Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (9 page)

“It's okay. I'm almost finished.” He paused. “Are you okay?”

Her gaze shifted, so that she stared at her own reflection rather than his. She must have realized that she looked pretty upset. Her cheeks were red and so were her eyes. A hank of hair stuck to her cheek, glued by either her tears or the water.

She still looked gorgeous, though. He wished he could tell her so, because it was obvious she was embarrassed.

She peeled the hair away slowly and patted her cheeks again with the paper towels, which were mostly soggy pulp by now.

“I'll be fine,” she said. “I just—I just let myself get upset about something stupid. It's nothing. Really, nothing.”

“That's good,” he said. But he couldn't help won
dering what had happened. Maybe he could ask at the front desk if she'd had any visitors and then figure it out from there.

He tried to remember the morning. She had played tennis with Lincoln early, but that had gone okay. He'd watched the whole match from the pro-shop window. She'd lost, of course, but no big deal.

Daniel had expected Lincoln and Janelle to eat lunch together afterward, as they usually did, but they hadn't. He'd seen Lincoln zooming out of the parking lot just before noon. Driving that awesome BMW that made Daniel's mouth water every time.

Janelle turned off the faucet. “It's funny,” she said, still looking at her own reflection, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Funny how the clichés you've heard all your life can turn out to be absolutely true.” She focused on him. “You know what I mean?”

He fidgeted with the broom. “I guess so,” he said. “I guess that's why they're clichés.”

“You know the one about how people who listen at doors never hear anything good about themselves?”

He smiled. If she only knew how many times he'd heard it. It was his mother's favorite saying. She'd used it on him and now she was using it on the twins. Apparently something about owning a hotel made it too tempting to eavesdrop on the oddball guests. He'd never forget the Bilsons, who had called each other “pookey” and “yum-yum” even while they were discussing how annoying it was that their rich aunt Mavis wouldn't hurry up and die.

“Yeah, I know that one,” he said, and he saw his re
flection nod in the mirror. He hated the way he looked, huddling in the corner of the ladies' bathroom like some pervert, with his hair all sweaty and frizzing. A sliver of glass twinkled in his hair. He had no idea what to do with the broom, either.

But she didn't seem to be put off. That was one of the great things about her. She always talked to him as if he were a real person. He didn't get much of that these days, not since the troubles last winter. He'd been in social lockdown ever since his dad bailed him out of jail that night, and there was no parole in sight.

He was lucky to get work release. Which was why he worked 24/7.

“Well, it's true,” she said. She wasn't tearing up anymore, but her eyes still looked clouded. She turned and faced him straight on for the first time. “Take my advice, Daniel. Don't go looking for trouble. If you do, you're very likely to find it.”

He gripped the broom handle tighter, to stop himself from reaching out to touch her. He'd like to make that sad expression go away. And he had the feeling he could. If only he weren't seventeen…and forbidden to socialize with guests.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He shifted his feet awkwardly. “About whatever the trouble is?”

She hesitated a second, as if she were thinking it over. As if she might like to tell him. As if she, too, believed he might be able to help.

She shook her head.

“No, I don't think so,” she said. She tossed her paper towels into the silver canister and then walked
toward him, her heels clicking on the elegant tile floor. When she got real close, she touched her hand to his forearm. “But you're very sweet to ask. If I ever do need a friend, I'll know where to look.”

He nodded, mute with a hyperawareness of her perfume. He pressed his back against the wall, trying to remember what Mr. Marley would say if he walked in right now.

Suddenly, without the least bit of warning, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

And then she left. Which was a very good thing, because the touch of her lips went through him like a bolt of lightning. The minute the door swung shut, Daniel slid down the flocked wallpaper, groaning, and sank heavily to his knees.

“O
H
,
HOW
I
LOVE
Monday-morning breakfast,” Kate O'Hara said as she poured herself a second cup of coffee and stretched back against her chair with a happy groan. “It's the only serene hour of the entire week.”

