JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART

presents the powerful romance of a Plain Jane

single mom burdened by a fourteen-year-old secret

and the devastatingly handsome M.D. who makes

her want to believe all things are possible—

even second chances at love!

Praise for Joan Elliott Pickart

“Joan Elliott Pickart delivers an old-fashioned romance complete with appealing characters and…passion.”

—Romantic Times

“Joan Elliott Pickart leaves you breathless with anticipation.”

—Rendezvous

“[Joan Elliott Pickart] makes love magical, special, real, natural and oh, so right!”

—Rendezvous

“Joan Elliott Pickart weaves a sensitive love story….”

—Romantic Times

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Silhouette Desire! This month we’ve created a brand-new lineup of passionate, powerful and provocative love stories just for you.

Begin your reading enjoyment with Ride the Thunder by Lindsay McKenna, the September MAN OF THE MONTH and the second book in this beloved author’s cross-line series, MORGAN’S MERCENARIES: ULTIMATE RESCUE. An amnesiac husband recovers his memory and returns to his wife and child in The Secret Baby Bond by Cindy Gerard, the ninth title in our compelling DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS continuity series.

Watch a feisty beauty fall for a wealthy lawman in The Sheriff & the Amnesiac by Ryanne Corey. Then meet the next generation of MacAllisters in Plain Jane MacAllister by Joan Elliott Pickart, the newest title in THE BABY BET: MACALLISTER’S GIFTS.

A night of passion leads to a marriage of convenience between a gutsy heiress and a macho rodeo cowboy in Expecting Brand’s Baby, by debut Desire author Emilie Rose. And in Katherine Garbera’s new title, The Tycoon’s Lady falls off the stage into his arms at a bachelorette auction, as part of our popular BRIDAL BID theme promotion.

Savor all six of these sensational new romances from Silhouette Desire today.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Plain Jane MacAllister
Joan Elliott Pickart

MILLS & BOON

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JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART

is the author of over eighty-five novels. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys reading, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square with her young daughter, Autumn. Joan also has three all-grown-up daughters and three fantastic grandchildren. Joan and Autumn live in a charming small town in the high pine country of Arizona.

For my grandsons,

Jeremiah, Frankie and Wolf,

The next generation

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Prologue

Home, Mark Maxwell thought as he set his heavy suitcase down. He was finally back in Boston after living and working in Paris for what had proven to be a very long year.

The research project he’d been invited to take part in had been fascinating and challenging, and it had certainly been an honor to participate. The problem with his stay had been that the preconceived vision most Americans had about the city had turned out to be absolutely true. Everywhere he’d gone, it seemed, he had been surrounded by couples who were deeply in love.

Maybe the same could be said of Boston, but he’d sure never noticed it if it was. He’d gone to Paris with a mind-set which no doubt made him more aware of the love-in-bloom, or some such thing. To his own self-disgust, he’d also been thrown back in time to when he, too, had been in love, had lost his heart and youthful innocence to a sweet smile and sparkling brown eyes.

They had made plans for a future together, a forever, had talked for hours about the home they would share, the children they would create, the happiness that would be theirs until death parted them.

But none of it had been real…not to her.

She’d smashed his heart to smithereens, leaving him stunned, bitter and determined never to love again.

He’d been convinced that he’d dealt with those painful ghosts, had long since forgotten her and what she had done to him. But while in Paris in the crush of the clinging couples, the pairs, the twosomes, the old memories had risen to the fore, taunting him, making him face the realization that he really had neither forgiven nor forgotten her.

He strode across the living room toward the kitchen. While he’d been gone, he’d rented his apartment to his buddy Eric, a recently divorced doctor at the hospital, and Eric had told Mark on the phone the other night that he’d have some food in the refrigerator when Mark returned. He’d also put the magazines and junk mail that had come in Mark’s absence in a box in the corner of the kitchen.

As Mark scrambled four eggs in a frying pan, adding shredded cheese and chunks of ham, he inhaled the delicious aroma, then frowned as he scooped the mound of eggs onto a plate and carried it to the table at the end of the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of milk, then settled onto a chair and took a bite of the hot, very-needed food.

Yep, he thought, after a nourishing meal and hours of sleep, he’d be the same ol’ Dr. Mark Maxwell who’d left Boston a year ago.

But he was still frowning as he stared into space as he chewed, then swallowed.

The same ol’ Dr. Mark Maxwell, his mind echoed.

