Читать книгу Everything but the Baby - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 10

MARK HAD NEVER BEEN to Sole Grande before. As a lifelong Californian, he’d wasted many a teenage weekend surfing and snorkeling and checking out the bikinis, but he’d always been satisfied with the Pacific beaches.

He’d done his homework, though, so he knew what to expect from this tiny barrier island in the Atlantic. Sole Grande was a short bridge ride across the intra-coastal from Fort Lauderdale, just far enough away to leave all the bustle behind.

The mansions and hotels on the island were too expensive for the noisy riffraff to infiltrate. Sole Grande didn’t allow putt-putt golf or Dairy Queens, video arcades or tattoo parlors. Nothing that might mar the idyll of sleek sailboats, penthouse restaurants, Given-chy boutiques and day spas.

The island was about twenty miles from tip to tip and shaped like an hourglass. The narrow center formed two bays: East Nook, which looked out onto the ocean and was, therefore, the more exclusive, and West Nook, which faced the intra-coastal and had lowered prices to match the diminished view.

O’Hara’s Hideaway was in East Nook. Since Allison was determined to stay there, Mark had checked out their Web site and, in spite of its down-home name, it seemed up to East Nook standards.

Mark and Allison shared a cab from the airport—rental cars would be delivered to the hotel later that afternoon.

For the first twenty minutes they chatted easily enough about the differences between the two coasts. But as soon as they hit the bridge, she fell silent. She stared out the window, watching the stately rows of royal palms as if she were getting paid to count them. Her hands were clasped in her lap, every knuckle white. Her simple ruby ring looked like a drop of blood against that pale finger.

He watched her a minute, then spoke. “Thinking about Lincoln?”

She shook her head. “No. I was actually thinking about my grandfather. I’m not sure I’ll even recognize him after all these years.”

She’d explained the whole story to him on the plane—how she’d come to Sole Grande two months ago hoping to reconcile with her mother’s family, who owned the Hideaway. How she’d chickened out at the last minute. And how that had left her vulnerable to Lincoln’s smarmy charm.

She was clearly still nervous about meeting them, though Mark wasn’t sure why. Even if the O’Haras were rotten relatives who couldn’t let go of an old feud, they were obviously good businessmen. They wouldn’t turn away a couple of paying customers.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, resisting the urge to put his hand over hers and chafe some warmth into it. “The quarrel was with your father, right? Why would they hold that against you?”

She shrugged. “I could have contacted them. He told me he’d rather I didn’t, but he didn’t exactly have a gun to my head.”

Mark wasn’t sure about that. Not a bullet-shooting gun, perhaps, but there were plenty of emotional weapons that could be just as effective. The subtle hint that, if a person went against your wishes, love might be withdrawn was a powerful threat. It had worked on his sister, when she was married to her first son-of-a-bitch husband. That guy had left her so uncertain of her own worth that she’d willingly signed it over to the second SOB—Lincoln Gray.

“What exactly was the fight about? Did you father ever give you the details?”

She glanced at him, which he considered a good sign. She looked wan, but at least she wasn’t counting palm trees.

“He never told me the whole thing, from start to finish. But I got the general idea. Mostly I think it was a culture clash. My father was very dignified, very restrained. I guess the O’Haras are more—uninhibited.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, no. That was just the beginning. Then my grandfather, Stephen, hit my father up for a loan. He already owned the land on Sole Grande, but he needed money to build the Hideaway. My father refused, of course.”

“Why of course? Their hotel seems to be quite a success.”

“My father didn’t believe in loaning money to relatives. He’d earned his, and he thought everyone else should do the same, including me.”

Which she’d done. Mark had looked up Lullabies, too, while he was surfing the net and discovered that she already had nine franchises on the East Coast.

“The real problem, though,” she went on, “the one that led to this total estrangement, was that my father blamed my uncle Roddy for my mother’s death.”

“Why? How did she die?”

“She took a bad fall from a horse. I think she was a good rider—I remember lots of ribbons from competitions she won as a child. But apparently this horse wasn’t fully broken yet. My father always said she wouldn’t have been foolish enough to ride it if Uncle Roddy hadn’t egged her on.”

“So her death was completely unexpected. That must have been hard. How old were you?”

Though her voice was composed, reciting the story as if it were a history lesson she’d learned in school, she had gone back to twisting the ruby ring.