“Absolutely,” Moira said, nodding. “Thank the dear Lord for the turn.”

Everyone at the table murmured agreement. Allison, however, had no idea what they were talking about. “The turn?”

Moira smiled. “That's what we call the lull between the weekend visitors checking out and the new group checking in. Now that we have computer billing, the only people who have to hustle on Monday mornings are the housekeepers. At this very moment, they're turning bed linens like dervishes.”

She glanced toward the doorway, where you could just barely see the staircase. “I feel a little guilty.”

Roddy touched her shoulder. “Don't you dare. Take a minute and sit with the ones who love you. We see little enough of you as it is.”

At least for the moment, the family had the Hideaway dining room to themselves and they all
crowded elbow to elbow at one table—Kate and Stephen, Moira and Roddy, the twins, even Daniel, though he looked as though he'd rather be elsewhere.

When Allison had first entered the room, she'd hesitated, unsure where to sit. But when they saw her pause near another table they'd made quite a fuss.

“Sure and aren't you an O'Hara?” Stephen had queried with a scowl. “Don't you have the O'Hara shamrock in your eyes, the O'Hara fire in your hair?”

Did she? Allison hadn't ever thought of herself as a redhead. Her father, in fact, had roughly corrected anyone who dared to say so. She had a touch of auburn highlights, that was all. Only when she was foolish enough to stay out in the sun too long could anyone legitimately call those highlights
red
. And he never allowed her to do that.

This was the first time she'd realized how thoroughly
O'Hara
the highlights were. They showed up, to one degree or another, on every woman with the name. The twins had so much it looked as if their heads really were on fire.

When she finished her eggs, Flannery began to play with her hair, primping a little, which was a waste of time, of course. Sadly, nothing short of a can of shellac could tame those curls. Allison could empathize.

“Grampa says redheaded women are unlucky, Allison,” she said. She looked around the table with an exaggerated air of drama. “I guess this is the unluckiest family in the world.”

“Redheads aren't unlucky to themselves, Fannie,” Stephen corrected. “The bad luck is to the men who
come near them. They're likely to get caught in the spell and wander after them, forgetting their homes and mothers.”

“Dad.” Roddy shook his head. “Don't fill their heads with nonsense.”

“Oh, and are you brave enough to call it that?” Stephen rose up in his seat, his voice booming. “I'm older and wiser than you, Roderick O'Hara, and I know there are things in heaven and earth that would shock you to your shorts.”

Fannie giggled, which earned her a dark look from her dad. Allison watched her grandfather, wondering if he really believed half the old Irish superstitions he loved to spout. He did seem to be hamming it up a bit.

Just yesterday, Fannie had told her that whenever Stephen washed his hands, he called out a warning to the good people, who, he said, liked to know when there would be water coming through.

Chuckling now, Stephen caught Allison's gaze. His hazel-green eyes sparkled and all of a sudden he winked. Allison smiled back, enjoying the secret camaraderie.

“It's Matt!” Flannery jumped up from the table as Mark entered the room, looking dark and marvelous in jeans and a crisp white dress shirt. For now, he was the only other guest in the hotel. “Come sit with us, Matt!”

Allison had a moment of confusion before she remembered that they'd been introduced to Mark as Matt. Now that she'd come to know her family a little better, she wondered whether the charade was necessary. She would ask Mark what he thought, the next time they had a moment alone.

But for now, she had to go with the flow. Flannery had grabbed Mark's hand and was dragging him to the table. “There's room, come on, sit down.”

Mark looked amused. “I don't think so, kiddo,” he said. “There's not a spare inch. Not unless I sit on your lap.”

Fannie laughed. “You'd squish me.”

“My point exactly.” Mark tugged at one of Flannery's curls, then sent a smile around the table. “Morning, everyone.”

Daniel stood up, making such a scrape with his chair that it could be heard even over the answering chorus of hellos. “You can have my chair. I've got to get to work.”