Dr. Mark Maxwell, who had avoided becoming involved in any kind of serious relationship with a woman for the past fourteen years.

Dr. Mark Maxwell, who had buried himself in his work, who was the whiz kid of medical research at only thirty-two-years-old.

Dr. Mark Maxwell, who was just as lonely here in Boston as he’d been in Paris, but who hadn’t admitted that to himself until right this second.

“Damn it,” he said aloud, then shoveled in another forkful of eggs. He was so thoroughly exhausted that he was emotionally and mentally vulnerable. He didn’t seem to possess the ability to recognize that he had had no time to nurture a partnership with a woman because he’d been centered on his career.

His hopes and dreams had become a reality beyond his wildest imagination. But emotionally? He was forced to accept what he could no longer deny. He was still a kid, eighteen years old, wounded and raw, disillusioned, bitter and mad as hell.

“Well, isn’t this just great?” Mark said, shaking his head in disgust. “So? Now what, Maxwell? How do you plan to free yourself of her ghost?”

He didn’t have a clue. But, by damn, he’d figure it out once he’d had some rejuvenating sleep, because he had no intention of spending the rest of his life alone and lonely because of her. No way.

“I’ll get back to myself on this later,” he said, getting to his feet. “Damn straight, I will. But for now I’m not thinking about it anymore because I’m definitely brain-dead.”

He went to the box in the corner, snatched up the magazine lying on the top of the pile and looked at the cover.

“Across the USA,” he read, then sat down again and flipped it open.

Taking the last bite of eggs, Mark turned a page in the magazine and stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing as he stared at the story headline.

“Ventura, California, Cousins Marry Royal Cousins in Romantic Fairy-Tale Fashion,” he read aloud.

His heart thundered as he looked at a color picture of a multitude of people whom the caption identified as being the two families…the royal one from the Island of Wilshire and the one from Ventura.

And there she was.

She was standing in the row behind the two recently married couples.

It was her.

Mark got to his feet so quickly, the chair fell to the floor with a crash he didn’t even hear, his gaze riveted on the photograph.

This was creepy, really weird, he thought frantically. He was fighting an emotional battle over her and now her picture was staring him in the face?

Get a grip, he told himself, setting the fallen chair back into place and sinking onto it. Maybe this wasn’t weird. Maybe this was a…yeah…a sign, a directive, telling him that the only way to be truly free of her was to see her one last time, making it possible finally to close the door on what had happened so very long ago. Then he’d be able to move forward, find his soul mate, fill his life with love and laughter, hearth, home and babies, and erase the chill of loneliness consuming him.

He’d sleep on this concept, he thought. But if it still had this much merit when he was well rested, he was going back to Ventura, by damn. He would fly to the opposite end of the States and get his heart back because somehow, somehow, she’d managed to keep it.

Mark picked up the magazine and stared at her picture, seeing the smile he knew so well, the blond hair and big, brown eyes, those lips…oh, those lips that tasted like sweet nectar.

She was so damn beautiful, he thought. She was a mature woman now, not a child of seventeen. She’d gained weight over the years, but it suited her and…she was really, really beautiful and…

He smacked the magazine back onto the table and pointed a finger at her smiling image.

“You are going to have a visitor,” he said, a rough edge to his voice. “It’s payback time, Emily MacAllister.”

One

“Grandma,” Emily MacAllister called as she crossed the sunshine-filled kitchen. “I’m here with the flowers as promised, and they’re gorgeous. You’re going to love them. You can sit on the patio and supervise while I stick them in the ground. Grandma?”

“I’m in the living room, dear,” Margaret MacAllister answered.

Emily went through the formal dining room and on to enter the living room, a smile of greeting for her beloved grandmother firmly in place.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks, feeling the color drain from her face and her breath catch as her heart thundered.

In that second, that tiny tick of time, as she stared wide-eyed at the tall man who had risen to his feet when she appeared, her life as she knew it ceased to exist.

She wasn’t thirty-one-years old, she was eighteen.

She wasn’t a pudgy woman with fat cheeks and a hint of a double chin, she was a slender teenager with a figure to be envied.

She wasn’t wearing clothes that looked as though she’d borrowed them from a bag lady, she was dressed in the latest designer jeans with a well-known brand name stitched across the pocket on her trim, tight bottom.

A wave of dizziness swept through Emily, and she gripped the top of an easy chair with one hand as the room spun around her.

This, she thought frantically, was not happening. It was a nightmare, and she was about to wake up and start her day in a normal manner.