“I was only three, so I really didn’t understand much. Reading between the lines now, though, I get the impression that my mother—her name was Eileen—must have had a wild side, which my father was trying to correct. He said Roddy was criminally immature and a dangerous influence.”

Mark wondered if she could hear how oppressive her father sounded. The idea of “correcting” a spouse was not only domineering, it was dumb. In his experience, people didn’t change unless they wanted to. They might pretend to change, either to please or appease, but what good did that do?

Lauren, Mark’s ex-wife, had pretended not to want children, but the truth came out eventually.

Eileen O’Hara Cabot had defied her husband and sneaked into the stables for one last, fatal ride on the back of a wild horse.

But he wasn’t going to point that out. It wasn’t, in the end, his business.

“Families are complicated, aren’t they?”

She merely nodded at this platitude and went back to looking out the window.

Mark thought maybe it was time for a distraction.

He reached down to the duffel he’d placed on the floor between them and pulled a little box out of the side pocket. “Here. I want to show you something.”

She glanced over with polite attention but no genuine curiosity.

He wasn’t worried. He’d never opened this box in front of anyone without capturing their full attention.

He thumbed it open now, watching her face.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.” She started to reach out, but pulled her hand back just in time. She looked up at him. “Is that… Is that the Travers Peacock? I thought you said Lincoln stole it from your sister’s safety-deposit box.”

“He did.”

She was clearly torn between wanting to know more and wanting to just look at the brooch. Though most Travers women in the past century had decided it was just too showy to wear, it was definitely impressive. A small gold peacock stared at you with emerald eyes, its tail spread wide open, almost as big as the palm of a woman’s hand. And what a fantastic tail…a full fan of graceful gold feathers, each studded with emeralds and sapphires, which were in turn circled with onyx and gold.

Allison was still speechless. Still staring.

“The legend is that the Travers Peacock was given to one of my ancestors, back in the sixteen-hundreds, a gift from King Charles II of England. Her name was Elizabeth Travers and apparently she was very beautiful.” He smiled. “If not altogether virtuous.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “If Lincoln took it, then what—”

“More than a hundred years ago, some sensible Travers husband had a copy made, so that his wife could wear it without fear of losing it. It’s exact, right down to the last millimeter. The gold is genuine, because that’s hard to fake. But the stones are paste.”

She shook her head. “I can hardly believe it’s not real.”

“It’s not.” He took it out and handed it to her. “It’s a very good, very expensive fake. I can’t imagine that anyone, short of a jeweler with a loupe, could tell it from the real thing.”

She looked up, her eyes intent. She wasn’t stupid, was she? He had the feeling she already knew where he was going with this.

“Why did you bring it down here?” She frowned slightly. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m hoping we’ll get lucky. I’m hoping you might be able to find out where Lincoln keeps it. If you can, I’m going to make a switch. This brooch is very important to my sister. It’s part of our heritage. I do not intend to let Lincoln Gray pawn it for a hundred bucks if I can help it.”

She stroked one of the tail feathers with a fingertip, very gently, as if she didn’t dare risk damaging it. She seemed to have forgotten that it had already survived for more than a hundred years.

She shook her head. “That’s a lot of luck you’re talking about.”

“I know.”

“What are the odds that he’d carry a thing like this around with him?”

“A thousand to one. But if there’s even that one chance, I’d like to take it. I agreed to your plan, Allison. Will you help me with mine?”

She gazed at him for several seconds. And then, holding out the peacock, she nodded. “For what it’s worth, I’ll try.”

He settled the brooch back into its velvet nest and slid the box back into his duffel. When he looked up again, he realized the cab was slowing down.

“We’re here,” she said. So much for his distraction. Her tension had returned.

From the street, O’Hara’s Hideaway looked unassuming—with none of the Irish “old sod” kitsch of its name. It had, instead, a strong Spanish-Mediterranean influence. The stucco walls were pale salmon, with clean white trim and glossy black wrought-iron balconies. The deep orange tile roof rose cleanly into the cloudless turquoise sky.

Thick green palmettos and red bougainvillea spread over everything, giving the small entrance a shadowy, cloistered feel—just what a visitor craved after taking a few soggy breaths of this hundred-degree Florida sunshine.

A red-haired teenage boy opened the front door the minute the cab came to a complete stop. He would have been good-looking if he hadn’t had a typical adolescent glower, announcing that nothing had pleased him since he was about ten and nothing ever would again until he had his own apartment and regular sex.

