Читать книгу Twin Expectations - Kara Lennox, Kara Lennox - Страница 11

Bridget’s mind worked furiously. What on earth had Liz done? “I think there must be some—”

“Save your breath, Ms. Van Zandt. I don’t listen to money-grubbing little gold diggers. If you’d like to pursue a paternity suit, go ahead. But you’d better know you won’t win. I won’t pay off your sister just to get rid of the annoyance, and a DNA test will prove unequivocally that I am not the father of her baby.”

As the great man spoke, he motioned to someone with his hand. In seconds, two security guards had Bridget by the elbows.

“Escort Ms. Van Zandt out of the ballroom, please,” Eric instructed the guards. “And see that she doesn’t get back in.”

Bridget looked around with the faint hope that someone would rescue her. Mrs. Hampton, maybe? But she saw nothing but the faces of strangers, some hostile, some amused.

The guards led her away. The crowd parted. People stared. This was the worst moment of Bridget’s life, and she was going to kill Liz when she saw her again.

NICK FELT a strange sense of loss as the security guards led the pretty blond woman away. He had to know what was going on. Normally his staid, oh-so-respectable brother did not make scenes.

“What was that all about?” he asked as soon as he could get his half brother’s attention.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Man, has she got some nerve. She thinks she’ll make a fast buck by naming me as the father of a baby I had nothing to do with. She obviously doesn’t know me very well.”

Despite the brave talk, Eric looked a bit shaken, and Nick couldn’t blame him. Eric had been wary of women ever since a casual girlfriend in college had tried to decimate both his reputation and his bank account by pulling a similar stunt.

Nick wasn’t quite sure how to phrase his next question. As an older brother, he’d often cautioned Eric about the wily ways of women and how to avoid the worst of the pitfalls. But he hadn’t had such a brotherly conversation in, oh, ten years. Still, he blundered forward.

“Um, Eric, you don’t know that woman, do you?”

“You mean know? As in the Biblical sense?” Eric laughed. “I never laid eyes on her till about ten minutes ago. Are you having a good time?” he asked, moving away from the knot of people he’d been conversing with so the brothers could have a rare, private conversation. “I’m surprised you’re here at all. You’ve always hated these things.” He gave a disapproving once-over to Nick’s attire, but said nothing about it.

“Mom did a number on me,” Nick admitted without any real venom.

“She brought up that Steuben vase again?”

Nick nodded. When he’d shattered the vase with a badly aimed Frisbee twenty-five years ago, he’d never dreamed the incident would stay with him this long.

“With me it’s the crumpled fender on her Lincoln,” Eric said ruefully. “Gets me every time. You staying for the auction?”

“Yeah. I promised I’d buy something, though I can’t imagine there’s anything here I really need.”

Eric flashed a wicked grin. “I know the perfect thing, and you’ll make Mother ecstatic. You know how she’s been after you for years to get your portrait done?”

“Yeah…” Nick said cautiously. He’d been on the hot seat about this portrait thing ever since Eric had caved in and had his done—seated in the library, no less, looking a lot like his grandfather had in his prime.

“A local artist donated an oil portrait. She’s supposed to be good. Bid on that. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Sure, why not? Nick thought. It was for charity, after all.

He and Eric caught up on a few business details having to do with the airline, then Nick wandered off. He thought about leaving the ballroom to check on the Van Zandt woman, then realized how misplaced his concern was. If she was ballsy enough to threaten Eric Statler with a paternity suit, she could take care of herself. And she certainly wasn’t anyone he needed to know better.

BRIDGET SAT DOWNSTAIRS in the hotel lobby, her eyes trained on the elevators. Liz would have to come down sooner or later, and when she did, Bridget intended to take a strip off her sister’s hide. Not only would Liz never get a date with Eric Statler, no decent man would come near either of them because they’d be fearful of getting slapped with a paternity suit.

What on earth had Liz said to Eric? Or to Nick, for that matter? They couldn’t have engineered a worse fiasco if they’d tried. No wonder they hadn’t found husbands.

Bridget recognized several of the formally dressed people who exited the elevators. She kept her head ducked, praying they wouldn’t recognize her. She only hoped she didn’t have to move away from Oaksboro after this misadventure. Although the city had grown tremendously and was getting more cosmopolitan every day, it was still a small town. That small-town gossip grapevine was certainly alive and well.

