Kitabı oxu: «Twin Expectations»

Chapter One

Bridget sipped her club soda nervously as she surveyed the jewel-and tux-bedecked crowd around her. Normally she favored a little something with the soda. But now that she was pregnant…

She paused in her thoughts, savoring the word. Pregnant. Today she’d had her official pregnancy test at the Statler Clinic. The results had only confirmed what she’d already known. At just three weeks from conception, her body was changing in some slight, indefinable way.

In a few months she would start expanding like a dashboard airbag. The prospect was scary but kind of exciting, too.

“See anyone we can mingle with?” asked Liz, standing beside her. They’d wangled invitations to the Oilman’s Ball from a dry-cleaning baroness, a family friend whose portrait Bridget had painted. The ball was Oaksboro’s social event of the season, and Eric Statler was guaranteed to be in attendance. But now that they’d arrived, the hard work began—finding someone who would provide Liz with a personal introduction to Statler.

“I’ve never been that great at mingling,” Bridget replied. “Wait…over there. Are those Eric Statler’s parents?” She nodded toward a distinguished-looking couple who appeared to be holding court.

“That’s them, all right,” Liz said. “Geraldine and Eric Statler, Jr. Everyone calls Mr. Statler ‘Two,’ you know. Because he didn’t like ‘Junior.”’

“And the son?” Bridget wanted to know. “Do they call him ‘Three?”’

“They call him just plain Eric,” Liz said, her eyes scanning the crowd.

“How do you know so much about the Statlers?”

“The Internet. Wait, I see one of our agency’s clients,” Liz said. “Let’s split up. We can cover more territory that way.”

Bridget nodded, only too happy to step away from Liz. They’d foolishly forgotten to check with each other beforehand, and they’d worn nearly identical dresses. Even their shoulder-length blond hair was styled in a similar fashion. That was one of the hazards of being a psychically attuned twin.

Liz winked at Bridget, then took off, leaving Bridget to find someone of her own to mingle with. Fortunately, she spotted Mrs. Hampton, the dry-cleaning baroness.

“Bridget, I’m so pleased you could make it,” the stylish silver-haired matron said as Bridget approached. “There’s a lovely couple I want you to meet. I bet they’re in the market for a portrait.”

Though she was booked through the summer, Bridget was always pleased at the prospect of new business. And, who could tell, maybe this couple knew Eric Statler.

She’d thought this romantic goal of Liz’s was crazy at first. But the more she’d thought about it, the more she’d come to realize that Liz would make a good match for Statler. She had the social skills, the assertiveness, the self-confidence to keep up with someone who moved in his circles, whereas Bridget, while appreciating the man’s finer qualities, knew she would prefer a…quieter marriage.

Mrs. Hampton trundled off, dragging Bridget gamely behind her.

NICHOLAS RAINES drained his second gin-and-tonic and stifled a yawn. He despised these functions, but his mother had laid a guilt trip on him about attending. It was for charity, she’d said. It was a chance to see and be seen, make important business contacts, blah-blah-blah. She’d even hinted that he might meet a woman, as if he had time for a relationship. Still, if a mother couldn’t count on her own son to buy a ticket to a charity ball when she was on the committee, who could she count on?

He hoped the charity—a women’s shelter—raked in a bundle. But he’d yet to meet anyone this evening with whom he had the slightest interest in doing business. As for running into an appealing woman, what a joke. Practically every woman here was either over sixty, married or both.

He wondered how long he had to stay. Till the auction, he supposed. If he didn’t bid on something, he’d never hear the end of it from his mother. He was already in trouble because he hadn’t worn a tux. Maybe he could hide behind one of those big potted trees until the—

His thoughts froze. Who was that? She was under sixty, that was for sure. Maybe even under thirty. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed right away. And he’d never laid eyes on her before, because he would have remembered that face. So she wasn’t a regular among this crowd. They had that in common to start with.

He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and approached the woman, noting with pleasure that she got even prettier the closer he came. She looked up, smiling boldly as he held out his offering to her.

“Oh, champagne!” she said, her blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Thank you. I’m Liz Van Zandt. And who might you…” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze focused on something faraway and over his left shoulder. He turned to look, then felt a momentary deflation when he saw what had snagged her attention.

Eric. Why did his handsome, rich, and well-meaning little brother always intrude at the wrong time? Social situations, business, it didn’t matter. Didn’t he know how annoying perfection could be?