He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he was dressed better than any teenager would voluntarily, so obviously he was on the payroll. Mark eyed that wavy auburn hair. Family, maybe?

The boy opened Allison’s door. “Welcome to the Hideaway,” he said with rote courtesy but no change of expression.

Oh, yeah, he was an O’Hara, Mark concluded as he found his own way out of the cab. Only a family member could get away with that attitude.

Emerging, Allison smiled at the boy. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Allison Cabot. This is Matt Travis. We were on the same plane, and when we realized we were both headed here, we decided to share a cab.”

She wasn’t a great liar—here she was, spilling the whole thing to the first person she met—but Mark had seen worse. She’d get better with practice and she had an innocent smile that just might pull it off.

Obviously, Mark had to use an alias. Though Lincoln had never met Mark and wouldn’t recognize his face, he would recognize the name. Mark had chosen a pseudonym as close to his own name as possible, so that if Allison slipped it might pass unnoticed.

They’d also decided on this strangers-on-a-plane story, agreeing that it would be foolish to reveal too much. Island communities tended to be close-knit—it was impossible for a newcomer to guess exactly how all the residents might be connected. For all they knew, the O’Haras might go fishing with Lincoln Gray every Sunday afternoon.

“Allison Cab—” The kid looked oddly troubled. “You’re—” He frowned. “You’re Allison…Allison who?”

“Cabot.” She smiled again. “I’m checking in. I’m here for two weeks.” She shifted her purse to her other arm, clearly wondering if something had gone wrong with her reservation. “From Boston?”

“Yes. Yes.” The boy looked right, then left, as if he needed backup. “Umm…excuse me just a minute.”

Allison shot a worried glance toward Mark.

No room at the inn? Mark knew from the Web site that the hotel had only twelve suites, six in each wing, with the family quarters in the center of the U-shape building that enclosed an old-world courtyard. They’d been lucky to get reservations on such short notice.

He nodded, assuring her that everything would be fine. If the paperwork had gone awry, she could always take his room and he’d find somewhere else to stay.

But within a few seconds, a storm of people poured through the arched entryway, all redheads with beaming grins and outstretched arms.

“Allison Cabot! Could it really be you?”

Allison turned, looking half startled, half embarrassed. “I—”

If she finished the sentence, Mark couldn’t hear it. The oldest of the group, a man with a leonine shock of wavy white hair, got to Allison first and, without waiting for permission, enveloped her in a robust embrace.

“Sure and I’m not believing my eyes,” he said. “It’s our own little Allie, come home at last!”

“You must have thought we were terrible people,” a woman with matching white hair added, cupping Allison’s cheek with the palm of her hand. “Taking your reservation like that, as if you were a stranger.”

“I thought she said Talbot, Gram.” The boy who had opened the door was flushing. “It sounded like Talbot.”

“Then we’d better be buying you new ears, Daniel O’Hara, because those are clearly failing you.”

A pair of little girls, identical twins of about eight or ten, giggled at the joke. They had the fine red curls and pale skin of expensive porcelain dolls, but right now they were dressed in blue jeans and flamingo-pink T-shirts that fought hideously with their tangled masses of hair. One of them carried a scruffy backpack patterned with stars.

The old man, who Mark deduced must be Stephen, kept his hands on Allison’s shoulders, but moved her a few inches out, so that he could feast his eyes on the prodigal granddaughter. Mark couldn’t think of another way to describe the wistful, half-starved expression the old man turned on her.

“You’re so beautiful, child,” he said, his voice husky. “And so like your mother. You might be our Eileen, come back to us after all these years!”

“Do I really look like her?” Allison’s voice sounded stiff, an odd contrast to her eyes, which were wide and shining. “I—I would like that.”

“You’re the spitting image.” He grinned, the movement folding deep, comfortable creases into his cheeks. He probably smiled as much as he cried, which was obviously a great deal. The whole lot of them needed pockets sewn onto their shirtsleeves for holding their hearts.

“Yes, you’ve got her sweetness,” her grandfather continued. “And not a whit of your father’s arrogance, thank God.”

“Stephen!” The old woman batted his shoulder.

“It’s true, Kate, and weren’t we all thinking it?” Stephen was gleefully unrepentant. “I’m sorry for your loss, Allie darling, and I know you loved your father with a good heart. But the man never liked me and I never liked him and there’s no use pretending any different just because he’s dead.”