Mark Maxwell was not, not, not, standing on the other side of that room, looking at her with no readable expression on his face. No.

“Isn’t this a lovely surprise, Emily?” Margaret said pleasantly. “Mark is here to visit us after all these years.”

No…he…isn’t, Emily thought. Oh, why didn’t the alarm go off and wake her up? No, no, no, Mark Maxwell is not here.

“Hello, Emily,” Mark said quietly.

Yes, he is, she thought, pressing one hand to her forehead. But this wasn’t skinny, gangly, endearingly geeky, Mark Maxwell. Nope, not this one. This Mark was at least six feet tall, had drop-dead-gorgeous rough-hewn features, broad shoulders and was wearing perfectly tailored dark slacks.

Where was the adorable plastic pocket protector jammed full of pens he always wore in his shirt pocket? Where was the cowlick in his light-brown hair that formed a cute little curlicue on the crown of his head? Where were the arms and legs and enormous feet, all of which were much too big for his still-developing body?

“Emily?” Margaret said. “Aren’t you going to say hello to Mark? I realize that you two parted on, shall we say, terms that were at best confusing to the rest of us but, my stars, that was years ago. Old news. History, as the young people say. And you’re not being very polite.”

“Oh.” Emily drew a much-needed breath, only then realizing she’d totally forgotten to breathe. “Sorry. Yes. Polite. Hello…Mark.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why on earth are you here?”

“Emily, for heaven’s sake,” Margaret said. “That was extremely rude.”

“That’s all right, Margaret. I’m sure that my arriving unannounced like this is a bit of a shock to Emily.”

Emily, Mark’s mind hummed. There she was. He could hardly believe he was here with only a matter of feet separating them.

There was that silky blond hair he used to sift his fingers through, now worn in gentle waves to just above her shoulders.

There were those classic MacAllister brown eyes that could sparkle with merriment, turn smoky with desire, shimmer with glistening tears when she was very happy or terribly sad.

She was dressed like a walking rummage sale, weighed a lot more than when she was a teenager, didn’t appear to have on a speck of makeup and one toe was actually poking through a hole in her about-to-fall-apart tennis shoes.

Oh, yes, there she was.

Emily.

And she was absolutely beautiful.

He wanted to cross the room, pull her into his arms, kiss her senseless, then…

Hold it, Maxwell, Mark thought. This was Emily MacAllister, who had somehow managed to keep a stranglehold on his heart and he was there in Ventura, by damn, to get it back.

“Mark just returned from a year in Paris, Emily,” Margaret said, “where he was part of a carefully selected team of medical researchers. His position in Boston was filled when he went to Paris but before he decides where to work next, perhaps even leaving Boston, he’s taking a much-deserved vacation, which included stopping in Ventura to say hello. Isn’t that nice?”

“Just too nice for words,” Emily mumbled, then inched around the chair and sank onto it as her trembling legs refused to hold her for another moment.

Mark sat back down on the sofa and propped one ankle on his other knee. Emily’s gaze was riveted on the taut muscles visible beneath his slacks as he completed the masculine motion. She blinked and redirected her attention to the fingernails of one of her hands as though they were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

“There are a couple of reasons that I stopped over in Ventura,” Mark said. “One of them is to extend an apology to you and Robert, Margaret, for not keeping in better contact with you. Sending a Christmas card once a year just doesn’t cut it.

“If you hadn’t taken me in, welcomed me into your home when my father was killed in that accident when I was a senior in high school, there’s no telling what grief I would have come to in the foster-care system. I owe you a great deal, and I feel as though I’ve been remiss in expressing my gratitude.”

“We were delighted to have you here as a part of our family, Mark,” Margaret said. “Even if we had had a crystal ball to tell us what would eventually transpire between you and…”

“Grandma,” Emily interrupted, “let’s not go traipsing down memory lane, shall we?” She looked at Mark. “You said you had a couple of reasons for being in Ventura?”

Mark nodded. Emily waited for him to continue speaking. One second, two, three…

“Is this a guessing game?” Emily finally said, frowning. “Do you intend to share this other…mission, with us?”

“All in good time,” Mark said, then paused. “Margaret told me that you have a very challenging career, Emily, and that you’ve recently moved your business out of your home and into an office downtown.

“You research the history of old homes and buildings, as I understand it. Fascinating. Margaret also said you do quite a bit of work for the restoration division of MacAllister Architects so they can restore old structures in such a manner they will be eligible for registration with the historical society. Not only that but your reputation for excellence is spreading up and down the coast.”

