Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (19 page)

She closed her eyes and let herself melt. She had wanted this for so long.

His lips were strong and knowing. As she breathed in the warm musk of him, she felt reality disappear. The golden hands of the rococo clock in the foyer ceased to tick and even the silver statues must have held their breath. It was a kiss to stop time, to stop thoughts, to stop hearts.

His hands roamed up her back, then down across the curve of her hips. She pressed into him, and he hardened against her. The kiss went on into the timeless darkness. It grew hot and damp and she parted her lips, wanting more.

But even in a timeless fantasy, nothing lasts forever.
When he lifted his head, she whimpered, disbelieving. He didn't seem to hear her. His heart thumped madly against her hands. His breath was harsh, unnaturally loud here in their magic circle of cloth and shadows.

“That's why,” he said, his voice rough. “Because just touching you makes me feel like this. You make me forget everything, Allison. Even the things I swore I would never forget.”

“None of that matters,” she said, instinctively whispering again, as though she didn't want to wake reality, didn't want to let it return to this place, with its cold, relentless, ticking hands.

He gazed down at her. His heartbeat was returning to normal. She wondered how he did that. Hers was still throbbing and struggling.

Perhaps, in the way a conditioned athlete's heart returned to normal much faster after a sprint, a more experienced lover could shake off passion at will.

“It doesn't matter,” she insisted. “It doesn't have anything to do with us, with what we feel.”

He shook his head slowly. “If only you knew how much I wish that were true.”

She began to protest, but he put a finger across her lips.

“No,” he said. “We should hurry. He could come back any minute.”

She took a deep breath. Reluctantly, sensing his unmovable determination, she nodded.

He let go of her, and with one hand pulled aside the drapes. After that cloistered darkness, even the dim light of the study seemed to burn against her eyes. She winced and waited while her pupils adjusted.

When she could see again, she led the way to the drawer.

He opened it silently and to her great relief the combination lay there, typed out neatly on a long rectangle of white computer paper. He read it over several times, clearly committing it to memory, and then, without a word, he reached for the dial and began to spin it.

She held her breath. But his fingers were fast and sure. He didn't have to try more than once. With a whoosh of air and a tiny electronic click, the safe door swung open.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It worked.”

He didn't answer, maintaining the sensible silence. With efficient movements, he reached into the safe and brought out three velvet boxes.

Lincoln's booty. Lying there, lined up neatly on the big desk, they looked like the three puzzle boxes of some fairy tale. Open the correct one and the princess is yours forever. Open the wrong one and you'll find instant death.

She wondered how many women's dreams lay in those three boxes.

She and Mark had already agreed that, no matter how many of Tracy's rings and bracelets he spotted in here, he would take nothing but the Travers Peacock. If Lincoln checked this stash—and she could imagine him fingering it nightly like Midas, reliving his conquests—he would know if a jewel was missing. He'd know that something was badly wrong.

And then he would flee.

The peacock was the only item they could safely retrieve. Mark would slip the genuine jeweled brooch
into his pocket, and he'd replace it with the perfect copy, which only a jeweler could detect.

It wasn't in the first two boxes, though she saw Lincoln's diamond cufflinks, and then a pair of ruby earrings that her father had given her when she turned twenty-one. Strangely, she felt no anger. Only pity, because Lincoln's heart was so empty he needed all these shining baubles to fill it up.

He was welcome to them.

If only they could reclaim the peacock, the one piece of jewelry in here that meant more than money. It had a history, a fascinating, centuries-old love story that belonged, by right, to the Travers family.

What was left of it. Allison wondered if that hurt Mark, to know that with his sterility and Tracy's miscarriages, there might well never be another generation of Travers to inherit this charming work of art.

Allison's heart kicked erratically as she watched him open the third and final box.
Please,
she prayed.
Let it be there.

It wasn't.

She watched Mark's hands go still, still clasping the sides of the box, and she knew he'd come to the end of the search.

“Mark,” she said. She touched his shoulder, wishing she could take away the disappointment that must be flooding through him. “When the police get him, when he's in jail, surely they—”

He jerked his head up. His face was so grim she hardly recognized him. He stared toward the front window. “He's here.”

