lincoln Gray, next Saturday, aren't you? And if you're hooking up with some other guy, that's just disgusting. There's another woman who loves Mr. Gray, did you know that?
Really
loves him, not like you.
She
wouldn't cheat on him.”

“Are you talking about Janelle Greenwood?”

“Yeah.” He looked as if he might burst into tears, though he fought it back fiercely. “But you stole him from her. Not that you give a damn, but you should know you broke her heart.”

This was not artificial fury. His emotions about Janelle were intense. She wondered what their relationship could possibly be. And how did he know about the wedding? No one knew the exact date, except for Lincoln and Allison themselves. It had been decided less than two hours ago.

“Danny, I'm sorry you're so upset. But this is all very complicated—”

“And a
kid
like me couldn't possibly understand it? Is that what you're saying?” He pushed his head forward, like a guard dog after an intruder. “I'm old enough to know a selfish slut when I see—”

The rest of his sentence was cut off as Mark appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Daniel by the upper arm and twisted him up against the wall.

“You've got a pretty reckless mouth there, son.” Mark's voice was low and calm, but communicated a dangerous intensity nonetheless. “I think you'd better
apologize to your cousin for letting it get out of control.”

Where Daniel got his spunk, Allison couldn't imagine, but he didn't back down. He hummed with tension, his head held high, and met Mark's hard stare with one of his own.

“No,” he said, flinching when his voice cracked, a throwback to adolescence that proved how nervous he was.

Mark just waited. His bigger, more muscular body was squared off in front of Danny's stringy teenage frame, cutting off any escape except total surrender.

It was a pitiful mismatch. You could see the kid wilting under the relentless pressure of Mark's dark eyes. After about thirty seconds, Danny was still holding out, but Allison couldn't stand it anymore.

“Mark, it's all right. Danny didn't mean it. He was just upset. Apparently he's friends with Janelle. He thinks she's getting hurt, and he's trying to protect her.”

Daniel started to sputter something, but Mark rode his words right over him.

“Friends? Is that a euphemism for something really dumb?”

“Why should I tell you anything? Who are you, anyhow? You're just Allison's
toy
. I bet she hasn't gotten around to telling you that she's marrying somebody else this Saturday, has she?”

“Mark,” Allison interjected. “I was trying—”

Daniel laughed. “See? You're getting played just like Janelle is. Why should I let her get away with treating people like that?”

“Let me get this straight,” Mark said evenly. “You think Allison is hurting Janelle Greenwood? And somehow you've got the idea that you're Janelle Greenwood's personal white knight?”

“What if I am? Somebody has to protect her.”

Mark smiled coldly. “Let's overlook for a minute how dumb that is on about five different levels. If nothing else, you'd better read up on your chivalric code, Dan. You can't defend one woman by attacking another. Especially if that other woman is your own family.”

“No, she's not.” Daniel didn't look at Allison. “If she's family, where's she been my whole life? I only met her, like, two weeks ago.”

“I know that, Danny,” she said, jumping in before Mark could slice him even deeper. “It's true. You hardly know me. I don't expect any special consideration because I'm related to you. But surely you don't think it's polite to say things like that to any woman. Would your mother approve of it? Would your dad be proud of you?”

Finally, he glanced toward her. His mouth was still set in a stubborn line, but, for the first time, his bravado started to visibly seep away. His shoulders sagged, and his chin dropped a full inch.

Mark sensed it, too. He let go of Daniel's arm and took a step back. He still blocked the boy's exit, but clearly the situation's heat meter had been scaled down.

Allison sighed with relief. She had suspected that Daniel loved his family and wanted their approval, but she hadn't been sure it was enough. Daniel was in that
awkward transition stage between boy and man, when any threat to his fragile masculinity was so dangerous he felt compelled to meet it with brute force.

Once he and Mark had locked horns, like two territorial male animals, who knew whether any appeal to the heart could break them apart?

“Okay,” Daniel said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I'm sorry I called you a slut. I meant it, but I should have used some other word.”

The apology was so graceless it was almost funny. Mark met Allison's gaze and for a minute she thought he might burst out laughing. It was comic, of course, the poor kid trying to get out of this without completely losing face. Luckily, Mark probably remembered being seventeen himself, and he didn't even crack a smile.

“Okay,” he said. “Now I think we need to straighten some things out around here, don't you, Allison? I think it's time we told the O'Haras the truth.”

 

M
ARK LED THE WAY
. They found everyone in the family kitchen, even the twins, building sandwiches and slicing potatoes for homemade French fries.

Mark could imagine what had brought this about. Moira had been on a health-food kick lately and tonight's O'Hara dinner had consisted of small bowls of fruit and cheese arranged around a Romaine lettuce mountain.

He'd been secretly relieved that he had a business dinner and couldn't accept Moira's invitation to eat with them. He wasn't surprised that eventually, with growling stomachs and unsatisfied palates, the clan had
mutinied and forced captain Moira to increase the rations.

“Come on in!” Stephen looked over with a smile, unashamed of his mustard mustache or the snowfall of crumbs on his shirt. “There's plenty for everyone!”

“There certainly is,” Moira agreed acerbically as she dropped the potato slices into the deep fryer. “If we eat all this by ourselves, we'll have to call an ambulance to take us up to bed.”

She turned to her son. “You hungry, Danny?”

The boy dug his brows together. “No.”

“No, thank you,” his father corrected automatically, although the words were muffled because he had his head inside the refrigerator. He emerged with a chocolate cake, a real find, as it had only a couple of pieces missing. “Ah, Moira, my mavourneen, sure and sweet it is to be married to a beautiful woman who can cook!”

She scowled at him. “You sound like your father, Roderick O'Hara, which makes you a fool. You've never spent more than two weeks in Ireland at a time.”

She grabbed the cake out of his hands and then, relenting, kissed him on the cheek. “But I'll give you a taste anyhow, because you had the wisdom to call me beautiful.”