“Is something wrong, Miss Van Zandt?” Now, what the hell was her first name? Faces stayed in his brain on permanent record, but he had an appalling memory when it came to names.

“Huh? Oh, sorry.” The woman returned her attention to Nick. “I believe that’s Eric Statler, near the podium,” she said casually.

“Yeah. That’s Eric, all right.”

“You know him?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah.”

“Really?” She continued to study Eric with undisguised hunger. “Is he as smart and hardworking as everyone says?”

“He’s an okay guy,” Nick was forced to admit. It would be so much easier if he could hate Eric, but he couldn’t. His younger, half brother was pretty cool.

The woman continued to wax enthusiastic. “I was just doing some reading about Eric Statler. This one article said he baled his black-sheep brother’s airline out of bankruptcy, took it over, then fired him. Or the brother quit, no one’s sure.”

“The brother quit,” Nick confirmed, gritting his teeth. That wretched magazine story, back to haunt him again. Eric had bought up a majority share in Lone Star Air so that his half brother would be free to fund a new start-up. That was what Nick did best. Lone Star wasn’t, and never had been, near bankruptcy, but the press loved to twist things around, give commonplace events more drama.

“Oh, so then you must know the real story,” she said. “Not that I’m into gossip, but I had a feeling the magazine account wasn’t accurate. Care to enlighten me?”

“Why are you interested?” Nick wanted to know.

“Because I want to discuss business with him. And I’d like to have the facts before I do.”

Nick shook his head. He’d already spent far too much of his life apologizing for his position within the Statler family. He’d vowed not to do it again. He was over that, on to bigger and better things.

“The matter’s confidential,” he said.

“Hmm. Well, in that case, is there any chance you could introduce me to him?”

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea, Nick conceded. This woman was gorgeous, but in the last thirty seconds he’d decided she wasn’t his type. Too brassy, too forward. And she was spreading lies about him, to boot, although not intentionally.

“I might be able to arrange an introduction.” Yeah, he’d like to watch his brother handle this hot potato. Women came at Eric by the dozens, with strategies both subtle and obvious. He was curious to see what this one would try.

He held out his arm. “Come with me, Ms. Van Zandt. I’ll take you to meet my brother.”

“Who?”

“My brother. Eric Statler. You told me your name, but I neglected to tell you mine. It’s Nick Raines.”

He enjoyed the look of discomfiture on the pretty blonde’s face. He could read her thoughts. She was torn. Should she apologize for that “black-sheep” business? Or should she recover her dignity as best she could and make her escape?

LIZ WISHED she could sink right into the carpet. She’d stumbled into a golden opportunity—meeting Eric Statler’s half brother—and she’d bungled it. Foot-in-mouth disease was one of her shortcomings. She was bubbly, talkative, not at all shy like Bridget, and she was tops on the invitation list to just about any party, but she had a distinct problem when it came to tact. Sometimes words just came out of her mouth, bypassing her brain entirely.

“I apologize for any hurtful remarks,” she finally said when she’d recovered her composure. “I hadn’t realized who you were, of course, or I might have been more discreet.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been insulted by worse than you,” Nick Raines said easily. “Invitation’s still good. Want to meet Eric?”

Liz swallowed her embarrassment. “Sure, I’d like that.” She took Nick’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her through the crowd. He was a nice-looking man, she conceded, but not her type at all. He had a solemnity to his personality, a shadow in his eyes, that wouldn’t mix well with her fun-loving attitude. She could see him more easily dating someone like Bridget, who could spend hours just reading poetry or studying the play of light and shadow in a tree.

Maybe, once she made friends with Eric, she would get Nick and Bridget together. But right now, she had to focus on her own impending moment of truth. Nick was leading her unerringly toward her target, Oaksboro’s golden boy himself.

Even from several feet away she could feel his charisma. He was undeniably handsome, yes, with his blond, suntanned, clean-cut good looks. Piercing blue eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders, commanding height—clearly no one could argue his physical appeal. But it was more than that. He carried himself with a certain arrogance, yet his smile was friendly, and she could tell that he listened attentively whenever anyone spoke to him.

Her heart beat double time. What was she going to say to him? She’d better have one hell of an opening line or she wouldn’t stand a chance, not when so many of his admirers were attractive female types.

