The Baby Bet: The Royal MacAllister Part 9

Just concentrate on tonight, Brent ordered himself.

The restaurant was one of Trip's favorites and was where her parents had taken their triplet daughters to celebrate their sixteenth birthday.

"Are you a mind reader?" Trip said when they were seated at a small table. "I adore this restaurant. It's so elegant and the food is delicious."

"No, I didn't read your mind," Brent said, then c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at her, "but it's an interesting idea. There are times I do believe that would come in very handy in regard to you. But the truth of the matter is, I called your mother and asked her where she thought I should take you tonight. She told me to bring you here."

Trip's eyes widened. "You went to all that bother? Well, my goodness, I feel very special."

Brent looked directly at her, his expression now serious. "You are special, Alice, more than I think you even realize. These two weeks with you have been... I'll be counting the days until you arrive on the island and I can see you again, hold you again.... Do you suppose I should change the subject?"

"It would be a good idea," Trip said, nodding. "Oh, here we go. There's a waiter zooming this way. We'd better decide what we want to eat."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Brent," Trip said, leaning slightly toward him, "we're going to have a lovely time this evening. That will start with us enjoying a scrumptious meal. Pick something from the menu."

"What are you going to have?"

Trip sighed. "I'm not certain I can swallow one bite." She paused and flipped open the menu as the waiter stopped at the table. "Cancel that. I'm starving. I'm going to eat every bite of-" she swept her gaze over the selections "-shrimp scampi."

The waiter took both of their orders, including the request for a bottle of Renault-Bardow wine, then hurried away. Across the room a man slid onto the bench in front of a piano, then began to play and sing along.

"Isn't that music nice?" Trip said. "They didn't have that before, but it has been years since I've been here. He has an excellent voice, and he's singing so you can hear him but it doesn't intrude on conversation."

"Mmm," Brent said, poking a fork in his salad. "They didn't make flowers out of the radishes here like they did at that other restaurant. On the night we met." He lifted his head slowly to look directly at Alice. "The night that changed my life as I've known it to be for so many years. A night I will never, ever forget."

"I'll never forget that night, either, Brent," Trip said. "Nor any of the nights, days, hours or minutes that followed. I-"

"Ladies and gentlemen," the piano player said, "please excuse the interruption, but I have had a request for a special song to be sung to a special lady." He paused. "Alice in Wonderland, this is for you."

"What?" Trip said, stiffening in her chair.

"Just listen," Brent said.

Tears misted Trip's eyes as she heard the first words of the song "Look at Us" being sung...just for her.

"Our song," Brent said.

"Oh, dear G.o.d," Trip said, as she dashed two tears from her cheeks. "I'm going to fall apart. Thank you, Brent, for... No, I just want to listen to...our song."

With the music came the magic.

All gloomy thoughts were whisked into oblivion and replaced with a rosy mist that seemed to swirl around Alice and Brent. They weren't in a bustling restaurant, they were in a land of wonder that had been created just for them. The song ended but they still heard the lovely, romantic words and the lilting melody that floated over and through them with a gentle, warming touch.

They finished their meal but couldn't have said what they ate, nor did the Renault-Bardow wine prompt them to remark on its excellence. Nothing had meaning or importance beyond the one they gazed at, drank in the sight of, cheris.h.i.+ng and savoring every detail, look, smile, brus.h.i.+ng of hands that lingered.

Alice in Wonderland borrowed the magical flying carpet from Aladdin and transported them back to her loft, where clothes were whisked away by the wave of Cinderella's fairy G.o.dmother's wand. They tumbled onto the bed that the Three Bears had declared to be just right, then Alice reached for Brent and he gathered her into his embrace.

Their lovemaking was slow and so very sweet, familiar, yet new. The rosy mist took on a deeper hue as their desire consumed them.

Their joining carried them up and away to the glorious place that was meant only for them, flinging them into the land of ecstasy at the very same time.

And through it all...it was magic.

They slept, only to waken again as Snow White and Sleeping Beauty had done from the kiss of the prince. Through the hours of night they tucked beautiful memories away in private chambers of hearts filled with the essence of the other.

The light of dawn tiptoed into the room with a hush and nudged them awake to face the truths of reality.

"I have to go," Brent said, his lips resting lightly on Alice's forehead.

"I know," Trip whispered.

"Stay right where you are. I want to remember you just like this, take this memory of you with me."

"Yes, all right, but I should say goodbye to your family."