“No,” Allison said, no doubt overwhelmed. “I understand. I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner, but—”

“None of that, now, none of that!” He hugged her again. “Aren’t you here now? And isn’t that all that matters? Let’s get you settled. We’ll have to call your uncle in and Moira, too. They’ll be wanting to hear all about you.”

“Grampa.” The twin with the backpack tugged at Stephen’s sleeve, pointing at Mark and whispering. “Grampa, what about him?”

“Who?”

Mark realized wryly that he might as well have been invisible. “I think she means me,” he said with a smile. “I’m Matt Travis. I have a reservation, as well.”

The second little girl, apparently the more confident of the two, stared at Mark while chewing the nail of her pinky finger as if it were her afternoon snack. “Are you Allison’s boyfriend?”

Allison shook her head quickly, flushing again as she had to trot out her rehearsed lie. “No, no! Matt and I…we just happened to be on the same plane. We just shared a cab from the airport.”

“Well, come on in, son,” Stephen said, waving his hand expansively. “We’ll get your room eventually, but you may have to wait. You’ve stumbled into a family reunion, as you see, and family comes first.”

“Of course,” Mark agreed.

“And our poor Allie, she’s like a miracle, showing up here,” Kate O’Hara said as if she owed Mark a better explanation. “She’s lost her dad, you know, so we’re her only family now.”

The nail-chewing little girl stared up at Allison, frowning. “Your father’s dead? What happened to him?”

Kate hushed her granddaughter with a soft hand. “You remember, now, don’t you, Fannie? We talked about it. Her father had a heart attack, poor man.”

The little girl nodded slowly. “That’s right. I do remember, because Grampa said it was ironic, and I asked him what ironic meant, and he said it was when someone who didn’t have a heart in the first place—”

“Flannery Teresa O’Hara, that is enough!” Stephen’s creased cheeks were pink. “Get your cousin’s suitcases and bring them inside.”

“I’ll get my own,” Mark said unnecessarily, as once again no one seemed aware of him, except Allison, who looked over her shoulder, her green eyes staring helplessly at him as she was swept into the hotel lobby on a wave of laughter and eager questions.

She looked terrified—and cute as hell.

He smiled as he hoisted his garment bag over his shoulder and paid the patient cabbie.

This might, he thought, be more fun than he’d expected.

BY THE TIME Allison got a minute alone she was exhausted. She had answered a million questions, received a thousand hugs and kisses, and listened to more stories about her mother than she’d heard in her entire lifetime.

Her father’s prohibition against public displays of emotion would have made no sense to this family, who seemed to recognize zero distinction between “public” and “private” behavior. They laughed until the sound bounced off the walls. They interrupted each other without apology. They broke spontaneously into song, then stopped when tears choked off the tune. Tempers flared like matches and died as quickly.

When they finally remembered that she’d been traveling all day and might need to freshen up, en masse they took her to her room, introducing her to other guests they passed in the halls, as if she were the queen.

The room was large and lovely, done in shades of blue, but Allison didn’t take time to appreciate its elegant details. She didn’t even unpack. As soon as the last kiss was blown, she closed the door, kicked off her pumps, lay down on the bed and promptly fell asleep.

She woke much later to a dim room and the sound of someone rapping on her door. Her heart pounded, and, lifting up on one elbow, she tried to remember where she was. In the semidarkness, everything looked alien.

The rapping sounded again. She stared at the door, hoping it wasn’t the twins. Though Fiona was quiet and spent most of her time clutching the straps of her backpack and watching with wide, green eyes, Flannery was a real pistol who possessed an amazing talent for asking the most embarrassing questions. “Why aren’t you married?” “Don’t you think Mom is getting fat?” “Do you think Daniel’s girlfriend broke up with him because he’s gross?”

On the other hand, if it was the twins at the door they wouldn’t give up, so she might as well answer it. She pressed down on her curls with both hands and, hoping for the best, made her way barefooted to the door.

“Hi.” It was Mark. He leaned his head into the room, scanning the gloom. “Have you been sleeping this whole time?” He smiled. “Did the lovefest wear you out?”

She nodded. “It was a bit much for me.” She flicked on the overhead light, squinted and waved him into the room. “Compared to this, I’ve lived a pretty quiet life.”