Emily glared at her grandmother. “Did you remember to tell him that I brush my teeth in the morning when I get up and again before I go to bed, Grandma?”

Margaret laughed. “Don’t be silly. Mark asked how you were, what you were doing, and I told him. A proud grandmother has the right to boast. It’s in our job description. We’d already moved on to the subject of the exciting events of Maggie and Alice’s weddings and their new lives on the Island of Wilshire.”

“Good topic,” Emily said, pointing one finger in the air. “There’s nothing like a couple of royal weddings to put a little zing in the daily grind.

“Jessica is married now, too, Mark. She’s a successful attorney, crazy in love with a police detective named Daniel, and became an instant mother to a darling baby girl named Tessa. We MacAllisters have spent a lot of time going to family weddings in…”

“But you’ve never married?” Mark interrupted quietly, looking directly at Emily.

“Me?” she said, splaying one hand on her chest. “Oh, heavens, no. When I was young and immature and such a starry-eyed child I thought I wanted that type of lifestyle but it suddenly dawned on me that it just wasn’t my cup of tea and…”

She flipped one hand in the air. “Well, you know all that because you and I were inseparable from the time you moved to Ventura until you zoomed off to fame and fortune in Boston and… Well, silly us, we were so sure we were deeply in… We were so young and dumb, weren’t we? Oh, my, yes. Well, that’s enough of that subject.”

It was enough of that subject, Mark thought, to slice and dice him, to hear spoken in Emily’s own words an echo of what she’d written in that letter she’d sent him in Boston so many years ago.

His first instinct then had been to get on a plane and fly back to Ventura, confront Emily, make her look him right in the eye and repeat what was in that letter. But he hadn’t had two nickels to rub together, let alone money for airfare. And besides, she’d made it perfectly clear in that damnable, hateful letter that it was over between them, so what was the point?

And now here he sat in the same room with her over a dozen years later hearing her say it all right to his face. And it still hurt. God, it hurt.

Well, wasn’t this an efficient use of time? During the very first meeting with Emily since arriving this morning in Ventura, he’d gotten the cold, hard facts he needed to begin to retrieve his heart from her uncaring stranglehold.

But…

There was something just off the mark about what she had just said. She made it sound as though they’d mutually agreed that their feelings for each other weren’t what they’d believed them to be, and that wasn’t even remotely close to the truth.

He had left for Boston with the heartfelt promise to send for her just as soon as he could figure out a way to provide a home for her while he attended college on the scholarship he’d received.

Emily had vowed to wait for him no matter how long it took, but about a month later the shattering letter had come and…

“Yo in the house,” a voice called in the distance, jerking Mark back to the present. “I’m here as ordered to dig in the dirt.”

Emily’s eyes widened and she jumped to her feet. “Can’t. No digging in dirt today. Sorry, Grandma, I’ve got a killer headache so we’ll do this tomorrow. I’ll just go tell… Bye, Mark, enjoy your vacation and…”

The front door of the house opened and an adolescent boy came into the living room.

“Oh, dear heaven,” Emily whispered, “no.”

“Hi,” the boy said. “Didn’t you hear me holler? I came right over on my bike when I got home from swimming and saw your note, Mom. Hi, Great-Grandma. We’re going to dig the dirt, plant the plants, do it to it.” His attention was caught by a tall man across the room getting slowly to his feet. “Oh, hi. Sorry. Didn’t know there was company.” He looked questioningly at his mother.

“Yes, well,” Emily said, having difficulty breathing. “I…Mark Maxwell, I’d like you to meet…” She drew a shaky breath. “…my…my…son. Trevor. Trevor MacAllister. Trevor, say hello to Dr. Mark Maxwell. He’s an old school…chum of mine.”

“Cool,” Trevor said, nodding. “Hi.”

“You’re Emily’s…son?” Mark said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears as he stared at Trevor.

“Yep, that’s me. Her genius-level offspring. Do note that I’m taller than she is already. Cool, huh?”

“Very cool,” Mark said. “How…how old are you, Trevor?”

No! Don’t answer that, Emily thought, taking a step toward Trevor.

“Yes, the time has come for this,” Margaret whispered to no one.

“I’m twelve, almost thirteen,” Trevor said. “Closer to thirteen, so just go with that. I’m about to become a bona fide teenager.”

