Everything but the Baby (Harlequin Superromance) (14 page)

“Oh, man.” Daniel didn't know whether to reach out
and touch his father's hand. They didn't do much of that anymore. But he wanted to say how sorry he was that, just by trying to help his sister, his father had ended up causing her death.

Daniel could imagine how he'd feel if something like that had happened to Fannie. Or maybe he couldn't really imagine it, not all the way, but what he could guess at was beyond horrible.

And that was, of course, what his father was trying to tell him. This was where the sucker syndrome could lead. Stolen cars and lost jobs were bad enough. But death was cruel and permanent. Just knowing that your intentions had been good would never get you off the sharp steel hook of guilt.

“I hear you, Dad,” he said. “I think I understand.”

“Good.” His father cleared his throat, took a deep breath and then clapped his hands together briskly, preparing to hoist himself to a standing position. “Well, then.”

The heart-to-heart was over.

“Let's go back to the house. You start your chores, and I'll tell your mom about The Mangrove. I'll explain that we've already hashed it out, so she won't give you a hard time. And don't worry about the money. We'll give you more hours here at the Hideaway, so you won't be hurting for money. Okay?”

Daniel nodded.

He was relieved that his father wasn't going to give him the cold shoulder for months over this mistake. But he was feeling pretty guilty, too.

Because he didn't want to admit to his father that he
hadn't been worried about the money in the first place. Like the O'Hara sucker he was, he was only worried about how, now that he wouldn't be going to The Mangrove every day, he was going to manage to see Janelle.

O
PERATION
G
REEN
-
EYED
M
ONSTER
got underway immediately.

That very night, Lincoln called Allison to say he'd arranged a Jet Ski tour that would begin at the marina the next afternoon and would include a stop at one of the spit's islands for a sunset picnic.

Allison accepted, then called Mark immediately. She knew he'd be delighted. The tours were open to the public, usually about six riders at a time, which meant Mark could begin horning in on Lincoln's romantic plans without having to devise anything complicated.

Allison and Lincoln were the first to arrive at the small white tent at the edge of the dock, where a weather-beaten guy—who was probably about forty but looked sixty—was taking money. As they approached, Allison slid a couple of hundreds into Lincoln's hand. When he glanced at her, she smiled. “It's only fair,” she said. “I did practically beg you to take me.”

He didn't argue, of course. She stood deferentially behind him while he negotiated with the tour guide. A hand-lettered sign propped against the tent announced
the prices and she saw that she'd hugely overpaid. She suspected that Lincoln wouldn't hand her the change and, sure enough, when the paperwork was finished he slipped the money into his waterproof zipper pocket.

“Ready?” He looked fabulous in his bright-blue board shorts and yellow T-shirt. His smile was white against his tanned cheeks, his hair as golden as a new coin. With his expensive sunglasses reflecting the sparkling water, he looked like a movie star facing the paparazzi.

A couple of girls in their late teens had arrived together to rent a second Jet Ski. Allison saw that they were watching Lincoln and whispering. The girls were busty and tanned in their micro-bikinis, but Lincoln apparently was on his best boyfriend behavior. He didn't glance their way, focusing all his attention on Allison.

Maybe, just maybe, some of the attention was sincere. She knew she looked better than usual. Yesterday, Moira, who had a great eye for fashion, had helped her shop for a bathing suit. Allison's new bikini was a bubblegum pink she would never have dared to buy on her own. The front-tie top made the most of her figure and the three-inch sarong that had been sold as a cover-up definitely accentuated her legs.

The way the silky material slid over her thighs made her feel good. Very feminine. Her father would have had a stroke, of course. He had a name for women who strutted their stuff in public.

But she was through playing by her father's rules. She was still a Cabot—she always would be. But she
was an O'Hara now, too, and O'Haras weren't afraid to attract attention. O'Haras took chances.

Besides, she couldn't wait for Mark to see it.

He arrived five minutes later, after everyone else had donned their life vests and boarded their crafts. The tour guide didn't mind holding the group a few minutes, obviously pleased to have another customer, especially on a weekday.

Allison had known Mark was coming, but still her heart thump-thumped at the sight of him. Without question, Lincoln was lovely—pure sunshine. But Mark was midnight. He moved down the dock, as smooth as a shark, his tanned legs long and hard. His dark, wind-swept hair swallowed the sun. He wore loose, knee-length black trunks, black sneakers and nothing else, leaving his muscular chest exposed.

The whispering from the teenagers started up again. One of the young women giggled helplessly and made a small swooning sound.