At last Liz appeared, looking worried. “There you are!” she exclaimed, striding over to where Bridget was seated. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing down here?”

“I was kicked out of the ball,” Bridget said succinctly, glowering at her sister. “Because of something you said to Eric Statler.”

Liz gasped. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Hampton will be scandalized. Mother will go into hiding. What on earth did you say to the man?”

Liz flopped down defeatedly on the sofa across from Bridget. “It was supposed to be funny. You know, just a witticism to get his attention.”

“What…did…you…say?”

“Well, I said something about how grateful you were to him because you were pregnant. You know, because he owns the clinic and all…”

“Oh, Liz! How could you?”

“I had to say something to catch his attention. You saw how swamped he was with people wanting to talk to him.”

“Never mind. I don’t want to hear any more.”

Liz continued relentlessly. “Once I had his attention I was going to explain, and, well, my witticism was about as funny as a nuclear bomb.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“How was I to know the man is so sensitive?” She sighed when Bridget didn’t respond. “Wanting Eric Statler to father my child was the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.”

“Amen. Let’s just get out of here. Then we can proceed with the business of moving to Las Vegas and changing our names.”

“Aw, come on, Sis, it’s not that bad,” Liz said as she walked Bridget to her car. “I mean, if you look at it in a certain way, it’s funny. You should have seen Statler’s face. It turned the most interesting shade of—”

“It’s not funny. It’ll never be funny,” Bridget snapped. She paused as she stuck the key into her car door, overcome by a sudden light-headedness. She steadied herself by grabbing Liz’s arm, then took a deep breath. The moment passed.

“Bridge, are you okay?”

Liz’s sudden and very real concern did a lot toward erasing Bridget’s anger. It was hard to stay mad at Liz, who always meant well.

“Just a little dizzy moment,” she said. “Dr. Keller said not to be surprised if I felt light-headed from time to time.”

Pregnant. She was pregnant, and the baby would be born some time around the end of February.

She started to turn the key in the lock when she heard a noise beside her. It was Liz, and she was crying.

“Liz?”

“I w-want to have a dizzy spell,” she said. “I want to be pregnant, too. Now that I’ve blown it with Eric, I’ll have to start all over finding a donor.”

Bridget put her arm around her twin’s shoulders. “It’ll happen, Liz. You’ve got plenty of time to find the right, um, donor.”

“But we’ve always done everything together.”

Bridget realized she’d done her share of fantasizing about her and Liz waddling down the street together, both of them big as houses. Pushing matching strollers to the park. Trading baby clothes.

“I’m just being silly,” Liz finally said. “Being an aunt is cool, too.” She enveloped Bridget in a bear hug, and they both cried.

SIX WEEKS LATER, at about 7:00 a.m., Bridget envied her unpregnant sister. She lay in bed, her eyes closed and reached blindly for the saltines on the nightstand. This was her mother’s surefire cure for morning sickness—nibble a few saltines before opening your eyes.

After making sure her bed was good and full of crumbs, Bridget opened one eye experimentally. So far, so good. She opened the other eye. No nausea.

This was amazing! She really did feel okay. She sat up slowly, then stood and put on her robe. Maybe she could even eat some cereal. She padded to the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. September sun streamed cheerfully in through the window.

Bridget opened the back door to get a little breeze. She inhaled deeply taking in the fresh morning air, then got a whiff of whatever her neighbors were cooking for breakfast. Bacon, she realized just as her stomach revolted. She made a mad dash for the bathroom, barely making it.

Great. In a short time she had an appointment with the man who’d bought her portrait donation from the Oilman’s Ball charity auction. He’d paid an unheard of fifty-two hundred dollars for the painting. Bridget’s usual price would have been something closer to half that amount.

She’d already rescheduled the appointment once. Since the man had paid so much, she didn’t feel right about canceling again. She would just have to get through it somehow.

Her stomach settled as she headed for the address she’d been given, a few miles south of town. Once she had her bearings, she gave some thought to the portrait she was to paint. Usually her subjects had an idea of what they wanted, but if this man didn’t, she had to be prepared with some suggestions. It would help if she knew what he looked like, or at least what age he was.