Eric looked up as Nick and Liz approached. “There you are,” he said to Nick. “Mother’s been looking for you.”

“Terrific.” Nick pulled Eric aside to where they could converse semiprivately. “Eric, I’d like you to meet Ms. Van Zandt.”

Liz held out her hand, still trying to come up with that perfect bon mot that would catch and hold this magnificent man’s attention. “It’s Liz,” she said smoothly. And then the words just poured out of her mouth. “My sister is very grateful to you.”

“And why is that?” Eric asked pleasantly, shaking her hand. His hand was strong, his grip firm. He listened to her with that same undivided attention she’d seen him devote to others, and it unnerved her.

“Well, she’s pregnant, and in a way you’re responsible!”

Eric’s smile froze. “Ms. Van Zandt, I don’t take accusations of that nature lightly—”

“Oh, wait, that came out all wrong—”

“One more word, and you’ll be talking to my lawyers, is that clear?”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded—”

“This conversation is over. I don’t wish to make a scene at a charity event, but I trust I won’t lay eyes on you again this evening.” He turned and strode away.

Liz turned toward Nick, so she could at least explain to him what she’d meant, but the crowd had claimed him, also.

“Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again,” Liz murmured. She skulked away, wondering how she was going to explain her utter, humiliating failure to Bridget.

“TEHRE YOU ARE,” Mrs. Hampton said, limping arthritically toward Bridget, who was doing her best imitation of wallpaper. Again. She just wasn’t any good at parties. “My, such a crowd here. You are having a good time, aren’t you?”

“Well, not as good as Liz,” Bridget couldn’t resist remarking. Her sister really knew how to work a party. She mingled, she chitchatted, she glowed.

“Oh, you know how Liz is,” Mrs. Hampton said, patting Bridget’s hand as she pulled her along. “Come, now, there’s someone else I want you to meet. This one is in the art supply business. Now, promise me you won’t talk shop all night.”

“Promise,” Bridget said. Lord, could this get any worse? She wished brazen Liz would just walk right up to Eric Statler and introduce herself. Then Bridget could consider the night a success and go home.

“Here we are. Bridget Van Zandt, meet Fred Santoro.”

“How do you do, Mr.—”

The pudgy, fiftyish man shook her hand while his gaze focused firmly on her cleavage. “Nice to meet you, honey. Say, that’s some dress. Really displays the goods to perfection, know what I mean?”

Yikes! She was afraid she did. She looked helplessly for Mrs. Hampton, who had immediately disappeared.

“You married, little lady?”

Oh, barfola. Little lady? “Um, well—”

He upped the wattage of his leer. “Ah, I see. No ring. You must be one of these liberated gals, don’t want to be tied down with a kitchen and kids. Yeah, I understand.” He winked, then took her arm and tried to lead her away. At such close proximity, she could smell overindulgence on his breath. “Do you like Cadillacs?”

Bridget dug in her heels. “Let me go.”

“What’s the matter, honey?” he asked, genuinely befuddled. Maybe this approach usually worked for him, but she couldn’t imagine how.

“Listen, Mr. Santoro, I’m not your honey and I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He looked skeptical.

Feeling panicked, she resorted to a lie. “There’s my husband, that’s him, right over there.” She pointed to a complete stranger who stood out from the crowd, and not just because of his clothing. He was tall. And gorgeous. And a bit out of place in this fancy gilt ballroom with his outdoorsy good looks. She could picture him riding a horse or chopping wood or paddling a kayak.

He watched her, amused for some reason.

Her mouth went dry. My, my, why hadn’t Mrs. Hampton introduced her to him?

Mr. Santoro immediately released her. “Oh, um, sorry, there, now, didn’t mean to step on any toes.” He literally backed away, ducking his head, holding his hands out as if beseeching forgiveness before disappearing behind an ice sculpture.

“I see you’ve made another conquest.”

Bridget nearly jumped out of her high heels. The man—the fictitious husband—had materialized at her side, and he was looking at her through intriguing gray eyes with a mixture of amusement and disapproval. Surely he hadn’t been standing close enough a few moments ago to hear her fib to Mr. Santoro.

“I, um, apologize for pointing at you,” she said, stumbling on every word. “But that man was…I told him you were my, er, husband just to get rid of him. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

He shrugged. “As long as you don’t hold me to it.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Well, of course not.”