Who looked exactly as he had at that age, Mark thought, his mind racing. Tall, lanky, feet like gunboats, arms and legs seeming too big for his yet-to-fully-develop body, brown eyes, light-brown hair and a cowlick creating a curl on the crown of his head.

This was Emily’s son? Mark’s mind screamed. Oh, he didn’t doubt for a second that she had given birth to him but, by damn, this boy standing a room away from him was more than just Emily’s son.

There was no doubt in his mind. None.

He, Mark Maxwell, was Trevor’s father!

Two

Just after ten o’clock that night, Emily stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of her bedroom door and sighed as she stared at her reflection.

Blimpo, she thought dismally. The jeans and over-blouse she was wearing made her look like a Pillsbury Dough Girl, complete with pudgy cheeks.

Her hair was freshly shampooed and her light makeup was just enough to accentuate her signature MacAllister brown eyes, but nothing could erase the fact that she weighed twenty pounds more than she should.

She’d been so proud of herself, of the thirty pounds she’d lost during the past months, but tonight the twenty extra she still carried around made her thighs, stomach and bottom look like heavy sandbags and her face like a moon waiting for a cow to jump over it.

“Blak,” Emily said, then left the bedroom, smacking off the light as she went.

She wandered down the hall into the small living room, aware that the sound of Trevor’s stereo had stilled and there was no light shining from beneath his door as she glanced along the hallway.

And now Mark would knock on the door, she thought, sinking onto the sofa. It didn’t require magical powers or a crystal ball to know that he would appear on her doorstep as soon as he was assured that Trevor…that his son…was asleep for the night.

She’d seen the look on Mark’s face when he’d stared at Trevor that afternoon and saw the carbon copy of himself when he was young and skinny.

A shiver coursed through Emily. She wrapped her hands around her elbows as she moved to the edge of the sofa cushion and bent over slightly.

She felt so strange, she thought. It was as though she was standing outside herself watching a drama unfold scene by scene, not knowing what would happen next.

The beginning of the story had starred a pretty, slender young girl and a not-quite-having-it-together teenage boy. They had been deeply in love and had created a child together, a baby boy who the hero knew nothing about.

Fast forward to the present for act two. The hero was now a successful and highly respected doctor in the world of medical research, and the heroine was a fat, unattractive woman, who was struggling to hang onto a modicum of self-esteem she had fought desperately to obtain.

As for the deeply in love part?

A portion of her heart would always belong to the Mark Maxwell who had left Ventura to follow his dreams.

The Mark who had been so serious, so determined to achieve his career goals so he could provide for her in the manner he was convinced she needed because she had come from a fairly wealthy family.

The Mark who wouldn’t believe her when she said she didn’t need a fancy home and oodles of things, that she just wanted to be his wife, for better, for worse, for richer or poorer.

Oh, yes, Emily mused, she’d never really stopped loving that Mark Maxwell, not completely.

But Dr. Mark Maxwell, who was now on stage in act two? She didn’t even know how to talk to men like him…so handsome, well-built, confident and successful, able to have any woman who caught his fancy. A man who wouldn’t give a chubby woman like her a second look.

Deeply in love? Oh, ha. The Mark who was going to knock on her door at any second probably hated her with an intensity that was equal to the passion with which he had once loved her.

A soft knock sounded at the door and Emily jerked, tightening her hold on her arms.

“Mark read the script,” she said, hearing the edge of hysteria in her voice. “Now comes the big scene, the ugly words and accusations and…”

The knock was repeated.

Emily closed her eyes for a moment, took a steadying breath, then got to her feet and went to the door, speaking as she opened it.

“Hello, Mark,” she said, stepping back. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I’m sure you have,” he said gruffly, coming into the house, then turning to look at her as she closed the door behind him. “I waited across the street until what I hoped was Trevor’s bedroom light went out, then sat in my car another twenty minutes so he would definitely be asleep. My son is asleep, isn’t he?”

Emily nodded, feeling suddenly exhausted, so weary it was difficult to cross the room and sink onto an easy chair. Mark sat on the end of the sofa and frowned as he stared at her. Several silent moments passed until the very air in the room was oppressive, making it difficult for Emily to catch her breath.

“One question,” Mark said finally. “Just one simple little question, Emily.” He paused. “Why? Why did you keep the fact that I have a son a secret from me? Why did you feel you had the right to do that?”

Because I loved you more than I loved myself, Emily thought wildly. Because I was so young and terrified when I discovered I was pregnant, needed you with me so much, but I was so afraid you’d give up your dreams to do the proper thing, marry me, help me with our baby, then come to hate me for destroying everything you’d worked so hard for and would never have because of me.