His name was Quinn, or something like that. She’d received only a card with the name scribbled in barely legible writing, and a phone number to contact. She’d never even spoken to him—only to his secretary.

She made several false turns before she located the correct address, and then she wondered if she’d misread it. She found herself in a cluster of ramshackle buildings sorely in need of paint. A faded sign announced that this was “Peachy’s Air Freight Co.” The slogan underneath assured wary customers, “We fly anything, anywhere.”

The nose of one rickety airplane, a World War II relic, was visible in a falling-down hangar.

Egad, how could someone who worked here—or even someone who owned the place—afford over five thousand dollars for a portrait?

She pulled in front of the most prominent building, hoping it was the main entrance, and got out of her car. Her low-heeled pumps crunched against sand and gravel as she made her way to the door.

The office was a nightmare of shag carpeting and stale cigarette stench, calendar landscapes hung crookedly in plastic frames, and a fake plant so encrusted with dust it was gray instead of green.

The young woman at the front desk, however, appeared pleasant. She offered a smile. “Are you the artist?”

Bridget smiled back and handed the receptionist a card. “Yes. Bridget Van Zandt.”

“Then you’ll be looking for my boss. He’s out working on the plane. I’d take you out there, but he’d kill me if I left the phone unmanned.”

“I’ll find him,” Bridget said, anxious to escape the stale cigarette smell before it set her stomach off. “I saw where the hangar is.” She started to leave.

“Don’t let him scare you,” the receptionist offered. “He’s not crazy about this portrait thing, but he’ll go through with it if you pester him enough.”

“Uh-huh. Thanks for the advice.” Bridget successfully escaped the office this time, thinking there was no way she would “pester” Mr. Quinn. If he didn’t want his portrait painted, that was fine with her. She had plenty of other work to get done. Not that she minded doing a charity painting now and then, but now that she had the baby to think about, she took her income a little more seriously.

She rounded the corner into the hangar and stopped. There before her was the most gorgeous set of male buns she’d ever seen. They were encased in snug, faded denim. The man they were attached to stood on a ladder, his head and shoulders buried in the engine of the beat-up twin-engine plane.

“Mr. Quinn?” she called out once she caught her breath. Maybe she would change her mind about pestering him. Painting this man—his body, anyway—would be a pleasure.

“Be with you in a minute,” he called back to her. His deep voice sounded distracted—and familiar. Where had she heard it, and why did it send a pleasurable shiver down her spine?

Her memory snapped the lost piece into place just about the time he pulled out of the airplane and looked down at her.

Oh, God, not him. But it was. Nick Raines, who looked every bit as rugged and dashing as he had the night of the Oilman’s Ball, despite the smudge of grease on his face and the two days’ growth of beard shadowing his cheek.

“I’m looking for Mr. Quinn,” she said, trying to brazen it out. Maybe he wouldn’t remember her.

“You’re that woman from the charity thing,” he said, his expression a mixture of fascination and horror. “The one who tried to rip off my brother.”

“I did no such—” Bridget stopped herself as a wave of nausea washed over her. She would not get angry. Surely such a strongly negative emotion wouldn’t be good for the baby. “I’m looking for a Mr. Quinn,” she said primly, then peered at him hopefully through her lashes.

“There’s no Mr. Quinn here.” Nick came down from the ladder. “Don’t tell me…you’re the portrait artist?”

“Yes. It says right here on this card the auction people sent, M. Quinn.” She yanked the card from her purse and stared hard at it. Raines. If she squinted her eyes just right, the badly formed letters shaped themselves into “N. Raines.”

“Then there must be a mistake,” he said brusquely, rummaging through a tool box. The tools, unlike everything else at Peachy Air Freight, were shiny and well cared for.

“I’m afraid the mistake was mine,” she said miserably, then asked him point-blank, “Did you buy an oil portrait at that auction?”

“Yeah, but…” He looked up, seeming to really see her for the first time. “You’re the artist, you said? You’re Moving Pictures, Inc.?”

“Yes. And I understand completely if you’d like to forget the whole thing, given the rather unusual circumstances. Please believe me, I had no idea it was you who bought the portrait. I misread the name.”

“I’d like nothing better than to forget it,” he said, pulling a rag from his back pocket and scrubbing his face, removing the oil mark. “But there’s the matter of five thousand and something dollars—”

“Maybe you could sell it to someone else,” she suggested rather desperately.