“Who?” But she knew. She looked out the window, too, and saw Lincoln's BMW. “Oh my God.”

“Go,” Mark said tightly, his hands already closing the boxes and getting them ready to go back into the safe. “Stall him as long as you can.”

She didn't waste a second arguing. She rushed out of the study, across the slippery marble foyer where the statues all watched her, and skidded into the library. She had just picked up her book again when the front door opened.

“Lincoln!” She moved to the doorway and held out her arms. “Finally! I've missed you so much!”

He looked tired, his tennis whites limp and smeared with the orange clay of the resort's fancy courts. He was sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead. His expression was so downcast, so without joy, that she wondered how badly they'd lost the match. Had it been a massacre, an embarrassment to his athletic pride?

He looked up at her. “Allison.”

He didn't even seem to register how strange it was to find her there. He came to her immediately but without conscious volition, like a robot programmed to follow a certain track.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I've been waiting for you,” she said.

“I came back,” he answered dully. “I'm here.”

She hugged him, getting herself into position so that, over his shoulder, she could glance into the open study.

The painting hung straight, squared above the mantel.

Mark was gone.

T
HAT NIGHT
,
the family ate take-out fried chicken, something Moira apparently hated to do, but with the wedding Saturday night, they had little choice.

Afterward, they dispersed to their various chores. Moira had laundry, the task taking longer than usual as one of the machines was broken. Stephen was in charge of the night desk. Kate and Fannie were still decorating. And Roddy and Mark were sent out to make sure the arbor had been properly set up.

No one was quite sure where Daniel was. He hadn't been seen since his shift at the front desk ended, back around four o'clock.

Allison was banished, prohibited from any work. She was sent upstairs, to gather her clothes for tomorrow and get her beauty sleep.

Fiona decided to walk Allison to her room. She put her hand in Allison's, but in her typical somber way she didn't actually speak until they were off the elevator and alone in the second-floor hall.

“So, I want to give you something,” the little girl said, ducking one shoulder so that she could ease her backpack off. “You have to promise you won't tell
Fannie, though. I don't ever let anybody see these, except my mom. Fannie would make fun of them.”

“Of course,” Allison said, shocked to realize that Fiona was finally going to reveal what she kept in that sacred bag. It was the subject of much teasing speculation among the family, though Fiona remained stoically silent no matter how rough the jokes got. “I wouldn't tell a soul.”

Fiona nodded. Then she lay the backpack on the floor and bent over it, unzipping the main flap with care. She reached in and pulled out a hardcover journal. She ran her hands over the cover, which was decorated with pictures of butterflies.

Then, swallowing hard, she handed it to Allison.

“I thought you might like to read these,” she said gravely. “It's all kinds of stuff—poems and stories and blessings, you know. Most of it is just things I've heard that I like a lot. But some of it I wrote myself.”

Allison accepted it with equal gravity, though she had to admit she couldn't quite understand what had prompted the gift. “Thanks. I'd love to look at it.”

Fiona stared at the book as if she feared she'd never see it again. She chewed on her lower lip a minute, then went on. “I thought there might be something you could use, you know, for your wedding vows or something. Even if it's a pretend wedding, there should be a blessing, don't you think?”

For a minute, Allison couldn't respond. The innocent, serious expression on Fiona's face made her look like a red-haired cherub. And, as Allison looked at her trusting cousin, the nebulous uneasiness she'd been feeling all night came into sudden clarity.

For the first time, she wondered if marrying Lincoln was the right thing to do. Her motives might be more muddy than she'd ever admitted, even to herself. Instead of seeking justice and protection for other vulnerable women, was she really seeking revenge?

If so, who would bless an undertaking like that?

But this wasn't the moment for soul-searching. Fiona was still waiting, chewing on her lips, her green eyes tight with anxiety, hoping her book was appreciated for the special gift it was.

“Yes,” Allison said warmly. “I'd love to have a good Irish blessing. Thank you for sharing this with me. I feel very honored.”

Fiona beamed, her mouth so wide it smothered most of her freckles. “I'm so glad you came to find us,” she said, hugging Allison around the waist, as exuberant as her sister. “And I'm glad your wedding is fake, because I hope you never, ever leave.”