“I believed it was the best thing to do for everyone involved,” she said quietly. “What we had together was over and…”

“Oh, now wait a minute,” Mark said, raising one hand. “You pulled that routine at your grandmother’s this afternoon. You made it sound as though we had mutually agreed to break things off between us. That isn’t true and you know it, Emily.

“That’s what your family has thought all these years, right? That we broke up before I left? That’s what you told them so they wouldn’t come charging after me in MacAllister fashion and bring me back here to marry you. Right?”

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “My father was ready to drag you back kicking and screaming if he had to, but I told him…I told him that we didn’t…we didn’t love each other anymore, that what we had shared was over.”

“You lied to them,” Mark said, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”

“No, it wasn’t a lie, not entirely. I wrote you the letter, Mark. I told you that since you had gone, I’d realized that I was much too young to really know what love was. The distance between us had made me come out of the clouds and face the fact that…that it was best to just end things between us and…

“So, okay, I told my parents that you felt the same way but…you can’t possibly understand everything I was going through, Mark. You just can’t.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of you eventually hating me, Mark, can’t you see that? Emily’s mind rushed on. You were all I had and I loved you so much. I felt so special and important, beautiful and loved when I was with you. To have you hate me? No, I couldn’t stand the mere image of it in my mind.

I was never as self-assured as Jessica, didn’t have her confidence, her ability to win friends simply by being herself. And I didn’t have the courage to rebel, be a unique individual like Trip…Alice. I was just Emily, lost in the shuffle, always smiling, never making waves, just wanting to please everyone so I would be accepted and then? Oh, God, then there was you and you loved me. Me! I…

“If I hadn’t come to Ventura now,” Mark said, jolting Emily back to the moment at hand, “I’d have never known that I have a son, would I? Damn you, Emily MacAllister, you had no right to keep his existence a secret from me.”

“I…”

“Well, guess what, lady,” Mark went on, “the ball just came into my court. I fully intend to tell my son that I’m his father. I may have missed out on the first thirteen years of his life, but that is ending as of now.”

Emily’s eyes widened, and she felt the color drain from her face.

“Oh, Mark, please, you can’t do this,” she said, shaking her head. “You can’t just suddenly announce that you’re… It’s too much for a twelve-year-old boy to handle, to deal with and Mark, Trevor believes that I loved his father, that he was a wonderful young man and we were going to get married, but then…he…was…he was killed in an automobile accident.”

A strange buzzing noise roared in Mark’s ears as though he’d suddenly stepped into the midst of a swarm of bees. He shook his head slightly to quiet the sound, only to hear the wild beating of his heart.

He was dead? he thought incredulously. Emily had simply erased him from this world with a few carefully chosen words? Yep, Trevor, your dad was a super guy but, hey, he croaked in a car wreck. Tough luck, kid, you’re joining the rank and file of the multitudes being raised by a single mom because your daddy is dead, dead, dead.

My God, Mark thought, dragging both hands down his face, not only had Emily never felt about him as he had about her, she had been capable of wiping him off the face of the earth. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of her heart where he had never really been.

“Incredible,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Just when did you drop this bombshell on my son?”

Emily sighed. “Trevor has always had a great many father figures because of the size of the MacAllister family. It wasn’t until he started school that he questioned why he only had uncles instead of having a daddy, too.”

“So I died, so to speak,” Mark said tightly, “when Trevor was about five years old.”

“Yes. I informed everyone in the family that that was what I had told him and they agreed, although reluctantly, to go along with it. I also told them that I would never divulge your name to Trevor, would tell him just to envision a special angel in heaven whenever he wanted to think about his father. Trevor, I’m thankful to say, has never brought up the subject again.”

“How convenient for you.”

Mark ran one hand over the crown of his head. It was a gesture that was so familiar to Emily, so endearing, a telling sign that Mark was upset, stressed, and one that Trevor executed whenever he was emotionally disturbed about something.

“You never loved me at all, did you?” Mark said, narrowing his eyes. “Jessica was the homecoming queen, the cheerleader, the president of the student council and on and on. Trip was in her own little world of rebellion that set her apart from the ever-famous MacAllister triplets. You were caught in the middle, always trying to please everybody, attempting to…hell, I don’t know…find your place, or space, or something.