That was an understatement, of course. She and her father had never talked much. He’d disapproved of chatter about people, which he deemed vulgar and simpleminded. He’d preferred ideas, he said, and he particularly liked politics. But to a teenage girl, the diplomatic crisis of how boy A was going to break up with girl B was the only political issue that counted. By the time Allison was old enough to have anything to say, the pattern of silence had been set.

She offered Mark the only chair, then sat on the edge of the bed, glad she hadn’t removed more than her shoes before falling asleep. Her hair was a mess, she knew, and probably she’d rubbed her lipstick off on the pillow, but at least she was marginally presentable.

“I think I could have slept for a week. I’m not used to being the center of so much attention. And all that hugging and kissing.” She rubbed sleepy dust from the corners of her eyes. “I’m not used to—”

She broke off, realizing what that sounded like. But it was true. She wasn’t used to being touched that much.

“I can imagine,” Mark filled in smoothly. “I, on the other hand, am not used to getting so little attention. I bet not a single thing got done in this hotel today. The minute you showed up, it officially became Celebrate Allison Cabot day.”

She groaned. “I know. It was sweet but so embarrassing. It makes me feel like such a fraud.”

He laughed. “Why? You’re not the one here under an assumed name. That’s me.”

“It’s almost as bad. They’re automatically assuming I’m one of them, but I’m not. I’m not comfortable with all that emotional abandon. It feels as if I’ve landed on another planet. I don’t know what to say or what to do.”

“I didn’t hear anyone complaining. They couldn’t stop singing your praises. When they weren’t singing ‘The Rose of Tralee,’ that is.”

“Yes, well, today they are probably willing to write off my stiffness as temporary shyness. Wait until they discover it’s not temporary anything. It’s just who I am.”

She felt hollow. She touched her mother’s ruby ring, which she’d put on to cover the untanned band of skin where her engagement ring used to be. The ring didn’t quite fit. Her mother’s fingers must have been smaller than hers.

“Wait until they see how much Cabot blood is in me after all.”

His gaze flicked from her face to her hand, then back again. “Time will tell, I suppose,” he said mildly. “Meanwhile, if you’re up to it, we should probably formulate our game plan.”

“Yes, we should,” she agreed, ordering herself to shake off the ridiculous self-pity. Just that morning she’d feared that the family would reject her and had only dared to hope for a civil reconciliation that might make her feel a little less alone in the world. Now that wasn’t enough? She needed to be one of them?

Ridiculous. She should be satisfied to know that the O’Haras were loyal and forgiving, and glad to be back on speaking terms. She was in Florida primarily to take care of Lincoln Gray and it was time she turned her attention to that mission.

“I spent the afternoon doing some reconnaissance,” Mark said. “The rental cars showed up about three, so I drove around a little. I found Lincoln’s house—or, more accurately, the house he’s borrowing from his friend. It’s quite a place.”

Allison knew about the mansion. Her investigator had supplied pictures that showed a sprawling oceanfront villa complete with tennis courts, swimming pool and a BMW in the circular drive.

“Was he there?”

“I couldn’t tell. It’s landscaped for privacy. You can probably see more from the beach, but I wasn’t curious enough to get out my Inspector Gadget binoculars and stalk around in the heat.” He leaned back comfortably. “I did see Janelle Greenwood, though.”

“You did? At Lincoln’s house?”

“No. She’s at The Mangrove, the resort down at the southern tip of the island. Luxe to the max, but not particularly well run. The staff has loose lips. I got Janelle’s room number and Lincoln Gray’s tee time in about ten minutes.”

Allison didn’t find that terribly surprising. Mark had an air about him—without even trying, he would blend into luxurious surroundings organically, as if he’d been born there.

It wasn’t a superior, down-the-nose air. She knew that one. Her father had it in spades. Mark’s panache was subtler. It was a mix of easy confidence, intelligence and a general satisfaction with life, as if there wasn’t much he’d ever wanted that he hadn’t gotten, including answers.

Besides, if the staff members he’d approached were female, it would have been almost too easy. The man had sex appeal like Hercules had biceps.

She tucked her bare feet under her and leaned against the pillow. Finally she felt herself truly relaxing. Funny how comfortable she felt around Mark, considering how short a time she’d known him. More comfortable than she had with her own relatives.

But they did have a lot in common. They hated the same person. Apparently it was true—the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

“So…what did you think of Janelle in the flesh? Does the picture do her justice?”