It wasn't the most gracious offer in the world, but Allison had seen enough of Daniel to know it wasn't personal. Mark thanked him for the seat, and the two of them shook hands, which made Daniel's scowl retreat for a split second. Then Moira tried to kiss him goodbye, which unfortunately brought it right back again.

Allison's heart went out to the boy. It was so hard being a teenager. Allison remembered it well—except that, at her house, there had been no tolerance for rebellion, no latitude for acting out. She'd had to keep it all bottled inside and she used to think that someday she'd pop like an overblown balloon.

“So what's on everyone's agenda today?” Kate seemed to be asking Allison and Mark in particular. Probably each of the O'Haras already had a round of duties set out for them. Running the Hideaway was definitely a family affair.

“I'm taking the twins on a picnic this afternoon,” Allison said. “If the weather is nice enough.”

“It will be.” Flannery nodded firmly. She turned to her grandfather. “Allison took the O'Hara oath.”

“Then of course the rain won't dare to fall,” he said somberly. “Not if she's taken the oath.”

Allison looked at Mark, who was grinning. She wondered if he'd been forced to take the O'Hara oath already, too. Much as she liked to believe that her status here was special, she could tell that these people treated everyone under their roof like family.

She crossed her fingers and said a prayer for sunshine. Otherwise, she was quite sure she'd be eating soggy sandwiches under a dripping umbrella.

“This morning, though, I'm planning to do a little shopping.” She paused for effect. “I've been invited to a dance tonight and I need something special.”

That got plenty of attention from the table. Everyone wanted to know who her date was. Everyone but Mark, who already knew that Lincoln had invited her to Moonlight and Music Monday at The Mangrove.

She explained as honestly as she could that she had a friend here on the island—someone she used to be involved with—and that they were going to spend some time together to see if they wanted to try again. It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't quite a lie, either. Mark's approving expression told her that she was doing pretty well.

Even better, it was clear that none of the O'Haras had ever heard of Lincoln.

“Anyhow, last night I went through the clothes I
brought and decided I packed all the wrong things. There's nothing quite right for dancing under the stars.”

That was something of an understatement, too. She'd tossed around her carefully arranged hangers, trying on every single stitch of clothing she'd brought. It wasn't just the thought of sexy Janelle Greenwood that made it all seem so wrong. It was Moira and Kate and all the soft, feminine dresses worn by the guests at the Hideaway.

Heck, compared to Allison, even the twins had fashion pizzazz.

Why on earth had she brought so many business suits to the beach? No wonder Lincoln seemed lukewarm about rekindling their romance. She was a stick in the mud, and her clothes showed it. She was cold and stiff and boring.

And repressed, repressed, repressed.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Moira looked eager, as if she loved a good shop. “I know a great boutique that has some wonderful cocktail dresses, and—”

“Oh, no,” Roddy broke in. “Women should never dress to please each other. Look at what you do for your proms and even your weddings. You get it all wrong.” He looked over at Mark. “Isn't that right, Matt?”

“I think it might be,” he said. “Especially that thing you do with your hair. Those piled-high curls, that hard-as-plastic Medusa look.” He grimaced. “Men hate it.”

Moira scowled at both of them. “I'd suggest that you guys could take her, but she'd probably end up looking like a—” she glanced at Flannery, who was listening so hard her eyes bulged “—streetwalker.”

Roddy twitched his eyebrows. “Perfect!”

“Mom, what's a—”

“I'd love some help,” Allison said quickly. “I don't want to look trashy, but I don't want to look stiff and plastic, either. Do you really have the time to come along?”

Moira's face fell. “Damn it,” she said, then cast another guilty look at the girls. “No. I don't. And neither does Roddy. The plumber's coming in half an hour. We've got a leak somewhere and none of us can find it. It's costing us a fortune on our water bill.” She sighed heavily. “Darn. It sounded like such fun.”

“I'm sorry,” Allison said. “But if you can give me directions to the store, I'll be fine.”