“Then here I was, arriving in our junior year in high school. Poor funny-looking Mark Maxwell, whose mother had split when he was a little boy and who was being raised by an alcoholic father who finally wiped himself out by driving into a tree when he was drunk as a skunk.

“You found a purpose, a cause. You’d take pity on the weird new kid, be his girlfriend, which would give you a status you’d never had before. Plus you were romantically involved with a guy, which was great because neither Jessica nor Trip were going steady with anyone. And, hey, wow, you would even lose your virginity before your sisters did. Score points for Emily.”

“Oh, Mark, don’t, please,” Emily said, feeling the sting of unshed tears burning her eyes. “I did love you—as much as any seventeen-year-old can understand love. Don’t make what we shared ugly, tacky, something to be ashamed of. It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” he said. “You sure were capable of turning that love off like a faucet after I left here. Then I was killed and became an angel five years later? Oh, yeah, that’s really strong evidence that you loved me. What a joke. You used me, Emily, to feel special, to make it possible to have something your sisters didn’t. You really outdid yourself, didn’t you? I mean, hey, you even had a baby out of wedlock. Neither Jessica nor Trip would top that one.”

“Don’t,” Emily whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Please.”

“The truth bites, huh? Well, there’s a lot more truth where that came from. Truth…I’m Trevor’s father. Truth…I’m alive and well. Truth…I intend to tell my son exactly who I am.”

Emily got to her feet and started across the room, stopping in the middle and pressing clutched hands against her stomach.

“Listen to me, please, Mark,” she said, her voice trembling. “I know you hate me, but don’t destroy my…our son because of your feelings toward me. I know I can’t keep you away from Trevor, but won’t you just be his friend, get to know him, let him get to know you? Then, when you’ve built a firm foundation with him, we’ll find a way to tell him that… Oh, God, how do I tell my child that I lied to him?”

“Write him a damn letter,” Mark said, getting to his feet.

“Mark, I’m begging you, please don’t shatter Trevor’s world. Don’t do that to him. Think about him, what it will do to him if you just blurt out the truth. Can’t you find it in your heart to take this slowly and…forget how you feel about me. Put Trevor first.” Two tears slid down Emily’s face. “He’s just a baby who needs to be treated gently, kindly, with love. Oh, Mark, please.”

Mark planted his hands on his hips and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, before looking at Emily again.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll do this your way…for now. For Trevor’s sake. Make certain you understand that, Emily. I’m doing this for my son. I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

Emily nodded jerkily.

“I’ll be here to have dinner with you and Trevor tomorrow night.”

“What?” she said.

“You heard me. You invited your old school chum, as you so quaintly put it, to share a meal with you and your son. There’s nothing unusual about that. Trevor and I can talk, chat while we eat, which will break the ice. What time?”

“I…”

“What time, Emily?”

“Six o’clock,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “We always have dinner at six.”

“Fine. I’ll be here,” he said, then started toward the door.

“Do you still like sun tea with honey, instead of sugar?”

Mark spun around. “Don’t go there, Emily. Don’t even think of trying that routine. Don’t attempt to soften me up with cute little trips down memory lane because it won’t work and…” He paused and frowned. “Why did you remember a dumb detail like that, my liking honey in my sun tea instead of sugar?”

Because I loved you, you dolt, Emily thought. You don’t like cloth napkins. You eat the seeds in watermelon because it’s too much trouble to pick them out. Your favorite color is pale pink like the inside of a seashell, but you thought that sounded too girly so you always said it was blue. You like French fries but detest hash brown potatoes. These aren’t dumb details, you idiot. They’re memories. Mine. To keep…forever.

“Forget it,” Mark said, continuing on to the door and opening it. “Good night, Emily. No, correct that. There hasn’t been one good thing about this night. I’ll see you at six tomorrow.”

Mark closed the door behind him with a quiet click as he left, but even so, Emily cringed, feeling as though she’d suffered a physical blow. Two more tears slithered down her cheeks, and she dashed them away. She returned to the chair and sank onto it, staring at the door.

In the next instant she got to her feet and went into the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator freezer and reached for some comfort, some food, her shaking hand gripping a carton of ice cream. She snatched her fingers back as though they had been burned, and slammed the freezer closed with more force than was necessary.

Nearly running, she hurried to her bedroom, opened the top drawer of her dresser and picked up an exquisite mother-of-pearl hand mirror, which she hugged to her breasts as she settled onto the edge of the bed.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to float back to the day in January when her grandfather had asked her to come to his study to receive the special gift he’d spoken of at Christmas. Each grandchild was to meet with Robert MacAllister privately and be given a present he’d selected just for them. Whether they told anyone what it was would be up to them.