This jealousy thing just might work both ways. Allison had to fight the urge to turn around and glare the bimbos into silence.

She had her arms wrapped around Lincoln's waist, tucked under his life vest, and she felt the tension that tightened his abs. “What the hell is
he
doing here?” Lincoln growled.

“I didn't know you knew Matt,” she lied. “He's staying at the Hideaway, and it may be my fault he showed up. I did mention this morning that I was coming out for a ride. Do you think that he—?”

“Hell, yes, I think that he.” Lincoln adjusted himself
restlessly on the seat, which set the craft rocking. “The bastard has a lot of nerve.”

Lincoln stared forward, refusing to acknowledge Mark's presence, so Allison knew it was safe to glance over her shoulder and smile at her partner in crime.

He was riding his Jet Ski as if he owned it. With his muscular thighs water spangled, his arms stretched out on the handles, his shoulders bunched into darkly tanned knots, he looked deliciously dangerous, like a bad boy straddling his Harley.

Then he grinned and tossed her a wink. It landed in the pit of her stomach, causing such a ripple there that she had to tighten her hold on Lincoln's waist just to keep from slipping into the water.

“Sorry,” she said. And she was. Losing her balance was on the agenda. But not yet.

The first part of the tour was routine, merely roaring around the marina's small cove, getting used to the machines, and then rumbling slowly along the coastline while the tour guide pointed out some of the most elaborate houses and yachts.

The bikini girls drove themselves crazy trying to attract Mark's attention, screaming and laughing as they pretended to wobble on their watercraft. Allison wished Lincoln would stop talking to her. She was straining to hear what the girls and Mark were saying. What could be funny enough to justify that much giggling?

And exactly when, she wondered, should she make her move? She had to wait until she was sure he was paying attention. He'd better not let these girls make him forget that he had a mission out here.

Suddenly the guide rounded in front of them, jumping his own wake, and pointed to his watch. “Dinner time,” he yelled. “Let's head for the island.”

Allison sighed, relieved. Though it was starting to cool off a little, the falling sun was still hot and the noisy skis, combined with the light reflecting off the water, had given her a headache.

As the island came in sight, she realized that it was even smaller than she'd imagined, no more than a quarter-mile spit of sand with a few sea grapes scattered about and a small stand of bent palms struggling to survive at one end. But she couldn't wait to get there—at least the ground would be steady under her feet, and she could get a few inches of shade to ease her aching temples.

First, though, the moment had come to do some real acting. She looked back at Mark. He met her gaze, then nodded subtly, even while he kept up his conversation with the girls.

She took a deep breath. She wriggled a little, pointing and feigning excitement. “Look! Look! We're almost there!”

Lincoln sensed the danger immediately. He threw his hand out behind him to try to make her sit still. But she kept jiggling, and then, with a deliberate slide to the left, she toppled overboard.

It was like being smothered in a cold, dark blanket. All noise ceased as the water rushed over her head and up her nose. In spite of the life vest, the momentum drove her down a few inches, but she kicked into the emptiness, and, within seconds, she bobbed up again.

As she emerged from that cloudy silence, the roar of the Jet Ski engines seemed shockingly loud. She heard Lincoln yelling and the girls shrieking. The guide was streaking toward her, and for a minute she feared that he might reach her first.

But then, just like clockwork, she felt Mark's hand close around her arm. She looked up into his smiling gaze and coughed, spitting salt water onto her chin.

“You okay?”

She nodded uncertainly.

“Come on, then. Up you go.”

The guide had shown them how to reboard, but for a minute she forgot everything. She blinked at Mark like an idiot.

“Grab the handle,” he said.

The handle? Then she remembered. At the end of the craft was a reboarding handle. She caught hold of it.

Mark leaned in the opposite direction. “Okay,” he said. “Now kick.”

She did a little flipperlike thrust and rose up toward the craft. The guide had said something about an interim step, in which she should crouch in a catcher's position, but that wasn't needed. With Mark's strong arm hoisting her, she shot onto the craft like a water sprite caught in a geyser. Before she knew it, she was seated behind him, wrapping her arms around his strong torso for dear life.

She felt like a drowned rat. Her hair dribbled into her eyes and her sarong sucked at her thighs. She tucked her head onto his back, breathing heavily. She wasn't acting anymore.

She felt his chest rumble slightly, as if he were chuckling.

“It's not funny,” she whispered into his back. “That was downright scary.” But she couldn't tell if he heard her.