“Did you have a nice chat with my brother? Sorry I didn’t stick around after the introductions.”

“Who?” Bridget asked, even more confused. And then it hit her. This man, this gorgeous man with the steely eyes and the rebellious wardrobe, thought she was Liz. Her social-butterfly sister must have already gotten to him. And, Bridget thought, judging from the way he’d been sparring with her, Liz had probably done something to provoke him.

She was about to explain about her twin when he asked, “Exactly how many glasses of champagne have you had?”

She drew herself up. “None. I can’t drink alcohol because I’m…well, I’m pregnant.” There, she’d admitted it. She wasn’t planning to keep it a secret, after all, and in another three months or so she wouldn’t be able to, anyway.

His teasing smile fell away. “Congratulations. I guess that means I’ll have to stop flirting with you. If I don’t want your husband to deck me, that is.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said as matter-of-factly as she dared. “I’m not married.”

“Well, the baby’s father, then,” he said, frowning.

“I wouldn’t even know who that is. You see, I was art—”

“No need for explanations.” The look he gave her was suddenly cold, uncompromising. And definitely disapproving.

“But it’s not what you think. You see—”

He actually backed away from her. “Really. Enough said.”

“Will you let me finish?”

He waited for her to go on, but his expression was so implacable she suddenly couldn’t imagine what possessed her to confide anything to him.

“Oh, never mind,” she finally said in a much cooler tone. “I guess this isn’t the time or place to defend a lifestyle choice. But I might caution you not to make snap judgments. ‘Enough said’ is a convenient way of cutting off what you think you don’t want to hear.” She turned away, tears burning at the back of her eyes.

“Wait. You never told me what you thought of my brother.”

Bridget, longing to flee this train wreck of a conversation, paused. A sneaking suspicion occurred to her.

“Your brother…?”

“Eric,” he supplied, a tad impatiently.

Bridget just nodded. If she tried to explain now about Liz, things would only get more confusing. “Nice guy,” she said, then made good her escape.

NICE GUY?

Nick watched her retreat with mixed feeling. Earlier he’d decided she wasn’t his type, only to reconsider a few moments ago. Just now she’d seemed funny and vulnerable and altogether his type, and he’d been questioning his sanity in dismissing her before. He’d been crazy to introduce her to Eric! Then she’d blithely announced she was pregnant, sans husband, and he’d had to revise his opinion yet again.

Her announcement had truly surprised him. Didn’t anybody get married and have families in a normal way these days? He didn’t like to think of himself as a judgmental kind of person, but he supposed he was. Not about everything. But the irresponsible conception of children hit a nerve. His unmarried mother hadn’t meant to get pregnant with him, but she had. And he’d endured the consequences, both before and after her marriage to his stepfather, Eric Statler, Jr.

If Ms. Van Zandt—he still couldn’t remember her first name—was so careless about bringing another life into the world, that was her choice. Still, part of him wished he hadn’t alienated her. Even now he felt a tremendous urge to scour the ballroom until he found her again and apologize—for what, he didn’t know.

SO, BRIDGET THOUGHT when she was safely away from the self-superior lout, she’d been talking to Eric Statler’s brother and hadn’t even realized it. Apparently Liz hadn’t been as slow-witted. She’d finagled an introduction to Eric.

Good for her! Mission accomplished. Now all Bridget wanted was to get out of this stuffy ballroom and kick off her heels. First, however, she had to locate Liz and find out how the meeting went.

She looked all over but couldn’t find her twin. How was it that a woman as flamboyant and noticeable as Liz could manage to become invisible?

She checked the ladies’ room. No Liz. Nor could she be found at the bar, or at the long tables where items for the upcoming auction were displayed.

She trolled the ballroom one more time and suddenly found herself only a few feet from Eric Statler himself. She’d never been this close to him, and she found herself stopping and staring. He was quite a magnificent specimen of man, but not nearly as intriguing as his brother. Bridget found herself comparing the two men. Eric was handsome, but his face wasn’t as mature looking as Nicholas’s. There was more of a boyish quality there, though his eyes had a certain determined set to them. Yes, that combination would appeal to Liz.

The crowd shifted, and Bridget stood mere inches away from the millionaire philanthropist.

Suddenly Eric turned. He made eye contact with Bridget. Immediately his smile froze, his face reddened, and he darn near snarled.

“I thought I told you not to come near me again.”