Another Woman's Baby. Joanna Wayne
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There’s a new restaurant that makes a divine spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing. How long will you be in town?”
“A few weeks.”
“Super. I’ll call you.”
Penny headed over to the clearance rack to check out the bargains and the sexy guy. By the time Megan made it back to the table of beach shoes, she could hear Penny’s bubbling voice mingling with the man’s much deeper one. Obviously she could flirt as well as look and lust.
Megan tried on several pairs of shoes, finally finding a set that didn’t bind. She took the long way back to the checkout counter to keep from having to walk by Penny and risk having to answer more questions. It didn’t work. Penny called to her from across the store. “Megan, you’re not staying at your grandmother’s big old house all by yourself, are you? It’s so isolated and lonely on that part of the beach this time of year.”
“It’s home.”
“You’re much braver than me. I’d never stay by myself in that huge house.”
No, but, thank you, Penny, for announcing all the details to the stranger who had quit rummaging through the clearance items to stare at her. Add uneasiness to the myriad emotions that played hopscotch with her hormones these days, hitting and missing in no particular order.
But unless the man was a serial killer or had some bizarre fetish for wobbling pregnant women, he wouldn’t bother looking her up. Still, Penny had hit on a nerve. The last time she’d stayed in the beach house alone, when she was in the process of breaking up with John Hardison, she’d had trouble sleeping, had been wakened more than once by the creaking of the house and the whistling of the wind as it swept under the eaves.
All old houses have ghosts, her grandmother used to say. But only ghosts who harbor hidden secrets came back to haunt you. The rest of the ghosts just live within the happy memories held inside the walls of every home. If that was true, the ghosts at her grandmother’s house were probably sitting around thinking of her grandmother’s keylime pie and the wonderful days of summer and sand castles, lemonade and running in the surf.
So why did she suddenly feel so alone and vulnerable at the prospect of staying at the house she’d always loved?
BART CROMWELL STOOD just inside the door of the souvenir shop and watched the pregnant woman climb into her car. She was extremely attractive, a classic beauty with high cheekbones and a long, regal neck. Coal-black hair, short and thick with bangs that fell across her forehead and an exotic olive complexion with dark bedroom eyes and full lips. Her large, white shirt fell to her hips and flowed over the top of a pair of sleek black trousers. Sophisticated and most definitely pregnant.
She backed onto the highway and headed east. Not much traffic to worry about today, though he imagined the place swarmed with people from spring break through summer. He’d never been to this part of Alabama before, but now that he had, he’d come back. The sand was sugar white, and when the sun reflected off the water, it turned the Gulf into a brilliant rainbow of greens and blues. There were even dolphins, or so he’d heard. He’d check those out tomorrow.
Tonight, he’d check out a big, isolated house on the beach where a pregnant woman was going to be staying all by herself. Pushing through the door, he jumped into his nondescript sedan and gunned the engine to life. He caught up with the woman’s luxury car just as it turned into the supermarket parking lot. Perfect. He needed to pick up a few groceries himself.
Beaches always whet his appetite—for food and excitement. He expected to find plenty of both in Orange Beach.
Chapter Two
Megan fit the key into the lock and opened the front door of Pelican’s Roost, feeling better by the minute, even though she’d climbed the wide stairs with a bag of groceries in each hand. The bottom level of the house consisted of a spacious storage area large enough to hold enough beach furniture for at least two dozen guests, an assortment of life jackets, floats and other beach paraphernalia and a seldom-used catamaran. Behind that was parking for up to four cars. The wide steps to the second level were on the outside of the house, and they were the only way to reach the living area of the rambling structure.
Her grandmother had talked for years of adding an elevator to the place, one that carried you straight from the covered parking area into the interior of the house without your having to get out in all kinds of weather or carry shopping bags and groceries up the stairs. She’d never done it, decided in the end that climbing the steps kept her young. Right now, Megan would have loved to have the elevator.
She pushed through the door, and into the high-ceilinged family room. The room was chilly but welcoming all the same. Tomorrow she’d get someone to deliver wood so that she could build a fire in the massive brick fireplace that took up most of one wall. The opposite side of the room had three sets of sliding glass doors, creating a virtual wall of glass. The drapes were pulled, letting in the late-afternoon glow of the sun and giving the illusion that the Gulf rolled right up to the house itself. Already the sight of the water made her feel calmer. Coming here had been the right thing to do.
She shut the front door behind her and headed for the kitchen. Setting a bag of groceries on the counter, she looked around the room and had the distinct feeling her grandmother might walk in any second. The room was filled with memories…Baking cookies with her grandmother. Icing cupcakes and eating more of the gooey concoction than she put on the little cakes. Cutting strips of red and green construction paper and gluing them into chains to drape about the Christmas tree.
The jangling of the phone broke into her thoughts. She picked up the extension by the sink, wondering who’d be calling her so soon after she’d arrived. “Hello.”
“I see you made it.”
“John. I should have known it would be you. Don’t tell me there’s already an emergency. I was in the office this morning.”
“Rumblings in the merger deal. Boynton wants us to guarantee to keep seventy percent of their management-level people.”
“Stick to the fifty percent we offered them. If they weren’t so top heavy, they wouldn’t have to merge in the first place. Too many chiefs do not make for a good bottom line.”
“And if they won’t go along with that?”
“They will. Cullecci will make a fuss, but he has his orders. He’ll work with you. Play hardball with the retirement plan, too. What we have at Lannier is far more reasonable and fair then what they’ve provided. And, John, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m on leave.”
“How could I forget? Could this pregnancy come at a more inconvenient time?”
“I hope you’re not asking me that question.”
“Sorry. I know this is harder on you than on anyone else. Did you contact the adoption agency?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t you think it’s time?”
“I’ll call them.”
“Good. I don’t want you to waste any more time on this than is absolutely necessary. We have too much on our plate. You keep doing the job you’ve been doing, and you’ll be the youngest vice president Lannier’s ever had.”
“Do you guarantee that?”
“No, but I can tell you that the new CEO is extremely impressed with you. I had dinner with him last night at Commander’s Palace, and he was singing your praises about the way you’re handling this acquisition.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back to work in January and the baby will be in her new home.”
“Then we’re on the same page. Now take care of yourself,” he said sincerely. “By the way, Lufkin called from the London office. He want’s to know if the meeting is still on for January 12.”
“It’s on. I already have my