“Allie!” Lincoln's craft hummed up beside them. “Why didn't you wait? I was coming to get you.”

This whole “fall” had been her idea. Mark hadn't been sure its benefits outweighed its risks. And it had been a little extreme—she realized that now. But, looking at Lincoln's glower, she felt completely vindicated.

He obviously had seen Mark's rescue as a personal slap in the face. Trust Lincoln to make her accident all about him.

She gave him a watery smile. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“Come,” he ordered. “Climb over here.”

She didn't want to. She didn't want to risk another spill. And besides, she liked the feel of Mark's rib cage, the satin of his flat stomach under her hands. She glanced at the seat behind Lincoln dubiously.

“I don't think I can,” she said. “I might fall.”

Lincoln's scowl deepened. “Allie—”

Luckily, at that moment the guide seemed to realize what they were considering and he sawed the air with one hand in an unmistakable
“no way”
gesture. He pointed to the island. The message was clear. They should stay as they were until they were on solid ground. Then everyone could pair up however it suited them.

“Sorry, dude,” Mark said, though he didn't sound
sorry at all. He gave Lincoln a triumphant smile, then gunned his engine and pointed his craft toward the island like an arrow. The force jerked Allison backward and she squeezed the ski with her legs, holding on for dear life.

After that, Operation Green-eyed Monster was so easy it was almost criminal. As they set up the picnic and explored the island, Mark kept hovering around Allison, checking on her, making sure she was okay. He made a big fuss of looking at her arm, to see if he'd bruised her when he'd hauled her up.

Lincoln grew more and more tense, until finally, with some pretext of looking at a plover, he dragged her off to the other side of the palms.

“Damn that man. If he doesn't leave us alone, there's going to be trouble,” he said. His voice had a rough edge, more like a growling animal than a man.

She pretended to be confused. “Why? Matt's very nice, really. It was awfully kind of him to come to my rescue like that. We've—” She hesitated and glanced at the sand coyly. “We've kind of become friends, staying at the Hideaway and all.”

“Friends, my ass. That guy is trying to put a move on you, Allison. You can't be so blind you don't see that.” He seemed to recognize that his voice had grown sharp, so he gentled it. “Look, I don't mean to be a Neanderthal here. It's just that I don't want him hanging around. Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“I want to be alone with you,” he said. “Today—I wanted— It was supposed to be just you and me.”

“It doesn't really matter, though, does it?” She fingered her wet hair, trying to smooth it out. She knew the curls would get crazy, drying naturally, full of salt, out in the humid air like this. It might look awful enough to cancel out the benefit of the flattering swimsuit. “I mean, it's not as if we particularly need privacy.”

“Yes, we do.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“There's something I want to tell you.” He took her hand. “If there were just some way to get rid of that jerk, there's something very important I want to say. Something I want to
ask
you.”

Bingo!
She couldn't keep herself from smiling. They'd pulled it off. Mark Travers was a genius. He had figured out, in just one golf game, exactly what made Lincoln Gray tick. And, with his dangerous good looks and Oscar-caliber performance as the other man, he had brought Lincoln to the point as easily as leading a pony around a ring.

“Why are you grinning?” Lincoln's eyes narrowed. “I'm not joking. I'm telling you that I—”

“No, no, I'm smiling because I'm happy.” She squeezed his hand. “I can't wait to hear what you have to ask me. Look, just give me five minutes alone with him. He's really not a bad guy. If I can explain everything to him, I'm sure he'll leave us alone.”

Lincoln cast a glance back toward the others, who sat together on a blanket, eating cold sandwiches and popping soda cans that had been jiggled so hard they sprayed foam a foot into the air.

“You think he'll actually leave the island?”

“If I ask him to, he will.”

“You're so sure you can control him?” Lincoln shook his head. “Jeez. What is he, your pet poodle?”

Allison watched the girls sitting at Mark's feet, like native virgins worshipping their bronze idol. He glanced toward the trees and though it was technically too far to be sure, she imagined he was looking straight at her. Even from this distance, his dark, dramatic looks and animal grace sent shivers along her nerve endings.

Pet poodle? If he thought that, poor Lincoln was deluding himself big-time.

Pet
panther,
maybe. But dangerous, even in this temporary captivity. And Lincoln was too big a fool to realize it.

“Five minutes,” she said. “And then I'm all yours.”

 

T
HAT NIGHT
, Mark was sitting in the Hideaway kitchen with Kate and Stephen when Allison rushed in, calling out in excitement.