"No. They wouldn't expect you to get up this early to see us off," Brent said, then paused. "Alice, I know I said I wouldn't bring this up again, but I need to hear you say it. Say you'll think about what this might be that is happening between us. Promise me. Please."

"I promise." She splayed her hand on Brent's chest so she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. "I promise, Brent."

"Good. That's good. Thank you."

She sighed. "I...I believe it would be best if we didn't speak on the phone, or write letters, during this month we'll be apart. We need to focus inward, look for the answers to the questions... G.o.d, a whole month until I see you again, then when we're on your island everyone will be there, and we'll be so busy with the festivities and..."

"We'll find a way to be alone," he said. "We will. I have to go. I don't want to go. That settles it. I refuse to go."

Trip laughed softly. "You sound like a spoiled brat, Mr. Bardow."

"Oh, yeah, Ms. MacAllister?" he said, chuckling. "If I flop on the floor and kick my feet will I get to stay?"

"Tantrums are not rewarded by the tantrumee getting what he's after."

"Well, d.a.m.n." Brent tightened his hold on Alice, as though he intended to never again let her go. "Ah, man, this is awful. Just terrible. The b.u.mmer of the century. Grim, really grim. And if I don't get out of here I'm going to miss that plane and be murdered by people who will forget that they love me."

He eased back so he could look directly into Alice's eyes, then groaned aloud when he saw tears s.h.i.+mmering in their beautiful brown depths.

"Oh, don't cry," he said. "You'll rip me to shreds. Cry later, or something. I...h.e.l.l."

Brent captured Alice's lips with a searing kiss that held an edge of roughness and desperation, of emotional need so intense, it stole the very breath from their bodies.

With all the willpower he possessed, Brent broke the kiss and left the bed. He dragged on his clothes, extended a trembling hand toward Alice, then s.n.a.t.c.hed it back and strode across the room and out the door, closing it behind him with a click that seemed to echo like a jarring explosion through the loft.

"Goodbye, Brent," Trip whispered, then gathered his pillow to her, closed her eyes and buried her face in it, savoring his aroma and the warmth from where his head had lain.

And then she cried because she already missed him, was already lonely, was already aching for the sight of him. She already missed his touch, his smile, the sound of his laughter and that throaty chuckle of his that never failed to cause s.h.i.+vers of desire to slither down her spine.

Trip cried because now she was left with only her own thoughts and emotions that were so confusing and so very frightening.

She cried until there were no more tears left to shed, then she slept, her head nestled on Brent's pillow, which was now damp from her tears.

Chapter Eight.

By the end of the following week, Trip was so tired she knew she could not continue on with the plan of working at the cafe from early morning to midafternoon, then painting during the remainder of the day and into the evening.

Adding to the exhausting schedule was the fact that she wasn't sleeping well. She only dozed, then woke with a start and reached for Brent, who was never there.

Memories of their wondrous time together would tumble through her mind, causing her to stare up into the darkness, missing Brent.

Each time she attempted to get in touch with herself, to think about what might be happening between them as she'd promised him she'd do, she skittered emotionally away, telling herself she didn't yet have the courage to find the answers to those questions.

Her mind often played a torturous game of tug-of-war that was also depleting.

One minute she believed that she was not capable of giving her heart to a man for all time.

Then another argument would push its way forward: since she was definitely making progress in her quest to be comfortable with her family, wasn't it also possible that she might be capable of falling truly and deeply in love?

Was she in love with Brent Bardow?

No, no, she couldn't, wouldn't, examine her inner feelings too closely. Not now. Not yet. It was too frightening. Just too terrifying.

She'd drift off into a restless slumber, only to wake and repeat the turmoil, so acutely aware through it all of how much she missed Brent, and of how very, very lonely she was.

When she fell asleep in a chair in the kitchen of the cafe during her break a week after Brent had left, Trip knew she had to quit the waitressing job. She was running the risk of becoming physically ill from exhaustion and would be unable to complete the required number of paintings for the gallery showing.

Trip told Poppy she was sorry she couldn't give him two weeks' notice but she wouldn't be back the next day. She mentally crossed her fingers that none of her family would drop by the cafe for the pie she'd recommended and discover that she no longer worked there.

That night in her loft Trip stared, as she did every night, at the empty pewter frame hanging on the wall. She shook her head and started to walk away, then stopped and looked at the frame again over her shoulder.

She could, she supposed, sketch a basic outline of her head, hair, the shape of her face. That might ease her guilty conscience as far as not even attempting to paint the portrait as her grandfather had instructed her to do. She loved her grandpa so much, hated the idea that she might fall short in his eyes by not fulfilling his request.