 

I
T WAS ONE IN THE MORNING
. The stars were so tiny and bright it was as if someone had shaken silver glitter across a sheet of black glass.

Allison was still awake, though she needed desperately to get some rest. If she didn't, when it came time to say “I do,” she might be too tired to remember her lines.

But she didn't see how she'd ever fall asleep, not with her mind churning like this. She stood at the edge of her balcony, listening to the slow metronome beat of the waves and letting the warm night breeze fan her face.

She held Fiona's journal against her chest. She'd spent hours poring over it. The little girl's handwriting was a neat block printing, with the occasional attempt at cursive. She had written down odds and ends of everything she heard, like a magpie plucking shiny bits to build its nest.

After each quote, she'd put a personal postscript, explaining where she'd heard it. It was these little glimpses of the loving daily life of a big, boisterous family that had touched Allison the most.

Some were funny.

“‘Drink is a curse. It makes you shoot your landlord. And it makes you miss.'” Below that, Fiona had written. “Or something like that. Daniel said it last night.”

Some were heartbreakingly tender.

“‘May you live forever and may the last words you hear be mine.'” And then she'd added, “Grampa to Grandma, Tuesday night, dancing.”

“‘Silver apples of the moon, golden apples of the sun.' Dad, Friday, because of the full moon, which really is pretty.”

She'd included the story of Queen Maeve and her virile lover Fergus, of course. And also several traditional Irish blessings, ones that even Allison, in her anti-Irish, WASP household, had encountered through the years.

“‘May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be always at your back.' Mom likes this one.”

And then, apparently inspired, Fiona had written one of her own.

By the time Allison had made her way through the entire book, her eyes were burning. The love soaked the pages like perfume. Love that could have been,
should
have been, hers to share.

Because her father had refused to accept the O'Haras, both of them had missed so much. Strange—she hadn't ever considered her father's loss before, because he had seemed so coldly self-sufficient, but now she saw that his was just as great.

Poor Dad.
Why had he thought placing blame for her mother's death was more important than remaining a part of this magic circle?

She wondered if her mother had been just as warm and poetic as her family. Had Eileen O'Hara Cabot ever danced on the beach with her husband, or quoted Yeats to the full moon? Had she sung “The Rose of Tralee” to her sleeping daughter and whispered blessings over her crib?

“‘May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.' Eileen to Allison. Maybe. Long, long ago.”

Out here on the balcony, with no sound in her ears but the flat hands of the water repetitively stroking the shore, like a begging that goes endlessly unanswered, Allison had never felt so alone in her life.

She gripped the book tighter, as if she could absorb its magic.

She was alone, yes. But she didn't have to be.

She finally realized that it was up to her to break her father's icy spell. To reach out for love. To take the risk, to chance the pain.

She closed her sliding glass door, set the book on the night table, slipped on a pair of sandals and made her way to Mark's room.

He didn't answer when she knocked, but she couldn't give up. She pressed the button for the elevator and made her way downstairs to check the lobby.

Her grandfather was still at the desk. Stephen yawned sleepily, then smiled at her, apparently not one bit surprised to see her there, dressed only in the tap pants and T-shirt that she wore to bed.

“I think he went outside,” Stephen offered quietly. “You might check the beach. Or maybe the hammock, which is the only truly private spot on the property. I'd say he looked like a man who wanted to be alone.”

“Alone?”

Stephen smiled. “Ah, well, if he couldn't be with you, that is.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a woven throw. “Here,” he said, tossing it to her. “Might as well have a blanket, just in case.”

In case of what? She blushed, but she smiled, too, thinking how sweet it was to be part of this family that took impulsive behavior for granted. She blew her grandfather a kiss and headed out the back door and through the courtyard.

In the corner, next to the new, bubbling fountain,
stood the white flower-twined arbor that had been erected for the wedding. It looked ghostly in the moonlight, like the portal to another world. She hoped that, for her, it would be just that. She went out of her way to step through it, for luck.

At the edge of the courtyard, she scanned the beach. It gleamed, pristine and empty, as far as the eye could see in both directions. No one had ventured out to enjoy the starlight dancing on the tips of the restless waves. Not even Mark.