Stephen had been watching the exchange in silence, his gaze moving slowly between Allison and Mark.

“Why don't you take her, Matt?” He took a sip of his coffee, checking out the younger man over the rim of the cup. “You're young enough and you're a pretty snappy dresser. And you're on vacation, right? What better way to spend your time than dressing a beautiful woman?” He chuckled. “Except perhaps undressing her.”

“Dad!” Moira's protest was perfunctory and Kate didn't bother to reprimand him at all. Apparently everyone knew that trying to put a muzzle on Stephen was a fool's errand.

“I'd love to,” Mark said, holding Allison's gaze.

“Good,” Stephen said. He stood up, and the others began to rise, too, as if he alone were in charge of convening and dismissing all family gatherings.

As they headed to the door, he put his arm around Mark's shoulders. “Just don't let her buy anything green, son. It's an unlucky color for the Irish. And if it's a love affair she's after rekindling, she'll be needing a bit of luck.”

Allison had to smile. It might be foolish Irish superstition, but truer words were never spoken. She would definitely be needing a bit of luck.

 

T
WO HOURS LATER
, though Mark had refused to let Allison even touch anything in any of the forty shades of green, he knew that they had just run out of luck.

Janelle Greenwood walked into the store.

Allison picked that moment to come tiptoeing out of the dressing room. She was wearing the most exotic of all the gowns she'd lugged in, and she was a nervous wreck, tugging on the hem to drag it down, plucking at the neckline to lift it up.

“What do you think?” She frowned down her cleavage. “I'd have to superglue it in all the strategic places and I already know what Moira would say. Maybe that one with the peacock feathers is better. Who knows, maybe he'll give me the peacock to wear with—”

She glanced up and saw Janelle.

The look on Allison's face was priceless. Part of Mark felt sorry for her, but the other part wished like hell he'd brought a camera.

She blushed from head to toe. And, given the size of the dress, he could pretty much confirm that every square inch of skin was involved.

“It looks fabulous,” he said calmly. “Red is definitely your color.”

She didn't seem to be able to speak. She looked over her shoulder toward the dressing room, as if it were a rabbit hole and she wanted desperately to run to ground. But, like that same terrified rabbit, she was frozen in place.

Janelle, who was checking out the blue peacock-feather number on a round rack next to the changing-room door, gave Allison a big smile.

“Oh, that dress is fantastic,” she said, unsolicited. Mark got the impression that Janelle was Allison's polar opposite when it came to inhibitions. “You look wonderful in it!”

Allison swallowed. Then she smiled, too. “Thanks,” she said. “I don't know, but… Thanks.”

“Mind if I ask where you're going?” Janelle draped the dresses she was considering over her forearm and stepped toward Allison, her hands reaching out. Before Allison could back away, Janelle twitched at the red dress's neckline, pulling it back down where it belonged.

“I'm—” Allison looked at Mark and he knew she had to fight the urge to pull the fabric back up again. He admired her willpower and how her hands remained at her sides. “I'm going to the dance at The Mangrove.”

“Oh,
are
you?” Janelle looked as wistful as a kid who was one nickel short of a ride on the Ferris wheel. “Moonlight and Music? Oh, you're so lucky. I have to go out of town and I'm going to miss all the fun.”

Allison cut a quick glance Mark's way, and he knew
what she was thinking. So that was why Lincoln had been brazen enough to invite Allison to a public dance. He knew that his other woman would be safely out of town.

The jerk was still playing both sides.

“That's too bad,” Mark said. “We've never been to one of The Mangrove dances before. What are they like?”

Janelle shook her shoulders, sloughing off her self-pity. It had the effect of making her breasts shimmy delightfully, although Mark was careful not to let his appreciation be too obvious.

“They're wonderful.” Janelle sighed. “The Mangrove is so elegant, like something out of
The Great Gatsby
. They have a great band, great food, great everything. It's the most romantic dance I've ever been to.”