Yes, this was a good idea, Trip thought, settling on the stool in front of the easel.

She tacked in place a sheet of special paper she used when she decided to draw a particular picture first, instead of reaching for a brush right from the beginning as she did most often. She definitely did not have the courage to begin the self-portrait without the safety net of sketching it first.

An hour later Trip had completed the basics of the portrait, not even considering adding her features. She nodded in approval.

She could, she decided, do this much in oils now, too, and would begin tomorrow night. The rest of this evening had to be spent on a seascape she was doing for the showing. Next would be the craggy, weather-beaten face of an old fisherman she'd seen in a small town up the coast and whose image was vividly alive in her mind.

And so was Brent.

Trip removed the paper from the easel, then put the canvas she was working on in place. She stared at the picture but saw only Brent in her mental vision.

What was he doing now, right now? she wondered. Was he thinking about her? Yes. Yes, he was, she just somehow knew that at that exact moment, Brent Bardow's mind and, well, maybe even his heart, was focused on her. She could feel his presence as though he was right there next to her about to reach out and draw her into his arms, then lower his head and kiss her and...

Trip blinked, then drew a shuddering breath as heat suffused her, swirling low and hot within her and causing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to ache for the soothing touch of Brent's strong but gentle hands.

"I miss you, Brent," she whispered.

At that same moment, the first streaks of a gold and crimson sunrise were inching from the horizon as Brent stood on a hill above the vast vineyards of Wils.h.i.+re, his hands shoved into the back pockets of a faded pair of jeans.

"I miss you, Alice," he said aloud, staring at the sky as the glorious colors grew bigger, pus.h.i.+ng away the darkness of night.

He jerked and snapped his head to the side, having felt for a second that Alice had actually tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, to let him know that she was there next to him, waiting for him to take her into his arms and kiss her, hold and touch her.

A chill swept through him as he faced the stark reality of his aloneness, knew that Alice was far, far away, the distance perhaps measured not just in miles, but in Alice's emotions as well.

What was she thinking? Brent wondered. About them. About what was transpiring between them, what it all meant. Had she already reached the conclusion that what they had shared had been special, but was now over? Was she giving way to her ghosts and hiding behind the walls she'd built around herself, her heart? No, please, no.

Brent turned and swept his gaze over the lush land behind him.

Here, he thought, nodding. This was the place. This was where he wanted to build the house that would become a home filled with love and laughter, children, the little miracles created with the woman who had stolen his heart for all time.

For him the questions were answered.

He was deeply and irrevocably in love.

With Alice.

And he was filled with the greatest joy and the greatest fear he had ever known.

Because he didn't know if Alice MacAllister was in love with him.

Brent sighed and dragged both hands down his face.

Man, he was tired, he thought. The day had just begun and he was weary to the bone starting out. He'd hardly slept since he'd returned to the island, had spent his nights tossing and turning, and missing Alice. But here, in the place where he belonged, his world, his little slice of heaven, he'd discovered the truth and the incredible depth of his love for his Alice.

G.o.d, how he missed her. Ached for her. Wanted, needed, to feel her nestled close to his body, hear her laughter, see her smile, inhale her aroma of fresh air and flowers.

Alice. His soul mate. The woman he'd come to believe he'd never find but had found, and had envisioned as his wife, the mother of his children, his partner in life until death parted them.

Three weeks, he thought as he began to walk down the rise. There were three h.e.l.lish weeks left before he would see Alice again, before he could declare his love to her, then hope and pray that she loved him in kind. Three agonizing weeks.

"I'm not going to survive this," Brent muttered. "Alice will arrive on the island and find a blithering idiot. Me. I will have slipped over the edge of my sanity and..."

d.a.m.n it, he fumed. Why had he agreed that it would be best for Alice and him to not have any contact during the month they would be apart so they could think clearly and... Wait a minute.

He hadn't agreed to that condition of no contact between him and Alice. He had memorized every detail of his last night with Alice, remembered when she'd made that statement and also recalled that he hadn't commented on it, one way or another. He couldn't be held to something that he hadn't really agreed to.

Brent stopped so suddenly that he staggered, then smacked into a tree, b.u.mping his head and swearing loudly as he rubbed the throbbing spot.

"Cripes, I'm losing it," Brent said, shaking his head. "My poor parents. Their only kid is not the brightest crayon in the box. I am, actually, edging very close to being certifiably insane."