She hadn't ever spent time in the hammock—it was unofficially Stephen's spot for hiding out from Kate. But Allison knew where it was. She crossed the grass at the north edge of the building, then turned the corner to the little nook formed where the storage shed met the edge of the hotel.

It was the only place not overlooked by guest-room windows. The long mesh hammock was slung between two curving palms, shaded from prying eyes by half a dozen others.

Mark was in it.

She could just make him out, a glimmer of blue-black, starlit hair at one end, a warm stretch of lighter shadow that must have been his legs at the other. She walked up slowly, trying to maintain the courage that had brought her down here in the first place.

“Mark?”

He didn't shift his position, but his eyes caught the starlight as they looked at her.

“Hi,” he said, his voice just above a murmur. “You can't sleep either, I see.”

“No,” she said. “I'm sorry we didn't find the peacock. I had felt so sure it would be there.”

“It's all right,” he said. “I feel sure the police will be able to worm its location out of him. The peacock is a fairly conspicuous piece. He'll find it hard to sell without proof of ownership.”

She nodded. “That's probably true.”

She waited awkwardly, not sure what to say next. She toed the grass, which was long enough to tickle her feet around her sandals. It felt cool and night-damp.

“So,” she said finally. “Is there room in that hammock for two?”

For a long minute he said nothing. Her heart beat fast, but she tried to ignore it. Courage meant facing her fears.
All
her fears, from the simple, immediate embarrassment of rejection, to the more complicated fear of falling in love with a man who couldn't ever make her deepest dreams come true.

At the moment, those fears didn't matter. They paled beside the biggest fear of all—that after the police took Lincoln away tomorrow, Mark would go home, and she would never see him again.

That was the worst—the fear that she would never make love to him, even once.

“Mark,” she said again.

He shifted, holding out the mesh of the hammock to make room.

“Be careful,” he said. She wasn't sure whether that was a literal warning—or something more symbolic.

She sat down, her hip nestled against his thigh for
balance. She let her sandals fall off onto the grass and then, with one movement, she lay her head back toward his and brought her legs up toward his feet.

The hammock was spacious, but the physics of it caused the mesh to close around them, like one half of a cocoon. To make room, he had to stretch his arm out under her shoulders, creating a pillow for her head.

It was soothing, even more intimate than a bed.

They lay together silently for a few minutes, listening to the breeze as it whispered in the fronds above them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rumble just above her ear. “Why couldn't you sleep?”

She wondered which of the many reasons to give him first.

“I guess I've been thinking about tomorrow. Now that it's really going to happen, it feels strange.”

“Strange?”

“Yeah.” She traced the logo on his shirt with the tip of one finger. “I don't know. Have you ever asked yourself whether we might be making a mistake?”

“Never.” His answer was unequivocal. “I know what he did to Tracy. After he left, she wanted to die. She had hoped she might be pregnant—she's old enough that she believed it was her last chance. When she found out she wasn't…”

He paused. She glanced up at him, but he was staring into the distance. His eyes glimmered strangely, as if they looked at something she couldn't see.

“What?”

“She tried to kill herself. She took a whole bottle
of pills. Thank God I was there and got her to the hospital in time.”

Allison shivered, as if a winter wind had threaded through the summer air and touched her soul. She couldn't really imagine how Tracy had felt. Allison had been lucky. She'd turned to Lincoln out of loneliness, not out of true love. She'd had only a small taste of the pain he could cause.

She didn't say anything, though she pressed her hand against his slowly beating heart. She knew that he wasn't asking for sympathy, for himself or for Tracy. He was merely stating the facts. He had never, ever, believed that Lincoln should be allowed to go free.

“I wonder where Daniel was all day,” she said. It sounded like a change of subject, but it wasn't really. The issue had niggled at the back of her mind all night. “You don't suppose that he could have warned Lincoln about—”

“I don't think so. I have an investigator watching Lincoln's house. He hasn't left it all day and no one has gone in.”

“I didn't know you were still watching him.”

“Just since the episode with Daniel.”

Allison raised one brow, chuckling. “Well, his mom did make him take the O'Hara oath. The penalty for breaking that is pretty grisly.”