Emily remembered, tracing one fingertip over the edge of the mirror that she had gasped in awe when she’d unwrapped the gift and seen the beautiful mirror.

It belonged to my mother, Robert MacAllister had told her. It always had a place of honor on her dressing table because my father had given it to her. Now? I want you to have it, Emily, for a very specific reason.

Emily looked at her grandfather questioningly.

My mother taught me, Robert went on, with that mirror, to see past the outer trappings of myself and understand, get to know who I was becoming within, to never lose track of the real Robert MacAllister.

Emily nodded.

That’s what I want you to do with the mirror, darling Emily. Gaze at your image in a private place when you’re alone. Discover who you really are behind that smile you keep so firmly in place and beneath those extra pounds you’ve put on to put distance between you and the world around you.

Oh, Grandpa, Emily had said, her eyes filling with tears, it’s…it’s safe being fat and unattractive and… I hide in here, just keep smiling as I’ve always done and say that I’m doing fine and… She shook her head as tears choked off her words.

I know, Robert said gently. You’re also hiding in your house by running your business from there. It’s time to step forward, Emily. The mirror will help give you the courage you need to accomplish what you must do. I love you, my sweet Emily. Come out of the shadows and walk in the sunshine.

You’re so wise, Grandpa. This is a wonderful gift that I’ll always cherish and I promise you that I’ll try to do what you’re asking of me. I will.

And she was, Emily thought, lifting the mirror so she could see her reflection. Right after the new year holidays, she’d gone to her Aunt Kara, who was a semi-retired physician, had a complete physical, then asked Kara to outline a healthy diet and regiment of exercise. Kara had agreed that Emily had fifty pounds to shed, a fact that Emily knew embarrassed her son when his fat mother was seen by his friends.

Slowly but surely the pounds had melted away, one after another. Thirty gone; twenty left to go.

“You still look like Porky Pig’s sister,” Emily said to her reflection. “Mark must have been thoroughly disgusted when he saw how you’ve let yourself become a blimp.” She paused and sighed. “No, forget that. Mark doesn’t give a rip about what I look like. He’s too busy hating me because I…”

Emily got to her feet and replaced the mirror in the drawer.

There was no purpose to be served by tormenting herself with the long list of Mark’s accusations. He believed that she had never loved him at all, which wasn’t true. It wasn’t.

She had never stopped loving the Mark Maxwell she had known when they were teenagers. She’d hidden in her cocoon of fat and inside her house, and when she became too lonely she’d reach within herself for that love, wrap it around her like a warm, fuzzy blanket as she relived the memories of what she’d shared with Mark.

But those days of hiding were over. She’d rented an office downtown two months ago and was a successful businesswoman who greeted the public with new confidence and self-worth.

And Trevor, her sweet, darling son, took his dessert to his room each night so Emily wouldn’t have to watch him eat it while she wasn’t having any of the calorie-laden treat. She was, indeed, stepping out of the gloomy shadows into the brilliant sunshine, just as her grandfather had wished her to do. If she didn’t feel like smiling, by golly, she didn’t smile.

Everything had been going so well, Emily thought, as she swept back the blankets on the bed. Until now. Until Mark had reappeared in her life and turned it upside down. An angry Mark. A handsome and self-assured Mark, who was so intimidating and made her feel fat and sloppy, vulnerable and…

It was as though, Emily mused, taking her nightie from beneath the pillow and starting toward the bathroom, Mark had somehow pricked her with an invisible pin, creating a tiny hole where the self-confidence and self-esteem that she’d struggled so terribly hard to achieve were slowly escaping, and she didn’t know how to keep it from happening.

Emily stopped at the bedroom door, then went to the dresser and took out the mirror again, staring at her frowning reflection.

“Get a grip, Emily MacAllister,” she ordered herself.

She would not, she vowed, allow Mark to destroy the Emily she had become. No. She’d square her shoulders, lift her…darn it, her double chin, and decide with him how best to reveal his identity to her…their son.

There would be no more begging, pleading, acting like the child she had been when she had loved him. She didn’t love him now, for heaven’s sake, so her emotions, her heart, would not get in the way of making the proper decisions for Trevor.

No, she had no feelings whatsoever for the Mark Maxwell who had returned to Ventura after so many years.

None at all.

Did she?

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