Everything but the Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

were her own.

       CHAPTER THREE

      THROUGHOUT HER SIX-HOUR FLIGHT from Boston to San Francisco, Allison shut her eyes to avoid chatting with the passengers on either side of her cramped last-minute coach seat and masochistically second-guessed herself.

      Was she doing the right thing? Was she crazy? Could this plan even work? What would Mark Travers think when he saw her on his doorstep?

      She hadn’t called him in advance to let him know she was coming. He probably would have told her to save them both the time, and stay in Boston.

      She knew she hadn’t made a very good impression on him when they met the day of the wedding fiasco. She had been in shock, and she’d probably appeared irrational, inarticulate and not very bright. By the time he left her office, his disdain had been written all over his rugged face.

      So he wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to see her, just one week later. She wondered if he’d even give her the time to explain her idea. And, if he did, what were the chances he’d trust her to successfully carry off a plan as bold as this one?

      A million to one.

      That’s why this couldn’t be done over the phone. She needed to show him, face-to-face, that she wasn’t being hysterical or vindictive or just plain dumb.

      Somehow, she needed to convince him that she really did have the perfect strategy for dealing with Lincoln Gray once and for all—and the guts to make it work.

      Surely Mark would be receptive. After all, she wasn’t asking for his help—or his permission. The only thing she wanted him to do was stay out of the way long enough to let her get the job done.

      His house was easy to find, an impressive mission-style mansion high on a hill. His street was near enough to the bay that he could probably see his own sloop in the marina. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, she didn’t doubt for a minute that he did indeed have a sloop, along with fifth-generation memberships at the yacht, tennis and golf clubs. He probably had a basement full of scuba gear and water skis, a kayak on the wall.

      She knew the physique of a sports fiend when she saw one. Mark Travers was the kind of guy who would be late for his own funeral because his pickup-football game went into overtime.

      She dismissed the cab, though she took the driver’s number for the ride back to the airport. Then she climbed up the zigzagging front walk with its elegant mounds of boxwood, trails of deep green ivy and shooting plumes of cobalt-blue irises.

      Obviously, Lincoln hadn’t made off with all the Travers money.

      She rang the bell discreetly set into the stucco wall beside the carved wooden front door. She didn’t hear anything, but it must have emitted a sound only French maids could hear, because in about ten seconds a gorgeous brunette in an amply filled white apron opened the door and smiled.

      The smile showed perfect white teeth set off by bright pink lipstick and a small wad of blue gum.

      “Hello,” Allison said politely, though what she really wanted to say was, is this guy for real? Allison had a housekeeper, too, but Loretta was about sixty and cranky, and had a face like day-old oatmeal. “Is Mr. Travers in?”

      The maid shook her head and enjoyed a quick chomp of gum. “Nope. He’s doing the Get Happy run. You know, for his client. He’ll be home in half an hour. if you’d like to wait.”

      “That would be great,” Allison said eagerly.

      She’d love to get an advance look at his house. You could tell a lot from the books people read and the knickknacks they collected. Take, for instance, her secret copy of Baby Names or the little plastic leprechaun whose joints jiggled and collapsed when she pressed on the base, which she’d kept all these years because it was the only toy her mother had given her that her father hadn’t thrown away. Anyone who saw those would certainly know that she wasn’t the hardheaded businesswoman she pretended to be.

      “Okay, then,” the maid said, nodding and chewing. And then she shut the door in Allison’s face.

      Allison stared a minute at the beautiful grapevines carved into the wood. Apparently Mark hadn’t bothered to check this lady’s references. Her last job had probably been at Naked-a-Go-Go, where you had to whisper the password at the cellar door or the bouncer would toss you out.

      She wondered if slipping the woman a twenty might help. But it wasn’t worth it. It was only half an hour, and besides, it was beautiful out here. The San Francisco summer was crisp, with none of the suffocating humidity that blanketed Boston right now.

      She perched on one of the terraced border stones in the shade of a spreading Japanese maple and waited.

      She didn’t have to sit there long. Within fifteen minutes, a red vintage MGB hummed up to the curb, top down. Mark Travers, his dark hair tousled by the wind, unfolded his long legs, climbed out and began to take the front steps in twos.

      Halfway up, he noticed her. He stopped, tilted his head and pulled off his sunglasses for a better view.

      “Allison?” He looked surprised, but not stunned.

      He also looked great. His T-shirt, on which a smiley face was surrounded by big yellow letters ordering her to Get Happy, was sweaty and molded to his torso. She had to admit it—that torso had probably made plenty of women happy this morning.

      “What are you doing here?”

      She stood up, brushing cedar-mulch shavings from her skirt. “I needed to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?”

      “Of course.” He hooked his sunglasses over the neck of his T-shirt and held out a hand. “Come on in. You should have rung the bell. Gigi would have let you in.”

      Of course the housekeeper’s name was Gigi. It really was either that or Bambi. “I did ring. She told me you weren’t here and then pretty much slammed the door in my face.”

      Mark leaned his head back and groaned. “God, I’m going to strangle my sister.”

      Allison gasped. “Gigi is your sister?”

      “No, no.” He seemed to shudder. “God, no. It’s just that Tracy thinks I should get married again and so she keeps sending women over. The last so-called housekeeper was a Yale graduate fishing for a rich husband.”

      Okay, that answered one question. He wasn’t married.

      Actually, it answered two questions. He’d said married again. If he’d been married before and it hadn’t worked out, that might account for that subtle hint of women-are-nuts in his attitude.

      Allison wasn’t sure why his marital status mattered to her. Wasn’t she supposed to be in mourning right now? Nursing her broken, jilted heart?

      Besides, even when it was seemly to think about such things again, she had no intention of getting involved with a slightly arrogant, Batman-esque super-jock who lived on the other side of the country.

      If she ever got another man, he was going to be a quiet computer geek who had his own copy of Baby Names squirreled away in his nightstand drawer.

      Mark motioned for her to follow him toward the door. “Come on in. Let’s get something to drink. I think I just sweat out about ninety percent of my bodily fluids.” He tugged at his shirt. “And then, before we do any serious talking, I’d better wash off some of this grime.”

      In the end, she hardly had any time to explore the house. Amazingly, it took him only about fifteen minutes to do it all—toss back a full bottle of Gatorade, send Gigi home for the day, settle Allison in the library, shower and throw on a pair of old jeans and a crisp white shirt.

      She was only on her third bookshelf when he walked back in, still slightly damp and steamy and smelling of expensive soap.

      He buttoned his last button as he entered but didn’t tuck in the shirttail. His hair was wet and darker than ever.

      “So,”