Everything but the Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

      She clearly didn’t like the joke. But too bad. This whole thing was a classic bedroom farce, and she now had a leading role. So did he. And Tracy. They all just had to get used to it.

      “Mark,” she amended politely but without warmth. “I do have to tell you that I find it…difficult to believe that Lincoln—that he would really—”

      “I thought you might.” He opened his jacket and pulled a sheaf of legal papers from his breast pocket. “I brought these, to help make it more concrete.”

      She took the papers and read them carefully, her lips pursed as if she needed to double-check every word for some kind of trick. She kept her back ramrod straight and he could see under the desk that her knees were locked, her brown pumps lined up, toes and heels touching in military precision.

      This tailored look didn’t suit her. She wasn’t the Armani type, however much she might wish she were. Her features were too rounded and girlish, and she needed her clouds of hair to keep from looking like a lost kitten. The brown suit washed out her cheeks and dimmed her green eyes to an uninteresting hazel.

      Though she was pretty, she wasn’t beautiful. His sister, Tracy, wasn’t, either. That was apparently how Lincoln Gray liked it. He picked nice-enough-looking women so that it wasn’t a chore to bed them. But not true glamour queens, who might forget to be awed by his own golden charms.

      Still, Allison Cabot had looked far more sexy and alive this afternoon, wearing her tilting pearl tiara and creamy wedding gown. Not beautiful, even then, but quite nice. Intensely female. Vulnerable. And strangely enticing, considering Mark was almost as allergic to brides as he was to babies.

      She set the papers down on the desk. “The existence of a marriage certificate does not necessarily prove anything. There might be a divorce decree somewhere, as well.”

      “There might be,” he agreed. “But there isn’t.”

      “Mr. Travers—I mean, Mark.” She took a deep breath. “Are you seriously trying to tell me that I was about to—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “That if the wedding had gone as planned today, I would be married to a bigamist?”

      “Yes.” A little blunt, perhaps, but he didn’t think it would help to sugarcoat the truth. Still, he did hope she wouldn’t start crying. He’d dried a million of Tracy’s tears in the past months and he’d run out of patience. And clean handkerchiefs.

      To her credit, the Armani and the tight braid seemed to be doing the trick. Her eyes were bright, but she had no intention of falling apart.

      “It’s—” Again she had to regroup and start over. “I just find it so impossible to—”

      She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry. I’m practically incoherent here. I must sound like a fool.” That made her flush, which brought out a few freckles she’d tried very hard to hide with makeup. “On the other hand, if what you say is true, I guess I am a fool.”

      “It’s not that simple. My sister is an intelligent woman, but she fell for Lincoln Gray, too. She married him. She put his name on all her bank accounts and safety-deposit boxes.” He shook his head. “Apparently, the man is quite good at what he does.”

      She looked down again. “Yes,” she said. “He is.”

      “He picks his targets shrewdly, too. My sister is thirty-eight. She’s already been through one divorce and suffered two miscarriages. Her most recent relationship had ended badly, just weeks before Lincoln arrived on the scene, and I was out of the country. A lonely time for her. I also think her biological clock is ticking pretty loudly.”

      He smiled. “Any of that sound familiar?”

      Allison shrugged, but the pink hadn’t left her cheeks. “I’m afraid it does, a bit. My father died a few months ago. He was my only family.” She lifted one hand, palm up. “And, of course, we all have biological clocks.”

      That interested Mark. Allison was at least ten years younger than Tracy. Was it possible that a woman in her twenties was already so desperate for a baby that she’d marry a jerk like Lincoln Gray just for the pretty blond genes?

      He laughed inwardly at his own naïveté. Of course it was possible. He knew firsthand how baby-lust could trump common sense, self-preservation and even love.

      “Did you love him?”

      He could tell the question shocked her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. With effort, she arranged her features as close to classic hauteur as her upturned pixie nose and freckles would allow.

      “I’m sorry,” she said crisply, “but I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

      He smiled again. That tone might intimidate the handmaidens downstairs, but she still looked like a freckle-faced kid to him. He hadn’t forgotten the cockeyed tiara or her desire to slice off poor Lincoln’s puny banana penis.

      “Which means,” he said, “that you didn’t.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “Again, I fail to see why that angle concerns you.”

      “It concerns me because I am going to continue looking for Lincoln. For me, this is just a setback, not the end. And I’m hoping you’ll help me in any way you can. But if you really were in love with him, you might not be as eager to see him get caught.”

      She had picked up a pencil and was tapping the eraser absently against the polished-mahogany desktop. A fidgeter. Earlier, she’d been twisting her ruby ring so much he’d been surprised she hadn’t unscrewed her finger.

      In PR you had to learn to read people quickly and he knew what that meant. In his experience, fidgeters were impulsive people, given to emotional decisions. Occupying their hands helped to slow them down, to sort things through in a more orderly fashion.

      She brought the eraser to her lips and nipped it thoughtfully with her teeth. An oral fixation, too. He took a minute to admire her mouth, which was her sexiest feature. Full lips with a lot of rich natural color, a broad span and the beginning of a laugh line. Those lips were a neon sign, labeling her accessible, innocent and generous.

      Lincoln Gray probably trolled the upscale resorts, searching for women with mouths just like that.

      “I’m not sure I understand,” she said finally. “Caught for what? If your sister put his name on her accounts, that means the money was legally his, doesn’t it? Ethically it’s mean and rotten, but people don’t get tossed in jail for being morally bankrupt.”

      “I don’t intend to toss him in jail. I just want to—” He hesitated. “Talk to him.”

      To his surprise, she laughed. It was a decidedly non-Armani laugh—light, unaffected, hitting several musical notes that were easy on the ears.

      He wasn’t sure exactly what had struck her as so funny, but he was glad she could laugh at anything today. Tracy hadn’t so much as smiled for weeks after Lincoln left and she still sometimes cried herself to sleep. Either Allison Cabot was stronger than she looked or her heart really hadn’t been bunged up much by her fiancé’s defection.

      “Sorry,” she said, putting her pencil down so that she could wipe her eyes. “It’s just that men are so predictable. My father would have said exactly the same thing if he were alive today. I assume your talking will be done with your fists?”

      He smiled. “I can’t imagine it would come to that. I never met the guy, but I’ve seen pictures. I don’t think he’d want to risk messing up his handsome face.”

      She nodded. “Yeah. Little Lord Fauntleroy meets Batman. Not much of a match.”

      It was his turn to laugh. No one had ever compared him to Batman before, though he assumed it had something to do with his coloring. But the vision of Lincoln Gray dressed up in black velvet knee pants, lace collar and ringlets was just too perfect.

      And she was right