Everything but the Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

could almost catch the sickly sweet smell of petals wilting, fading. She glanced down at her own hand, as if she might be able to see it aging, too.

      “You know what?” She looked at Bitsy. “I think I’ve wasted my life.”

      Bitsy had been concentrating on making an effigy of Lincoln Gray out of the fruit from the tables’ centerpieces—Bitsy’s answer to any emotional dilemma was to create something. They hadn’t discussed it, but Allison knew it was Lincoln by the white-grape hair, which did look strangely like Lincoln’s shiny blond curls.

      Bitsy frowned, a cluster of grapes dangling from her fingers.

      “That’s ridiculous, Allie. Wasted your life? I know you’re hurting right now, but—”

      “No.” Allison waved her freshly manicured hand with the pink-diamond polish that exactly matched her brand-new silk bra and panties. It was hard to remember how seriously she had taken all these details about four hours ago. She felt as if she’d been punked.

      “Not because I’m hurting. I’m not hurting.”

      Bitsy nodded, though she didn’t quite meet Allison’s gaze.

      “I’m not,” Allison insisted. “I’m…okay. I’m embarrassed, of course. But mostly I’m mad.”

      Suddenly, after an hour of numb near-silence, Allison needed to talk. And anger seemed safe. Anger, the one emotion even her father had indulged in.

      “Look at this dress! You know what a Vera Wang costs. And four million roses.”

      She scowled toward the music platform, where a graceful gold harp stood silently waiting for the show that would never go on. The string quartet would have to be paid, too.

      “Heck, I spent a thousand dollars on that stupid ice sculpture alone. I figure every drip of that swan’s beak costs me about a buck-fifty. If Lincoln didn’t want to marry me, couldn’t he have said so before I blew a fortune on the wedding?”

      Bitsy laughed and glanced over at the swan, who did appear to be drooling. She seemed about to say something, but then closed her mouth around a cluster of fancy toothpicks, which she was using to hold fruit-Lincoln together.

      Allison knew what Bitsy’s unspoken thought was. Lincoln had wanted to marry her, all the way up until last night, when, succumbing to her lawyer’s pressure, Allison had asked him to sign a prenup. He’d signed it without blinking and he’d even kissed her afterward. That was how good he was.

      She’d never guessed that he was also signing the death warrant for their marriage.

      Bitsy hitched up her sky-blue gown so that she could kneel and adjust the angle of the watermelon she’d propped on one of the chairs. “Still, even though you may have wasted a small fortune…. Why on earth would you say you’ve wasted your life?”

      Allison drummed her fingers on the edge of the table. She gave Bitsy a small smile. “Because, although a situation like this calls for a little justifiable homicide, I don’t know a single hit man. I don’t have one recipe for undetectable poison.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t even know a good voodoo curse.”

      “Ahh.” Bitsy chuckled, looking relieved. “That’s the spirit.”

      Yes, Allison thought, that was the spirit. To hell with “playing through.” Maybe it was the champagne, but she was ready for a supremely unacceptable public display of emotion.

      She slid her chair back noisily and stalked toward the tables set up along the south wall, under the revolutionary war mural for which the Revere was famous. The wedding presents were displayed there, two hundred expensive geegaws and doohickeys that someone was going to have to package up and send back.

      “Luckily, though,” she said with a smile, “I do happen to have a great set of Wüsthof hollow-edge German-crafted triple-riveted steak knives.” She held one up, admiring how it gleamed under the crystal chandelier. “With four-point-five-inch blades.”

      Bitsy frowned. Then, awareness dawning, she gazed at her effigy. “Oh,” she said. “Poor Lincoln.” She arranged the grapes and stood back. “Very well, captain. The prisoner is ready. Fire away.”

      Allison took one last good look at the figure propped on the satin chair. “I almost hate to ruin it,” she said. “He’s prettier than Lincoln.”

      That wasn’t true, of course. The man she would have married today, if he’d bothered to show up, was blond, blue-eyed, bronzed and…

      And that was just the Bs.

      But this effigy of Lincoln was bizarre, voluptuous and oddly beautiful. Honeydew head, watermelon body, white-grape hair and blackberry lips. His face was a sickly green and his kumquat eyes were slightly crossed.

      Appropriate for a man who was about to get stabbed in the heart.

      Allison squinted, her hand on her hip, the knife’s lethal blade carefully pointed out, so that she wouldn’t rip the lace overlay that draped across the tulle skirt of her gown. This sucker was going to fetch a fortune on eBay.

      “Okay, I’ve got only six knives, so let’s decide where the bull’s-eye is,” she said. “Right between the kumquats? Or should I split the strawberry heart?”

      Bitsy nudged Lincoln’s body so that he sat up straighter. “Let’s say two points for the kumquats. Four points for the strawberry.” She smiled, her blue eyes catlike and evil as her gaze slid to the very bottom of the watermelon. “Ten points for the banana.”

      Allison hadn’t noticed the small banana and the sight of its puny yellow curve made her laugh for the first time today. She was still laughing as she tossed the first knife so, unfortunately, it hit the back of the chair, handle first, and clattered to the ground.

      She grimaced toward Bitsy.

      “It’s that repressed WASP upbringing,” Bitsy said. “Not a shred of killer instinct left.”

      “I told you I’d wasted my life,” Allison agreed sadly.

      She took more time with the next tosses.

      “You are—” the knife grazed a lump of grape hair, then slid to the floor “—a sleazy bastard—” she missed the effigy entirely “—Lincoln Gray.” That one embedded itself deeply in the chair’s gold satin upholstery.

      Oh, heck. Repairing that was going to cost a pretty penny. And she only had two knives left.

      “Mind if I try?”

      Allison looked up, startled to hear a man’s voice in the big, empty room. She hated to admit it, but for a split second she thought it might be Lincoln, come to explain everything, to apologize for scaring her.

      The knife itched in her hand.

      But in her heart, she knew that her missing fiancé wouldn’t have the courage to face her now. If he ever apologized, it would be by e-mail.

      The man in front of her was a complete stranger. He wasn’t Lincoln and he wasn’t the fretful hotel manager, either, arriving to save the rest of his chairs.

      But he was definitely Somebody and he knew it, from the topmost wave of his healthy brown hair to the glossy tip of his expensive loafers.

      “May I try?” His fingers came an inch closer, tickling the blade of the knife.

      She hesitated. Was it really a smart idea to hand a sharp Wüsthof to a total stranger? She glanced at Bitsy, but that was no help, because Bitsy was staring at the man as if he were a big glass of Nectar of Paradise and she had just crossed the Mojave.

      The man’s hand closed around hers. Allison held on to the knife. “Who are you?”

      He smiled. “I’m someone who would take just as much pleasure from skewering Lincoln Gray as you would.” He nodded toward the pile of fruit on the satin chair. “That is