“Not really. She’s just as naïve as she looked in the photo, but it didn’t show everything. She’s actually quite a knockout.”

Allison thought back to the sweet-faced young woman. She was attractive enough, but a knockout? “She is?”

“Yes.” Mark got comfortable in the chair, tilted his head back and grinned. “From the neck down, especially.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Oh brother.”

He didn’t look ashamed. “Just stating the facts. Facts that haven’t escaped Lincoln’s notice, I’m sure.”

She wondered if he was right. Lincoln had always acted as if he found Allison the most attractive woman in the universe—even though her figure would never snag her a job as a Playboy bunny. Of course, acting was the important word. Lincoln had merely been playing the role of adoring suitor. For all she knew he’d been secretly drooling over every double-D that sashayed by.

Or maybe Mark was just projecting. Maybe Janelle’s voluptuous body was exactly his type, so he assumed it must appeal to all men.

She fought the urge to adjust her rumpled T-shirt to a more flattering fit. Instead, she climbed off the bed, hoisted up her garment bag and began unzipping it.

“If she’s that amazing,” she said, pulling out a handful of hangers, “maybe we should do this rescue as a team. I’ll distract Lincoln while you romance Janelle away from him.”

Mark chuckled. “It had occurred to me. But what’s the point? Would it really be any better to get her heart broken by me instead of Lincoln?”

“What makes you so sure you’d break her heart?” She arranged some of her dresses in the closet, shaking out the wrinkles. “Maybe you’d fall deeply in love and end up living happily ever after with two-point-five kids and a picket fence.”

He grimaced. “Not in this lifetime.”

She pulled out the last of her clothes, a light blue cotton sundress. This was what she’d planned to wear when she met Lincoln, but when she held it up against her chest and looked at it in the closet mirror, it suddenly looked too tame.

“Why not? If you work quickly, we could have a double wedding. I could be godmother to your firstborn daughter, and I’d give you a great discount at Lullabies.”

“Sorry. You’re trying to sell that fantasy to the wrong guy.”

She could see him in the mirror. He was still smiling, but his voice sounded edgy, and she wondered if she might somehow have offended him.

“And maybe we should talk reality anyhow,” he said, sounding more normal. “When do you plan to make contact with Lincoln? Have you decided what you’re going to say?”

She leaned against the closet door, letting the dress drape over her arm.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” she said. “I’ve decided that the only way is to be very straightforward. I’ll go to his house, probably tomorrow, and talk to him. I’ll have to tell him I still love him, and I understand why he didn’t show up at the church.”

“Which is?”

“Because I hurt him when I insisted on the prenup. I made him feel that I didn’t trust him. I’ll tell him that I’m going to prove that I do trust him. I even brought the prenup with me. I’m going to start by tearing it up.”

“Nice touch.”

“I thought so. I’m bringing a present, too. You gave me the idea when you told me how he stole your sister’s brooch.”

Mark smiled. “You have a tacky peacock in your family, too?”

“No, but it’s a rather nice gold signet ring. Expensive as hell. I’m going to tell him it’s a family piece, though actually I picked it up at Tiffany’s last week. And then I’ll tell him how much I love him, how empty my life is without him.”

Mark whistled softly. “That’s a pretty big piece of humble pie. You sure you’re going to be able to choke it down?”

She nodded. “Without blinking.”

He rested his temple against his knuckles and gazed at her appraisingly. “Well, you sound ready. And the jewelry is a nice touch—it might even provide a chance to see where he puts it for safekeeping. Maybe it’ll turn out to be the same place he keeps the peacock.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But remember, it’s a long shot.”

“This whole thing is a long shot,” he said. “Have you decided exactly how far you’re actually willing to go to pull it off?”

“All the way.” She lifted the blue dress and started to hang it back in the closet. It would have to do for that first meeting with Lincoln. She wasn’t going to try to compete with a knockout on looks alone. She had her own knockout punch—her checkbook.

Mark was still watching her. “You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely sure. I’ll kneel at his feet. I’ll tell him he is the Sun God and the Moon King rolled into one. I’ll produce my bank balance and open up a credit line for him at Saks. I mean it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Will you go to bed with him?”

She stopped, the hanger frozen an inch above the rod.

She stared over her shoulder at Mark, who looked genuinely curious.

Damn it.

She was an idiot.

She really hadn’t thought of that.