“Now who in their right mind is going to pay that kind of money for a picture?”

She couldn’t help but take offense. “You did.”

“And I’ve been regretting it ever since. Anyway, no one ever accused me of being in my right mind. You’re probably thinking no one in their right mind would buy this dump. Right?”

Bridget had no reply to that, but she couldn’t help but wonder how the former CEO of Lone Star Airlines had landed here. Liz had told her something about Eric Statler bailing his half brother out of trouble with the airline, then squeezing him out of power.

“Peachy’s looks better on paper,” he said, probably seeing the skepticism on her face. “Cash flow’s not so hot, but Old Man Peachy put his profits into planes—old ones that he always intended to fix and never did. Some of them have been sitting in hangars for twenty-five years, waiting for me to come along and restore them to their former glory.” He patted the shiny silver nose cone of his current project.

Bridget could only stare at Nick. He was certainly passionate about his business, and he almost glowed with that passion—the way other men glowed when talking about a sexual conquest. She was fascinated. And not a little hot and bothered.

That was how she wanted to paint him. And she did want to paint him, she realized. If only they could smooth over the circumstances of their first meeting. Maybe if she explained about Liz and her warped sense of humor.

“Why am I telling you this?” he asked abruptly.

“I don’t know. Look, Mr. Raines, this is an awkward situation, but we can make the best of it. You paid for the portrait, and I made a commitment to deliver it. I would like to keep that commitment.”

“Can you paint?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against a timber that supported the hangar.

Bridget looked up nervously, afraid the timber would give way and the roof would crash down on them. “I brought my portfolio with me if you’d like to—”

“Nah.” He sighed. “I guess there’s nothing to do but go ahead with it. What do you do, snap some instant pictures or something? I can get cleaned up.”

Bridget was horrified at the thought. “I don’t work from photographs,” she said, “except as a supplement. Paintings done that way often turn out flat, and the people don’t look right because a camera catches a single moment that may or may not reflect the subject’s true essence.”

“True essence, huh?” He took a couple of steps closer, until he invaded her personal space. “You think I have a true essence?”

Bridget tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. Yes, he had an essence, all right, one that was all male. Standing this close, she could even catch a tantalizing hint of his scent, a combination of starch, soap and hard work. Everything in her that was female responded, reminding her just exactly what she’d been missing of late.

Still, she stood her ground. “I paint with a live subject. A quality oil portrait requires a commitment of a great deal of time and energy from both artist and model.” She usually developed a unique intimacy with every subject she painted, too, but she decided not to elaborate to that degree with Nick Raines.

“Look, ma’am—”

“Bridget.” He’d obviously forgotten her name, though his had been branded into her memory. Someday when she was senile, his name would be the only thing she remembered. “Bridget Van Zandt.”

“Look, Bridget, I really don’t have hours to spend posing for this picture. Isn’t there any other way?”

“No.” On this she wouldn’t compromise. Her soul went into every painting she did. She had to do each portrait the best she knew how—especially one that might end up having high visibility. If she did a second-rate job on it, the negative publicity could ruin her business.

“Hell. My mother already has a space cleared on her wall for this thing. Guess we’ll have to do it your way.”

“It won’t be that bad,” she said, more eager than she ought to be. Hadn’t she, a few minutes ago, been hoping “Mr. Quinn” would elect not to do the portrait after all? “A couple of hours here and there. My schedule is flexible. We’ll work around yours.”

He nodded. “Okay.” The hard lines of his face softened. “You’re being very reasonable about this, after what my brother did to you. You, um, aren’t actually planning to sue him, are you?”

Anger rose up again. She consciously tamped it down and took two slow, deep breaths. “No, I’m not planning to sue anybody. The incident at the Oilman’s Ball was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving my identical twin sister. Please, can we forget about it?”

He actually chuckled, but he didn’t agree to drop the subject forever. Then he sobered. “Um, by the way, how is the baby? You’re looking a little pale.”

“Am I?” She wasn’t surprised. She’d had a terrible shock to her system. And having him speak so casually about a baby she’d scarcely mentioned to anyone…

“You are pregnant, right? I mean, you didn’t make that part up too?”