Alaska Home. Debbie Macomber
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their meal and were walking out of the restaurant, Christian was once again aware of several envious stares. Only this time it didn’t raise his self-esteem. Sure, he’d enjoyed his blackened salmon, and the Washington-made wine had been some of the best he’d tasted, but he’d rather have eaten at Ben’s or the Sourdough Café. As for his dinner companion—the truth was, he’d become disenchanted.
Later, when he dropped Allison off in front of her apartment, she flexed her long nails over his thigh. “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” she asked. Her beautiful eyes invited him for more.
“Not tonight.”
He helped her out of the car and walked her to her door.
“When will I see you again?” Her voice rolled from her lips like silk.
Christian had made the mistake of letting her know his schedule. “I’ll call you,” he said.
She gave him a hurt-little-girl pout. Her eyes rounded with a practiced look of disappointment. “You will phone me, won’t you, Chris? I’d be so unhappy if you didn’t.”
Christian couldn’t get away fast enough. They’d be raising huskies in hell before he’d agree to spend a second evening with the likes of Allison Reynolds.
After returning to his hotel room, Christian sat on the edge of the bed. It was hard to believe he’d been so blinded by her earlier. Because he was restless and angry, he reached for the phone and dialed Sawyer’s home number.
“Hello,” Sawyer answered impatiently.
“It’s me.”
“Christian? What’s wrong? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he said, then wondered if that was true. Rarely had he felt so disappointed, so disillusioned, but he couldn’t entirely blame his dinner date. His own willful blindness had something to do with it. “You remember Allison, don’t you?”
“Of course I remember her. Listen, if you’re calling to sing her praises, you’ve caught me at an inopportune moment. You seem to have forgotten that Abbey and I are having our second honeymoon. She’s decided to re-create the night we attended the luau. Grass skirt, leis, the whole deal. D’you mind if we talk about the sex goddess another time?”
“Trust me, Allison is no goddess.”
“Not you, honey,” Christian heard his brother explain to Abbey. “I was talking about another sex goddess. One far less gorgeous than you.”
“I’ll talk to you when I get home,” Christian said. Chuckling to himself, he replaced the receiver.
A year ago, he’d been completely wrapped up in Allison. He wasn’t sure who’d changed in the past twelve months. Allison or him? But she wasn’t at all how he’d remembered her.
A year ago, Christian had been thrilled when Allison had agreed, after some fast talking on his part, to give Hard Luck a try. Unfortunately, because of business commitments, he’d been unable to greet her personally when she arrived.
For an entire year he’d believed someone had said or done something to offend her. When he discovered she’d returned to Seattle after only one night in Hard Luck, he’d been furious. Not that there was anything he could do while he was on the road. He’d made one feeble attempt to contact her, but because he was busy with other things, he’d dropped the matter.
For twelve long months, he’d been convinced the people of Hard Luck had been at fault. The other women were jealous of Allison’s natural beauty and had gone out of their way to make her feel unwanted. The list of possibilities had mounted—but there’d only been one reason Allison had left. A reason he hadn’t seen until that very evening.
A vain, selfish woman wouldn’t last more than a day in a town like Hard Luck. Allison had said it herself, although she’d meant something very different. And a day was exactly how long she’d stayed.
* * *
Mariah thought she’d never been this miserable. There wasn’t enough deep-dish pizza in the world to get her through the night, but that didn’t keep her away from the Hard Luck Café.
Christian was in Seattle dining with the beautiful, sophisticated Allison Reynolds. He didn’t think she knew, but she did, and that made everything worse.
Although she’d never met her, Mariah had heard everything she needed to know from the few women who remembered Allison’s brief visit.
Right that moment, Christian and Allison were at a waterfront restaurant rated as one of the country’s top ten. Mariah didn’t want to consider what they’d do after dinner. Dancing. Stargazing. Kissing. The image of another woman in Christian’s arms was just too painful to contemplate. Nor did she care to dwell on how his relationship with Allison would affect her position with Midnight Sons.
She knew that Christian would do practically anything to get Allison back in Hard Luck.
Allison was a secretary. And so was she.
Given the choice, Christian would pick Allison over her any day of the week. And she figured that, to keep the peace, Sawyer would ultimately agree to letting her go in favor of Allison.
“What can I do for you?” Ben asked.
Mariah sat at the table closest to the counter. “Do you have any pizza left?”
“The one with four kinds of cheese and all the extras?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “I suspect I’ve got a couple tucked away in the freezer,” he told her. “I generally don’t bake them unless I have a special request.”
“Would you be willing to consider this a special request?” Mariah asked. “It’s a food emergency.”
“A food emergency,” Ben repeated, grinning. “Hey, I like that.” He raised his hand and read the imaginary words, pointing one finger as he spoke. “Hard Luck Café, specializing in food emergencies.” Then the amusement left his eyes, and he muttered, “It might go over better than my frequent-eater program.”
“Could you feed me the pizza intravenously?” she joked, but it was a struggle.
Ben pulled out a chair and sat down next to her. “What’s the problem, kiddo?”
Mariah knew that a lot of the men in town talked to Ben; he was a good sounding board and a faithful friend. She liked and trusted him, but she wasn’t comfortable talking about the situation between her and Christian. It didn’t seem fair to unburden her soul to a friend of the O’Hallorans.
“I don’t have anything one of your pizzas won’t cure,” she assured him.
“Coming right up.” Ben stood and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. “You want anything to go with that?”
“Diet soda,” she told him, knowing he’d find humor in her downing his million-calorie pizza with a diet drink.
“This could take a while,” he said on his way to the kitchen. “The oven’s got to heat up first.”
“No problem.”
There were dirty lunch dishes on a couple of the tables, and because she felt too restless to sit there doing nothing, Mariah cleared them away.
“Thanks,” Ben told her as she carried the dishes into the kitchen. “I meant to do that earlier.”
“Anything else you need help with?” she asked.
“Nah.”
But when she’d brought in the dishes from the second table, she noticed that some of the paper-napkin dispensers were empty. She asked Ben about that.
“I’ve been meaning to fill those, too, but I got sidetracked.”
“I’ll do it,” she said, eager to occupy her hands while she waited for her food.
“I’ve